Chapter 11 – Double Touche
Command. Control.
He had control of Voyager, but Kathryn Janeway had command of the mission. He had to remember that, or he would find himself drowning in another Monea.
Command. Control.
His ship. Her mission.
His job – keep Voyager safe. Hers, to reconcile two worlds so wide apart and yet so intricately tied together that it was almost impossible to sort out which thread led where. A Gordian knot Tom would gladly use Voyager's phaser bank to unravel. But he couldn't. Not without her consent.
Command and control.
He kept repeating the words like a mantra as he glared at Janeway, who was seated across from him in the ready room.
"So you really think that investigating and stopping whoever is meddling in this conflict would compromise the mission?" He tried, but failed, to keep the disbelief out of his voice.
"I didn't say that, Tom."
Kathryn observed her former helmsman keenly. He had always been the one chomping at the bit for action, never afraid to challenge her or anyone else in a position of authority if he felt something needed to be done; the weight of the four pips on his collar appeared to have done little to slow him down. Time and again, she had wondered whether this particular trait was an asset, or a liability.
What would she have done in his place?
The novelty of the question startled her and she hesitated to consider the answer, knowing - but not quite willing to admit - what it would be. In her seven years as Captain of Voyager Kathryn Janeway had never had to surrender command to someone else's idea of 'the interest of the mission'.
Action Kate, some of the crew had called her, supposedly without her knowledge, when she'd led the charge into some adventure or other. And yes, Action Kate would have wanted nothing more than to do what Tom was asking.
But one thing she knew: now was not the time. She believed that. Had to believe that. The bars on her collar whispered it to her, as her pips never had.
"What I did say, Tom, is that we can't afford to have Voyager run off and carry out recce missions – whether to that Denarian colony where Pakoth wanted to go, or to the presumed bolt hole of the Children of Talasar. Yes, I know you're probably right. The evidence implicates both these places, and whoever is interfering probably left some traces of their identity there. But that's not the point."
She took a deep breath, trying to convince herself as much she was trying to persuade Tom. He, in turn, pounced on the pause without hesitation or mercy.
"What, exactly, is the point? Don't you need to know what's going on, in order to find out where you're supposed to be heading?"
She sighed in exasperation.
"For the sake of the integrity of these peace talks, we need to stay in neutral territory. And like it or not, Voyager is now the neutral venue for those talks. Frankly, the only thing that should move Voyager away from here again is another emergency, like the one we just had. And no matter how much I, too, would like to know more about those other parties and their interest, that doesn't make it an emergency."
"Not yet. Not until another one comes and throws a deadly weapon at us. We heard back from Starfleet, and the nearest ship is forty-eight hours out at Warp Eight."
His reply was immediate and defiant. Kathryn knew from painful experience that Tom – much like his father - could be like a dog with a bone when his mind was set on something; neither would ever go quietly into the good night of acquiescence as long there was a door left to be kicked down.
Warily, she watched the thoughts and emotions play across her former helmsman's features. Where his face had been almost completely closed off when they had first met, to her it was now an open book. She watched the initial mixture of anger and disbelief – 'not again!' - being replaced by dawning recognition: 'But she actually gets it, so why…'
Then, something that briefly concerned her. 'Emergency. She said emergency. How do I manufacture an emergency?' Fortunately, that question was immediately wiped out by a quick, almost imperceptible headshake: 'No, Paris, you're the Captain now. Be responsible. You need to be responsible.'
But finally, the flash of a grin, slightly devious and all Tom Paris – as quickly suppressed as it had quirked the corner of his mouth. Kathryn's sensors went on red alert as she watched Tom deploy his most lethal weapons, finely honed by years of practice on his mother and sisters, and perfected (almost) on his wife and former Captain.
