The cargobay was dark, and it stank with the odor of volatile organic compounds offgassing from sludge-stained barrels. “An odd place for a rendezvous,” Commander Robert Drake noted, his nostrils flaring.

“Next time, we’ll meet on the promenade and preorder some apéritifs and small bites for your pleasure, sir,” Lieutenant Camille Anderson replied sarcastically as she fiddled with the control panel at the door. They had made it down to the lower levels of the station without running into any roving patrols, and you couldn’t really ask for much more. Especially since they had two scrubs with them, one of them the high maintenance JAG. Why was he complaining about the smell? He was alive and had been freed from captivity. That should’ve been enough.

“So who are we meeting?” Ensign Maya Ortega asked nervously. How she’d become embroiled in this operation, she had no idea. She was just a lower decker that worked on reports and analyses for an ambassador, yet now she had a pistol in her hand, creeping around a Vaadwaur-occupied starbase like a spy. She didn’t like it one bit.

“Just some friends,” Captain Kurayami Kioshi replied cryptically as he glanced down at his timepiece, an ancient chronometer he wore even though there were far more effective mechanisms for timekeeping than a twentieth century Swiss movement. “Patience, please.”

And so they waited, but only a couple minutes, and then a petite woman blinked into existence in the middle of the cargobay. There was no shimmer or anything that accompanied her arrival, nothing that looked like a transporter materialization or anything of the like. Just one second, there’d been nothing, and the next, she was standing right in front of them. 

Hair undercut on the sides and slicked back on the top, dressed in a leather jacket with a sharktooth necklace and feathered earrings, she looked rather out of place. “Fuckin Vaadwaur,” she grumbled as she stepped forward. “Damned sentries all over Banksy City these days.”

Commander Kris Eriksson raised his brow. “Banksy City?” He knew the place, but he wasn’t following how it fit in this context. Kyban was far from them, not just fourteen light years away, but also on the other side of a Blackout boundary.

The young woman looked over at Captain Kurayami Kioshi. “Oh, you didn’t tell them, did ya?” Of course he didn’t. Since when did he ever tell anyone more than was necessary? Or even what was necessary? If she didn’t know better, she could have sworn he almost reveled in the shock of the reveal.

“Must’ve slipped my mind,” Captain Kioshi shrugged without further elaboration. “But it’s good to see you, Sam. I trust you and the others are getting by?” It’d been a few days since they’d last spoken, given that he’d been confined by the Vaadwaur immediately after Vice Admiral Grayson surrendered the station.

“The few of us still at our posts are hanging in there, but really it’s just me, Park and Luna,” the woman said with a frown. “Even after Park tried to convince the others it was better to stick together, they set out on their own.” That was the problem with their type of people. To get good ones, you often had to go with freewheelers, and in the absence of a defined mission or a clear leadership structure, they were inclined to wander off. “A few went to ground, but the rest got caught up in the dragnet, chucked into the labor camps with the rest of the fleeters.”

Labor camps? They’d have to get to that at some point, but first, Commander Drake wanted some far more basic answers. “Who are you and where did you come from?” he demanded. There was too much going unsaid here.

“Oh, I’m sorry… where are my manners?” the woman quipped, not the least bit impressed by his demanding tone, his well kempt hair, his finely pressed uniform, and the pips on his collar. He did not look the least bit like someone she’d hang out with of her own free will. “Name is Samira. Samira Sasori. And I came from my mom’s snatch.”

The joke didn’t land with Commander Drake. How crude, he thought to himself. If she was an officer, it was quite unbecoming of her too. He looked her over head to toe. “Are you Starfleet?”

“What are labels?” Sasori shrugged. “But yes, when it’s convenient.”

Commander Drake frowned. What type of answer was that? “You’re either Starfleet or you’re not,” he replied disapprovingly. “You can’t pick and choose when it suits you.”

“You do you, buddy, and I’ll do me,” Sasori countered playfully, disregarding his attitude and having a bit of fun with it. He needed her, after all, far more than she needed them. Even in a galaxy controlled by the Vaadwaur, she’d be alright. She could blend in anywhere. But this guy, he wouldn’t last a week. The Vaadwaur would execute him, just like so many she’d seen die by their hand already.

“Petty Officer Samira Sasori is one of ours – and a damn good one at that – operating off Kyban and working across the borderlands,” Captain Kioshi interceded before Sasori could work the JAG up any further. “Remember the issue with the pirates you prosecuted in January, Robert? Sam was one of the ones that got you the details you needed for your seizure.”

