As Mayweather adroitly maneuvered Shuttlepod One back into its launch bay, Archer thought, If the Romulans ever hit Earth as hard as they did Coridan, at least we’ll have the support of the other Coalition worlds.
Forty‑Eight
Tuesday, March 4, 2155
San Francisco
DRAWING THE HOOD of his dark traveler’s robe up so that it covered most of his head, Charles Tucker rounded the damp and deserted street corner, hugging the shadows of two of Grant Avenue’s most venerable brick buildings as he entered an even darker alley. Since this particular crevice between ancient pre‑Third World War structures was located just off Greenwich Street, Trip had expected to catch at least a glimpse of historic Coit Tower looming overhead; however, the evening fog’s omnipresence and the Moon’s utter absence conspired to render the familiar landmark effectively invisible.
A perfect night for a spy to be out and about,Trip thought, suppressing an absurd urge to giggle.
The all but impenetrable gloom all around made Trip distinctly uncomfortable, to say nothing of the ripe‑garbage smell that must have originated inside one of the local restaurants’ large, back‑alley trash bins. He smiled as he reminded himself that he had survived encounters with any number of far more dangerous things, particularly over the course of the past couple of weeks. Still, he couldn’t avoid considering how ironic it would be if he were to get killed by a street criminal–or maybe even by some nut‑job Terra Prime‑loyal Vulcan basher–in some dark and stinking alley on his own home planet, fresh from having survived a harrowing sojourn deep inside Romulan territory.
“Good evening, Commander,” intoned a quiet, even voice shrouded in darkness. The voice, which sounded uncomfortably close, made Trip jump involuntarily, though he recognized it immediately.
“Let’s meet in your office next time,” Trip said. “I’m not a big fan of these film noir locations. I want a bigger ship. And a pony.”
Harris stepped closer, chuckling as Trip finally glimpsed his silhouette. The other man’s unassuming shape seemed to devour whatever scant illumination was present; Trip decided this was because he was clad in the same dark, leatherlike garment he’d been wearing the last time they had communicated. According to Malcolm, it was almost a required uniform for bureau insiders.
“Sorry to have startled you, Commander,” Harris said.
Trip shook his head. “Nothing much really startles me these days.”
“I suppose not.” Harris chuckled again. “I’m eager to read your report. Coridan notwithstanding, I trust congratulations are in order for a job well done?”
“You tell me, Harris,” Trip said as he handed Harris a small cylindrical object. “For starters, here’s the data rod Phuong was carrying.”
Trip’s eyes had adjusted well enough to the darkness to see the wariness taking shape on Harris’s face. “ Wascarrying?” the spymaster said.
“When the Romulans killed him,” Trip said, nodding. “I’m sorry to have to bring you such bad news.”
“I trust you also have some better news, Commander. Please tell me you made Phuong’s sacrifice mean something.” The wariness in Harris’s expression had given way to unmistakable grief, making Trip regret having broken the news of Phuong’s death so bluntly.
Trip felt that grief quite keenly as well, having come to regard Phuong as a comrade‑in‑arms–and now one that had fallen in a battle that he, Trip, had survived, at no small cost in terms of self‑recrimination. Trip supposed he would never stop asking himself if he could have done more to save Phuong.
“I owe him at least that much,” Trip said at length. “I have good reason to believe that the Romulans won’t succeed in perfecting Doctor Ehrehin’s warp‑seven drive anytime soon. Here are the details.” He handed Harris a second data rod.
“Were you able to bring Ehrehin to Earth?” Harris wanted to know. “Or did you have to kill him?”
Trip shook his head. “Neither.”
Harris’s scowl pierced the darkness. “Then how can you have ‘good reason’ to believe anything,Commander?”
Trip responded with a wry smile. “I guess you had to have been there, Harris. You see, we discovered a huge gap in our intelligence about the Romulans. Starting with this.” He lowered the hood of his robe, turning his head so that Harris could get a good look at his elegantly pointed ears and gracefully upswept eyebrows.
Harris gasped, though he was clearly trying to contain his astonishment. “My God. The Adigeon surgeons made you look like a Vulcan.”
Trip nodded. “But only because Romulans and Vulcans are ‘kissing cousins,’ so to speak. I know, it surprised hell out of me and Phuong, too. Of course, we’re going to have to keep this under our hats.”
“Of course, Commander. This will have to become one of the bureau’s most closely guarded secrets. If this were to become public knowledge, it would probably shred the Coalition Compact.” Harris paused, sighing, evidently still reeling from what he’d just learned. Then he fixed Trip with a hard gaze, like a pair of searchlights lancing through the gloom. “We are both going to have to work harder than ever to manage the Romulan problem now.”
“ We,” Trip thought. As if my staying on this Romulan thing has already been decided.
Trip found it impossible to avoid making an accusation. “You never expected my ‘death’ to be temporary, did you, Harris?”
The spymaster paused, sighed again, then answered with surprising candor. “No, Commander, you’re wrong. I expected your demise to be entirelytemporary–unless, of course, you had gotten yourself killed by the Romulans, which you have to admit wasn’t all that unlikely a prospect, especially on one’s first covert assignment. What I didn’texpect was that, of the two of you, Tinh Hoc Phuong would be the one to die.”
To hell with this,Trip thought, and very nearly began walking away. “Thanks for that ringing vote of confidence in my abilities, Harris.”
“You’ve just provenyour abilities, Commander–by surviving, just the way you always did when you kept Enterpriseup and running out on the galactic frontier. And if you’ve really managed to short‑circuit the Romulans’ warp‑seven drive the way you say you have, then you’ve accomplished in just a couple of weeks what would probably have taken Phuong’s covert ops at least as many months to pull off. On top of that, the Coalition wouldn’t even have known about the suicide attack against Coridan Prime if not for your warnings, which we received as well. With Phuong dead, the bureau–and Earth–will need your abilities more than ever if we’re to keep the Romulans from pulling ahead of us technologically.”
“I agree,” Trip said. “But I think I ought to start by getting my ears bobbed and heading out to Coridan Prime to see about getting one of theirwarp‑seven ships to Earth. Beat the Romulans to the punch, just in case I turn out to be wrong about Ehrehin.”
Harris shook his head. “We already have a number of disguised covert operatives working on just that, Commander, all of them well versed in the intricacies of Coridanite culture, politics, and technology. To be frank, in spite of all their expertise, I’m not all that hopeful for their chances of success, given the very thorough job the Romulans did when they wrecked Coridan’s shipyards.”
Trip didn’t particularly like the drift of the conversation. “You’re saying you want to send me back to where I just came from–where I damned near died–because I’m the only one who’s already dressed for the part?”
Harris seemed not to notice Trip’s unhappy tone. “There’s no better candidate, now that Phuong is dead. We need youback inside the Romulan sphere of influence, Commander, cultivating more permanent sources of humanoid intel for us there. However successful you might have been in monkey‑wrenching Doctor Ehrehin’s warp‑seven program–and regardless of the outcome of our Coridan ops–the Romulan Star Empire isn’t going to stop trying to outdo us in the race for better tactical technology or faster engines. And whether the Coalition members want to believe it or not, the Coridan disaster wasthe first step toward war.”