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“I have no desire to disseminate your real identity, Commander, either to the Romulans or to the Vulcan government,” Ych’a said, apparently not fazed in the least by what he’d just said. “Nor do I wish to unduly delay your repatriation.”

Trip found that only mildly reassuring. “Then take me home.”

“Before I can do that, Commander, I will require your help,” Ych’a said.

Trip folded his arms before him, forcing her to take a step backward and into a near collision with one of the walls. “Lady, it sounds like you’re trying to set a pretty big obstacle in my path. Why the hell should I help you?”

She answered with confidence, as though she had rehearsed what she was going to say. “Because the security of both our worlds is at stake, Commander. And because I suspect that you would show little hesitation in offering your assistance freely had the same request come to you from our mutual associate, T’Pol.”

“You know T’Pol?” Trip asked, suspicious but definitely intrigued.

“We worked together in the V’Shar for many years,” Ych’a said with a curt nod. “We renewed our acquaintance much more recently aboard this very ship, which took her part of the way into Romulan space—in an effort to rescue you, I am told.”

So she’s calling in whatever markers she thinks she has to get what she wants, he thought, mentally preparing himself to modify his initial position of flat refusal, at least a little.

“All right. I’m listening. Make your pitch.”

Ych’a nodded again. “In light of the dire threat the Romulan Star Empire presently poses to both our worlds—and to the entire Coalition, by extension—Vulcan’s government is in great need of your covert services while you are still officially considered dead by your own people.”

Most of my own people, he thought.

Shaking his head, he said, “The only problem with what you’re asking is that my espionage days are over. Besides, I’m an engineer, not a spy. And Starfleet needs me to help build and maintain its ships right now more than Vulcan needs me to listen in on the Romulans’ phone calls.”

“You will be sent home, Commander Tucker,” T’Vran said. “Eventually. But not yet.”

“I have crafted the new cover identity you will use until that time,” Ych’a said. “You will adopt this identity after undergoing some supplemental plastic surgery to enable you to pass as a Vulcan, at least visually.”

Trip touched his forehead and moved his fingertips across the sharp terrain created by his surgically implanted Romulan brow ridge. His pointed ears and upswept eyebrows would attract no attention on Vulcan if he left them exactly as they were now.

He didn’t object to another round of relatively painless cosmetic surgery per se. He had just hoped to have his ears bobbed at the same time his forehead was restored to its normal contours.

“You will become a man named Sodok, one of my oldest associates,” Ych’a continued. “Your new persona will be that of a Vulcan frontier merchant whose diverse dealings encompass such commodities as dilithium, kevas, and trillium—as well as, on occasion, information.”

Thanks to his recent “posthumous” occupation as a deep-cover intelligence operative, Trip knew well that information was a commodity that was often infinitely more valuable than merchandise of any other type. But he was also sure that he wanted nothing further to do with trafficking information, even as he realized that any chance he had of returning to Earth was contingent on the goodwill of these Vulcans, to whom he still owed a debt for his rescue.

My dying, for real this time, was just about guaran-damned-teed, he thought bitterly. Until they swooped in and plucked me out of TezelOroko’s Kuiper belt.

Trip felt as though the entire universe had begun shifting around him again, just as it had during the moments immediately preceding his passing out during his first meeting with Captain T’Vran. He had grasped the slender reed of hope that he might soon regain