‘…and the Cardassian goes, “We didn’t order maintenance!” like we’d shown up the wrong day!’ Nallera was laughing as she spoke, lounging back in the Rooks’ conference room aboard the Blackbird, bottle of beer in hand.

‘I don’t know why we went for sophisticated subterfuge,’ Rosewood sighed. ‘What a pack of idiots.’

‘I assume you then punched him,’ said Aryn.

‘I was kind. The True Way clearly hadn’t sent their best. I shot him.’ As eyebrows raised, Nallera sat up defensively. ‘Set to Stun! You know how much paperwork we’d have to do if we killed them all with local law enforcement tidying up after?’

‘I thought that was the appeal of immediately flying away,’ mused Rosewood. ‘Let someone else do the cleaning. Anyway, your kindness to idiot Cardassians does you credit, Chief, but the awards for this one go to Aryn.’

Aryn gave a bashful, awkward smile, sat in one of the hard-backed chairs in the conference room. It routinely doubled as a lounge, with comfortable seating stacked around a holographic projector that could show critical mission information or play a movie. Nallera had swept in with a crate of beer bottles and insisted they celebrate their latest win – and when Nallera was in that kind of mood, nobody argued.

‘I did my job,’ Aryn said, sipping his drink as if he’d never had a cold beer after a long day before and wasn’t sure what would happen.

‘Hey, I saw the report on the toxins they were gonna pipe into the water,’ Nallera said, pointing accusingly. ‘Neutralising that was some shit-hot work.’

‘And sweeping in to save the hostage,’ Tiran pointed out. Long legs lounged over the side of one armchair, the Rooks second-in-command managing to look effortlessly elegant yet still relaxed.

‘I… guess I did that.’

‘Downright heroic,’ said Rosewood, leaning over to elbow him gently.

‘I’m not sure what we do is heroic, per se.’ Aryn shrugged. ‘I expect the media will simply say how “law enforcement” stopped the True Way. Even for our open missions, nobody’s going to know who we are or what we did.’

‘Being celebrities would make this job pretty hard,’ said Tiran.

‘Oh, I’m not complaining,’ Aryn said. ‘But heroes are, well. Jean-Luc Picard. James T. Kirk. People you’ve heard of.’

‘Also, you might get to be a hero,’ said Nallera, pointing at him. ‘Clean-cut action nerd like you. And Rosewood here, the dashing all-Federation boy. But Tiran don’t smile enough and I can’t watch my mouth and you think they put Cassidy on a recruitment poster?’

‘I’d complain,’ mused Rosewood, ‘but I was on the cover of the San Fran Academy prospectus in my fourth year. Also, I like being called “dashing.”’

The door slid open and in stomped Cassidy, PADDs under his arm. ‘Dash away all you like, Kid, but some of us have work to do,’ he said in gruff greeting. He was in his uniform jacket, worn open, which Rosewood knew meant he’d likely been talking to superiors.

Tiran sat up. ‘We’ve got a new assignment? Already?’

‘No rest for the wicked,’ said Cassidy, pointing one PADD towards the holographic display and thumbing a command for transferred documents and images to shimmer to life in front of them. ‘And we’re the worst of the worst.’

‘Great pep talk,’ said Rosewood. ‘I feel all warm and fuzzy.’

‘You shouldn’t. Things are bad.’ Cassidy turned to the display, shining brightly with a strategic map of the Alpha and Beta Quadrants. ‘The Orion Syndicate’s causing trouble.’

Nallera had a swig of beer. ‘What else is new?’

‘The nature of that trouble.’ Cassidy thumbed another command, and the map zoomed in on the coreward-trailing corner of Federation space, near the Ferengi border. ‘The compromises in Federation security and the rat races for Borg tech over the last few years have created an all-you-can-eat buffet of devices, equipment, and technologies I like to call, “Shit you do not want in the wrong hands.” Small weapons. Big weapons. Things that could be made weapons by the wrong person. And lately, the Syndicate has been gobbling it up; stealing, buying, selling. Starfleet Security turned around and realised we’ve got a crime epidemic on our hands.’

‘Oh, I get it,’ said Rosewood. ‘We fix the entire Orion Syndicate. Simple.’

Cassidy ignored him, but his thumb-jab was pointed as he carried on and brought up the image of an Orion woman. ‘This is Aestri. Scum by Orion standards, but she’s been cut-throat enough to rise in the Syndicate as a serious arms dealer. Lately, she’s been funnelling equipment and weapons to fringe Klingon houses and captains who really hate us. And Intel says she has a big buyer lined up among them who wants her to deliver something really nasty.’

Another press of the thumb, but the image displayed what looked to Rosewood like nothing more than a metal capsule. It could have been the size of a pill, or as big as the Blackbird. ‘This is the Kairos Regulator. Stolen from Daystrom Station almost a year ago now. Sold by those Changeling agents to distract Starfleet and likely raise funds for their primary plans. And now Aestri wants it.’

