The three other members of the team return just over two hours later, complete with bags of food purchased from a local market.
They've encountered no trouble at all. The hall where the election rally is planned to take place is only half an hour's walk away, and only one of a number of places regularly visited by sightseers. They've taken a tour bus and gawked around it with all the other visitors, oohing and taking photographs. Jag knows of old that Stripes can discourse knowledgeably on architectural styles with anyone who cares to listen: one of a number of odd abilities which reside unexpectedly under that tatty woollen hat.
The food is mostly fruit, but there are containers of some kind of rice and baked meat in savoury sauce, to be eaten scooped up on the rigid leaves of a local vegetable. The five of them fall to, eating hungrily while Stripes passes on the details of the hall where the mission is to be carried out.
Like so much else on Traan, it wasn't built with security issues in mind. It's usually used for amateur theatrical productions – the Sashwe are inordinately fond of plays and indeed of all forms of dramatic display, and make it a point in every city and town to provide plentiful places where such things can be enjoyed by as many people as possible, usually without charge. To facilitate this, the hall has half a dozen official entrances and a dozen more unofficial ones, none of which will be strictly guarded.
One would have thought that a rally would be different, especially given the fact that this particular party's policies seem to be engendering some tension. It seems not, however. It goes against the inherent openness of the people to exclude anyone from coming and hearing what is to be said – and even disagreeing with it, if that's how they feel. Casual conversations with the people in the area suggest that given these conditions it may well turn into rather a rowdy occasion, but that no particular level of violence is anticipated. The Sashwe expect an audience to heckle as much as they expect a speaker to be able to able to deal with the hecklers, and points are usually awarded for a particularly pithy put-down. It all seemingly adds to the entertainment value.
Listening to this, Jag feels the first small stirrings of unease. It's by no means the first assassination in which he's participated, and he'd known when he came on board that someone would almost certainly have to die thanks to his expertise. Now and again in the past, the task he was given by the Section was simply a case of bloodless sabotage, and he'd vaguely hoped that this might be another, but it seems that it's not to be. Isahd Bheval is making waves that might one day sink Starfleet's war effort, and he has to go. Along with however many innocent bystanders get caught in the blast along with him – the friendly, hospitable people who enjoy a rowdy debate and are passionate theatre-lovers, who pride themselves on the cleanliness of their streets and the quality of their goods, and who think humans are their friends...
Unseen, he glances at Tail, who has finished her rice and is now using a small spoon to scoop out the flesh of what looks like some kind of melon. If it isn't me, it'll be her. And maybe she isn't as careful, maybe she isn't as skilled. For sure, she doesn't have his experience with explosives. Maybe if it's down to her more people will die, more collateral damage in the disposal of a man who thinks his world should have the right to sell its goods to the highest bidder. Whoever the highest bidder may be...
"Does it have to be explosives?" he hears himself ask, in a moment's quiet.
The others look at him.
"Well, that was the plan." Spread open on the table is a visitor's map of the hall, helpfully indicating all the walkways and exits. In case that isn't helpful enough, many of the details of the superstructure are delineated as well, affording an excellent insight into where charges might be placed in order to do the most damage. Spots already has his index finger pressed to the area where the guest speaker is likely to be housed; it's only a matter of getting access to the level beneath it, which appears to be given over to storage. Getting access to places is his particular speciality, and given the lax standards the Sashwe apply to security he has no expectation of struggling with this one.
Whoever is coaching Bheval from behind the scenes may well have convinced the politician to maintain a lower profile than normal most of the time. On the occasion of a rally such as this, however, it's unlikely they'll have been able to imbue the staff of the hall with quite the fear of the unknown that a more realistic (or cynical) species would find wholly appropriate. Considering that they themselves are making such efforts to keep themselves out of the picture, it's also unlikely that they'll risk taking on the role of his bodyguards. They may want him protected, but it would present a very 'off' appearance for him to turn up at the rally surrounded by aliens intent on keeping his own people away from him. It's a virtual certainty that at least in the environs of the hall, he'll be left to the protection of the staff there.
