“Oh, pretty,” th’Skaar remarked as he took a seat next to Morozov in Sagan’s conference room. He gestured to the image of a starship on the compartment’s viewer which Morozov appeared to be studying. “That’s the new Niagara-class, isn’t it?”

“Yes. This is the Robau,” Morozov replied with a wistful sigh. “Scheduled to launch from Utopia Planitia in eight weeks for trials and shakedown.”

Morozov turned to see th’Skaar’s suspicious expression. “It’s… not what you think. Probably not.”

“You’re thinking of putting in for another command?”

“Not me, no.” Morozov let that thought linger as th’Skaar digested it.

The Andorian’s antennae went rigid with surprise. “You mean for Adi to command her!” he blurted.

Morozov cocked his head. “I’ve had worse ideas.”

“You’re trying to… get the choir back together?” th’Skaar asked.

“Band,” Morozov countered. “And yes. If you and Carol are agreeable, we could present this to the captain as a united group.” He turned to th’Skaar and gestured to encompass the ship as a whole. “Tell me this doesn’t feel right, Scar. All of us back here, working towards a common purpose.”

Th’Skaar placed a hand on his friend’s arm. “That’s a lot to drop on someone so suddenly. We all have other obligations now. Yes, we were all able to arrange to get away for five weeks to shepherd a cadet cruise, but that’s a far cry from becoming active Starfleet line officers again.”

Morozov stiffened. “So, that’s a ‘no’ from you?”

“I would never dismiss the idea so quickly my friend. However, I have three mates and among us, five children who I’ve only recently come to know again after years of absence. Going back to active duty would throw our family into chaos.”

The Russian nodded soberly. “I understand. I’m sorry to have sprung this on you so abruptly.”

“Don’t be. Your passion for this is genuine, and I share your feelings for our time aboard Prokofiev.”

They were interrupted by the alert klaxon. It blared three times in unison, followed by, “Senior officers and midshipmen department heads report to the bridge.” The captain’s voice issued from the overheads. “We have been alerted that Cardassian military forces are converging on several Federation colonies along our mutual border, and Command has placed all vessels in this region on red alert.”

Morozov’s face tightened with anxiety as he rose from his chair. “I was hoping this could be avoided.”

His face was serene, but th’Skaar’s antennae twitched with apprehension. “It appears the Cardassians have other ideas.”

The troop billet aboard the Cardassian military transport Grutaal was anything but luxurious. The soldiers housed here slept on bunks stacked five high in the dank, musty, and poorly lit compartment.

Dal Durak Var sat on his floor-level bunk, listening to the strains of Oltari highlands music wafting from two stacks over. The tune from the Banik Province on Cardassia Prime was an uncomplicated rural musical strain. Despite its simplicity, or perhaps because of it, the melody served to sooth the young man’s nerves as he prepared for his first time in combat.

Next to him atop his bunk Var had laid out his plasma pulse rifle, four energy-cell magazines for the weapon, his combat knife, and his grandfather’s battered old scatter-gun. He had tended to each of the other weapons, readying them for whatever was to come. The knife he sharpened slowly against a whetstone that his father had used during his own military service.

Arvik approached, his own rifle slung over his shoulder. “Have you heard?”

Var, still focused on honing his blade, merely grunted in response. “Heard what?”

“Why we’re being deployed, of course.”

Var paused, looking up at his excitable friend. “I assumed it was for the greater glory of Cardassia.”

“Well, of course!” Arvik exclaimed. “But it’s in response to the Federation attacks on our colonies.”

His knife rasped against the stone again. “First I’ve heard of it.”

Arvik gestured towards the oval-shaped viewer set into the nearest bulkhead, cables snaking to it haphazardly, a clear last-minute addition to the billet compartment. “Our colonies in the Chin'toka and Crolsa systems were bombarded by Starfleet after our ambassadors confronted the Federation about arming the Bajoran rebels.”

Var appeared skeptical. “That seems quite… bold… for the Federation.”

His friend’s head bobbed animatedly. “Yes! It’s clear their peace overtures were only a ruse to try and lull us into passivity!”

“Lull us into…?” Var laughed. “I doubt you’ve ever used that phrase before in your life. You repeat the media ministry’s proclamations like a Toalia’an Mimic.”

“It’s what they told us,” Arvik insisted. “We must be ready to take our revenge on their own colonies now. They butchered our women and children, and we cannot let that go unanswered.”

Var nodded towards Arvik’s rifle. “You’ve never shot anyone with that before, let alone an unarmed woman or a child. You may find what awaits us is more difficult than you’d imagined.”

Arvik glanced around and then whispered, “You shouldn’t speak so, Durak. The Obsidian Order has operatives everywhere. Such cynicism could place you in their sights.”

“You are correct, of course,” Var conceded. “My words were ill chosen. I am… anxious about what lies ahead for us. My father told me that war experienced firsthand is far different than how it is portrayed in the popular entertainments.”

His friend gripped his shoulder in an overly enthusiastic gesture of camaraderie. “We shall face combat together as a unit, just as So-Dal Urtrim has drilled us these many months.”

Var gave him a smile that was devoid of genuine warmth. “Of course we will, my friend. I too am eager to prove my loyalty to the state.”

“For Cardassia!” Arvik called.

“For Cardassia,” Var repeated in a voice more subdued.

The klaxon and announcement from the bridge had roused both cadets from their bunks, and Sandhurst and Lar’ragos hurried into the corridor from their cabin with the young engineer still pulling on his uniform jumpsuit.

Sandhurst turned in the direction of the nearest turbolift but paused to glance back at Lar’ragos. “What’s your emergency post?”

“Damage control team five,” he answered. “Somewhere on deck six forward of frame Seventeen-Baker. You?”

“Main Engineering,” Sandhurst said, his voice thick, Adam’s-apple bobbing.

Other cadets and enlisted personnel raced past them in either direction and Lar’ragos could read the tension emanating from Sandhurst as easily as a holographic billboard.

“It’ll be fine,” he assured the young man. “Just do what your section leader tells you. Keep your mind on following your orders and addressing the task at hand. The rest will take care of itself.”

Sandhurst bobbed his head, a hint of color returning to his features. “Yeah, sure. Thanks.”

Then he was gone.

Lar’ragos gave himself a moment to watch the retreating cadet before looking down at his hands. His left hand trembled, ever so slightly, and he curled it into a fist. “Every damn time,” he muttered.