Mud and stones sprayed out from under the bicycle’s wheels at the skidding impact, and Al-Barazi had to hang tight to the handlebars to not lose his seat as he landed. He couldn’t really risk a glance over his shoulder, had too many twists and turns down the rocky riverside path ahead, but looked back anyway. The rattle of a bike frame and an uttered oath confirmed his race partner had landed behind him, albeit less elegantly. In the rear distance, shouts and calls from other racers confirmed their daring lunge across the worst of the river’s depths had paid off, riders forced to dismount and haul their own bikes to follow.

‘Go!’ yelled Ó Taidhg at the sight of him looking back. ‘Just bloody ride!’

They darted down a narrow path winding between trees, branches whipping at their faces and forearms for a rain-slicked lashing. Then they were out in the open, hurtling across the final stretch to the pop-up metal framework of a finish line, cheering crowds urging them on. They weren’t first, a smattering of other race teams in sight beyond, drinking water, chowing snack bars. But that wasn’t the point.

‘Hell yeah!’ Ó Taidgh whooped as they skidded to a stop on the far side of the finish line. ‘What is that, top ten? Good riding, brother.’

Al-Barazi’s eyes flickered up to the digital display over the finish line and sucked his teeth as he saw the ranking of the Redemption Riders. ‘Twelfth.’

‘Twelfth? Who snuck ahead of us?’ Ó Taidgh’s gaze swept across the other riding teams. His eyes narrowed. ‘The Tellarites. This programme’s really got it in for us.’

‘It’s meant to be a dynamic race campaign.’ Al-Barazi pulled his water bottle from his frame and hopped to the ground, setting his mountain bike down on the dirt with care, however holographic it was. ‘I think the computer hears you shit-talking them and makes them better so we have good rivals.’

Ó Taidgh didn’t look like he knew if he appreciated or resented that. Then he shrugged and extended a fist to Al-Barazi. ‘Whatever; that’s the Appalachian Highway done. The crowd goes wild.’

‘Do we need the crowd?’ wondered Al-Barazi, looking at the holographic spectators. ‘It feels a bit weird having holograms to cheer us on.’

‘Just kind of soulless if we cycle over the line in silence, isn’t it? Trust me, it’s worse without them.’ Ó Taidgh had a swig of his water and again looked at the two Tellarite racers he’d singled out. ‘I’m gonna go start something. See if the programme picks it up for next time.’

Al-Barazi winced again. ‘No can do, Pad. We got breakfast, and we gotta shower. You started us too late to stir trouble with the rivals.’ He turned away from the race. ‘Computer, arch. End program on our departure.’

‘That’s half the fun of mountain racing!’ Ó Taidgh whined, throwing his bike away with less care, but following out of the holodeck and into the corridors of the USS Redemption regardless. They were a state, XO and Chief Engineer in their mud-spattered racing gear walking the halls of one of Starfleet’s finest, chattering about the programme as if they weren’t stationed deep in volatile space. Where Al-Barazi was tall and wiry, long-limbed and cool and reserved in mannerisms until he smiled his winning, sun-bright smile, Ó Taidgh was short and stocky, gesticulating as he talked, quick to grin and laugh and with a tongue that ran faster than his thoughts. They had been friends since their first days aboard the Redemption, more by circumstance than any natural chemistry, but the combination of a love of adrenaline-chasing and Ó Taidgh’s determination that anyone he met was immediately a bosom pal or a rival had forged them together.

‘Why staff breakfast?’ the engineer complained at last once they were on a turbolift. ‘We’re just babysitting the ambassador. That’s Sterlah’s problem.’

‘Captain didn’t say. Maybe the ambassador’s had a breakthrough and you have to do your job?’

Ó Taidgh brightened. ‘Finish work on the refugee hub? That’d be great; I hate seeing a job half-finished.’

It was impressive, Al-Barazi thought, how quickly his friend could go from grumbling to enthusing. But he was a problem-solver at heart, and that extended to personal situations and feelings as well as technical challenges. After weeks hovering around the region of the Teros system, supporting Ambassador Hale’s negotiations with the locals while building up Starfleet’s interstellar communications and defence infrastructure, Ó Taidgh had been a little listless, the nature of the construction work keeping him tethered to the ship giving orders to away teams instead of getting his hands dirty. It was why Al-Barazi had suggested they get back into their mountain bike racing, two consummate completionists trying to work through the best courses the holodeck offered.

