Department of Temporal Investigations

by Christopher L. Bennett

  “It’s a matter of some moral ambiguity,” Lucsly conceded. “However, the actions of this particular Aegis ex-operative are not.”

  He called up an image of the thief, a slender, long-limbed female with subtly tessellated gray skin, hair streaked with black and red in equal proportions, and large black eyes with red irises, matching the shades of her hair. “This is Daiyar. She’s a member of the Tomika, a relatively new member of the Colonial Consortium. Like all Aegis operatives, she has significantly augmented physical and mental abilities. She also has access to an Aegis interstellar transporter.”

  “But those can beam through time as well as space,” Ronarek said. “Why, then, did she need to steal a temporal drive?”

  “As I mentioned, the drive is untraceable. We surmise that Daiyar plans to take an action in the past that the Aegis would wish to prevent, and therefore does not want them to be able to track her movement in time, as they could if she used their transporter technology.”

  “That’s why this is so urgent,” Dulmur added.

  “Then why not just ask the Aegis for help?” Vlik inquired.

  “We tried,” Dulmur told her. “First thing we did. We just got a polite suggestion to stay out of it and leave it to them. Which we’re not going to do. That drive was in the DTI’s hands, and we let her take it from us, so it’s our responsibility to clean up that mess.

  “Now, as for the rest of you, the Vomnin and their allies are the ones most likely to be affected by whatever change she wants to make. But we can’t be sure what she’s actually planning or what ripple effects it might have on galactic history. We all have an obligation under the Accords to try to stop her. The Aegis may not want our involvement, but they’ve got it anyway. All good?” The other agents indicated their agreement. “Great. Thank you all for your cooperation.”

  Once the screens and holos had been deactivated, Dulmur left the situation room and headed for his office, with Lucsly keeping in perfect step alongside him. At least, that was what he expected from long experience. But after a moment, he realized Lucsly was lagging behind, gazing out over the railing at the striking architecture of the antique Denobulan stepwell that had been converted into this branch office.

  Dulmur turned around and came up alongside his former partner. “You okay, pal?”

  It was a moment before Lucsly spoke. “I feel I should be doing more.”

  “You’ve reported everything you know. You’ve advised all the various personnel on what they need to know. Your paperwork has been as detailed and meticulous as ever. That’s supposed to be the job, right? To investigate and report on things that, most of the time, are beyond our ability to control. You taught me that.”

  “I know. But . . . these past few years have been so . . . eventful. We’ve found ourselves in the thick of things more often than we used to.”

  Dulmur gave him a sidelong look. “You’re not starting to develop a taste for it, are you?”

  “I sincerely hope not. All these adventures play havoc with my daily routine.” The older agent paused. “Still . . . there is something to be said for being in a position to influence outcomes directly, rather than trying to clean up other people’s messes. It can be . . . more efficient.”

  “Maybe,” Dulmur said. “Just don’t forget: this time it’s our own mess we’re cleaning up.”

  “No,” Lucsly said. “It’s mine. I let Daiyar get away.”

  “Oh, come on, Lucsly.” His ex-partner stared at him. “You are the last person I would’ve expected to go all Starfleet gung-ho on me. You’re not a lone wolf. You’re an asset of the Department. Part of a system. And it’s the system that gets things done, more than any one person within it. We have our best people out there, including Ranjea and Garcia, whom we helped train ourselves. If you trust the Department, then trust them.”

  Lucsly contemplated his words for a moment, then straightened. “You’re right, of course, Assistant Director. I regret my lapse.”

  Dulmur clapped his shoulder. “Don’t worry about it, pal. Just get back to work.”

  Lucsly nodded and strode off with metronome precision. Still, Dulmur frowned as he watched his erstwhile mentor and partner head off. This past week had been the first time they’d worked together since Dulmur’s promotion, and Lucsly hadn’t quite seemed himself. Dulmur knew that taking the assistant directorship had been the right choice; it had given him career satisfaction and brought him together with Cymmen, his fiancée. But it had left Lucsly without a partner for the first time in many years—and Dulmur wasn’t sure that it was good for the man to operate alone, without someone to ground him in something beyond his work.

