Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Faith had never been the type to get sentimental over a new rank pip, but she couldn’t quite keep her thumb from tracing the four smooth gold circles on her collar while the shuttle dropped out of warp, unveiling the slow, strange grace of Deep Space Nine.

The station hung in space like a black chandelier: half spider, half cathedral, alive with tiny lights that flickered through the windows and docking pylons. Faith curled her lip. Whoever had designed the place must’ve been working through some serious issues.

The Ferengi pilot didn’t bother with small talk as he steered them around the docking ring to a lower pylon. The only shuttlecraft available for the second stage of her transfer. The trip had cost her 15 strips of Latinum, but it was worth it to reach her new command on time.

Faith watched the station get bigger in the window, then checked her reflection in the polished arch above the pilot’s head. Her dark hair was still in regulation order; the bruising from that last punch-up with the genetically-jacked Ferengi back on the USS Sunnydale had faded to a faint smear along her jaw.

Buffy’s voice was still echoing in Faith’s mind from that goodbye in San Francisco, her hands on Faith’s jaw, dizzy with promise: “You’ll do good Faith. I believe in you.”

Faith grunted at the memory. As the shuttle docked with a soft thud and the airlocks began to whirl open, she squared her shoulders and made herself look like someone who actually belonged in command, instead of someone who’d bluffed her way through every last Academy exam and won her first field promotion by punching a belligerent Klingon through a balsa wood conference table.

The Ferengi pilot twisted in his seat and leered. “Thanks for the business hew-man. Lot’s of problems in this part of space. Let me know when your ready to run away. I can always use the Latinum.”

Faith shot him a two-fingered salute and reached for her duffel. “Don’t count on it,” she said, then took the pack and strode through the airlock.

The bulkheads had faint scratches over them, like the ghosts of a thousand crises. Her boots rang out sharp on the deck. No welcoming party. Par for the course. If this place was anything like the rumors said, someone would be gunning for her before she even hit her quarters.

When Faith reached it, hoping to shower and change before hitting Ops, she found that the Habitat Ring had that same metallic rot smell as an old Starfleet barracks she’d once been stationed at, only now layered under the heavy, sweet funk of Cardassian metal. Faith slung her duffel over her shoulder and tried not to look like she was mapping all ways in and out, but old habits died hard.

The Captain finally reached the door to her new quarters. The young security officer guarding it had the earnest, jumpy posture of someone desperate to make a good impression. He eyed her rank pips. Faith could smell nerves on him even over the cleaned-up air.

He held out a PADD, face locked in regulation neutral. “Captain Lehane? Station Ops asked me to meet you. There’s already a situation in one of the upper docking pylons.”

Faith glanced at the PADD, which seemed to contain a docking schedule with a particular item highlighted, then tucked it under her arm. “Any casualties?”, she asked as the they began to walk down the corridor together.

“Not yet, ma’am. But…there’s a Ferengi vessel. Security reports claim someone’s trying to smuggle microtroids through customs. Chief Nog is with them now, examining their cargo”.

She followed the security officer to the pinnacle of the station, one of the upper docking pylons that extended from the docking ring likes the legs of a spider. The corridors twisted and undulated with Cardassian weirdness, all off-kilter angles and sudden pinched-off vistas, designed to make you feel constantly watched—which, knowing Cardassians, was probably the point.

The airlock was a clown car of Ferengi yelling at each other, at station security, and at their own cargo. A wall of sound: profit-shrieks, offered bribes, and the slap of an angry hand on a cargo container as the Ferengi tried to convince a Bajoran customs officer that the contents were innocent. In the mess’s epicenter, stood Chief of Operations Nog, tricorder in hand, taking readings of the crate.

A sudden sound of metal hitting flesh. One of the Ferengi was lying on the deck, unconscious. Faith turned to see the station’s head of security standing behind her, an inventory PADD in his hand, a smear of blood on its corner.

The security chief was a mountain of a man, russet Bajoran hair buzzed short and framed by temple ridges that looked like they’d been cut with a chisel. He wore a tactically ratty Starfleet uniform—half a broad maroon vest and half industrial grease stains—like he’d just walked off a job framing decks with his teeth. The fade of a broken nose and what looked like a vintage phaser burn scar trisected his left cheek. Faith liked him immediately.