They parted ways with Ó Taidgh in a better mood, heading for their respective quarters. Al-Barazi found his wife already at the breakfast nook, coffee and PADD in hand, uniform jacket hanging open. She gave him a level look at his appearance and sighed. ‘You’re a child. We’re going to be late.’

‘Pad didn’t meet me on time, so I had that early start for nothing. What’d you get done this morning?’ Al-Barazi challenged.

‘A head-start on the resource allocation paperwork. Less sass, more showering. Skydda!’ Ajla Musovic waved her PADD at the bedroom door, and XO Hadi Al-Barazi knew better than to argue with the Chief of Operations when she was his wife, not his subordinate.

Only once he was clean and showered, hurrying back into the main room as he fastened his uniform jacket, did he further his interrogations. ‘Is the ambassador back aboard?’

‘No. She’s down at the enclave still with Sterlah.’ Musovic drained her coffee and stood. ‘We get Rosewood.’

‘Of course,’ sighed Al-Barazi. ‘He was probably sick of getting Teros dust in his boots.’

‘You just don’t like him because he flirts with me,’ said Musovic airily.

‘That’s not true. I don’t like him because he flirts with Pad.’

‘I forgot.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘That’s the true threat.’

If the captain was hosting everyone for breakfast in his private dining room, it meant that either the crew needed to be all business or he worried they were drifting with disparate work and needed to reconnect. The ship’s present condition made Al-Barazi unsure which it was, and the atmosphere when they arrived in the dining room didn’t help. If Captain Daragon had let slip to those who’d arrived first, they weren’t showing it – but then, Commander Ranicus made Doctor V’Lenn look positively emotive, Lieutenant Korrapati was too junior to get the gossip, and Ó Taidgh was running later even than Al-Barazi and Musovic. If Commander John Rosewood, Chief Diplomatic Officer from Gateway Station, sat to Daragon’s left, knew anything, he was keeping a poker face.

Captain Daragon, of course, gave away nothing. He sat at the top of the table like an indulgent patriarch, smiling as the two arrived and gesturing for their seats, Al-Barazi to his right, Musovic one chair down. ‘Good morning, Hadi, Ajla. Let Chef know what you want, as always.’ You could take Taviel Daragon out of Kriosian society, but you couldn’t take the society out of him. They could have anticipated an attack by a Jem’Hadar warship, and Captain Daragon would still make sure they all had a civilised breakfast as a crew first. ‘Should we expect Pad soon?’

‘For a given value of “soon,”’ Al-Barazi said, not looking up from the PADD by his place setting with the menu of what Daragon’s personal chef was prepared to cook fresh that morning. ‘Ooh, Shakshuka…’ Beside him, Musovic was already catching up on the latest from V’Lenn. Ó Taidgh arrived minutes later, blustering apologies, and for a little while there was no greater concern for the crew of the USS Redemption than settling down, contemplating breakfast, and exchanging the niceties of a morning.

It spoke either of John Rosewood’s easy manner or, perhaps, his skill as a diplomat that he took all of this in stride, chatting with the captain and even drawing Commander Ranicus into the conversation. She, one of the newcomers to the ship, had been much slower to adapt to this languid manner, committing the cardinal sin one breakfast soon after her assignment of asking about their next mission before the first plate of food had been served up. But even she had settled, even if Al-Barazi fancied he saw a flicker of frustration as Ó Taidgh not only arrived last but took his time poring over the menu.

‘You always choose the same thing,’ she said at last. ‘Why does it take so long?’

Al-Barazi had to smirk at that. ‘You really are one of us, Commander. You’re calling out Pad when he’s being an ass.’

Ranicus’s brow furrowed. ‘Thank you?’

‘If I wait,’ said Ó Taidgh with innocent indifference, ‘sometimes someone suggests something different that sounds good. You never know.’ But he seemed to realise he’d pushed a little too far and keyed his order onto the PADD before setting it down and looking up the top of the table. ‘Sorry, Skipper.’

Daragon waved an indulgent hand. ‘If this were urgent, we’d be at red alert,’ he drawled. ‘Commander Rosewood has an update for us. John?’

John Rosewood was halfway through a sip of coffee and made an apologetic noise as he put his mug down. ‘Sorry; caught me out there, Captain.’ He dabbed his mouth with a napkin bearing the ship’s crest at the corner. ‘Right, brass tacks. As you know, we’ve been trying a bit of divide-and-conquer planetside. Trying to empower the locals of Teros who aren’t the Romulan Rebirth Movement or indebted to them.’

