Experience had convinced Reyes that publicly debating Jetanien was a quick means to profound embarrassment. His thick, dark eyebrows pressed down in a heavy scowl as he said, “Send them in, Greenfield.”

The door to his office opened, and Jetanien entered first. His raiment, as ever, was as flowing and gauzy as he was scaly and ponderous. Sashes of scarlet and plum were wrapped around his massive torso, and a matching drape hung from the back of his elaborate headpiece, which had been wrought from metal polished to a blinding brilliance. The Chelon rubbed his beaklike mouth back and forth, making a soft grinding sound as he strode toward Reyes’s desk.

T’Prynn walked in behind the ambassador, as ever presenting a portrait of discipline and control. Her crimson minidress was immaculate, her boots were polished to perfection, and her hair was pulled taut across her scalp and secured in a long, loosely bound ponytail. She carried a data slate.

The door closed behind T’Prynn, who joined Jetanien in front of Reyes’s desk. Jetanien made a slight bow of greeting. “First of all, let me express my profound gratitude for your magnanimity in actually deigning to grant us—”

“Stop,” Reyes said, holding up his palm toward Jetanien. “Are you two here for the same reason?”

Taken aback, Jetanien said simply, “Yes.”

“Okay,” Reyes said, pointing at Jetanien. “You talk too much.” He aimed his finger at T’Prynn. “What’s this about?”

“It is my duty to inform you both that a member of Ambassador Jetanien’s diplomatic staff is an agent of Klingon Imperial Intelligence who has been surgically altered to appear as a human female,” T’Prynn said.

Reyes smirked. “I knew there was something fishy about that Karumé woman.”

“Actually, sir, the spy is Anna Sandesjo—Ambassador Jetanien’s senior attaché.”

The commodore gave himself a moment to suck on his teeth and process that nugget of information. “Of course it is,” he said. “When did you figure out she was a spy?”

“Eleven months and twenty-two days ago,” T’Prynn said.

His coffee threatened to make a special return trip up his esophagus just so he could do a spit-take. “Eleven months?”

“And twenty-two days,” T’Prynn clarified.

He covered his eyes with one hand and exhaled. Count to ten, he counseled himself. One…two…

“Miss Sandesjo was coopted almost immediately after her detection,” T’Prynn said. “She has served us well as a double agent, providing valuable intelligence about Klingon priorities in this sector.”

Reyes stopped counting at six and removed his hand from his eyes. “You flipped an undercover enemy agent eleven months ago, and you’re just telling the two of us about it now?”

“Oh, I already knew about Sandesjo,” Jetanien said.

In unison Reyes and T’Prynn replied, “You did?”

“Of course.” Jetanien faced T’Prynn. “My staff intercepted one of her reports to Turag nineteen days before you turned her. I am well aware of the services she has performed for you.”

There was a challenge implicit in Jetanien’s tone, and it made Reyes feel as if he knew nothing about what was really going on aboard his station. “All right, let’s get to the meat on this bone. Why are you telling me now?”

T’Prynn tore her drilling-laser stare from Jetanien, blinked, and turned a neutral gaze back toward Reyes. “Miss Sandesjo’s status as a double agent has been exposed. It was a necessary consequence of disinforming the Klingons about events in the Jinoteur system. She is currently in protective custody aboard the station, but we need to move her to a safer location.”

“Hang on,” Reyes said. “You blew her cover six days ago, and she’s still here?” T’Prynn nodded. “And the Klingons know she’s still here?” Again the Vulcan woman confirmed his supposition. “Are you kidding me?”

Jetanien made some clicking noises and said, “I doubt the Klingons would risk an attack on the station over one agent.”

“They won’t launch a direct attack, no,” Reyes said. “But they aren’t gonna let this go, either—I guarantee it.” Turning to T’Prynn, he said, “I presume you have a plan?”

“Yes, sir,” she said. “The Starfleet cargo transport Malacca is currently docked in bay three.” She handed her data slate to Reyes, who read it and followed along as she continued. “A standard cargo container unit has been modified to serve as a scan-shielded residential module for Miss Sandesjo. It will appear in the Malacca’s manifest as classified materials bound for the Starfleet Research and Development office on Deneva.”

Jetanien sounded dubious. “How likely is this to deceive the Klingons?” Reyes was keen to know the answer to that question as well.

“Because the Malacca is not a personnel ship,” T’Prynn said, “the Klingons are less likely to suspect it of being used to transport Miss Sandesjo. Furthermore, we can deflect their suspicion by maintaining a heightened state of security aboard the station for several days after her departure.”

Reyes looked over the plan that T’Prynn had drafted and compared it to the schedule of arrivals and departures. “When do you see this happening?”

“Today, shortly after the arrival of the Sagittarius,” she said. “Its homecoming should provide ample distraction.”

“Let’s hope it does,” Reyes said. “The last thing the Malacca needs is a Klingon welcoming committee waiting for it the minute it gets outside our sensor range.” He reclined his chair, closed his eyes, and pinched the bridge of his nose to ward off the seed of a headache. “Either of you have any more surprises for me this morning?”

“Not at present,” Jetanien said.

T’Prynn shook her head. “No, sir.”

“Thank heaven for small mercies,” Reyes said. “Dismissed.”

Dr. Ezekiel Fisher stood behind Dr. M’Benga’s desk and watched over the younger man’s shoulder as he called up a new screen of deep-tissue imaging scans. “Look,” M’Benga said, pointing at a dark blotch on the screen. “Right there.”

As hard as he looked, Fisher didn’t see any sign of a tumor. “Where?”

“There,” M’Benga said. “Above the corolis gland.”

Fisher strained to pick out the tumor from the background, but the image was too muddy. “Did you take a lateral scan?”

“Yes,” M’Benga said. “Hang on, I’ll bring it up.”

The elder physician waited patiently and sipped his tepid cup of herbal tea—an indignity imposed on Fisher by Dr. Robles after the CMO’s latest physical revealed slightly elevated blood pressure—while M’Benga searched through the patient’s scans for the one they wanted. Fisher suspected that he knew what M’Benga had found, and he doubted very much that it was a cancerous tumor. He double-checked the patient’s chart. “Lieutenant Miwal’s blood work doesn’t show any of the antigens for an internal cancer,” he noted aloud.

“What if it’s an alkalo-carcinoid structure? Caitians can develop them without showing elevated alpha proteins.”

He’s a good diagnostician but a bit too stubborn for his own good, Fisher decided. “Maybe. But then why aren’t we seeing any catecholamines in his serum profile?”

“Well,” M’Benga said, and he paused. His search for a good answer ended as he put the lateral abdominal scan on the screen. “Yes,” he said. “You were right about the lateral scan. It’s much clearer from this angle.”

“It certainly is,” Fisher said. “And it should be fairly obvious that’s not a tumor.”

“But the calcified mass in the—” M’Benga stopped abruptly and took a new, focused look at the image on the screen. Fisher saw no need to say anything; he was certain that within seconds, M’Benga would realize that—

“It’s a bezoar,” M’Benga said with a slump of his shoulders. “In Miwal’s stomach. A harmless bezoar.”

“Or as I like to call it,” Fisher said, “a hairball.” He patted the younger man’s back. “Here endeth the lesson.” He handed M’Benga the data slate that held Miwal’s chart. “I suggest you prescribe the lieutenant a tricophage laxative and tell him to learn how to use the sonic shower.”