Jag looks down at the structure of the building. He's already studied the photographs taken by the supposed tourists, the photographs that show so very clearly the slender, fluted columns that hold up the roof. Ordinarily he'd have no fears that his work would be careless enough to damage even a single column so badly that the structure of the building would become unstable; even if he can only take the most basic of surreptitious scans during their next preparatory visit, he's entirely confident that he can do what needs to be done without bringing in the roof. But still, even the most precisely placed explosion, in that confined and crowded space; he knows what will happen next.
Panic.
And in panic, there are always casualties. If it happens in a place as crowded as this hall is promised to be, many will be injured; some, probably, will die.
With that certainty lying on his heart, he speaks out, softly but clearly. "It's not very subtle."
Stripes tilts his hat back slightly. Bafflement is writ large on his face. "Explosives aren't usually very subtle, old chum – no disrespect to present company, of course. But they do have the virtue of being effective."
They do when I'm involved. Hasn't he seen the aftermath often enough? Hasn't he seen the articles on the news, hasn't he read the forensic reports, hasn't he taken immense satisfaction in the exquisite placement of blast damage just where it was required? Hasn't he sat at the Tactical Station aboard Enterprise and dealt out devastation with phase cannons and photon torpedoes, achieving exactly what his captain required of him?
He exhales. "I know," he says slowly. "It's just that – in this instance – I'm not sure it's the appropriate method." Out of the corner of his eye he sees Tail's lip curl. The Brit's lost his nerve.
"Nobody is forcing you to do this, Jag." Leo's voice is quite gentle. "If you'd rather not, we understand."
Jag places his palms together and presses his steepled fingers to his lips. "It isn't that I'd 'rather not do it'. I'd 'rather not do it to innocent people'." He must be getting soft. Time was when he wouldn't have cared, wouldn't have let himself care. Still, there's a shred of an idea forming in his mind, and his speech and movements are quiet, so that he won't scare it away.
The team's leader nods assent. "That's fair enough. The only problem is, we've done some research on this and everything we saw this morning confirms it. A shot from a sniper would be ideal, and you or Paw could do that easily, but we've seen preparations going ahead already for covering the vantage points; it's not just ideal, it's obvious. I'm not sure there's any other way we can do it and be sure it's done. I've already said, this guy is getting some good advice from somewhere. He's hard to find and harder to get at. These sorts of occasions are the only times he shows himself."
"It has to be asked, where he's getting this advice from." Spots glances shrewdly at the marks on Jag's face and throat. "There may be more going on here than we thought."
"I think it's fair to assume Starfleet aren't the only ones interested in Traan's mineral deposits. We haven't had any reports of Nausicaan involvement, but it wouldn't be out of character for them to be taken on as hired guns, and their presence would account for the 'trouble' the guy up on the station warned us about. They'd definitely have the expertise to ramp up tensions. It'd be entirely to their advantage." Leo looks thoughtful. Starfleet has encountered Nausicaans on many occasions, and such encounters are rarely pleasant. They're aggressive, cunning and unscrupulous, often turning to piracy; rumour suggests they have more than a friendly understanding with the Orion Syndicate. "We need to find out why you were targeted. Are they on to us, or was it some kind of revenge attack for Farlaxi? Was it an attempted robbery? Or even just a coincidence?"
"I think we can rule out 'coincidence'." The engineer is de facto the team's second in command and usually acts as Leo's sounding-board when he needs one. "Even Nausicaans don't normally try to murder someone for nothing. It's entirely possible Jag has a price on his head after Farlaxi. It's also possible that someone's received 'inside information' about our mission. With Traan being as strategically valuable as it's likely to be if a war breaks out, we're not the only ones who're likely to be interested here. We still don't know who's influencing this Bheval. Worst case, it could even be the Romulans." There's a faint, chill pause at that suggestion, but it's a thought that's been in all their minds. "If word is out that we're here to deal with him, the logical person to take out is the one who's going to be responsible for the end result." A faint nod apologises to Paw that she is no longer the natural choice for that job.