  Every Holmes needs a Watson, Dulmur thought. Doesn’t he?

  II

  * * *

  April 3, 2385

  Qhembembem Outpost

  “I hate stakeouts,” Teresa Garcia muttered. Meyo Ranjea glanced over to see his partner peering out through the one-way window in Lant’s office for the umpteenth time, her annoyed expression confirming that she saw the same view of the Ferengi’s stall and its lack of customers that she’d seen the previous umpteen-minus-one times. “Of all the places that could have path integrators, do we really think Daiyar would choose the Qhembembem Outpost?”

  “You know the answer to that already,” Ranjea replied, letting his eyes close again. He’d been sitting quietly for hours, unfazed by her constant pacing. The office, a small shack extending from the side of the storage container where Lant kept his merchandise, was less than three meters wide, so that pacing was hard to distinguish from circling in place, but Garcia did her best nonetheless.

  “Sure, I know,” she said. “Qhembembem is a center of the high-technology black market. Qhembembem is in lawless space, so it’s the best place to get something unnoticed and unrecorded. After all, Daiyar wants to hide her actions from time travelers, so she doesn’t want them to end up in historical records. And who’s gonna remember anything that happens in a galactic cesspit like Qhembembem?” She sighed. “Still—if we had to stake a place out for maybe days or weeks, Qhembembem would not have been my first choice.”

  Ranjea cracked an eyelid open again. “Admit it, Teresa—you just can’t get enough of saying ‘Qhembembem.’ ”

  She grinned. “It’s fun, you should try it. Qhembembembembembem . . . Come on, say it with me.”

  “I’m good, thank you.”

  Garcia studied him for a moment, then loped over to the bench and plopped down next to him. The bench was narrow enough that she practically had to sit on his lap, but physical closeness was a normal part of their relationship. He could tell from her subtle somatic cues that his pheromonal potency still excited her quite a bit at this range, but she’d had years to get used to it as simply a facet of their friendship. Ranjea was gratified that she could cope with the effects of Deltan physicality so much better than most humans. When their partnership had begun, she had reacted in the usual way, her attraction so intense as to be almost obsessive, but she had found the strength and emotional discipline to control that urge—not to banish it, but simply to accept it and leave it be, to experience the pleasure of attraction as an end in itself without covetousness. In the four years since, they had become comfortably affectionate and tactile in a way that was rich with sexual charge but free of tension or the drive to consummate.

  “So are you gonna tell me what’s been bothering you, partner? You’ve been unusually quiet.”

  He shook his head slightly. “It’s nothing.”

  “It’s not like you to get embarrassed,” she said, her dark gaze sharpening. “When was the last time we kept anything from each other?”

  He sighed. “It’s not like a Deltan to be jealous, either.”

  Garcia pulled back in surprise. “Jealous? Of what?”

  “I suppose ‘envious’ is the word, really. Jealousy is the fear of something you have bei
ng taken by another. What troubles me is what I don’t have.”

  “And that someone else does?”

  He nodded, then pushed himself to come clean. “Director Dulmur—his recent engagement to Doctor Cymmen. He always seemed so attached to his work. I knew that he regretted the failure of his first marriage, but he seemed satisfied with—or at least resigned to—his work as his primary focus. Now he has success in both work and love. I certainly don’t begrudge him that happiness, of course. It simply throws my own situation into contrast.”

  Teresa stared, on the verge of laughter. “You feel lonely? You’re not exactly a wallflower, kid.”

  “Yes, I do maintain a healthy sexual engagement with my Deltan and Betazoid friends, and others who can handle it—when I can find the time. But what I’m able to manage is rather superficial by my people’s standards. I don’t satisfy them or myself as much as I wish I could, because we don’t have time to explore the real depths of intimacy that Deltans thrive on—both physical and spiritual intimacy.”