Impossibly blue eyes sought hers, brimming with innocence and an earnest sincerity that she just knew to be as deliberate as it was convincing. Not to mention, downright captivating. The same look that had made her wave a cigarette holder into the face of a ludicrous villain of Tom's own creation, wearing an equally ludicrous dress – replicated in a Size 4, yet, out of spontaneous, helpless and entirely self-inflicted vanity.
Nacheyev was right: the man was a natural diplomat. Who was it that had said, 'a diplomat is one who can cut his neighbour's throat without having his neighbour noticing'? Kathryn braced herself as Tom engaged.
"Well, as you noted quite rightly, Admiral, Voyager has to stay in neutral territory so you can keep doing your job. I get that. Really, I do. But that doesn't apply to the Flyer, does it? She's not even Starfleet, so as far as I'm concerned we've got – what's that term the politicians love? – plausible deniability. And if we were to have a look just at Midas, not at the two other places, we can get that done and be home in time for dinner."
He paused for effect and to give her the chance to chime in. When she remained silent, he put the high beams on and poured on the persuasion.
"Bringing back information that will no doubt prove invaluable for your negotiations. Asil has now traced transmissions from both Pakoth and Alqil to a third-party ship travelling in Antarean space - no doubt headed to or from Midas, if those resonance signatures we found are as fresh as I think they are."
He twinkled at her now, doubtless reading her as well as she had him, knowing full well that she saw through him as if he were made of glass, yet pressing what he perceived as his inevitable advantage against her weakening resolve.
"Now, obviously I'm not a trained mediator like you are, but it seems to me that you're more likely to get somewhere once you've sorted out all the hidden agendas, right? I mean, who was it that said, 'Few things are ever as they appear?'"
What intrigued Kathryn most, apart from the neat little speech itself, was that Tom knew much better than to ask his former Captain's consent. He's not putting me on the spot, or in the position of having to say 'no'. Instead, he simply put the bait on the table, pitched his case, and stepped back - waiting for her to pick it up by answering his rather leading question.
Natural diplomat, indeed. She shook her head. Heaven help the unsuspecting alien dignitaries who'd be at Tom's mercy should he ever decide to go pro - or anyone, should he decide to go into the used shuttlecraft business.
What was even worse was, at this moment, he was probably right.
Kathryn sighed her surrender. But she was not one to go quietly, either. Two could play at this game.
"And of course, you would want to be carrying out this little recce yourself? How much sleep have you had lately? Captain?"
Tom's eyes narrowed. Trust Action Kate to be the one to remind him that a Captain shouldn't try to be and do everything himself… Leading Farqoth away from his ship was one thing, but this was a straightforward away mission that should be left to someone else.
Clearly, she couldn't let him have an outright victory here, for whatever reason. Fine. Let's have a compromise then. Kahless - what a concept …
The smile he gave her was one she hadn't seen before. Half acknowledging a hit, half gloating over one he had landed himself. How did the saying go – tie goes with the runner? Whatever that meant… But who was she kidding?
A compromise then. With Tom Paris, of all people. And damn those blue eyes.
She gave him the briefest of nods, barely this side of encouraging, and Tom was off to the races.
"I'm sure Harry is itching to go on his first away mission as XO. Besides, he and Asil are the experts on Midas. If there's anything to be seen on – or missing from – sensors, they'll find it. And Baytart is getting pretty good with the Flyer ..."
He tapped his comm badge before she could tell him she'd changed her mind, pulling his lower lip between his teeth in a futile effort to suppress a victorious grin.
"Paris to Kim. Harry, can you pop into the ready room please?"
…..
"Ease her down, Lieutenant."
Harry's eyes were narrow slits as he stared at the view screen, overlaid as had been Voyager's with spectrographic, infrared and a multiplicity of other readings. He knew that Pablo Baytart hated flying by instruments only when there was a view screen available, but the vista it offered at the moment was not meant for a pilot's eye.
