Reed

Traditionalists to the bone, the Tuckers are a churchgoing family. Next morning one and all rise, get themselves dressed up in their Sunday best and travel to the local chapel – an even older building than their own house, and one which boasts a surprisingly large congregation given that this area isn't particularly densely populated.

As a guest I could plead tiredness or something and be excused, but it seems ill-mannered, so even though I'm not a religious person I tag along. I remember enough to be reasonably sure I can make a decent fist of following the service. As for what God (if any such being exists) may make of my presence, well I suspect that by comparison with certain parts of my past such a harmless fiction will rank comparatively low among my sins. A little innocuous play-acting isn't going to add anything significant to the reasons I'm already bound for the hotter regions of Eternity.

We file into a vacant pew and settle down. Only hymn books are provided so I'll have to fumble along with the words of the service as best I can.

A door to one side of the apse opens and the vicar emerges. I give him only a cursory glance; my mind is preoccupied with what I sensed in that alley last night. It's undoubtedly not the sort of subject that should be occupying me in a House of God, but I've survived often enough due only to my instinct, and I know that somebody was there. Somebody saw us. Now I have to find out who it was, and whether either of us was recognized; and if we were, what they intend to do about it.

Maybe it was just someone who was sleeping off one too many, or checking out the dustbins. It could even have been a cat, because I didn't see anyone; I just got that cold clench in the gut I know all too well…

I didn't tell Trip. I don't want him worried unless it's absolutely necessary. I'll deal with this on my own. If I can.

I'm alerted by the faint stir of surprise around me as the vicar moves not to the altar but to the pulpit. It's enough to make me look at him again, and look properly. And this time I actually see him, and recognition almost jolts me backwards in the pew. It brings so many memories that I don't hear the words announcing that some temporary indisposition or other has overtaken Pastor someone-or-other, and he's been sent to stand in for the service. I get the sense of them, but I'm so stunned that I can only sit and stare at him, while time rolls back and I'm back in a very different place to this, with very different people.

We knew him only as Viper, and the name was more than appropriate. It was he who taught me some of the dirty tricks end of killing: specifically, the use of drugs – mostly various poisons. It wasn't knowledge that I needed to use often (poison's the weapon of a coward, I've always thought), but we had to know our stuff before we were allocated to our teams, and this was one of the angles where standard Starfleet training was unaccountably lacking. Therefore our delightful little sessions with Viper, and little furry things that squealed as they died.

(I remember growling once or twice at the noises. My conditioning was still too close, and I hadn't got used to controlling it. I got a few glances from my fellow students, but nobody laughed. Can't imagine why.)

If Viper has discovered God, I'll bet my bottom dollar it's a damned recent discovery. If I wasn't so shocked I'd probably guffaw at the sight of him standing there mouthing pious platitudes to the congregation, his face so bland that ice wouldn't melt in his mouth, let alone butter.

He doesn't look at me, of course. He doesn't show the slightest awareness of my existence. He wafts his way through the service as though he's been scattering benedictions broadcast for years, not fumbling once on the sonorous phrases, and finally hands out the sacrament with every evidence of solemnity. From the very start I'd never had the slightest intention of going up to receive it – even playacting has its limits, in my mind – but although I don't look at him either I can feel him up there on the altar laughing his head off behind that sanctimonious mask, and on behalf of these innocent people all around me I want to tear his fucking head off and throw it into the baptismal font.

I don't, of course. He's here for a reason, and I'm all but certain that the reason is me. It may, of course, be no more than a coincidence, but I've never been a believer in the long arm of coincidence being that long.

The service winds to a close. Viper takes up station at the door to greet the congregation as they leave, and he gives me exactly the same saccharine smile that he's doled out to everyone who preceded me. I notice that he has a sticking plaster on the back of his wrist, and a mischievous part of me longs to snatch it off; it might raise a few eyebrows if our unsuspecting churchgoers discovered that their wonderful substitute pastor carries a small tattoo of a cobra. He got that done the day he retired from active service – field agents don't make a practice of having anything so readily identifiable on their bodies.

The sun's shining brightly as we all emerge with our freshly-burnished halos in place and either head for the cars or converge in little gossiping groups. The Tuckers are clearly an integral part of the community, and almost immediately are absorbed in a round of greetings and conversation. Trip, of course, is known to almost everyone. I have to be introduced as some kind of rara avis in these parts, so I possess my soul in what patience I can while all these kindly strangers coo over me.

Finally I get my chance. I pluck at Trip's sleeve and ask in a whisper whether there's a loo in the church building: "I'm not sure whether I can wait till we get back…"

He chuckles and points me in the right direction. Fortunately I don't have to dissuade him from coming with me to make sure I can follow simple instructions; occasionally his faith in me is touching.

The church is cool as I slip back inside. It's also empty.

The toilets are next to the vestry. I take a last glance around and quietly step inside.

"You took your time." He's propped up against the far wall, his arms crossed. He hasn't bothered to remove his vestments, but he's certainly removed the rest of his pretence, and the contrast to his previous unctuous charm is strangely chilling.

"I didn't know there was a time limit." My reply is deliberately flippant, but I watch him carefully. He could have been sent to arrange an accident for me, and even now I probably wouldn't know it until after I was dead.

"You knew I wouldn't be here in this hick backwoods town for my fucking health."

"Nor mine, at a guess."

He shows his teeth. "We may be able to able to do a deal."

Instinctively I snap that I'm through doing 'deals' with the Section, but even before I'm finished he's shaking his head and laughing. "Jag, Jag, you really don't think you get away that easily. And you should be thankful the Section does look after its own … I couldn't believe how stupid you were last night."

I stiffen, now seeing the glint of the trap whose jaws opened in the alley. "Get to the point."

"Oh, I am. Very quickly. Frankly we don't give a fuck if you rent your ass out to Tucker or any other redneck. But what you may not be aware of is that his cute little cousin works for Terra Prime, and last night you and lover-boy gave him a handle on two Starfleet officers. It's only a matter of time before he takes you down."

It takes me a couple of seconds to process this information. "It was Carl watching us?" I ask incredulously.

"Yeah." Viper nods. "I've been down here watching him for a while. Keeping my hand in.

"He used to work undercover for the Feds. He's good. You have to dig fucking deep to get underneath that stupid beer-swilling slob front he keeps up. But it is a front. He's in it up to his neck."

I stare at my reflection in the little mirror over the washbasin. I've gone a bit pale, but the effect passes quickly and I look composed enough. "So I'm surprised you haven't taken him out already."

"You shouldn't be. We don't squash the lemon till we've squeezed all the juice out of it."

The hateful pieces are starting to fall into place. "And you think I may be useful in the … squeezing process."

He smiles like the basking alligator we passed on one of the side roads driving in from the airport yesterday. "Oh, I think so. Because you and the Section have one interest very much in common.

"Protecting Starfleet. And if it makes you feel better about it … protecting Commander Charles Tucker."

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