  “You’re translating into human terms,” she replied. “I know you don’t even see those as different things.” She put an arm around his shoulders. “I guess in human terms, you’re saying you’re not satisfied with casual flings and are looking for true love.”

  “All love is true, my friend. It’s the essence of all life. That is the problem. To live—and to live on after life—we must give love to others. And my opportunities to give of my love are constrained. My closest, most loving relationship is with you, Teresa, yet it must remain at a careful remove for your own safety.”

  She leaned in closer. “I’m not convinced that’s true, Ranjea. We’ve skirted the edge of intimacy for years. We’ve . . . experimented before, pushed the limits of what you thought was safe for me. I’ve been there for you when you yearned for physical connection on long, lonely missions. And it’s made our emotional bond stronger and stronger. I desire you as much as ever, but it doesn’t overwhelm me, just . . . warms me. We’re already so deeply connected on an emotional level—even a spiritual level—that I don’t see it really making that huge a difference if we go all the way physically or not. I think I could handle it.”

  She held him close as she spoke, but she did not kiss him or attempt to undress him. This was not a seduction attempt, Ranjea recognized, but a rational discussion of a prospective refinement of their partnership. After all, they were still on a stakeout. The very maturity of her response helped make Teresa’s case for her. It proved to him that she could manage and control her desire while still expressing it, a balance that was difficult for most humans.

  “It is worth considering,” he said, smiling gratefully at her offer. “It would be delightful if we could have a complete loving partnership in the Deltan way. Yet we would have to proceed with great care, and there would be risk involved. I’m not sure it would be responsible for us as DTI agents to undertake a step that risked impairing your effectiveness.”

  “And doesn’t your isolation impair your effectiveness?”

  “Not to the same degree. I love you for being willing to take that risk for my sake, but I could not ask that of you. We can still—” He broke off, hearing something from outside.

  Garcia was used to his superior sensory awareness, so she followed his gaze without question, then rose and moved to the tinted window. “Yeah, Lant has a customer. Female, lean—whoa, those eyes. Oh, I love a short stakeout.”

  “It’s her?” He moved in behind her, but as always, she hogged the view.

  “Right where we hoped she’d be. Qhembembem, I love you.”

  “I don’t suppose she has the time drive on her person?”

  “Not unless she’s got a dimensional pocket under that cloak. She is from the future, after all.”

  “Or we believe her to be.”

  Ranjea could hear Lant speaking now, the Ferengi’s sharp, nasal tones more clearly discernible through the door than his customer’s soft, mellow alto. “Yes, the constructive path integrator, a truly remarkable invention. On the very cutting edge of quantum technology. . . . It’s no wonder you heard that. Lant’s Emporium is known for its extraordinary inventory of instruments and innovations difficult to obtain anywhere else— All right, madam, there’s no need to strain that mellifluous voice by shouting. The item you desire can be yours if the price is right.”

  Her next question made Lant more nervous. “Yes, yes, of course I would not expect you to pay without inspecting the device first. I, I just happen to have it in my storage facility right back here. . . . If you would follow me?”

  Ranjea caught a glimpse of the cloak-clad woman as the Ferengi escorted her into his stall and back to the storage container. Once the merchant and his customer were inside, Garcia and Ranjea drew their compact hand phasers and quietly exited Lant’s office, positioning themselves to block her exit. It was fortunate, Ranjea reflected, that so many of the local merchants were untrustworthy; a transporter jamming field was permanently in place throughout the bazaar to prevent unscrupulous sorts from beaming away other people’s merchandise or body parts. Given the high technology level of many of the bazaar’s vendors and patrons, Ranjea felt the odds were good that even an Aegis transporter beam would be blocked, removing Daiyar’s most effective means of escape.

  Once outside the door, Ranjea could hear Lant again. “Excellent, excellent. I’ll just . . . withdraw to my office and retrieve the, ahh, the manual and specifications. You wait here.”

  Daiyar’s voice came after a pregnant pause. “Aren’t you going to haggle, Ferengi?”