Nallera sat up. ‘What does it do?’

‘I’m assuming,’ mused Aryn, eyes flashing with interest, ‘it affects weather patterns. Or time.’

‘Those… don’t sound at all alike. What the hell?’

‘Kairos is Greek,’ Rosewood explained. ‘It could translate to suggest either.’

‘Time,’ said Cassidy, impatient at the scholarly diversion. ‘A hand-held unit that generates a personal field and affects the passage of time on a localised area. I can’t explain more than that, cos frankly, we don’t have the clearance to know. It’s not a superweapon that’ll destroy a planet.’

‘But depending on the scale, it could let an assassin walk into the Palais, kill the President, and stroll out before anyone knows they’re there.’ Aryn’s brow was furrowing. ‘Or let a shuttle take a space station apart piece by piece.’

Tiran sucked her teeth. ‘So not a good thing for Klingons who hate us to have. That’s our job? Find Aestri, get it off her?’

‘Aestri doesn’t have it,’ said Cassidy. ‘She wants it. And its current owner is willing to sell.’ Another press of the thumb for a new briefing image. ‘This is Ilior, a private moon on the edge of Ferengi space, and chunk of it is the personal property of a Ferengi known as Nank. It’s the luxury resort of your dreams, which means the worst people in the galaxy go there. And in a few days, they’ll be there for an auction Nank is hosting. The Kairos Regulator, among other things, is on the docket.’

‘We get to go to a private auction on a seedy luxury moon?’ Nallera sat up. ‘This is the best job.’

Tiran winced. ‘Unless Starfleet Intelligence already has a full workup on the facility, can we really put together a plan to rob it in a matter of days?’

‘No,’ agreed Cassidy. ‘Or at least, not without being on the inside. We’re going to attend the auction. Command has authorised us to do whatever it takes to get the Kairos Regulator short of turning the moon into dust, but that includes giving us a fund to buy it if necessary. They’d rather we don’t have to.’

‘Hang on.’ Rosewood tapped his chin. ‘No way a group of Starfleet officers waltz in to attend this auction. We got a cover?’

‘No,’ Cassidy said again.

‘This is a great briefing,’ muttered Nallera.

‘But there’s someone who can get us in,’ Cassidy snapped, frowning at her. The next image came up of a Orion man, broad but going thick in the middle. ‘This is Torrad-Var. Son of the House of Var-Kan, Master of the Bleak Shadow. One of the Orion Syndicate’s more influential noble members, who’s willing to get us in the auction under his name.’

Nallera gaped. ‘I thought the Orion Syndicate wanted this thing?’

‘Faction war,’ groaned Rosewood, slumping back in his chair. ‘I hate faction wars.’

‘I’ve worked with Torrad-Var before,’ said Cassidy. ‘He’s the old-school kind of guy who likes the status quo. He’s helped Starfleet shut down pirate ops that went too far and caused too much blood and trouble, and in return… yeah. Sometimes we turn a blind eye to him.’

‘The definition,’ said Aryn, head tilting, ‘of the devil you know.’

‘He’s based on Kalviris Prime, just outside of Federation space, a little ways into the Ionite Nebula. One of the big trading ports between the Syndicate and Ferengi. He’s agreed to meet – nothing more.’ Cassidy shook his head. ‘It’s imperative we figure out what Torrad-Var wants and how we can get him to help us. Otherwise, we get Klingons who can stop time.’

Rosewood stuck up a hand. ‘Can we have the idiot Cardassians trying to poison the water back?’

‘We’re on our way to Kalviris already,’ said Cassidy, ignoring him. ‘So the party’s over. Book club for everyone to study Aestri, Torrad-Var, Nank, Ilior, and Kalviris.’

Nallera leaned towards Aryn, eyes serious. ‘Can I copy your homework?’

Cassidy gave them a flat look. ‘Starfleet’s finest,’ he spat.

Tiran smirked as she stood. ‘You called us the worst of the worst not ten minutes ago, Hal.’

‘If we go to a sexy black market auction,’ said Rosewood, ‘and have to sneak in through the vents or if I’m disguised as a Breen or something, I’m gonna be real disappointed, for the record.’

‘Oh, no,’ said Cassidy. ‘I’d hate to disappoint you, Kid.’ He rolled a shoulder. ‘Thought you’d love tying up loose ends the Changelings left lying around.’

‘Yeah, I really love seeing the absolute mess those assholes left behind. Gives me closure. That’s why I want at least a stupid cocktail made with illegal alcohol on a decadent Ferengi private crime moon out of this job.’

Nallera finished her beer and set it down with a thunk and a satisfied sigh. ‘God, I love this job.’