Reed

Right.

First law of battle tactics as approved by Lieutenant Malcolm Reed, the pride of Starfleet: Choose your ground.

Second law: Draw out the enemy.

I struggle to remember where the old adage When in doubt, empty the magazine comes in, but it sounds rather good advice right now. Unfortunately for me, the enemy is far better protected than he realizes, though I doubt if he has any idea whatsoever just how much danger he's in if he picks a fight with me.

I never met Lizzie Tucker. That seems hard to remember sometimes, because Trip talked about her so often and whenever he got a letter from her (which was every time we received a mail package) he'd always read it to me and the others in the Mess Hall. Maddie and I weren't so much close friends as allies in adversity, but it was plain that Trip and his 'baby sister' were extremely close when they grew up, even for members of a tightly-knit family. When she got her job with a prestigious architectural company he couldn't have been more thrilled if he'd earned it himself, saying he knew she was going to make a heck of a career there. He was so excited about it that Hoshi got the captain's permission to let him make a personal call back to Earth, even though as it wasn't during one of our regular comm slots it was, strictly speaking, against regulations (and everyone looked at me when that was mentioned, I can't imagine why). So I was appalled when she was killed in the Xindi attack, knowing the effect it would have on him.

Well, 'fools rush in', as they say, and I was no exception. I achieved nothing much with my clumsy attempt at consolation except getting my head bitten off for interfering, which was probably inevitable as I'm inept with emotional matters at the best of times. It seemed not only pointless but unforgivably intrusive after that to say that in my peculiar way I missed her as well. I'd hoped to meet her one day, because quite apart from being incredibly attractive she really did seem rather special. Not that I held out any real hopes on the romantic front, but … well, a chap can dream.

(Probably just as well it never came to anything, because the situation right now would be unbelievably complicated.)

Lizzie Tucker is dead. She died for nothing, for a mistake, just a name among seven million others. And the family I've left behind in that house where she and Trip were born have suffered enough.

A fact which makes my job quite unnecessarily difficult.

=/\=

As lakes go it's pretty enough, not large and probably not extremely deep, though naturally the latter isn't something I'll be exploring in any detail (even if I weren't held back by my phobia of drowning, large bodies of water in this part of the world tend to accumulate alligators). Trees ring it, festooned with Spanish moss, providing welcome shade. Apart from the Tuckers' place, no other dwellings are visible in any direction; it's a peaceful place. Fifty metres or so away there's an old jetty with a dilapidated boat-house beyond it, mouldering gently into the landscape. For want of anything better to do, I stroll towards them, idly curious. Probably this was where that old motorboat that Trip repaired made its maiden voyage, but there are no boats here now, unless there's one behind the twin doors that hang drunkenly on broken, rusty hinges above what might once have been a slipway.

If there is, I'm not authorized to touch it. With a fleeting regret (after all, I remember having a great deal of fun sailing when I was young), I turn away and walk out along the planking of the jetty.

This is clearly unsafe, but in a sudden mood of rebellion I'm not that inclined to take heed. If events fall out as I expect them to, this rotten wood will be far more dangerous to the enemy than to me; he's taller than Trip, and bulkier. And if he should happen to lose his footing and split his head open on a plank as he falls, well, accidents happen. In such a happy eventuality, my hands – if not entirely my conscience – would be clean.

I reach the end and sit down cross-legged. The heat is really oppressive now, and clouds are starting to boil up. If I'm any judge, there will soon be a thunderstorm, which will at least bring temporary relief from the stale air under the high pressure.

I prayed, in the church.

I never pray; don't see the point. But when I came out from the exchange with Viper with a certain little package tucked carefully in the inside pocket of my jacket I somehow found myself kneeling in a pew in front of the altar, and something damnably close to blasphemy was going through my head: Lord, let this cup pass from me…

There was no answer, of course.

I so wanted this to be over. Wanted to be finished with the Section, wanted to be honest and honourable. Wanted to be someone who could deserve to be loved. Someone who wouldn't sicken decent people if they knew what he was.

They don't know, of course. They won't. I can't risk that.

And it's not over, for all my wishing. If wishes were horses… 'You really don't think you get away that easily.'

I don't, of course. I never did. Every man has his price, and Trip's welfare is mine. With that at stake, I'm at the Section's disposal.

How Harris must be laughing at the irony.

=/\=

Either he despises me or he doesn't perceive the necessity to make his approach stealthy. I know he can move quietly when he chooses – very quietly. But he makes no effort to do so now. I hear his footsteps quite clearly.

He's not as stupid as I'd hoped. He picks his way delicately along the jetty, sticking to the parts where the metal supports are directly under the wood, and sits down alongside me, though carefully keeping a safe distance between us.

"Real close family, the Tuckers," he says without preamble. "Trip's ma and pa. My aunt and uncle. Think a lot of them."

He seems to think that this calls for a response. I don't provide him with one, forcing him to go on without any encouragement.

"Folks around here are real old-fashioned, you know," he pursues, when the silence has gone on too long. "See, these city ways, these sinful ways, they don't like them round here. They don't understand, you know?"

I note that he says 'they' here, rather than 'we'. Evidently he's not including himself among the reactionaries. He's modern, 'with it', a product of the newest schools of thinking.

I catch the sideways glance, and the sly grin underneath it.

"Now Trippy-boy, he's a bit of a hero in these parts since y'all went off into the Expanse and beat up them Xindi. His whole family are real proud of him. Wouldn't want folks to suddenly find out he's … well, he's not what they think. Wouldn't want everyone talkin', gossipin' about him. 'Cause that 'd affect his whole family, an' personally, I think they've gone through enough lately."

I finally turn my head and look at him. I'm wearing my look of dawning horror. I do it very well, I'm told. People are quite taken in.

Guilty as hell, that's me.

"You wouldn't…"

Oh, of course he wouldn't want to, he informs me soulfully. It would be his duty. Because it's not right for honest, decent people to be taken in, hero-worshipping a man who isn't at all what he makes himself out to be.

"It's harmless," I quaver, artfully injecting a note of scared defiance. "It's our business, nobody gets hurt. Nobody needs to know."

Carl looks genuinely shocked. "People have a right to know when they're bein' deceived. Bein' lied to. It ain't right to have them lookin' up to 'heroes' who're no better than whores." Then the spite erupts, like the spittle that sprays from his mouth with the words he can't wait to get said. "I saw you, Reed. You think you're so clever but I saw the pair of you, you temptin' him into sin in that club and him with his filthy hands all over you afterwards, and him your senior officer. You wait till that hits the headlines. You wait till I tell people what the 'heroes of the Expanse' get up to when they think nobody's lookin'. You wait till they find out how Starfleet officers earn their promotions. And that pretty gal of his won't have nowhere to hide her face when she finds out what the two of you really are."

He pauses to take a great gulp of breath, and a grin breaks out on his face that makes me want to rip up one of the rotten planks underneath us and drive the broken end of it between his teeth. "So I reckon I have you bang to rights, Mister Uppity English. Now if you want me to keep quiet 'bout what I know, it's just a question of me givin' you the orders and you takin' 'em. Just like any damned whore."

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