But Baytart was a professional, and did not require any reassurance. Asil had fed the coordinates of her latest, well, educated guess into the helm and he was headed straight for the target: a small shadow, surrounded by spidery disruptions in the spectrographically confirmed presence of two of the more common metals on the planetoid – latinum and bernicium, covered in a layer of benomite. Nearby, a major dilithium deposit, obviously heavily mined, now presented like something Harry privately thought of as a Swiss cheese.
All the spectral disruptions were consistent with mining operations.
"Coming into visual range," Baytart announced in the flat tone he used whenever he was at the helm.
"Switch over screen," Harry ordered. The light in the Flyer's cabin changed, from the blue-and-green of the sensor input to the natural orange glow of the planetoid's surface.
"There." He pointed excitedly with his finger. A vast, circular area appeared blurry and indistinct, but around its outer margins the evidence of new excavations could be clearly discerned.
"You were right, Asil – whoever is down there must have gotten so excited by whatever it is they're harvesting that they've extended their activities beyond their cloaks. Probably since Voyager was last in orbit here, or we might have noticed something. A wonderful thing, greed. Gets you every time."
For a moment, all three officers studied the view screen intently, each lost in his or her own thoughts until Baytart stabbed at the screen with his long, delicate fingers.
"Can we extrapolate from that … outline where the cloaking devices are located?"
Unlike his fellow officers, Baytart was not an engineering or ops wizard by any stretch of the imagination, but when it came to flying at and hitting things with a phaser, he was more than capable of figuring out the most desirable target and the best way to get to it. Harry nodded to Asil, whose fingers immediately started flying.
"Attempting to correlate inputs," the Vulcan's voice came from the ops console.
When she spoke again a few moments later, her flat tones belied the impact of what she had to say.
"Commander, I believe I have succeeded in determining the location of the main cloaking emitters with a probability of eighty-seven-point-nine percent. They appear to be located at some altitude above the site in question."
"Satellites?" Harry asked eagerly.
"They are at insufficient altitude to be considered satellites, sir. They appear more in the nature of weather balloons, on the outer edge of the limited atmosphere of this planetoid. The location would be consistent with the owners not wishing to accidentally attract the attention of other spacecraft."
"Permission to approach to within tactical range, sir?"
Baytart's hands were clearly itching to pull a trigger. Any trigger. He had been close friends with Ensign Mike Parsons, late a junior security officer on Voyager who had taken on an assignment on the Gettysburg with his partner, Ashmore. Rumours had linked Baytart and Parsons during the early part of Voyager's journey through the Delta Quadrant; their friendship had evidently not suffered from whatever falling-out had occurred between them on the romantic level, and Baytart had remained close to both Mike and later his new partner. Both had perished on their new ship, and he more than any of the 'old Voyagers' had taken the news hard.
Asil, despite her own Vulcan imperturbability, was not immune to the undercurrent in the pilot's question. She looked up, both eyebrows raised in protest, and spoke before Harry could respond.
"May I remind you that we do not have permission for a more … robust engagement, Commander. Admiral Janeway made it very clear that this was to be a reconnaissance mission only."
Vulcans. Spoilsports, Tom always called them.
Harry's mind started racing. Clearly, in order to have a closer look at what lay beneath the cloak they would need to get rid of it, but Asil was right and he knew it.
What would Janeway do? No. Harry knew the answer to that; she'd already given it. She'd do nothing.
What would Tom do? A slow, devious smile spread on Harry's face. Yep, that's exactly what he would do.
Plausible deniability …
"Set course for one of those … balloon-satellites, Pablo," he instructed. "Shields on maximum, and reverse polarity to repel any object we might encounter."
"Sir?" Asil looked puzzled. "Our instructions are …"
"… not to engage in offensive action, that's correct." Harry felt just a little smug now. "But these things are invisible, right? So if we accidentally hit one of them, that's just … well … an accident, right?"
Baytart did not wait for Asil to take issue with that neatly circular logic. He started flicking switches and punching buttons, as enthusiastically as Harry had ever seen him do anything.