He thumbed the now dented PADD at the fallen Ferengi. “This one got mouthy,” he said, matter-of-fact. “You want to check the roster?”

“Hell yes,” Faith said. “Someone always needs a punch first thing in the morning.”

She took the PADD and squinted at the names. From the look of the manifest, these were bottom-feeders: a salvage runner, a couple of ex-con engineers, a ‘cultural liaison’ that screamed smuggler with every letter of her dossier. Faith checked the one one the deck—nose already swelling, clutching at a single latinum tooth. She looked up at the Bajoran.

The man held out a hand. “Lt. Commander William Pratt. They call me Spike.”

Faith took his hand in her firm grip. “Why’s that?”

“Guess because I’m pretty sharp.”

“That’s an unusual accent for a Bajoran”, Faith said releasing his hand.

“Yeah, grew up during the Occupation, my parents smuggled me off Bajor as a child, grew up in London.”

“And when you grew up you joined Starfleet.”

“Yeah, and now I’m right back where I started.”

Faith nodded and turned to the apparent leader of the captive Ferengi.

“You want to tell me why you’re on my station smuggling microtroids? Or should I guess?”

The Ferengi exploded into a slew of high-speed defense, fingers bunching and unbunching with each attempt at outrage. “These are not microtroids! They are specialty atmospheric regulators for rare orchid cultivation! I have authorization from the floral guild on Trill and—”

Faith hit him square in the face. She immediately regretted it, but sometimes bull like that just got to her. Spike had put a hand on her arm, warning his new captain not to go too far, but she shook him off, walking a few paces to calm herself. Faith hadn’t been sleeping well recently and it was starting to affect her. She missed Buffy. Wanted to feel the blonde’s strong arms holding her at night again.

Just then a voice came out of Faith’s Combadge. It was her new first officer, asking her to report to Ops. She left the situation at customs in Spike and Nog’s clearly capable hands and headed for the turbolift. As Faith walked, she recalled what she has read about her second in command on the way to DS9.

Glorificus, who went by Glory, was from some other dimension where she was worshiped as a deity. When she was removed from power and expelled from her home dimension, Glory sought sanctuary on Earth and had ended up in Starfleet. It seemed she had had a successful career, though apparently was somewhat caustic and had a habit of rubbing people up the wrong way. Faith hoped she would not cause her too many problems.

After a few moments, the turbolift arrived in Ops. First impression: Glory looked like she’d swanned in from some fancy cocktail party. She wore her uniform jacket about three notches too tight, had styled her golden hair into a cyclone of ringlets, and regarded Faith’s entrance with the amuse-bouche smile of a woman who’d never lost an argument—or at least never admitted to it in public.

“Captain Lehane,” Glory said, as if she were officially handing Faith the right to own her own last name.

“Commander,” Faith replied, casting an appraising eye over the woman. She eyed Glory’s rank pins, then the precisely manicured nails hovering over her console. “Let’s have it,” Faith said, cutting the polite dance before it started.

“Of course, Captain.” Glory’s voice was rich, a bit of thunder under all that lacquered golden hair and recycled oxygen. “There is a problem on the Promenade. With Quark.”

“Tell me”, Faith told her abruptly.

"You want the highlight reel or the director's cut?" Glory asked, not bothering to hide the relish in her voice. She looked nearly disappointed when Faith didn't flinch.

"Give me the one that ends with Quark in cuffs," Faith said. She had heard stories about the Ferengi bartender. Faith could appreciate a rogue who ignored the rules as much as anyone, but she could ill afford to look weak on her first day.

Glory glanced at a PADD before looking Faith in the eyes to give her the full report. "Quark imported a rare Romulan ale — special vintage, supposed to be outlawed everywhere this side of the Neutral Zone. He decided to auction the case off at a private party for a group of VIPs. Unfortunately, his definition of VIP included two Orion pirates, a trio of drunk Klingons and a Federation ambassador, not to mention a high ranking Bajoran vedek. The resulting brawl involved seven medical emergencies, one small hull breach, and a very creative use of dessert topping."