  “Oh, you mustn’t believe every stereotype you hear, my dear. My, my prices are fair, I’m sure you’ll agree. I-I simply want to facilitate the sale a-and not keep you waiting to possess your new acquisition.”

  “Uh-oh,” Garcia whispered, raising her phaser. “He’s too nervous, he’s gonna blow it—”

  Ranjea touched her shoulder, met her gaze. She nodded, and together, phasers at the ready, they moved to pull open the storage unit’s doors.

  But those doors then burst open, kicked outward with startling force. Ranjea was knocked back, the door obscuring his view, and once he recovered his footing and moved clear, he glimpsed a pale-skinned woman with red-and-black hair pushing her way through the crowd. “She stole it!” Lant was crying. “She didn’t even pay for it!”

  “Come on,” Garcia called, running off in Daiyar’s wake.

  As Ranjea followed, Lant yelled, “This is your fault! I’m billing the DTI for this!”

  “Thank you for your cooperation,” Ranjea called over his shoulder as he joined his partner in the pursuit.

  Moments later, a beam of energy shot over the heads of the crowd, invisible but searingly hot, judging from the rippling of the air. The alarmed patrons retreated, clearing a path for Daiyar to move freely. The DTI agents picked up their own pace in pursuit, but the Tomika renegade’s augmented strength and speed gave her a clear advantage, and she was too far ahead for Ranjea to get a good shot.

  But a Deltan had his own advantages. Ranjea had scouted the outpost beforehand, and by focusing on the sights, sounds, and scents around him now, he was able to get a heightened sense of the surrounding space, anticipating where the bazaar’s streets and alleyways would lead and how the activity of the crowd would funnel Daiyar’s movements. He was able to anticipate where she was headed—and how he might get there first. “I’ll head her off,” he called to Garcia, eliciting a quick nod from her before he veered away. How marvelous to have a partner so attuned to him that explanations were almost unnecessary.

  If only she could be even more than his partner . . .

  But that was a thought for another time. This was the time for running, for feeling the path to his objective. He reached out with his physical and empathic senses, attuning himself to the anatomy of Qhembembem and the flow of the life and emotion that passed through its arterie
s. Much of it was dark emotion, inimical to other life, quick to profit from its corruption, subjugation, or destruction—for that was the tenor of this place. These spirits were cut off from one another, crippled by lack of love and failure to appreciate the connectedness of all life. Ranjea pitied them rather than judging them. Yet in their shared isolation, they formed a community of their own without realizing it, a flow of energies that he could sense and maneuver through. So many little uglinesses being peddled in the stalls he passed, yet collectively even this place had its own pointillist beauty.

  Ranjea soon emerged into the landing field on the edge of the outpost. Moments later, Daiyar shot through the entry gate and ran toward one of the small ships berthed on the field, a sleek, compact, bronze-hulled craft more advanced-looking than any of the others. But Ranjea had a head start, and he ran to intercept her. “Daiyar, halt!” he called, interposing himself between her and the ship and leveling his phaser. “Department of Temporal Investigations!”

  Pulling herself up short, the Tomika reached under her cloak, presumably going for a weapon. Ranjea fired a stun blast, but the phaser did not faze her; she must have had body armor under her cloak. So he darted forward and grabbed her arm before she could finish drawing her weapon. He could see it now, a glinting silver rod the size of a writing stylus—one of the Aegis’s so-called servo devices. It would not kill him—unless she wanted it to—but one discharge would instantly hypnotize him, rendering him docile and suggestible. He couldn’t let her finish drawing it.

  “This is none of your concern, Dhei’ten!” she cried, using his people’s own name for themselves. How did someone from so far away know that?

  Ranjea’s eyes rose to lock with hers, and the sight of them—those vivid red irises inside black scleras, framed by pale gray skin with fine hexagonal scaling—struck him with unusual intensity. She was beautiful, to be sure, but it was far more than that. She felt . . . familiar. A joy welled up from somewhere inside him, as if he were being reunited with a loved one he hadn’t seen in lifetimes.