Seven minutes later, a small rumbling vibration shook the Flyer's cabin but was quickly compensated for by the inertial dampeners. Harry broke into a grin.
"Lieutenant," he said with an admonishing shake of his head. "Did you run into something? How often do I have to tell you to be more careful when flying the Captain's pride and joy?oHow "
Baytart turned halfway around. "Whoops," he said, in a semi-apologetic tone that was convincing only as an imitation of his former Chief Conn Officer.
Asil's eyebrow went up, but she was all business when she reported that the Flyer appeared to have sudden and … entirely unexpected visual access to a hitherto unknown base on the disputed planetoid.
"On screen," Harry commanded, with an appreciative gleam in his eyes. Maybe some Vulcans did have a sense of humour after all?
On the planetoid's surface, a small swarm of dragline excavators was moving as if in a slow-motion dance across a wide-open pit, removing surface deposits on a scale that would have made a resource-starved Voyager crew green with envy in the Delta Quadrant. They were scraping off benomite deposits, judging by the lines of analytic information scrolling across the bottom of the screen, with smaller units of unknown provenance following behind the excavators, presumably detection equipment re-scanning for deposits that might have been obscured by the thick layer of benomite.
Farther off to the side, pressed up against a cliff face, enormous extractors with extendable drill heads had been set up for what appeared to be a deep horizontal excavation – likely dilithium mining, based on what Harry remembered from his past encounter with the geological formations likely to produce the precious crystals.
None of the equipment looked particularly familiar, but then Harry wasn't exactly an expert in strip or any other form of mining beyond what they managed to improvise in the Delta Quadrant. What really attracted his attention, though, were the small, modular units at the top of the deep pit – clearly accommodations for the personnel running the extractors and excavators. He gave a silent whistle.
"Well, I'll be damned."
Harry reached out and with a slam of his flat hand, opened a comm link to Voyager.
"Tom – Captain - we found what seems like a fully functional mining operation here. The equipment could be from anywhere, Federation, Cardassia, Ferenginor – I have no idea. But the one thing you won't like is what they have for personnel accommodations. You'd recognize it."
The comm remained silent for a few seconds, indication of Tom's long intake of breath at the other end, and brief scrolling through his memory banks, looking for the necessary connections.
"Let me guess. Familiar construction aspect?"
"Yeah. Rigellian ground station modules. Standard models. Six of them, interconnected. Separate storage units and shuttle port in what appears to be a standard layout."
A deep sigh from Voyager's bridge that was loud enough to transmit, followed by a rather un-Captain-like, "Aww, shit. Like what we found in the Alnitak belt, the place the Orions used as a way station?"
"Yeah. Just like that. Exactly like that. Only much bigger."
The Orion Crime Syndicate. Spreading its wings farther and farther afield, as predicted, and now proven. Again.
Tom found himself almost wanting to break out into a glee-less cackle. What had Boothby said again – Starfleet will have to send you away for a bit, to keep you away from those who might mean you harm. Well, so much for that …
"Of course we can't tell for sure whether it's the Syndicate," Harry added, sounding unconvincing even to himself. "I mean, those Rigellian modules are pretty widely available. They probably don't even check who they sell these things to, and for what purpose. Last time I looked, the Rigellian economy sucked, and they're pretty hard up for cash, so …"
"Yeah, right, Harry. And the Orions would be the last folks to move into a disaster zone and skim off whatever profits they can, while no one's in charge or everyone's too busy to look. Please."
Asil had followed the short exchange with keen ears, but rather than offer unnecessary commentary she continued to refine the imagery she was able to obtain, now that the cloaking system was partially disabled. She focused in on small vessels sitting beside the structure – likely runabouts, used to connect to whatever larger cargo vessel would pick up the harvested minerals.
"You will be interested to know, sirs, that judging by the hull construction the mining colony's main transport capability appears to be primarily Ferengi in origin, sir," she said, "although there are a couple of small hybrid vessels that could include Rigellian or Orion provenance."