Faith smirked. These were her people, even if most of them probably thought Starfleet was something you scraped off your shoe. "Where is Quark now?”

“Still in his bar I think”, Glory said vaguely and, to Faith’s momentarily disbelief, started casually checking her makeup in a pocket mirror.

Faith was no stranger to vanity but this took the biscuit. “Commander”, she snapped. “Deal with the situation. And preen yourself in your own time.”

With that Faith strode to her new office, plopping herself down behind the desk and putting her feet up on it, arms stretched behind her in a relaxed posture. Her subordinates would clean up the mess. It was good to be the captain.

Chapter Text

The bridge was in morning mode: all consoles at quarter brightness, half the crew sipping replicator coffee with that slightly guilty, got-away-with-something expression. This relaxed start to the day was a new initiative Captain Buffy Summers was trying, and it seemed popular with the crew.

Commander Willow Rosenberg adjusted her new uniform jacket and pretended she hadn't just spent ten minutes reorganizing the science station to her exacting standards. Even as first officer, she couldn't help herself. One did not simply let junior personnel tinker with the entropic algorithms. In any event, for now Willow was still filling the science post until a replacement could be found.

A sensor alert chimed, sharp and insistent. Willow tapped the console, ignoring Cordelia's performative yawn at the tactical station.

"Something interesting, Commander?" Cordelia drawled, eyelids at half-mast.
"Localized energy surge," Willow said, her voice brisk, all business. She pulled up the data, then frowned. "Subspace variance, magnitude seven. Right on the edge of the Bajoran sector." She zoomed in and confirmed: "It's near Deep Space Nine."

Oz glanced over from the conn, quiet as always. "Could be a wormhole eddy, or maybe just leftover Cardassian sabotage. That place attracts weirdness."

Cordelia snorted. "You'd think the universe would get tired of picking on Bajor by now."

Willow suppressed a smile, even as her fingers ran rapid diagnostics. She missed having the luxury of diving deep into anomaly data, but the XO job was less about curiosity, more about triage and delegating, and the science brief she still nominally handled had to take a back seat much of the time. The redhead tapped her combadge.

"Captain to the bridge," Willow said. "We've got a class-seven variance on sensors."

The doors to the ready room hissed open with a practiced swiftness that Willow had already learned to expect. Buffy Summers emerged, ponytail perfect and eyes already scanning the bridge for something out of place. Willow straightened automatically, even though they both knew the formalities were more for show than for need.

"Report," Buffy said, tone cool but not unkind.

Willow met her gaze, fingers still flying across the console. "Deep Space Nine is showing subspace fluctuations that shouldn't be possible—the readings are off the charts. Not enough to warrant an emergency reroute yet, but I've never seen patterns like this." Her voice dropped. "Could be connected to that suspicious activity in the Gamma Quadrant we heard about last month, or..." She hesitated, swallowing hard. "Something worse."

Buffy nodded, then turned to Oz. "Distance to the station?"

"One point four light years, on a direct course," Oz replied.

Buffy gave a short nod, then said, "Tactical, run a scan on known threats in the area. Helm, keep us at yellow alert but maintain speed. I don't want to spook anyone."

Cordelia smirked. "Aye, Captain. Not spooking as ordered."
Buffy folded her arms and leaned against the upper rail, posture relaxed but with a line of tension in her jaw. "Willow, assemble senior officers for a briefing in fifteen minutes."

Willow felt her pulse kick as she prepared her own report, already compiling data for the meeting. She caught a glimpse of Buffy glanced at a PADD. The faintest micro-expression: hope, disappointment, then ironclad neutrality. Willow blinked, then resumed scanning, but made a mental note. The captain was worried.

***

The senior officer briefing convened around a compact oval table surrounded by newly installed holo-projectors. Willow’s idea and one she was proud of, allowing the Sunnydale’s top team to see what was going on and not merely hear about it. Tara arrived last to the meeting, crisp in medical blue, carrying a PADD and the faint scent of eucalyptus. Willow waved her in, saving her a seat, and Tara gave her a smile that said both "thanks" and "I barely slept."

