Tired of viewing the gently shifting starfield, and just as tired of the distinctly unfriendly stink‑eye he was receiving from the towering, fanged purser who apparently didn’t much like passengers getting handprints on his tidy observation ports, Trip began walking through one of the narrow guest corridors toward his modest stateroom.
Once the door was securely shut behind him, he kicked off his boots, then carried them to a small closet, where he stowed them neatly. He would have preferred either canvas deck shoes–which would have been conspicuously out of place on a Vulcan, even way out in the middle of nowhere–or at least something that felt more like real leather than his boots did. Unfortunately, he had to content himself with footwear made from vegetable fiber in order to continue passing himself off as a Vulcan, who were all essentially against the killing of animals, either for food or for apparel.
Trip stepped back to the stateroom’s desk, where he had left a small data padd beside the sample case that contained the gemstones that were part of his merchant cover‑identity. Raising the padd, he inserted the encryption‑protected data rod. He’d been carrying the rod since shortly after he’d recovered consciousness in a stolen Ejhoi Ormiinscout ship moving at high warp through Coalition space, very close to regions claimed by the Romulan Star Empire. He had already lost count of the number of times he’d played the rod’s message–a message that had clearly been recorded in haste while Trip had been lying insensate on the cockpit’s deck plates.
He keyed the start command, and the lined and surprisingly kindly‑looking face of Doctor Ehrehin–partially obscured by the environmental suit helmet he’d been wearing at the time–appeared yet again on the padd’s small display.
“I hope you will have the opportunity to view this message in safety, Cunaehr.” The old man closed his eyes, pausing momentarily as though about to correct his small name gaffe. Then he went on, perhaps in deference to Trip’s undercover anonymity.
“I truly regret the necessity of having to render you unconscious, my young friend. However, I needed to drop this vessel out of warp–but only long enough to exit in an escape pod that I will aim toward the four Romulan military vessels that still pursue us. I’ve programmed the helm to return the engines automatically to maximum warp once my pod has departed. My hope is that Valdore’s ships will fail to catch up with you, or perhaps even give up the pursuit once their crews realize that they’ve recovered me, which was their primary objective anyway.”
As on each previous occasion when Trip had listened to Ehrehin’s unexpectedly candid words, he marveled at the old man’s courage, which actually bordered on the foolhardy. After all, Valdore’s forces might well have caught up to the fleeing scout ship without destroying it, even after Ehrehin had returned to them. Had that happened, they probably would have found the scientist’s recorded message, which surely would have damned him as a traitor. Ehrehin couldn’t have believed himself so indispensable to his Empire’s war machine that he could have avoided imprisonment–or even outright execution–as a consequence. Trip could only wonder if the scientist had embedded programming inside the message designed to erase it should the wrong parties try to view it, perhaps by using the scout vessel’s internal sensors to warn the shipboard computer of the presence of other Romulan personnel.
Trip continued staring at the padd as old man continued: “As you’ve no doubt guessed already, I must decline your invitation to live among your people. I ama Romulan, after all, and I am loyal to the traditions that have always made our civilization great, going back to the time of the Sundering. But because I am an ethical student of science, I also deplore the reflexive militarism that has lately corrupted the Empire to the point that it would allow a Praetor to attempt planetary genocide. So while I will return to my people, I cannot in good conscience complete my work on the avaihh lli vastamengine, which I now know our Praetor would put to the meanest, basest imaginable use. Your words, as much as the disaster I visualize befalling Coridan, have opened my eyes.
“Good fortune, my young friend, in all your…future endeavors.” The old man paused and smiled ironically, having just declared his patriotism while wishing Trip “happy spying” almost in the same breath. “Though we are creatures of very different worlds, I believe we both work for the same end. Perhaps our efforts will eventually help to bring about peace–or at least make a war that now appears inevitable somewhat less destructive than it would have been otherwise, had neither of us acted.
“Let that be our mutual legacy, whatever good two men can do. And I hope that whatever good we both do in the years to come will live on after us, long past the time when we are both dust.
“Farewell.”
Ehrehin’s image vanished from the padd, and Trip dropped it onto the desktop.
Stretching out on the stateroom’s narrow bed, Trip looked up at the simple duranium grillwork of the cabin’s ceiling, behind which he could hear the worn aircirculation fans of the ship’s life‑support system chugging away tirelessly.
He considered the mission, another voyage deep into Romulan space, that lay ahead. With a little luck, the files and contacts he’d copied from the memory rod he’d recovered from the slain Tinh Hoc Phuong, along with the new information he’d just received from Harris, would help him alter the trajectory of Romulan society, at least incrementally.
“‘Just one more mission,’” Trip said to the empty cabin, as he recalled his most recent meeting with Harris back on Earth.
And thought wistfully once more about home, and everyone he’d yet again left behind.
Epilogue
The early twenty‑fifth century
Terrebonne Parish, Louisiana
“WOW. IT STILL SEEMS pretty damned unbelievable, Nog.” Jake moved his wineglass to the table beside his antique chair. The low fire crackled occasionally in the background, though the sound of rain pattering against the roof and the windows mostly drowned it out.
Nog drained his own glass, then set it down on the hearth beside his chair, next to the now‑empty bottle. “So, are you saying you don’tbelieve it?”
“I didn’t exactly say that,Nog. The document claiming to be Commander Tucker’s own sworn testimony–verified by a scan of his retina‑pattern taken in the middle of the twenty‑third century, no less–makes this stuff pretty hard to dismiss.”
“That one pretty much clinched it for me, too,” Nog said. “So why is it still unbelievable to you?”
“It’s not,” Jake said with a thoughtful frown. “I’m just saying it still comes as a huge surprise to discover all this new information about somebody whose life and death were as well documented as Tucker’s.”
Nog nodded. “Too bad he didn’t find a way to head off the whole Earth‑Romulan War.”
Jake shook his head. “I think having grown up as the son of Ben Sisko gives me a little bit of perspective on this sort of thing, Nog. At the end of the day, Commander Tucker wasn’t a superhero; he was just a chief engineer with a knack for spying. Besides, as nasty as that war was, the Federation we know today rose out of its ashes. The Federation might never have come about at all without the six‑year gestation period that began with the signing of the Coalition Compact.”
“And I might be chasing latinum slips and dabo tokens somewhere in the Ferengi Alliance to keep myself in fine wine and tube grubs. Good point.”
Jake shook his head in bemusement. “I still have to wonder why the standard history places Trip’s supposed ‘death’ six years after the date when it actually,uh…didn’t happen. If you know what I mean.”
“Misdirection,” Nog said. “Maybe somebody–Section 31, most likely–figured that the big brushstrokes of Commander Tucker’s life would be easier to hide if they were left out in plain sight and attached to a date in Federation history that everybody knows. That way, anybody who tries to find out the real truth behind Tucker’s life and non‑death is liable to start digging in the wrong place entirely.”