Asil did not need to mention that in the barely fifteen years since contact had been established with the Ferengi Alliance, even Starfleet's elite intelligence agency had been unable to penetrate very deeply into Ferengi databases. Protecting against industrial espionage was hardwired into the Ferengi DNA, it would appear, and many of their systems had proven impervious. Lately, efforts had begun to recruiting individual Ferengi into Starfleet in order to improve success rates, but that program remained in its infancy. In the meantime, the picture the Federation had of Ferengi technology was a patchwork at best.
"None of the shuttle types represented below are referenced specifically in known data bases, Captain, although certain design features are consistent with those found in Ferengi runabouts that have been encountered in Federation space."
Asil paused for effect – a trait Vulcans liked to believe was free of the all-too-human emotion of smugness, although they fooled no one – before adding, "One of the models is, however, consistent with the ships used by the Children of Talasar. I believe we have found the purveyor of their vessels, if not of their weaponry."
Harry was running the implications through his head, even as Tom's voice came over the comm. He had clearly added one and one, and arrived at two.
"So what we are looking at here, is a possible alliance between the Ferengi and the Orion Syndicate."
Harry didn't feel anywhere nearly as skeptical as he sounded when he replied, "Out here? With the Ferengi providing their own state-of-the-art equipment to … to a terrorist organization? Now I've seen everything."
"Not that far off the wall, come to think of it, Har. You know, that private space station in the Snowflakes, what was it called, Kalpak? I don't think you stopped there with the Enterprise, but Voyager did. I looked into its history while we were en route, and there was considerable intel that the Ferengi initially wanted a piece of the action. Plus, Ayala reported seeing some of them in the bar. Makes sense that after they were cut out of the station, they'd look for other business deals with the Syndicate. These guys smell profit several parsecs away."
Asil looked up from her console, no longer capable of staying out of the discussion.
"It would indeed be entirely logical for Ferengi interests to be engaged here, Commander. The planetoid we call 'Midas' is well outside Federation space, but close enough to it to provide access to its markets, for whatever resources are mined here."
"Logical indeed, Asil. The Orion Syndicate is probably who's reaching out to the locals; the Ferengi don't like getting their hands dirty. It makes perfect sense that the Orions would be the ones to equip the malcontents with ships – ships provided by the joint venture - to keep the conflict going. Bottom line is, they can all operate undisturbed and without competition, as long as the area is in dispute. I wonder how the percentages fall. Especially since someone on Talar and Denaros must be getting a cut."
He signed off, but not before asking Asil to record any additional spectro-analytical data from the mining operation, in the event it could, eventually, be traced into Federation space. Follow the money …
"Sounds like you called it, Pablo," Harry said, leaning back in his chair and swiveling it to face the pilot. Baytart looked up from the conn, a puzzled frown creasing his face.
"When we first learned about Midas. You said something like, Happy Ferengi Christmas, didn't you? Positively prophetic, it turns out."
"Yeah, guess I did, sir," Baytart responded, more tired and cynical than pleased. "Guess I did."
…..
On Voyager's bridge Tom turned to Kathryn Janeway, who had silently listened in on the conversation, and shook his head.
"There's still pieces missing. Someone on Talar gave those terrorists the weapons. That must have been an inside job, even if the Orions provided the means of delivery. And besides, you can't simply set up shop in the middle of a conflict zone without at least one of the main parties turning a blind eye, or providing protection."
He paused, frowned, and added, "Time to have a chat with our newest brig inmates, I guess."
Janeway, who had started pacing up and down the bridge with her hands on her hips, stopped in her tracks. With an artless smile that Tom knew to be anything but, she agreed, adding, "Care to do the honours? Since you're so keen for me to get all the information I need?"
Tom's eyes flew up, then narrowed before he shook his head again, this time in silent admiration. He should have known there'd be a price to pay for wringing a concession out of the admiral … Much later, he would tell his wife in the privacy of their quarters: And just like that, Bee, she remembered – she's still the Queen.