Buffy wasted no time. "Here's the sit," she said, activating the room's main display. "Starfleet has been monitoring subspace instabilities around Bajor for months, but today's spike is the highest recorded since the end of the Cardassian occupation. I want to be very clear: our current orders are to proceed to the Udane System and resupply the Mizar colony, nothing more. Unless we get new directives from HQ, we're not detouring to DS9."

"But if it escalates?", Oz asked in an expressionless voice.

"Then we escalate," Buffy said. "But we do it by the book."

Tara looked up from her PADD, voice soft but carrying. "Do we have any ideas about the cause of the anomalies?"

Willow answered before Buffy could. "There's some suggestion that the subspace variance is being manipulated, not random. Maybe someone's trying to mask something moving through the area."

Cordelia gave a low whistle. "Maybe it's just another spatial anomaly. Could be a wormhole byproduct."

Buffy shot her a look. "Could be," she said, "but I don't believe in coincidences.”

Willow noticed Buffy's knuckles whitening where she gripped the edge of the table. The captain's eyes flicked to her combadge every few seconds, barely perceptible to the untrained eye. When Tara asked, "Has anyone reached out to DS9?" Buffy snapped, "We're not detouring to DS9 unless Starfleet orders it. Faith—Captain Lehane—has her duties, and we have ours."

She stood, signaling the end of the briefing. "You all have your orders. Let's not make this harder than it needs to be."

The officers filed out. Willow lingered, waiting for Tara to finish gathering her PADDs. She risked a whisper: "Is it just me, or is she extra tense today?"

Tara's lips quirked. "It's not you. I think it's being this close to DS9. Or maybe just being this close to…"

She didn't finish, but Willow filled in the blank: to Faith.

***

The bridge was running at full alertness now, but everyone was pretending it was business as usual. Willow kept an eye on the sensors, half-listening to Cordelia and Oz debate whether Quark's Bar or Ten Forward had the best synthale in the quadrant.

Buffy was back in the ready room, but Willow could see her pacing through the glass partition (a change Buffy had made to feel more connected to what was happening on the bridge). Willow considered, for the first time, what it must feel like to be in charge of everything but not allowed to act on your own gut. There was a reason Willow preferred solving problems by running at them, head-first and with a stack of scientific protocols to back her up.

"Commander Rosenberg," said Cordelia with a formality that would dissipate as the day wore on "incoming priority message from Starfleet Command."

Willow nodded. "Pipe it through to the captain."

A moment later, Buffy strode onto the bridge, face set, voice a little too calm.

"Starfleet's rerouting us," she said, projecting authority. "They want us to investigate the anomaly up close. We'll be passing within sensor range of DS9, but our orders are to maintain radio silence unless there’s a reason to make contact. Clear?"

"Crystal," Cordelia said.

Willow gave a crisp, "Understood," even as her mind started piecing together what the shift in orders meant. She caught Buffy's eye, saw the shadow of relief mingled with something else—dread, or maybe hope, or maybe the premonition that the universe was about to get weird again.

"Helm," Buffy said, "adjust course. Take us in at best possible speed."

Oz entered new coordinates without a word. The ship shivered as it corrected its vector, then settled into the new trajectory.

The anomaly loomed on the main viewscreen, a roiling distortion in space with a corona of blue and gold fire around the event horizon. Willow felt the hair on her arms rise.

"Let's see what secrets you're hiding," she murmured, then, louder: "Science team, commence full scan."

The Sunnydale hurtled forward, chasing ghosts and old enemies and the promise of a future built, if not on trust, then at least on mutual stubbornness.

The senior staff broke up in pairs, running their diagnostics and prepping for whatever awaited them at the anomaly. Willow walked with Tara through the corridor, the two of them slipping into a familiar rhythm, even with all the new stripes and titles.

"How long do you think she can keep pretending this isn't about Faith?" Tara asked, voice low.

Willow shrugged. "Buffy does compartmentalization better than anyone. But even the best cabinets get stuck eventually."

Tara smiled, grateful. They paused at the turbolift.

"I think it'll be okay," Willow said, more for herself than anyone. "It always is."

