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  And all that, plus eyes like his?

  The emperor had taken lovers aplenty in her time, but the nature of Terran existence cast the bonds between individuals into a purely utilitarian light. As much as his letters to Captain Georgiou had dripped sentimentality, the man she’d met had seemed to be morally malleable—willing to take an opportunity when he saw it. She could live with that. Such a person could be a companion in a real sense: none of the communion-of-spirits business this universe’s Burnham had mentioned. With Quintilian, she could envision an alliance, both military and commercial. The personal was just a plus.

  She had never wanted to be part of Section 31. Weaponizing a blood devil—if that was what Whipsaw indeed was—only had been under consideration as a means to an end. She’d already laid out for Quintilian a master plan for his domain, and he hadn’t objected. It made perfect sense to her: the Veneti would need never worry again about trading internally for profit, and he could open the Troika up to external trade whenever he desired—picking vulnerable neighboring systems off and repeating the process.

  Again, and again, until, eventually: Terra firma. Terra eterna.

  She surveyed the busts of emperors in the gallery. Mostly males, but not all; a fair mix of humans, Orions, Klingons, and others. Which, she wondered, would be removed to make room for her image? Or would she have them all removed?

  “Excuse me.”

  She turned to see Gnaeus in the doorway. “What?”

  “The Master Trader requests your presence in his study.”

  “Which one?”

  “I will lead you. But he says it would be better if you changed into your Starfleet uniform.”

  Georgiou’s eyes narrowed. What could possibly require her attention—and in that thing?

  “Give me a minute,” she said.

  Gnaeus was waiting at the foot of the staircase when she returned, dressed again as she had been when she landed on Casmarra. She followed the hulking creature down several corridors. Turning one last corner, she saw Finnegan in the hall wearing his Starfleet uniform and looking concerned.

  “Georgie,” he said, his hands clasped.

  “Don’t call me that,” she said.

  “I’m afraid we’re being called to the headmaster’s office. It’s happened to me a time or ten.”

  “We’ll see.” She dismissed Gnaeus and headed inside, Finnegan in tow.

  Quintilian stood amid a large study, holding a data slate and speaking to a Casmarran whose image was projected on the far wall. “Manager Xornatta, I don’t like to hear lies spread about my guests,” Quintilian said. Seeing Georgiou and Finnegan, he motioned for them to enter along the side of the room, out of sight of whatever was projecting his image. “Specify damage.”

  “Authorized Factor S’satah element-damage,” Xornatta said, the Casmarran’s limbs taut. “Causation intruders, Federation-type.”

  “Correlation, not causation.” Quintilian looked searchingly. “And what’s this about something of S’satah’s? I still don’t understand.”

  S’satah entered the picture, dwarfed beside the Casmarran. “What the manager means is that your so-called guests sabotaged one of our vital factories.”

  “Vital?” Quintilian looked at his data slate. “If you’re talking about the foundry that burned yesterday, my information is it was rarely operational. And so old it could have gone up on its own.”

  “That’s not what happened—and that’s not what the Casmarrans think.” S’satah addressed Quintilian coolly. “More than a dozen witnesses outside saw your friends running from the explosion.”

  “Witnesses who live in your slums, working for you,” he replied. “You’re going to have to try harder than that.”

  “There’s also surveillance imagery. Not just ours—it’s from one of the Casmarrans’ satellites, tasked to look at the Alien Region. You’re here at the natives’ invitation, Quintilian. And Georgiou and her lackeys are here at yours. You sent saboteurs—”

  Finnegan had heard enough. He stepped beside Quintilian and spoke to the screen. “My captain was abducted. I was trying to save her!”

  “Ah, there’s one of the criminals now,” she said to the Casmarran. “This one broke the jaw of my son—and the fire he and his captain began caused serious burns to dozens of our employees.”