Biting back any number of remarks, he said instead, "Yeah, sure. I may require your help with the Big Cheeses though. Naldar's made it pretty clear that he considers Alqil's arrest – how did he put it? - an outrage against all principles of diplomatic relations. Ditto with Karon, although he seemed more concerned with not getting throttled by Qorath for allowing us to jail his sidekick."
As an afterthought, he added, "That jerk does have a bit of a temper. I'd be scared too, if I had to share a planet with him."
Janeway thought for a moment. "Fine. You seem to get along nicely with Marshall Talith though, so why don't you allow her to sit in when you talk to Alqil. That should appease Naldar. And take Karon's own aide with you, when you go after the Major."
Tom ran a number of scenarios through his head before responding, pausing briefly over the inconvenient realization that he actually relished – rather than resented – the idea of working with the Talari Marshall again.
He tried to make himself think something along the lines of 'Next thing Paris, you'll be inviting Crell Moset for dinner,' but found himself unable to sustain that illusion for very long.
"Good idea, Admiral," he managed to get out, even as Walters, who was manning Ops in Asil's absence, announced that Voyager was being hailed. Tom pursed his lips at Janeway in question and turned to the screen.
"Guess Harry stirred something up down there. Let's have them on screen."
"Federation Starship Voyager," a reedy voice said, "this is Daimon Kol of the Ferengi Commerce Authority."
The screen filled with the unmistakable oversized, bulbous head of a Ferengi male; even if he had not identified himself by his rank, his status would have been apparent by the rainbow-hued trim and embroidery on his tunic and matching neck cover, not to mention his arrogant tone of voice. This was not a fly-by-night operator, Tom realized.
"Your shuttle craft damaged one of our defensive systems. We demand compensation, which we will take in the form of the shuttlecraft itself. A number of our vessels have been dispatched to seize it and return it to our operations base."
A calculating glint stole into his piggish eyes, and his expensively filed teeth gleamed in a self-satisfied smirk.
"We fully understand that you are on a diplomatic mission here, and that you have no authority to use force except in self-defence. Which clearly is not applicable to the present situation, especially as we are operating with the consent of both Denarians and Talari officials. We will, of course, file a formal protest with Starfleet Headquarters about this unlawful interference with our legitimate business interests."
Tom suppressed a curse, and exchanged a brief glance with Janeway, whose grey eyes had widened perceptibly at that latest piece of information – true or not, it could be … another game changer.
Command and control – whose responsibility to make response? A primal anger bubbled up in Tom.
The Flyer is mine, you bald-headed, gold-digging little shit. No contest.
He saw the tacit agreement in Janeway's eyes even before she gave him the briefest of assenting nods. Go for it, Captain, the Envoy has to stay neutral … She moved further away from the capture of the screen, keeping herself well out of sight.
With his left hand Tom opened a second comm channel to ensure that Harry would hear. He could probably use another lesson in dealing with the Ferengi – it had been a while - and he'd to get his engagement orders at the same time.
"Daimon Kol. So pleased to meet you, and hear of your plans for my ship. Now you hear this. If I remember correctly, the one-hundred-and-thirty-fourth Rule of Acquisition says, 'There's always a catch.' In this case, the catch is this: The Delta Flyer is my own personal vessel. She doesn't belong to Starfleet. I don't know who you got your information from, but if you touch that ship I'm perfectly within my rights to fire back. On your ships, and on your little operation on Midas where they come from. Lawful defence of property - I'm sure you're familiar with the concept. I'll pay Starfleet back for the ammunition, and that'll be the end of that. You can protest all you want, but you'd still be dead."
Tom deliberately avoided looking at Janeway, who emitted a small snorting sound beside him. His voice turned far less pleasant as he continued.
"Oh, and one more thing. If you happen not to be dead when I'm done with you, do be careful of your Orion business partners. They're even worse than the Ferengi when it comes to considering loss of profit a failure. I'd read up on their favourite methods of execution now, if I were you. Just so you're ready."