They stepped inside, the doors closing with a hiss.

Outside, the Sunnydale sped toward the unknown, lights winking against the dark. On the bridge, Buffy watched the swirling horizon, her hands steady on the chair, her mind already two steps ahead and half a parsec behind.

—

The only light in Buffy's quarters came from the starfield beyond the viewport, fractured into white spindles by the ship’s velocity. The air felt cold, unfiltered, the way she liked it. Buffy's bare feet left twin ovals of fog on the glass as she lay and watched the nothingness, arms folded against her chest. The computer terminal behind her pulsed once: new message. She ignored it for a full minute, then turned and keyed it up with a touch.

Faith appeared on the screen. Uniform pressed, wearing her new captain’s pips like she’d been born with them, a pride in her appearance that did not just come from the woman’s awareness of her startling beauty. Her face was marred by a bruise that ringed her left eye, half-faded. She spoke briskly, no preamble:

“Buffy, hey. DS9 is still standing, so that’s a plus. Customs is a nightmare—half the station’s crewed by petty criminals with god complexes. Attached a few details I’ve been able to jot down, but the summary is: I haven’t been thrown out an airlock yet. Hope the Sunnydale’s treating you right. Don’t let Cordelia give you too much grief. Maybe we’ll see each other next resupply run. Faith out.”

The message ended on a freeze-frame of Faith looking off-screen, eyes shadowed. Buffy stared at the image a long moment, then hovered her thumb over the reply key. The ship’s computer beeped—a new, higher-priority message.

She closed Faith’s vid and opened the incoming. It was from Admiral Quentin Travers, recently promoted to vice-chairman of Starfleet’s Command Council and, Buffy knew, a rival of her own beloved mentor Admiral Rupert Giles.

“Summers, New orders. Proceed to sector 54 by 76 and investigate Class Seven anomaly. Do not stop at Deep Space Nine. Do not attempt to contact station personnel unless specifically instructed. Good luck.”

Buffy blew out a slow breath. The relief didn’t come; instead, a knot of something—regret, maybe—tightened around her ribs. She sat, elbows on knees, and stared at the deck for a long minute before opening a new message to Faith.

She kept it formal at first: “Captain Lehane. Starfleet rerouted us to investigate an anomaly near Bajor. Will be passing within visual range of DS9, but not stopping. I’m supposed to maintain radio silence, so I probably shouldn’t even be sending this, but I didn’t want you to worry if you see us on scans. Good luck with the station. Buffy.”

She almost wrote, “Miss you.” Instead, she backspaced it out and sat for another long interval, watching her fingers shake a little over the controls.

She sent the message, then rose and went back to the viewport, arms folded again. The starfield was unchanged, but she could see her own reflection now, faint and doubled by the glass.

It looked like Faith’s.

Buffy smiled once, quick and private, then turned her back to the stars and returned to work.

Chapter Text

Fred materialized on the transporter pad, and was instantly aware of a man with a face like a hammered-out sheet of old metal was grinning at her from the far side of the room.

He wore his uniform jacket open over a battered T-shirt. The Starfleet insignia was somewhere, probably, but Fred was more taken by the patches and pinbacks marching up one sleeve. He had white-blonde hair cropped close and enough scars to suggest he’d never backed down from a fight in his life.

She clutched her case closer and tried to introduce herself, but the words tangled on the way out: “Winifred Burkle, reporting for—” She dropped the case, caught it with her foot, juggled it, and hugged it back to her chest. “Sorry. Reporting for duty, Lieutenant. Or Captain. Sorry, you look different from your personnel file. Not bad different, just—”

He cut her off with a tilt of the head. “Name’s Spike,” he said. “Its Lt. Commander, but you don’t need to call me that unless you’re planning to tattle on me to Command, which—if you are, let’s get it out of the way now so we don’t waste anyone’s time.”

Fred shook her head fast. “No tattling. I mean, unless you do something really dangerous or against the rules, but I’m not a rules person per se—unless they’re scientific method rules, in which case, why would you even do science if you weren’t going to follow them? I’m babbling again. Sorry. It’s, um, nice to meet you.”

