I look daggers at T'Laihhae. "Ah can listen tae a reasoned argument, ye ken," I tell her. "There wisnae ony need tae stun me."
She is unrepentant. "There was no time for discussion. The damage to the station was too severe." She gives me a brief flicker of a smile, even. "At least your companion will not need to demand my intestines."
Ronnie Grau mutters something darkly. We're in a conference room on Earth Spacedock, for what might be an after-action debrief session - if we're sure the action is over. T'Mev has the chronographic reports, Ronnie and I have transcripts of our previous debriefing session - either a century and a half ago, or a day ago, it depends on your perspective - Tylha Shohl is there poring over the feedback from the Harrier's upgrade, and T'Laihhae, hopefully, has brought some explanations.
Tylha's antennae have been twitching for some time, and now she speaks. "This doesn't make sense to me. I mean, I can see the performance data, including the desynchronization issue -"
"Damn near shook the ship apart," Ronnie grumbles.
"- and I can work out a way to fix it," Tylha continues, "so why didn't I? I mean -"
"Because that desynchronization thing," says Ronnie, "hadn't happened when you made the original software hack. Sure, that data is a century or so old now, but it didn't exist, day before yesterday. I hate these temporal shenanigans," she adds with feeling. "What else have we got that didn't exist until just now?" She looks daggers at me. "There was the whole debrief with you and Starfleet Command -"
"Aye," I say cheerfully, "weel, we handled yon jist fine, am Ah right?"
"I didn't actually get cashiered," says Ronnie, "so that's something."
"Oh, face facts, Ronnie," says Tylha, "your disciplinary record was never anything to write home about, was it? - I could do something with this," she continues, staring at the PADD in her hand. "Maybe pull an old Constitution-class spaceframe from the mothball yards, see if I can install these software mods on some up-to-date systems...."
T'Mev clears her throat. "We have reports from our temporal observatories," she says, "which may clarify the questions that have been posed. We can confirm, for example, that the temporal intervention has been broadly successful."
"How broadly?" Ronnie asks.
"Your timeline has not been significantly affected, barring only the resolution of the predestination paradox that you, yourself, created. We can confirm the termination of the Na'kuhl agents' personal timelines, and that of their ship. And, most significantly, Priyanapari is now a marginally habitable class L world, with no temporal anomalies or unusual relics, except for a single crater on its surface - evidence of an explosion, in the twenty-third century."
"Which would hae wiped oot all traces o' th' Na'kuhl camp," I say. I turn back to T'Laihhae. "So how exactly did ye dae it?"
"The damage to the station was extensive," T'Laihhae says. "I could not afford, I believed, simply to set up a - a jamming signal - with the console. So, I used it in another manner. Since it was keyed to Thyvesh's doorway, I was able to relocate it, with only a modest outlay of energy, so that its coordinates coincided with the doorway's location." She gives another flash of smile. "In plain terms, I crashed the space station into the Suliban weapons cache."
"Oh," I say, because I can't immediately think of anything else.
"And that worked?" asks Ronnie.
"The weapons cache itself was not terribly extensive. The energy release, when the station started to occupy the same space-time point, was more than sufficient to vaporize both. Some of the energy, in fact, bled through the other side of the doorway, on Priyanapari. Enough to destroy the physical aspect of the door, there, in the explosion whose relic we see today."
"Which leaves us with only a couple of loose ends," says Ronnie, "but damn, they're nasty ones. Thyvesh. Clefune. Kirza."
"I am... almost certain," says T'Laihhae softly, "that Thyvesh was in the vicinity of the doorway when I destroyed it. It... it seems to be the solution he required." And she turns her face away from the rest of us.
"There was considerable concern over the apparent demise of an Organian," T'Mev says.
"Oh, yeah," says Ronnie, "I kind of noticed that, in the debriefing."
"In the current timeline," T'Mev continues, "this was allayed, some two months later, by a communication from the Organians themselves. A joint conference was arranged between Federation, Imperial and Organian dignitaries, to provide a list of - as the Organians put it - suggested projects for joint endeavours."
"I remember that," Ronnie says, and she pulls a face. "I remember it now.... The only time the Organians showed their faces, after the initial treaty signing. They brought us a whole long list of planets and asteroids, with details of the resources we could use... I don't think either side got through even a tenth of them before the Genesis crisis."