That had been a good bust, the JAG had to acknowledge. It’d given him a few more trophies on his desk. But still, he was unimpressed by her behavior, and his expression said as much.

“You’re welcome, Robert,” Petty Officer Sasori said with a slight curtsy and a bemused expression on her face, poking the bear.

“It’s commander or sir to you, Petty Officer,” Commander Drake corrected.

“No it isn’t. Not anymore,” Petty Officer Sasori shot back. “Look around you. This ain’t a Starfleet station no more. Y’all lost it to the Vaadwaur. This and the rest of the galaxy. But don’t worry, sir. We’re gonna fix that, and then you can write me up.” This guy needed to get his priorities straight, and to get them straight quickly, if he was to roll with them.

Before Commander Drake could snap back, Captain Kioshi changed the conversation. “Sam, since we’ve got some new faces, let me introduce you to this motley crew.” He pointed first to a burly commander with weathered skin who held a rifle crosschest. “Commander Kris Eriksson, Chief of Station Security.” He then gestured at the lieutenant by the door with a rifle slung over her shoulder. “Lieutenant Camille Anderson, one of ours.” And then he pointed at the other two. “Ensign Maya Ortega, attaché for the Archanis Diplomatic Mission, and Commander Robert Drake, Archanis Sector JAG.”

“An eclectic bunch,” Petty Officer Sasori smirked, now understanding why she wasn’t vibing with the pretentious commander with nice hair and a clean uniform. She wasn’t one for protocols and processes, and that was literally what the JAG did for a living. The ensign too, a tiny girl with fair skin and skinny arms, how had a babyfaced diplomatic aide gotten wrapped up in all of this? At least the chief of security looked the part with musculature and posture that said he was ready to scrap, and she knew better than to judge one of Kioshi’s charges by their appearance. “So we ready to jump this joint?”

“Jump this joint?” Commander Drake asked warily. “Where exactly are we jumping to?” So far, Captain Kioshi had kept them in the dark.

“Good god, boss,” Petty Officer Sasori chuckled as she looked over at the intelligence chief “You really didn’t tell them a thing, did ya?”

Captain Kioshi just smiled. “We’re going to Kyban.”

“And how exactly are we doing that?” Commander Drake inquired pointedly. They’d barely even made it here, and this was a boring and uninteresting cargobay deep in the belly of the station. “We can’t just waltz onto the flight deck, but even if we could, where would we go? There are Vaadwaur ships everywhere.” He had no intention of dying, and this sounded like a surefire way to do that.

“Wouldn’t we also have to contend with a Blackout boundary?” Commander Eriksson added. They’d been struggling with that boundary ever since the Blackout had arrived, and Captain Dawson’s team hadn’t managed even to pierce it with sensors.

“Reasonable questions, but not if one has a spatial trajector,” Captain Kioshi winked.

“A what?” asked Ensign Ortega. She had never heard of such a thing.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” chuckled Commander Eriksson. He knew what a spatial trajector was, but the implication from Captain Kioshi that he just happened to have one lying around? That was crazy talk.

Commander Drake, meanwhile, was less surprised, and more straight concerned by the reveal. Spatial trajectors were incredibly dangerous and highly regulated. “What exactly are you getting at? Are you saying you are in possession of one?”

“Yeah, we keep it in the basement,” Captain Kioshi replied with a completely straight face.

Commander Drake’s jaw nearly hit the floor. To say that was unusual would have been more than an understatement. The Federation had never been able engineer one, but they’d been discovered on several Borg ships, and they were supposed to be stashed away under lock and key. Not chilling in a basement in a borderlands shithole. “Are you being serious, captain?”

“Very much so,” Captain Kioshi smirked. “Did Sam’s entrance really not make that obvious enough?”

No, Commander Drake thought to himself. It had not gone through his head for not in his wildest nightmares would he have believed they had one out here. “Do you realize the damage this could do if the Vaadwaur manage to find it?” The Vaadwaur had already made borders meaningless with the Underspace, but this would take it to another level. “There’s a reason why Starfleet Command issued specific regulations on the security and use of such technologies.”

“Regulations, shmegulations, blah, blah, blah…” Petty Officer Sasori replied mockingly, drawing a stare of ire from the JAG. Not that she cared. “It’s how we’ve been collecting intelligence, and it’s your ticket to get help, so try being a bit more grateful.”

