Her name was Blackbird, and by the time Rosewood boarded, he still hadn’t seen what she looked like from the outside. He’d familiarised himself with the files on the Osler-class, seen the sleek frame designed along Andorian lines evoking speed and subtlety. What he found aboard was considerably more rough and ready than those holo images of a ship whose shape evoked the grace and agility of a swooping bird of prey.

‘Yeah, this is her,’ was all Cassidy said with a curt wave of the hand as they descended the transporter pad. ‘Four decks, less than two hundred metres prow to stern; I’m sure a man like you’s used to getting full tours, but maybe you can use that top education to figure out your own way round. This is -’

Rosewood blinked at the woman in a red uniform stood waiting for them in the transporter room. ‘Commander Ranicus.’

The corners of Tiarith Ranicus’s eyes pinched. They’d only met in passing before, back when she was XO of the USS Triumph and he’d been first officer on the Independence. In the same unit, but on opposing sides, part of the game of political cat-and-mouse between Matt Rourke and Lionel Jericho. Tall, with flowing long dark hair and an aristocratic or even glamorous air, she stood here, in one of the last places he’d expected to see her. But then, she could probably say the same for him.

She, at least, was better briefed. ‘Commander Rosewood. Welcome aboard the Blackbird.’

‘Right,’ said Cassidy, looking between them. ‘You must have met at the same fancy parties. Anyway, she came with the ship, don’t make a mistake and think she’s one of mine. She’s just the babysitter while we’re in the field.’

The lack of change in Ranicus’s facial expression spoke volumes. ‘I’m the Blackbird’s XO. Not part of the field team. There’s a crew of fifteen who run the ship and act as support personnel for field operations.’

Rosewood’s lips curled. ‘Who’d you piss off to end up here?’

‘I could ask you the same thing.’

His smile broadened, sunny and annoying. ‘I volunteered.’

‘I didn’t,’ Cassidy grumbled. ‘Ranicus, we gotta get underway. Kid, go find your room, then get to mission ops and once we’re at warp, you’ll get the full briefing with the team.’

‘Cool,’ said Rosewood, watching them head off. ‘This was a great welcome package. I feel all warm and fuzzy.’ He still hadn’t changed from the linen shirt and khakis, and not only did he feel decidedly out of place amidst the dark metal deck plating and bulkheads of the Blackbird, but the temperature was a lot chillier than on the beach. He shouldered his bag, let Cassidy and Ranicus get a convenient ten seconds head start so he didn’t have to follow like an embarrassing puppy, and went room hunting.

Display screens felt rarer than on a larger ship, leaving him with the sense of finding his way in the dark. She was only four decks high and two hundred metres long, but the Osler was built to be modular. Reading ahead just meant Rosewood first stumbled into a cargo hold housing a pair of ground vehicles before he headed to the next section down. The crew of the Blackbird wasn’t large, and the compact corridors felt quieter than on any starship he’d served; people would likely be on the bridge, getting the ship underway, in a key facility like engineering or the labs, or getting some rack time.

Most rooms on an Osler were single occupancy, but cramped and with shared bathrooms. Despite knowing what he’d signed up for, Rosewood was relieved when the first display screen he found directed him to the section where the VIP transport module had been installed; he, and he suspected Cassidy’s ‘team,’ were assigned slightly larger and more comfortable quarters. It was a short corridor with only six rooms to choose from, but the panel outside his room demanded every form of security confirmation under the sun before it let him in.

He was still inputting his umpteenth level of identification when the door behind him slid open, buffeting him and the gloomy corridor with a wave of sound of Klingon acid punk. A muffled voice came through, distorted and unclear.

Rosewood turned, squinting as if the sound was blinding. ‘What?’

‘-sorry!’ The slight, wiry man stood in the opposite doorway reached back into his room and hit a control panel out of sight to kill the music. ‘You must be our new recruit.’ He wasn’t in uniform either, bundled in an oversized, navy knitted sweater with the sleeves pushed up, and worn lounge trousers. Dishevelled, mousy hair framed sharp, astute features. ‘Macalor Aryn.’