  Quintilian looked quizzically at Georgiou. She hadn’t mentioned to him what had happened, intent on keeping her investigations into Jadama Rohn to herself. She felt obligated to step in—and did. “Tell the Casmarran chieftain what really happened,” she said. “You abducted me off the street. Finnegan saved me. There were no employees present—just your thugs. And no one was burnt. I saw you all escape.”

  “Nonsense.” S’satah glowered. “I warned the manager that your allowing guests in their space would cause nothing but trouble, Quintilian. It’s plain who you meant the trouble for.”

  Quintilian shrugged. “We’re not in the same business at all, Zee—”

  “Don’t call me that!”

  “I mean there’s no motive. And these officers have no motive.”

  Finnegan put his hand to his face. “Did I really break P’rou’s jaw?” He looked pale. “I didn’t mean to hit him that hard.”

  Quintilian and Georgiou gave Finnegan looks that said his remarks were not helpful—and S’satah seized on them immediately. “There you go—a confession.” She faced Xornatta and issued a request. “Remand bipedal intruders, Federation-type, to S’satah, authorized factor!”

  Georgiou had heard that demand before. Quintilian interceded. “Belay request. Shipping Factor Quintilian, appeal remand.”

  Xornatta’s limbs rotated around its central stalk, a visual that almost suggested gears turning to the humans. At last it declared, “Authorized Carrier Quintilian, expel intruders, Federation-type.”

  “Expulsion isn’t enough,” S’satah said. “I want them.”

  “Expulsion is too much,” Quintilian replied. “And too many. There are three guests. One does not stand accused.” He rephrased it for Xornatta.

  “Expel intruders, quantity two,” Xornatta ruled.

  Georgiou stood by Quintilian’s side. “And if he doesn’t?” she asked.

  “Conditional action, Authorized Carrier Quintilian… deauthorized.”

  Quintilian nearly sputtered. “You’d revoke my franchise?” He was incredulous. “Where would you get your food from? Your raw materials?”

  S’satah crossed her arms. Her face beamed. “I have plenty of your former employees ready to step in—on my behalf.”

  Quintilian spoke cooly. “This is all personal for you.”

  “Of course.” She glared at Georgiou. “The order is given. Two of them are expelled.”

  The Casmarran agreed. “Concluding-statement, Authorized Carrier Quintilian.” The transmission ended.

  Quintilian stood motionless for several moments. “They really have let her get to them.” He faced Georgiou. “She always had a better touch with the Casmarrans.”

  “She’s making a power play,” Georgiou said. “Don’t let her.”

  “I don’t have a lot of choice. Xornatta’s word is law on this planet.” He scratched his beard. “But there are ways to work the law. Two of you have to leave, but Xornatta didn’t say which two.”

  Finnegan blinked. “Wasn’t it obvious? She and I would have to go.”

  “The Casmarrans are very literal, very precise. I only have to deliver two expulsions. And I would decide whom.” Quintilian looked to Georgiou. “I would get your input as captain, of course.”

  “Of course,” Georgiou said. It wasn’t the way she had intended for it to happen, but she would be rid of her babysitters once and for all. A shame, in Finnegan’s case, as he had just become useful.

  He seemed bereft. “I’m supposed to stick by you.”

  “The people who gave that command are not in charge here.” She pointed to the door. “You can give them my regards—when you and Dax reach them.”
r />   The young man stared at her—and his shoulders slumped. “I guess you win. It’s been fun.”

  “We’ll put you on the next freighter out,” Quintilian said, satisfaction with the result overruling his unease over what had just transpired. “The Casmarrans this morning returned some of your things they’d taken from you the other day. Gnaeus will bring them to you.”

  “Aye. I’ll go tell Dax.” Finnegan departed.

  Georgiou watched him go. If she wasn’t committed to staying before, she was now. She turned to Quintilian. “Didn’t you say something about a late dinner?”

  * * *

  Georgiou’s third luxurious repast in as many nights rivaled for sheer gluttony any meal she could recall from the Terran Empire. Part of it was that there were two fewer guests to share the food—but also, Quintilian seemed to want to celebrate, regardless of the earlier smackdown.