"Yes. Oh, and incidentally, I'd avoid Klingons for a while too, if I were you." The dark gaze travels to Jag, who returns it with a faint smirk as he chooses a piece of fruit from the selection the team brought back. "I understand they were quite annoyed about what happened at Farlaxi. Now Archer's not the only Starfleet officer with his name on their shopping list."
"They wouldn't hire a Nausicaan, though, surely." Paw speaks disdainfully. Klingons have a strict code of honour, and the general belief is that they regard pirates as scum. This code of honour might bend enough to permit the hire of a bounty hunter, as Enterprise's captain has already discovered, but there are probably limits when it comes to acquiring the person of a man not even actually convicted yet of any crime against the Empire.
Jag stares unseeingly at the fruit in his hands as he separates it neatly into sections. It doesn't worry him in the slightest that the Klingons have added Lieutenant Malcolm Reed to the list of enemies of the Empire, and he hopes that their indignation over events at Farlaxi had been so great that they'd flattened the place – hard as this would be on the unfortunate slaves still held captive there, it might save many others from suffering the same fate. He isn't sure enough of the niceties of the Klingons' moral compass to take a guess at their opinion of the slave trade in general, but it seems that there are at least some among them who have some regard for justice and honour. Maybe the discovery of such a putrescent pustule as Farlaxi virtually on their doorstep might spur them sufficiently to clean it out.
As for the threat to him in his present incarnation, as a result of that mission, he is almost as indifferent to that – except insofar as it threatens his team. If someone somewhere has got a tag on a Section 31 unit they could be disastrously compromised. One way or another, his days with them are numbered; once this mission is done, they'd best disappear for a while, and confine themselves to work in quite a different part of the sector. It might even be best for them to ditch him at once, right this minute, and leave him to fend for himself. If he's marked – and it seems that he is, for whatever reason – then he's nothing but a liability to them now. After all, they already have a weapons specialist, and however much he hates to admit it, she's good.
He looks up as he comes to that realisation, and finds Leo watching him steadily.
"We don't leave a man behind," the deep voice rumbles.
"You should if it makes sense." He pops a piece of the fruit into his mouth, and smiles crazily. The juice is so tart it makes his teeth ache; not a patch on pineapple. Back on Enterprise, over lunch in the Mess one day, Hoshi had given Keri a packet of jelly beans, zealously saved from a parcel of goods from home. Keri had placed two on a plate and made a smiling face out of them with a half-slice of pineapple. Trip had leaned across the table and turned the piece of pineapple upside down, saying, 'That's what Malcolm here looks like when I won't give him all the power he wants for the Armory.' His ... friends ... gathered around the table with them had exploded with laughter.
Forty-eight cakes and a rabbit.
He is expendable.
'I don't want to die, what makes you think I want to die?'
But that was then and this is now, and all he came away with was forty-eight cakes and a rabbit, and a grief that was more than he could bear.
He hopes Hoshi understood his gratitude, for her kindness to Keri and for her presence in his life. He's admired her beauty and her grace, and above all her courage. Sometimes he's wanted to touch her in other ways than the strict impersonal guidance necessary for instruction in weapons practice and self-defence; he's dreamed occasionally of having her in his bed. Never acted on it, though. That one occasion of misunderstanding showed him clearly enough that she was revolted by the mere suggestion of a relationship with him, and since then he's been content merely to dream. Dreams, after all, are harmless. In dreams you're not revolting, and in dreams you end up with your daughter calling you Daddy, except that every waking since has buried the truth in him afresh like a bat'leth blade, and maybe it's time to find peace.
The solution has finally come to him with the sweet certainty of a flower opening in the sunlight. He hopes there will be flowers for Keri. He hopes she'll change her mind about being an Armoury officer, it's a risky job; but hell, he wouldn't have traded his years on Enterprise for anything.
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