"And then, after the Praxis explosion, diplomatic relations between Federation and Empire were on an entirely different footing in any event," says T'Mev. "The Organians listed two hundred and seventy-seven possible projects in the sector, with another eight hundred and fourteen suggested secondary targets. They also provided, in an appendix, a list of the other habitable and marginal worlds in that region of space. Priyanapari appears on that last list."
"They buried it," says Ronnie. "They deliberately drew attention away from it. The clever little -"
"Both Federation and Empire were keen to show cooperation with the Organians," says T'Mev. "The joint conference was, in fact, regarded as a diplomatic success. I have a visual record of the final session -" She taps on her own PADD, and an image forms on the conference room's viewscreen.
"Haud on a wee minute," I say.
"Oh," says Ronnie.
"Is that who Ah think it is? Only Ah didnae get a verra guid look at him -"
"Oh, yeah," says Ronnie. "I never forget a face."
She stands up, goes to the screen, and taps on it. The Klingon ambassadors are on the left side of the picture, the Federation on the right, and in the middle are a group of undistinguished-looking humanoids in mediaeval clothes. Ronnie's finger is prodding at one of them.
"That's Clefune," she says. "Or maybe another Organian who's built the same body? - But it's got to be sending some kind of message, anyway. That Clefune... survived... somehow? Maybe?"
"Anybody want tae visit Organia an' jist ask? - Aye, Ah thought not."
"But if Clefune survived...." Ronnie shakes her head. "So what did happen to Kirza?"
"Imperial records show her lost on a mission on the Federation borders," says T'Mev. "A formal diplomatic inquiry was made - and a subspace message from the Organians, in response, informed them that no treaty violation had occurred. The Empire was not disposed to question the Organians more closely."
"So... what did happen?" Ronnie asks again.
"Ah checked the Leacock's sensor logs," I say. "The Hov'etlh wis closin' at max impulse when she jist... blinked oot. Nae trace. Ah'm guessin' Kirza hit th' wrong button on her temporal weapon, an' it backfired on her." I shrug. "But it's nae mair than a guess."
---
Afterwards, once we've all agreed what bits we're never allowed even to think about again, I make my way down the corridors and lift shafts of Earth Spacedock, down towards where the Leacock is docked. I feel tired. After-action reports will do that for me.
But my spirits lift as I see a tall blonde figure leaning against the bulkhead by the docking port. Even in twenty-fifth century coveralls, Zula's a welcome sight.
"Hi, hen," I say.
"Did it all go well?" she asks.
"Oh, aye. Paperwork, it's nae but a chore, after all.... Ah hear tell ye had some words wi' yon trigger-happy Romulan. Thanks fer that, ony road."
"If anyone gets to shoot you," says Zula, "it's going to be me. You are still trouble." She touches the key panel, and the door slides open. We stroll on together, into the docking tube.
"Ah'm th' fun sort of trouble, though. Admit it."
"Oh, sure." She snorts. "If you want your fun dangerous, unpredictable, and damn near incomprehensible."
"Aye, weel." I shoot her a quick glance as we carry on walking down the tube. "Ye ken aboot th' accent? Ah wis nae but a wee bairn when we moved tae England... an', weel, iverythin' wis strange and new, except th' way mah parents spoke... Ah had t' hae somethin' tae hang on tae, ye ken? An' Ah wis teased fer it at school - och, ye can guess that - an' that jist made me hang on all the harder." My voice grows a little soft. "When ye've had sae many things ta'en away... ye hang on tae what ye can. An', weel, Ah'm a lang way frae home, these days."
"Yes," says Zula. "Yes, I guess I understand." She lowers her voice, too. "And some things are worth hanging on to."
We've reached the end of the tube, where the docking collar fits snugly onto the yellowish ceramic coating of the Leacock's hull. Zula reaches for the airlock's control panel, but drums her fingers on the hull, instead.
"You're still trouble, though," she says. "And you're my commanding officer, now - I mean, OK, Starfleet guidelines are just that, they're guidelines, but it'd still be, well, improper...."
I don't say anything. Because, sometimes, I'm not stupid.
Zula sighs. "I get off duty at 2300, and I'm going straight to my quarters," she says. "I guess, if you leave your propriety outside my door, you can pick it up again in the morning."
Again, I don't say anything. I just smile.
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