The JAG stared at her, fuming. How dare she speak to him that way?

Nervously, Ensign Ortega tried to redirect the conversation before it devolved further. “What do you mean when you say to get some help? Isn’t Kyban under Vaadwaur occupation?” The Vaadwaur had tasked her with writing several propaganda pieces celebrating how the civil administration of Kyban had given itself willingly to the Supremacy, and how it had been rewarded as a result. That didn’t seem a great place to go. “How does that help us?”

“Our pocket of the Blackout doesn’t have even a half dozen capable ships to its name,” explained Captain Kioshi. “Not near enough to launch a counteroffensive to retake the station.” As far as he knew, it was just the Lincoln over at Starbase 88, maybe the Pacific Palisades if she was still in range down past the Archanis Nebula, and a few light cruisers from the Third and Seventh Fleets out around Pavo and Kantare. “But from Kyban, we can call all the way to K’t’inga.”

Commander Drake was still stuck on the fact they had an uncontrolled spatial trajector, and Ensign Ortega was still struggling with the idea of going from one occupied place to another, but Commander Eriksson asked the next obvious question: “K’t’inga? You really expect the Klingons to help us?”

“No, I very much doubt Toral will come to our aid,” Captain Kioshi conceded. If the intelligence coming in from Fourth Fleet Command over the Pathfinder array had been accurate, the Empire had been hit almost as hard as the Federation. “Even if they were feeling in a generous mood, they’re far too consumed with their own problems.”

“Then what’s the play?” Commander Eriksson asked. He didn’t doubt the intelligence chief had one. He just wasn’t seeing it.

“Polaris Squadron,” Captain Kioshi answered. “Admiral Reyes and Ambassador Drake were out at K’t’inga enjoying tea and crumpets with a friendly little general named Kloss when the Blackout hit. From Kyban, we should be able to contact them.”

“Assuming they’re still alive,” Commander Drake interjected, his face falling as he thought about his sister again. Watch this nightmare turn out that his dad was dead too.

“Unless you have a better idea, this is the only plan I’ve heard,” Commander Eriksson offered. “I say we do it.” If they could get in contact with the Polaris, he had no doubt that Allison Reyes and Michael Drake would find a way to bring the fire. “We can’t sit here doing nothing so might as well try.” But instead of stepping forward, he stepped back. “You all run along and get in touch with the cavalry.”

“You’re not coming, Kris?” Captain Kioshi asked, inferring by the word choice and the movement that the security chief would not be coming along.

“No, Kurayami, this is my station,” Commander Eriksson replied dutifully. He felt a responsibility since it had fallen on his watch. “While you guys get in contact with Reyes, I’ll see if I can free some of my men so that, when Polaris arrives, we can raise hell from within – you know, hit them on two fronts, make sure they can’t use the station against our forces.”

Captain Kioshi hadn’t considered that angle, but it made sense. A lot of sense. Maybe they could find a way to expand on it even. “We’ll be back soon, hopefully with an army in tow.” He stepped over and joined Petty Officer Sasori. But no one else followed. “Who else is coming?”

Lieutenant Anderson moved, but not towards him. “I’m going to stay with Eriksson to cover his six,” she offered as she drew up alongside the security chief. She understood the risk she was taking in staying, but she also knew two pairs of eyes were better than one, and that preparing the station to rise up would be important.

“And what about you two?” Captain Kioshi asked Commander Drake and Ensign Ortega, the awkwardly out-of-place pair that stood paralyzed by indecision. Neither option seemed even remotely a good idea, and both would far rather have curled up in a hole and waited for the whole thing to blow over.

“It’ll be safer with them,” Commander Eriksson urged, both because it was true, and because he didn’t want to have to babysit the JAG and the diplomatic aide.

“Do you want to get revenge on them for your sister or not?” Captain Kioshi added. “This is how you do that.”

Reluctantly, Commander Drake and Ensign Ortega joined Captain Kioshi.

“Kris, Camille,” Captain Kioshi said, addressing the pair staying behind. “Keep your heads down and watch your backs. I expect you both to still be alive and well when we return.”

And then the four of them were gone, space folding around them as they were whisked across fourteen light years and a Blackout boundary to a basement on Kyban just as dark and rank as the cargobay they’d left behind. Except now they were standing on a pad of Borg origin, a spatial trajector ripped from a destroyed cube the prior year, deep under the streets of Banksy City.