  “I’ll devise ways to repay S’satah,” Georgiou said. “Nothing too harsh. But an insult like that before the natives cannot be allowed to stand. It undermines their respect for you.”

  Quintilian grinned. “I just love this side of you. We have many things to talk about.” He raised his glass. “I’m looking forward to it.”

  Georgiou raised hers as well—but through the glass, she saw something she didn’t want to. A figure, waving to her silently from the hallway. “Excuse me,” she said, getting up. “I won’t be long.”

  She met Finnegan in the darkened corridor. “Gnaeus was supposed to have taken you to your flight. What are you doing here?”

  “We’ve got a new problem,” he replied. “You remember that aircar Phylla took us around in?”

  “Did she catch you trying to climb on top of it again?”

  “I couldn’t if I wanted to. It’s gone. Dax stole it.”

  30

  Vertex 22 Impound Station

  CASMARRA

  The Casmarran guard’s limbs extended to their full length, blocking Dax’s way. “Intruder, Federation-type, opposition-intent. Authorization-demand!”

  “Belay opposition,” she said, adjusting the small device in her hand. “Authorization imminent.”

  Since her competition days, Dax had been an early riser. That had been the case today. Neither Finnegan nor Georgiou had been awake when a Casmarran flier had arrived at Domus Quintiliana, bearing a crateful of items the creatures had looted from Boyington for examination. So Dax had been the first to find among the returned items their tricorders, personal comm units, and—importantly—universal translator units.

  Lela Dax had been a Trill legislator of long standing; reading complicated texts had been part of her stock in trade. So, too, was she accustomed to the sublanguage that was peculiar to the law: the formal vocabulary used, as well as the protocols for when specific words should be spoken.

  During her long wait for Georgiou that day in the library, Emony Dax had put some of her predecessor’s skills to work. She’d studied a twenty-year-old text authored by none other than S’satah, the Caitian who had accosted her. The topic: technology-assisted communications with Casmarrans. Drawing upon her understanding of forms of address, Dax had made enough sense of it to run the text’s attached audio file through the universal translator’s new heuristic recognition mode. It was the latest in Starfleet technology; even Quintilian wouldn’t have been able to trade for it yet. It might even have still been restricted to Section 31.

  But it had allowed her now to say, “I’m on an authorized assignment from S’satah, the licensed manufacturer, to inspect records relating to a past impound.” And to hear her words repeated as “Objective-authorized, referent Authorized-Factor S’satah, Vertex-22 Impound specimen data directive.”

  “Objection. Intruder Federation-type.”

  “Oh, this,” she said, referring to her uniform. “That’s part of the assignment. I am with S’satah and P’rou.” She pointed to her freckles. “You see? Spots, just like a cat.”

  She wanted to kick herself for the last little joke as she heard the words translated; they were sure to confuse the Casmarran. But the guardian drew back its limbs. “Authorized objective, Visitor, Caitian-type.” It allowed her to pass.

  Dax breathed a little easier and proceeded up the wide corridor. The interior of the Casmarran structure seemed like something from a living cave; the walls of the hallways were shaped with a waxy, organic tan-colored material, while the floor seemed almost crystalline. Perhaps to help the Casmarrans, who made better time by rolling, she reasoned.

  She’d had no idea where the impound station was in Vertex 22, but that had turned out to be the simple part. She’d seen what had happened to Boyington. She’d seen a way not only to have the Casmarrans show her where the station was, but to take her there personally. She just needed a vehicle for them to impound. The aircar was an obvious choice. She’d watched Phylla operate it, of course; she’d also spent a couple of hours reading up on texts on how to fly one.

  There had followed, earlier that evening, a hair-raising flight from Tallacoe to the Casmarran city, which she first overshot; her problem thereafter had been not colliding with the many structures around. Fortunately, the species’ obsession with statuary led to many parks, meaning that all she struck while trying to brake the aircar were exotic-shaped lumps of bronze. As broad as the natives liked their promenades, they’d never designed for a Trill on her first suborbital flight.

