“Shore leave treated you well.” Fleet Captain Geronimo Fontana glanced at Ensign Deborah Porter from the kitchen where he stood, finishing breakfast preparation. He could see a quiet smile reaching her lips, retreating and returning intermittently. He had spent his shore leave time in the holodecks and on a few imposed retreats on nearby planets – colonial and otherwise.

“I enjoyed my time, sir. Thank you for your…firm orders.”

Geronimo chuckled as he laid eggs, bacon, and a pancake on her plate, “I believe my exact words, Ensign, were get the hell off my station.” He returned to the stove and plated his meal, stabbing at it with a fork as he leaned on the counter, “Mandatory fun was also included in the orders.”

The smile on her face broke through and remained in place. “I fulfilled my orders as given, sir.” She slid into a barstool, concentrating on the steaming pile of food before her. “Whitewater rafting. Rock climbing. Lots of hiking. So much journaling and drawing.” He watched her recite through her adventures, her eyes clear and unbothered for the first time since she’d come under his command last October. She turned to him, “I understand Captain Pantuso gave you standing orders as well, sir.”

He finished off his eggs, pointing the silver fork at her, accusing her. “You can deny it all you want, Porter, but I know you were involved. Just because there’s not a paper trail doesn’t mean anything.” His voice was bright, and his sarcasm gentle. He’d accepted his fate when they’d teamed up on him. He had needed the break.

Porter cackled as she broke her bacon, snacking her way through the hashbrowns. The smells of Fontana’s kitchen in the morning were unrivaled. There was something comforting about it. She checked her watch—5:30 am. “We’re due for the 6 am briefing. Perseverance came in this morning, Zephyr last night. Franklin D. Roosevelt got caught up in a colonial negotiation and will be here this afternoon. Gagarin and Cushing reported they’ll join via subspace.” She scrolled through her PADD, “We’ve had reports from the WanderingWolf. They’re still tracing.”

Fontana grumbled as he set his dishes into the sink, taking Porter’s as well. He snagged his coffee and handed his yeoman her large cup, “I know I wasn’t thrilled with Captain Ki’s assignment here. Now, I’m not sure I ever want her to leave.” He walked out his door, and she fell in beside him in the corridor. Fontana’s first anniversary of taking command of Montana Station was a month away. He’d been reflecting on the changes that had come to Starbase 406 over the previous. Plenty of old faces. Lots of new ones. “Anything on the incident from last night?” He grimaced. The incident had been a murder in the bowels of Montana Station. The dead had been a long-time lurker who had lived in the dank corners.

“Security took control of the crime scene. Body and evidence are waiting for Director Halsey’s team. They’re briefing after our meeting.” He caught a glance from her as she continued, “Word has reached the middle and upper decks. So far, our security and public relations teams are handling it. We’ve had a few questions from on-station reporters and freelancers.”

Fontana shook his head. They’d become more of a destination in the year since the final pieces of the station had slid into place. More traffic meant more eyes. And it meant more interest from a lot of different groups. “How long do you think we have until we need to activate the media operations center?” There was a second-floor part of the communications department where a specialized group had been tasked with liaising with various networks and freelancers. They’d had to use it frequently during major events recently, but had remained relatively empty.

He’d augmented Porter’s training with communications operations and public relations operations. She appeared to do a mental calculation before replying, “Five to seven days.”

Fontana turned a corner, and she kept pace. “Put the team on standby.” His communication badge chirped twice, as did Porter’s. That was a secure call. They ducked into an alcove, and he tapped his badge, “Fontana secure. Go ahead.”

“Commander Thasaz here, sir. We’ve got another one. Three levels higher this time. Still in the lower levels. Teams are en route.”

Fontana was tempted to hit his head against the alcove wall. That wouldn’t help, he knew. “Understood, Commander. What do you need from me?” A pause in the reply from the Romulan Director of Security on the line caused him and Porter to look at each other, confused.

She returned, “I’m requesting a lockdown of the lower levels – all egress points secured and turbolifts restricted.” Another pause, and her voice dropped to a tone Geronimo knew well. “I have a feeling, Fontana. This doesn’t feel right.” He had grown to trust the commander. She’d rarely been wrong.

Geronimo frowned as he ran through the pros and cons. It would be a signal that something was wrong. But it would also protect those on the middle and upper decks. Was there a choice? He replied, “Authorized. Be ready to report from the field at the meeting.” The channel closed.

They both stepped back out into the busy corridor. Porter turned to him, “You think she’s right?”

Fontana felt a heavy cloud settle into his stomach. “Given Thasaz’s history, she knows a thing or two about trouble waiting in the wings.” He picked up his speed. He didn’t have a great feeling about whatever was happening, either.