Daimon Kol's mouth had opened at the last sally, looking slightly less sure of himself; the shot about the Orions appeared to have hit home. But before he could say anything else Tom snapped off the contact – no need to be polite with the Ferengi, they'd just use the opportunity to feed you a new lie, or find your weakness.
He ordered Coulthard to head for Midas, to back up the Flyer if necessary. Orders for Ayala at Tactical followed, rapid-fire style.
"Shields up, and arm phasers."
Janeway laid her hand on his arm.
"Tom, if they do attack the Flyer, yes I agree, her defence is your call, just as it was against the Children of Talasar. But you'll need to consider what the impact on both the peace negotiations and on Federation relations with the Ferengi Alliance will be, if you fire on that mining operation. Especially if Daimon Kol is correct, and they have permission to be there."
Tom frowned. "Do you actually believe him?" he asked, his voice incredulous.
"I mean, he claims to have authority from both Denaros and Talar. If that's the case, and they can actually agree with each other to who should be mining here, then what the hell is this war all about?"
Janeway studied the air before her, before replying.
"Well, we don't know whether the 'officials' Kol referred to are representatives of the actual governments, or someone who claims to speak for them. We already know Talar is split into factions, and Karon and Qorath are barely on speaking terms. Both delegations already have subordinates in the brig, for reasons that are most likely linked to what we just heard. I doubt Kol would make a distinction between factions. It also doesn't necessarily mean either side knows anything of the other's involvement."
"Yeah, it certainly fits that they're playing one side against the other."
But then Tom's exasperation got the better of him, and he ran his fingers through his no longer regulation-short hair.
"You know, these people really are getting to me. First they kill each other in the most excruciating ways, or on the largest scale possible. Then as soon as they decide they've had enough and come to you to help them get along, some of them try and blow up the peace negotiations to make sure the conflict keeps going. While another lot – from both sides yet, even though they normally can't agree even on the shape of the negotiating table - sells the Grand Prize out to third parties."
He turned to the console beside his chair to check the status of Voyager's battle readiness, but then looked up again at Janeway, who had resumed pacing and was now standing behind him. His voice dripped contempt as he spoke.
"And you know what the real irony of all this is? Here they are, the Denarians and the Talari, fighting like ferrets in a bag, killing each other and anyone who gets in the way – and if that bloody anomaly keeps expanding at the rate it is, this whole fucking sector will be swallowed up within the next couple of decades, starting with the Talari colonies. Bye-bye Midas, Talar, Denaros, and the whole kit and caboodle. And the only ones who win are the blood-sucking profiteers who got their latinum out in time."
Janeway stared at him in sudden fascination – no, not at Tom, at something above his head, possibly on the view screen, but more likely beyond even that.
Her own thoughts, shaped mere hours ago, rang in her head: What did Talar need from Denaros that its destruction could not provide?
She slapped herself on the hip and her mouth opened and shut twice before she could speak. When she did it was in a low rasp that only Tom could hear, and even that was likely by accident rather than design.
"Of course. That game changer I was looking for. It wasn't Farqoth, the Ferengi, or the Orion Syndicate after all. It's been right under our nose, all this time..."
NOTE:
1. Some references in this chapter relate to my earlier story, "Off the Shoulder of Orion," but I promise you there's no prejudice if you haven't read it.
2. A double touche (double hit) is something unique to epée fencing, in which the scoring apparatus blocks out anything that might happen after a valid hit is scored. But if both opponents score a hit within 4/100th of a second, both scoring lights will come on, and each fencer is awarded a hit.
This happens far more often than you might think – fencing is, after all, a sport built on reaction and speed - and therefore can be used quite strategically. Thus, the competitor who is ahead on points may at times not bother defending himself anymore, as long as he knows he can score at the same time as his opponent and thus stay ahead.