Spike raised an eyebrow, amused. “Breathe, love. Station’s not going anywhere.”

He led her through the doors of the cargo bar, then into the first corridor. DS9 was a tangle of contradictory architecture—Cardassian curves, Bajoran trimmings, Starfleet overlays. It all should’ve looked like a mess, but somehow, Fred thought, it was beautiful in its own angry way.

People flowed through the corridor: a group of Bajoran schoolkids laughing and shoving each other, a Vulcan scientist making precise notes on a pad, two Jem’Hadar moving with blank-eyed purpose. Guards for a Dominion trade delegation, Spike explained. Strange seeing those guys around. As they stepped onto the Promenade, Fred ducked to avoid a pair of drunken Klingons, then tripped over her own case.

Spike steadied her with a hand. “You’ll want to hold onto that. Quark’s got eyes everywhere, and if it’s shiny, it’s already his.”

“Quark?” Fred asked, eyes wide.

“Local entrepreneur. Thinks he runs the station. Technically not true, but he’s has fingers in a lot of pits.”

Looking around the Promenade, Fred’s first impression was a soup of voices and light: Ferengi hawking jewelry, Klingons arguing over bloodwine, Bajoran clerics standing on soapboxes extolling the Prophets. She tried to take it all in at once and nearly hyperventilated.

Spike nudged her along. “Just keep walking. Don’t make eye contact, unless you want to get recruited for a pyramid scheme or dragged into a religious debate.”

They made it ten paces before Quark intercepted them. He was shorter than Fred expected—barely up to her shoulder—but radiated the confidence of a man who considered every meeting a negotiation he was bound to win. His teeth were as sharp as a vampire, which made his smile a weapon.

“Well, well, what have we here?” Quark said, sizing up Fred with a quick, predatory scan. “Another brilliant mind for our little outpost? I have some Tholian artifacts that might interest a scientist of your caliber, if you’re not too busy saving the galaxy.”

Spike put a hand on Fred’s shoulder, protective. “She has a meeting with the Captain, Quark. Maybe next time.”

Quark’s eyes glinted. “Of course, of course. But if you ever want to see a real singularity—” He winked. “My doors are always open.”

Fred managed a smile and a half-nod, then let Spike guide her away. “Is he always like that?” she whispered.

“Only when awake,” Spike said. “He’ll grow on you, if you don’t let him rob you blind first.”

They ducked into a side corridor, quieter now, echoing with the hum of power relays. Fred slowed down, breathing finally catching up with her. “I read about this place in grad school,” she said, gazing at the ribbed walls. “But the papers never mentioned the—um—atmosphere.”

Spike grinned. “They wouldn’t. If you wrote about it honestly, no one would ever sign up. That’s why they stick to the numbers.”

Fred stopped at a junction, checked her PADD, then glanced at Spike. “Thank you. For, um, helping. And for not making fun.”

He looked at her like she’d just solved a math problem he’d never understood. “You’ll do fine here. Just keep your head down and your science sharp. Most of the real trouble comes from boredom, not danger.”

They kept walking, and Fred let herself notice, for the first time, that the station wasn’t just chaos. It was alive, and maybe—just maybe—she could be, too.

——

Fred spent her first ten minutes in Ops staring at the array of consoles, terrified she’d sit at the wrong one and get called out in front of everyone. She’d memorized every schematic and duty roster available, but none of them prepared her for the raw chaos of the actual room: flashing status displays, a pair of Andorians sniping at each other over power distribution, a humanoid whose skin flickered in shades of ultraviolet, and the deep, pulsing hum of the main comm array.

She hovered near the edge, pretending to study her PADD, and tried to look less like a nervous rabbit and more like a functioning member of Starfleet. She was almost succeeding when the turnolift ascended to Ops and Glory swept in like a cold front.

Glory wore her uniform perfectly, but it looked like a party dress: every seam drawn tight, every pin and pip gleaming. She held herself with the casual arrogance of someone who’d been born to rule, and when she walked, everyone in the room adjusted their posture as if responding to changes in local gravity.

She pointed at Fred. “You’re the new science officer?”