  Phylla’s beloved aircar would never fly again on its own, but that had actually worked out for the best. Casmarran fliers had enveloped the wreck just as they had done with Boyington, lifting off into the air bound for the impound station, none of them aware that she was inside, hiding under the seats.

  Two more conversations with Casmarrans followed; for some reason, neither of the foul-smelling creatures quizzed her further about her credentials. They must have some way of communicating, she thought. Not for the first time, she considered that being one of the first Federation travelers to meet the Troika species was wasted on her. How much more would an exobiologist be seeing right now?

  It didn’t matter. Her mission was just as important, if not more. She stepped quickly toward the creature she’d been sent to. “Take me to Jadama Rohn,” she said, smiling inwardly as she heard the words repeated in Casmarran. The level of difficulty for this routine had been extreme—but she might get high marks.

  * * *

  “I’ll be damned,” Georgiou whispered to herself, peeking around a corner in the Casmarran building at a wide floor covered with mothballed vehicles. “Looks like she found it.” She couldn’t believe it. Dax had been a nuisance, but she had also turned out to be someone to reckon with. Who knew?

  The emperor had not wanted to chase after Dax, especially after seeing the trouble her own previous foray had caused for Quintilian. But the path to information about the blood devil led through Jadama Rohn, and while she’d contemplated not pursuing it just yet, the trail needed to remain in existence to be of any use later on. Georgiou had already taken a risk the day before by going to the Alien Region to ask about it; S’satah knew she was at least looking into it, and Quintilian had to suspect. All she needed was Dax blundering about looking for the impounded freighter; that would alert everyone, Casmarrans included, that it held some secret to be found.

  Finding Dax, as it turned out, wasn’t as hard. From the provided inventory manifest, Finnegan had determined that she had taken several gadgets from the equipment the Casmarrans had returned from Boyington, including a communicator. They’d been unable to raise her, as Dax had kept it switched off. But Georgiou had cracked open a Starfleet communicator before, and remembered seeing the transporter interlock circuit inside. Its antenna grid remained functional even when powered off. All that was needed was a transporter—and Quintilian had several for cargo in his warehouses.

  Transporting Dax back to Tallacoe, however, had proven tricky given the makeup of the structure she was in. Pings came in only occasionally, and usually slightly delayed. It was then that
Georgiou had decided to go herself, after first providing Quintilian a story covering her absence. She needed to see off Dax and Finnegan on their flight back to the Federation; newly busy trying to figure out who had stolen Phylla’s aircar, he had bought that explanation.

  “She’s had three minutes to move from this point,” someone behind her said.

  “Yes, that’s—” Georgiou’s eyes bugged, as she had heard a voice that should not be there. She spun. “Finnegan! What are you doing here?”

  “Helping you find Dax.”

  She dragged him farther into the corridor. “You’re supposed to be at the warehouse, so you can transport us both back! I told you to stay!”

  He shrugged. “Now, now. I know you said that, but I figured you might need a hand. And what’s the big problem? We’ll just use one of these fellows’ transporters.”

  “The Casmarrans don’t have transporters, fool. Quintilian got his by trading with the outside!”

  “Huh.” Finnegan tilted his head. “How’d you know that?”

  “It was part of the tour. Yesterday—weren’t you listening?”

  “To be honest, a lot of that morning I was searching for the loo.” He looked about. “You don’t suppose the Casmarrans have one, do you?”

  She clutched her hands in the air before him. “I would claw your eyes out but the screams might draw their attention!”

  Another voice came from behind. “Business as usual, I see.”

  Finnegan looked over Georgiou’s shoulder—and burst into a smile. “Daxie!”

  Georgiou turned toward her. “You don’t seem surprised to see us.”

  “I could hear you down the hall. You’re kind of distinctive, especially around this place.” Dax gestured to the area with parked vessels. “Well, what do you think?”

  Georgiou was going to launch into a speech about how the Trill shouldn’t have come—but her curiosity got the better of her. “Jadama Rohn is here?”