The Good That Men Do - Andy Mangels [154]
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. “Was carrying?” 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