Fred straightened, nearly dropping her tablet. “Yes, ma’am. Winnifred Burkle. Fred. I mean—either’s fine. I’m sorry, you just—there wasn’t—”

Glory cut her off with a wave. “I hope you’re more competent than your predecessor. I don’t tolerate incompetence. The new captain doesn’t seem too fond of it either, but it’s me you need to worry about. Screw up and i’ll eat you for breakfast.”

Fred’s stomach dropped, but she managed a nod. “Yes, ma’am.”

Glory glanced at the main viewer, eyes narrowing. “There’s a subspace variance at the edge of the Bajoran system. Starfleet wants an immediate analysis. You’re on.”

Fred slid into her seat, palms sweating, and pulled up the data. For a few terrifying seconds, her mind went blank—then, the numbers resolved, and she saw it. Patterns where there should be randomness. She clicked through screens, hands finally steady.

“It’s not a true anomaly,” she said, voice gaining strength. “It’s repeating, in five-minute cycles. That’s not natural. It’s a signal—masked, but not well. Someone’s piggybacking a transmission on the local subspace.”

Glory’s eyes flicked to her, interest kindling. “Source?”

Fred shrugged. “That’s the weird part. It’s bouncing off random satellites and relays—makes it hard to trace, but if you do a fourier deconvolution—”

“Show me,” Glory said.

Fred sent the data to the main screen. The pattern emerged, a ghostly ripple beneath the chaos. Fred traced it, hands flying over the interface, and even the Andorians stopped to watch.

“It’s coming from the Gamma Quadrant,” Fred said. “Somewhere just past the wormhole mouth.”

Glory’s mouth twitched, almost a smile. “Good. Keep working it.” She turned away, but not before Fred caught a look that wasn’t quite approval, but maybe a distant relative.

The doors to the office opened, and Faith strode into Ops. She looked like she’d been up for two days and lived on nothing but caffeine and sheer spite. Her uniform was half-unzipped, collar popped, and her eyes swept the room with the predatory patience of a cat sizing up a flock of birds.

She zeroed in on Glory, then Fred. “Anything?”

Glory nodded to Fred. “Our new science officer. She’s found a repeating signal in the anomaly.”

Faith flopped into the nearest chair and propped her boots on the console. “Hit me.”

Fred took a breath. “It’s a masked transmission, cycling every five minutes, originating in the Gamma Quadrant. If we isolate the subharmonics, it should be possible to extract the content, but it’s—well, encrypted. Whoever did this knew we’d be looking.”

Faith grinned. “Perfect. I like a challenge. What’s your plan, Fred?”

Fred stammered, “If I could get a direct feed from the deflector array, I might be able to invert the—uh, sorry, I mean, I’d use the station’s main deflector to filter out the noise, then run it through an adaptive decryption protocol, and—”

“Good,” Faith said. “Do it. Let me know if you need any help. Glory, let Starfleet know we’re working the problem.”

Glory nodded, already halfway to her own station.

Fred dove into the code, fingers blurring. For the first time since she arrived, the hum of Ops faded and she lost herself in the data, following the ghost of the signal through the static.

She was halfway through building her custom filter when her console pinged with an incoming message. She almost ignored it, but habit won out. She glanced at the header:

“USS Sunnydale. Captain Summers.”

Fred’s pulse ticked up. She remembered the rumors from her old post: Summers, the youngest starship captain in the fleet, notorious for breaking rules and for her impossible mission records. There had been gossip, too—about her relationship with Faith, about the time they’d supposedly shut down a Romulan spy ring using nothing but a malfunctioning holodeck and a bottle of scotch.

She opened the message. Standard Starfleet notification: the Sunnydale would be passing through the sector, per orders from Command. No interaction required, just a heads-up for the logs.

She saw Faith’s eyes flick to the notification, just for a second. The captain’s guard dropped, and for a heartbeat Fred saw something soft, raw, and unfinished. Then Faith masked it again and turned back to business.

“Keep me posted, Fred,” she said, then strode out, boots thumping on the deck.

Fred nodded, determined, and got back to work.

If she was going to make it here, she’d have to prove she was more than a glowing résumé. But, for the first time since her transfer, she thought she might be able to do exactly that.