When the door finally slid open, he didn’t get quite the greeting he expected. Desai was wrapped in a pale blue bathrobe and toweling her short, dark hair. She looked up at him with a befuddled expression and resorted to their public formality. “Commodore?”

“I always thought that was just a saying,” he said, pointing at her wet hair. “ ‘Not tonight, I’m washing my hair.’ ”

“I haven’t used that one on you yet,” she said. “I’m saving it for a special occasion.”

“I see.” He peeked over her shoulder into her dim quarters. “Am I early?”

Her eyebrows lifted in surprise. “For what?”

He heard footsteps getting nearer. Edging forward, he said, “Mind if I come in?”

She halted his progress with a palm against his chest. “What are you doing here, Commodore?”

Keenly aware of whoever was approaching, he lowered his voice. “Isn’t it your turn to make dinner?”

That seemed to amuse Desai. “I don’t think so.”

Gesturing toward the sound of looming footfalls, he said with naked urgency, “Rana, please.” Rolling her eyes, she stepped aside and waved him in. He made it through the door, which closed before the passerby reached the corner. “Is this some lawyer technicality because we didn’t get to eat last time? Because I ought to get credit for making that dinner, even if we didn’t eat it.”

Desai walked back toward her bathroom. “It’s not like that,” she said. “It’s much simpler, actually.”

“Really?” Reyes never ceased to be amazed by her ability to confuse him then make him feel like it was his own fault by telling him that her convoluted mind games were “simple.”

She continued her end of the conversation from the bathroom, her voice pitched upward with its increased volume. “Legal ethics, Commodore. I presume you’ve heard of them?”

Mentally jumping ahead three steps in the conversation, Reyes growled with frustration. “You’ve got to be kidding me! You can’t see me socially because of the damned inquiry?”

“You’re quick, sir. I like that in a witness.”

“This isn’t funny, Rana.” She glared out the bathroom door at him. He corrected himself. “Sorry: It’s not funny, Your Honor.” She returned to brushing her hair.

“You’re right,” she said. “It’s not. Technically, this is an ex parte discussion. It would probably be best if you left.”

He stood, stunned and quiet, for several seconds. He waited for the punch line, or the wry grin that would let him off the hook. Moments later he realized that he was waiting in vain.

“Great jumpin’ jehoshaphat, you’re serious.”

Desai emerged from the bathroom clad in her bright gold miniskirt uniform. Striking a pose with one hand planted on the curve of her hip, she fixed him with a stare that under any other circumstances he would have described as being of the come-hither variety. She smirked. “Don’t let the hemline fool you, sir. I’m all business. Now, get out.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, an eye-rolling grimace conveying his profound disappointment in this unexpected change of plans. She walked behind him to the door. Probably to make sure I really leave, he mused. The door hissed open. He paused on the threshold and turned to face her one more time. “Y’know, you’re cute when you’re ethical.”

With her fingertips against his chest, she gave him a playful nudge past the doorjamb. “Good night, sir.” She backed away from the door, which closed. Though Reyes knew he was probably only imagining it, he was almost certain he heard her laughing on the other side. Mustering his pride, he ambled away to see if Fisher, Cannella, and the rest of the usual suspects were up for a few hands of seven-card stud at Manón’s.

“Vanguard Control/Rocinante. Requesting departure clearance, bay ninety-two.”

The reply of the flight-control officer, or FCO, was distorted by the thrice-rewired speaker on Quinn’s cockpit dashboard. “Rocinante /Control. Submit your flight plan and stand by for preflight check.”

“Acknowledged, Vanguard. Transmitting flight plan.”

Outside in the hangar bay, the door to the corridor opened. Chief Ivan Vumelko, the same grouchy customs inspector who had knocked Quinn’s tools all over the hold a few days ago, was back to see him off on another trip. Trailed by a pair of Starfleet security guards, Vumelko marched directly up to the nose of the Rocinante and slapped his palm on the side of the wedgelike forward fuselage. “Open her up, Quinn. Snap inspection.”

Damn. Quinn unlocked the gangway and lowered it. Figured there was a fifty-fifty chance T’Prynn might’ve had my back on this one. Just don’t panic. Reaching up to a vestigial coolant pipe for a handhold, he lifted his maladroit bulk out of the pilot’s chair and walked back into the hold to meet his guests, who were already ascending the gangway. “Morning, boys.”

“Stow it, Quinn.” Vumelko keyed his headset transmitter. “Control/Vumelko. Bay ninety-two, starting spot check.” Aiming his tricorder at one shielded cargo container then another, he said, “What’s in the boxes, Quinn?”

“Hardware,” Quinn said. “Stem bolts, dynospanners, sonic screwdrivers, gravitic calipers—”

“That’s nice, shut up.” Vumelko pointed at one of the crates and looked at the two guards. “Open it.”

Play it cool. There was always a chance that Vumelko would be repulsed by the smell of oiled machine parts and, in a sudden and uncharacteristic moment of inattention, forget to rescan the crate’s contents once the sensor-scrambling box was open. The chemical odor of silicate lubricant and freshly cut metal filled the cargo hold as the lid came free. Vumelko pointed his tricorder into the box and ran a standard molecular scan.

I’m dead.

Turning off the tricorder, Vumelko motioned to the two guards. “Close it up.” He turned toward Quinn, who slouched, preferring to be led away with a whimper rather than a bang. Vumelko extended his hand. “Your pass-chip, Mr. Quinn.” With a glum frown, Quinn surrendered the chip, without which he couldn’t legally import or export cargo from Federation ports. Vumelko inserted it into a slot on his tricorder, entered a few commands, then removed the chip.

He handed it back to Quinn. “Good luck in the hardware business. Try not to screw yourself.” Vumelko keyed his mic as he led the two security guards down the gangway. “Control/Vumelko. Bay ninety-two, clear for departure.”

Despite being numb with shock and weak with adrenaline trembles, Quinn closed the gangway hatch and returned to the cockpit. The voice of Vanguard Control crackled over his speaker once more. “Rocinante/Vanguard Control. Flight plan cleared, preflight check complete. Hangar bay door opening. Stand by.”

“Control/Rocinante. Acknowledged.” With a deep hum of magnetic gears, the hangar-bay door crept upward, revealing a rectangular patch of nebula-clouded starfield. The stars drifted slowly from left to right in the frame of the hangar entrance, owing to the slow rotation of the starbase itself.

Rocinante’s fusion drive turned over with a satisfying roar that sent a shudder through the deck and up Quinn’s spine. Taking off was his favorite part of any journey. Landing was always a crapshoot. So far his luck had held, but he’d lost count of how many times he had welded the Rocinante’s struts back together after one of his trademark rough homecomings.

Throttling the small ship forward, he refused to believe he had actually made it past a customs check with a cargo hold full of weapons. It began to sink in only after he had safely warped away. But even as he gave belated thanks to T’Prynn for helping him evade arrest on Vanguard, he knew that escaping Ganz’s trap on Kessik IV would be his own problem to deal with. One crisis at a time, he told himself. One crisis at a time.

15

Kirk watched the main viewer, mesmerized by the enormous chunks of gray debris tumbling erratically in orbit over Ravanar IV. Leslie swiveled his chair away from the helm. “This is as close as we can get for now, sir. Any closer and we risk a collision.”