The Lieutenant Aryn that Rosewood had read about was a biochemist with a background in R&D. Rather than show his bemusement, Rosewood grinned. ‘John Rosewood. You always try to deafen the new guy?’

Aryn gave an embarrassed smile. ‘Nallera – Chief Nallera, you’ll meet her – is a huge Klingon acid punk fan. I wanted to know what the fuss was about. It sounds noisy, but there’s enormous complexity to the time signature. You might not notice it immediately, but it’s shifting, asymmetric; alternates between 7/8 and 5/4 time every fourth measure -’

‘Guess I gotta take your word for it.’ Rosewood glanced down as the deck began to rumble. They were underway. Soon, he expected to feel the Blackbird surge around him on a jump to warp. ‘You been aboard long?’

‘None of us have. But if you’re asking how long I’ve been with Cassidy – well, I’ve been a Rook for a year, maybe? Not as long as the rest.’

‘A Rook?’

‘Oh, that’s – that’s the field team. The Rooks. We were a special operations team before Cassidy was given the Blackbird – to give us more stability and mobility and resources, I guess. We’ll see how well that works out. I’m looking forward to having actual labs to hand, instead of waiting until we’re back at starbase for any chance of analysis.’

‘Rooks,’ mused Rosewood. ‘That’s cute. Being assigned the Blackbird. Keeping it in the corvid family.’

Aryn paused. ‘Blackbirds aren’t corvids. They’re thrushes.’

‘Then… keeping it in the family of “birds that are black.”’

‘Sure.’ Aryn looked him up and down. ‘I’d ask your story, but I expect everyone’s doing that.’

‘Do I have to have a story?’

‘Okay, so I’m not the “people person” of the team, but even I can tell you’re an oddity here. By rank alone, you’re slumming it with us.’

Rosewood pointed back. ‘I could say the same for you, except for with skills and training. Shouldn’t you be riding an R&D team in Daystrom?’

Aryn hesitated, his smile now nervous. ‘I like to stretch my legs?’ But he nodded and shrugged. ‘Turnabout’s fair play. I’ll let you get settled.’

Rosewood nodded, then frowned. ‘Cassidy said we’ll meet for briefing once we’re underway…?’

‘Oh, conference room.’ Aryn pointed down the corridor. ‘This section is all Rooks.’

‘Great. Do we…’ Another hesitation. ‘If I show up to the briefing in uniform, is Cassidy going to make a thing of it? Or if I show up out of uniform, will he make a thing of it?’

‘Well…’ The nervous smile returned. ‘Cassidy’s a good man. But he will almost certainly make a thing of it whatever you do. Don’t take it personally. Trust in this line of work is essential – but precious. You’ll earn it.’ Aryn paused, seeming to realise he hadn’t fully answered the question. ‘Nobody else will be in uniform.’

Rosewood let Aryn go and ducked into the small room that was, he suspected, going to be his only private space for quite some time. Aryn was well-meaning, he thought, but also seemed surprisingly open for a member of this crew. Rosewood wasn’t sure he trusted the social judgement of a man who listened to Klingon acid punk for its mathematical curiosities, so just threw a jacket over the clothes he’d been wearing at the beach.

Then he stood in the single-occupancy stateroom and waited. On a bigger ship, he’d have a proper window; here, it was more like a porthole, but without a view of the planet Calder, all he saw beyond was distant stars and endless black. As a child on a family trip to Sol, he’d been taken to the museum exhibitions of the old Enterprise NX-01, and marvelled at space travel in such rugged and confined environments. It felt like he was living it now, except without his father’s hand on his shoulder, solemnly telling him the stories of those pioneers of Starfleet, and lighting in him a spark that had taken him into the family trade.

But now he was here. Not on a rugged ship of exploration taking to discover the promise of stars, but on a gunboat led by brute, headed God knew where. And his father was long gone.