“Nothing is beyond us if we work together, my friends.” Garos led her—and, as an afterthought, Corthoc—over to the table. “Now . . . let us discuss how we may get you what you wish.”
May 17, 2164
San Francisco
“The latest report confirms our intelligence from two months ago,” Charles Tucker informed his superior. “A high-ranking Raldul member, maybe Dular Garos himself, met with First Family representatives on Rigel II. They’re planning to derail the membership talks.”
“I see.” His superior, a square-jawed, gray-haired man who went by the name Harris, took in his report calmly. “And what do you recommend we do about it?”
Tucker considered for a moment, then sighed and set his mouth grimly, recalling a past argument and the others that had followed. “We . . . don’t do anything. We let Starfleet and the diplomats deal with the problem.”
Harris studied him for a long moment, his gaze revealing nothing. It lasted long enough to put Trip’s teeth on edge before the older man relented and gave a slight smile. “You’re absolutely right. Or should I say, Captain T’Pol was right.” Tucker glared, but he was past being surprised at the lack of personal privacy in the life he led now. “The Federation is more than capable of taking care of itself . . . most of the time. It has laws, defenses, countless skilled professionals more than capable of dealing with the vast majority of its problems, and usually we serve the Federation best by staying out of its way.
“Not to mention that it’s in our own best interests not to involve ourselves in more situations than we absolutely have to. Each intervention increases the risk of exposure.” Harris smirked. “As a wise school of philosophers once observed, the first lesson of not being seen is not to stand up. So our, ah, services should be the last resort, not the first.”
Tucker gave him a sidelong look. “Then what are we doing here? Why are we going to all this trouble, abandoning our lives, hiding our identities, when most of the time there’s no point?”
“I understand your frustration, my friend. You want to feel that all this secrecy, all this deception and denial, serves a purpose. But our purpose,” Harris went on, “is to watch . . . and to wait. To be ready for those—hopefully rare—situations that the Federation can’t resolve through legal and aboveboard means. Situations that only the invisible and unaccountable can address.
“I know it’s not very glamorous or rewarding. But it’s our life. You’ve said yourself, we have to be careful not to take things too far. What we do often isn’t pretty, so the less we have to do it, the better.”
“I know, I know. I guess sittin’ by and watchin’ has never been my style. That’s why I joined Starfleet.” Tucker sighed. “In another life.”
Harris contemplated him for a moment. “You know . . . one of the things we are meant for is to take care of matters outside the authority of those official institutions. Situations beyond Federation jurisdiction that might someday pose a risk to the Federation.”
Sensing that Harris was about to make him an offer, Tucker perked up. “I like to travel.”
“Good. We need a fact finder for a . . . troubling situation that’s developing. It may be strictly a local problem, but it could affect Federation interests.” He tilted his head. “And it’s a fair distance in the opposite direction from Babel.”
He thought it over. It wasn’t as if he were eager to flee from T’Pol. He wasn’t sure quite what the range limitation on their telepathic bond was, but they seemed to connect less often the farther they were from each other. But if what she needed was to be trusted to solve her own problems, then he’d give her the necessary space. He just wasn’t sure yet if that path would lead around to bringing them back together. For now, he supposed that was her decision to make.
“Sounds perfect,” he told Harris. “Just tell me what the weather’s like there so I can pack.”
4
May 29, 2164
Orion homeworld (Pi-3 Orionis III)
D’NESH ENTERED the medical section of the Three Sisters’ estate to find Jofirek on a bed in the treatment area, harassing a Boslic nurse. Luckily for the nurse, the elderly Agaron crime boss lacked the speed or energy for much more than verbal advances. Still, D’Nesh chuckled at the slave’s plight. As far as she was concerned, females who lacked the power to keep males under control deserved whatever happened to them.
Of course, D’Nesh did not have to wait for service, so she was promptly shown into the adjacent exam room and Doctor Honar-Des arrived moments later, as soon as he could abandon the patient he’d been with and run his hands through a sterilizing beam. Des was a smallish, elderly Orion, only half a head taller than D’Nesh, with a fully bald and unadorned head. He eschewed body piercings for what he called sanitary reasons, though D’Nesh had to wonder how he reconciled that with the full gray beard he wore. “What’s Jofirek in for?” she asked him idly as he pulled the curtain shut over the doorway. “Did Zankor try to kill him again?”