‘Is that why,’ said Ranicus levelly, ‘we agreed to relocate a whole cluster of refugees to Alfheim Colony, thus diminishing the numbers and influence of the inhabitants of Teros who don’t like the Rebirth?’

‘Our priority is helping those people,’ Rosewood pressed, though Al-Barazi spotted a glimpse of sympathy in the diplomat’s tone. ‘We promised them a good settlement a decade and a half ago. After everything we did to the people of Teros, we had to give them something, instead of just doing things our way.’

‘I think Commander Ranicus is worried,’ said Musovic, ‘that all we’re doing is giving the Rebirth an unopposed run at controlling a whole planet. Some people won’t leave. Some people won’t leave for a Federation world. And we’re talking about improving Teros’s facilities. Aren’t we in danger of giving the Rebirth unfettered control of a world and those resources?’

Al-Barazi reached for the jug of coffee, thumbing the lid open as he poured himself a cup. ‘The Rebirth are always a tiny percentage. We can’t let people continue to eke out a living on a scrubland where we abandoned them. It’s no wonder so many of them trust the Rebirth more than us, still.’

Rosewood cleared his throat. ‘These are the concerns, yeah, and Ambassador Hale knows all of them. Which is why we’re doing any relocation to Alfheim in phases. No more refugees off Teros until the initial Alfheim settlement is, uh, settled. In the meantime, we improve things on Teros itself for those who can’t leave yet or don’t want to leave. Build on the original Endeavour relief mission.’

‘You mean the botched mission,’ said Ranicus, ‘that gave the Rebirth an industrial replicator.’

‘That’s not their fault,’ said Ó Taidgh, shovelling sugar into his tea. ‘Starfleet pulled them back halfway through, because of all that mess. It’s a botched mission where we screwed those people over – again – and is a reason to help them, not hold back.’

‘Endeavour also didn’t leave the resources to run the replicators forever,’ Rosewood countered. ‘And finally, Ambassador Hale has made headway with some of the locals who don’t like the Rebirth but aren’t just waiting for a ticket off-world. They’re our new go-to for doing business.’

Daragon stirred sugar into his tea, not looking up. ‘I thought they were too scared of the Rebirth to oppose them.’

‘It’s funny,’ said Rosewood. ‘They’re a lot less scared with Lieutenant Sterlah around.’

‘He can’t stay there,’ protested Musovic. ‘And we can’t arm them to fight the Rebirth.’

‘Sterlah can’t stay there.’ He gave a toothy grin. ‘That’s where we’re getting to. A permanent Starfleet relief centre, just outside the hub. Staffed by officers and everything. In cooperation with the locals who aren’t the Rebirth. So the Rebirth can’t just take an industrial replicator and use it to shore up their local footing. And if it’s Starfleet property, then, yeah, we can stop them from swanning in.’

‘That’s a significant resource commitment,’ pointed out Ranicus.

‘Which is Ambassador Hale and Commodore Rourke’s problem to work out,’ said Daragon, venturing at last into the discussion. Eyes fell on him, and he sipped his tea, pulling the sting out of the conversation by taking a beat. Even the newcomer Ranicus fell silent and waited. They had had their back and forth as a senior staff, exchanging views and opinions. He let them do that, find their feet with the situation, which let him as captain see the gaps in the operation or in his crew’s morale that he needed to fill. ‘Our mission is simple. We build this relief centre. Gateway will be sending an initial team to crew it. And we do this alongside the locals as much as possible, give them an investment in the centre. We help these people.’

There was silence as they absorbed the situation, the argument, and their mission. Al-Barazi gave them long enough to voice anything pressing, but as nothing occurred, knew it was time for the second hit from him as XO to reinforce this plan. ‘It’s not often people get second chances. This time, both Teros does – and we do.’

‘I do have one question,’ said Ranicus, because she wasn’t fully enough integrated to realise that the normal moment to add complexities had passed. She did have the good grace to look a little abashed at Al-Barazi’s sharp look. ‘I’m sure Lieutenant Sterlah has asked it. Is Ambassador Hale going to leave that slum she’s been staying in on the surface, alongside the refugees to build rapport and all that, or is she going to stop giving Security palpitations?’

Rosewood laughed at that, but he didn’t sound happy. ‘The good thing about having a civilian diplomat taking point in this is that the Romulans aren’t as angry with her as they are with my uniform. The bad thing…’ He sighed, shaking his head as he grabbed his coffee. ‘No force in the sector can help me either predict what Ambassador Hale’s going to do, or change her mind once it’s made up.’