8 - Late Departures

Gevran stared out of the window at the expanse of gardens below, a verdant wonder maintained even in the press of summer heat by devoted gardeners and maintenance workers, the sculpture displays changed regularly every weekend.

He hated it. Hated the heat, hated the humidity, hated the constant press of reports and paperwork and the stress. Day after day he had to condense the accumulated scientific work of the Federation into single page notifications for the President and the council; all the wonders, all the struggles and discoveries passing him by as he tried to translate the cutting edge of the wonders of sentient discovery into a two paragraph sound-bite for desk-bound former fighter pilots and ex-lawyers to try and digest.

“You appear harried today, Mr Torm.” President Spock’s quiet tone cut through the open space of the Council chamber easily, turning him slowly away from the vista.

“Why should today be any different, Mr President?” He asked, with as much of a wry smile as he could managed. Somewhere deep in his stomach something flared – it happened too often these days – but apart from the slight wince he ignored it, and handed across the PADD. “The science report, sir. I direct your attention, particularly, to the agricultural advances listed from Starbase Nineteen. It would appear to offer a solution to some of the problems on the Carolis cluster colony worlds – the high solar activity there shows no signs of abating.”

Spock nodded, accepting the PADD – Gevran had no doubts it would be read thoroughly at some later point in time.

“And other occurrences, Mr Torm? Is all well.” Gevran sighed, slumping as much as leaning against the wall. “You understand the need for this, Gevran.” Spock told him – he knew he must be showing the strain if the President was resorting to calling him by his first name.

And he was right – logical as always. That the EGR had spies and plants and moles in the Federation was given, and that they should be targeting the Intelligence infrastructure was a logical supposition.

So the President had turned other minds to the same task. Certainly, the science departments had their own leaks, but spies in science departments were looking for scientific information to divulge, not political, socio-economic… not Intelligence.

It had all seemed so sensible when he’d said it – it still did – but the reality of day after day of subterfuge and sneaking, lying to people and hiding truths took its toll on Gevran. Experience had taught him that his actions could mean life or death for people in war – he’d never leant to choose between a few deaths and many, though. He’d been passed over for his own command for reasons such as that, and slowly drifted towards the diplomatic core where he could justify all his actions with the understanding that he was always trying to avert conflict, always trying to save lives.

A prominent time on the Federation Ethics Commission had followed, a rewarding placement, and then the call to be the President’s Scientific Advisor to the Federation Council. It was as high a calling as a science officer could hope to achieve, or so he’d thought.

Closet promotion to the President’s Personal Advisor on Federation Security hadn’t been what he’d expected.

He just nodded, acquiescing to the President’s comments.

“We lost the Tsiolkovsky.” He managed, handing over another PADD with the details of the cloaked scout vessel. “Captain Donat initiated the self-destruct mechanism before the vessel was captured. There were no survivors.”

“Not an unexpected event.” What more could you expect from a Vulcan?

“They were able to convey a few pieces of information – it would appear that Admiral Pe’chenza is seeking information on the Q-continuum.”

“A general enquiry, or a response.”

“Unclear, so far.”

“Very well.”

“And… Argolis Seven has decided to declare its independence… the planetary Governors mean to announce their intent to stand against the Republic.” This time the President’s face did flicker, for a moment: a planet of dead Federation citizens disturbed even the most tranquil of minds.

“I was aware of this through... regular channels. You have made arrangements?”

“Yes, Sir. The Charybdis has been despatched to watch the Republic’s response…”

“We can do nothing.” The President reassured him, as much as he could.

“Again.”

“You would act, Mr Torm? You have a plan you wish to table?”

“No.” he admitted, passing the second PADD across. “No plan. Just frustrations and anxieties.”

“You should consider taking a sabbatical, I found mine particular reaffirming.”

“Indeed.” The comment struck Gevran as slightly odd, but the conversation moved on before he could remark upon it.

“Has there been any luck with tracing Captain Aldous or the Scorpion?”

“One unconfirmed report from Delvin seven that seems unlikely – the ship isn’t completely refitted yet, and it seems unlikely they’d approach Republic territory so closely before they’ve finished preparations.” The President nodded, not revealing anything.

“If there’s nothing else, Mr Torm?”

”No, Mr President, that’s all for now.”

“Thank you.”

Gevran slipped away out the back of the chamber, returning to his office with a deep frown. Slipping into his seat he called up his itinerary, but something about the conversation was confusing.

A reaffirming sabbatical? Four days was hardly a sabbatical, and the President didn’t need affirmation – logic simply was.

“Computer, call up the record of the President’s visit to the Martian and Jovian construction yards.” It took time, trawling through the information, reconciling system accesses with the slight evidence of tampering – there were perhaps three people in the Federation who knew their systems well enough to know there had been any tampering at all. By midnight he had something approximating the truth: The President had left, boarded a Delta Flyer to meet with person or persons unknown, and then returned, all in the cloak of the asteroid belt.

Whom did he meet? Is he selling us out? Gevran felt guilty even thinking it, realising how far he’d fallen in his time working as an intelligence officer. But if he was selling us out… why did he give me such a clear clue?

And it was a clear clue, obviously. Other Vulcans would have seen it as a glaring commentary, though most others would have missed it. Gevran’s heritage didn’t help him here, despite the pointed Vulcan ears, but his frequent exposure to the people did – it was a hint of something.

Expanding the search, drawing on information that wasn’t available to others – even to the President’s Chief Scientific Advisor – he pulled in the list of possibilities, and finally decided on the most likely course of events. There were suppositions in there, guesstimates and probabilities, but it made sense: it felt right.

For the first time in a long, long time, Gevran felt a slight smile on his face as he considered the implications.

“Miss Conrad,” he called out to his assistant, “would you please arrange for a long-range shuttle to be prepared. I need to make a visit to the Jupiter shipyard, and then out of system.”

“Certainly, sir,” came the quick reply. “Do you have any idea how long you’ll be gone? Will I need to rearrange Friday’s meeting with the Bolian University Admissions Directorate?”

”Probably best. Give them my most sincere apologies, and see if we can reschedulel before they depart next… Wednesday, wasn’t it?”

“Thursday, sir, early hours. They’ll be available to meet until Wednesday. Will you be needing a pilot, or... or..."

"No, thank you. I can fly myself, and I know your anniversary is this weekend, I wouldn't dream of dragging you away from Thomas right now."

"Thank you, Sir. I'll get right on it."

”Excellent, thank you Sarah.”

He began uploading his files to portable media, even dragging in some of his old research that hadn’t been touched in years – real science work - knowing that he'd have to sweep his system clean. The only question left now was, after the Jupiter Shipyards… where would they have gone?