Harbinger

Though the litany of Qui

He had thought he was passing information to Pe

Pe

Qui

“Sorry I sucker-punched you the other day,” Qui

Still wary, Pe

Unsure how to proceed, Qui

“Do what over?”

Qui

Cautiously, as if he might be reaching toward a live wire, Pe

“Glad to meet you.” Qui

Pe

“Green and foul.”

He took the flask from Qui

“Don’t mention it.”

While Qui

Qui

“No,” Pe

“Oh,” Qui

“A citizen of the galaxy, then.”

“Precisely.”

Pe

Qui

“About punching me in the bar.”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

The reporter shook his head. “That’s pretty thin, mate.”

“Take it or leave it,” Qui

Pe

“I travel a lot,” Qui

Nodding, Pe

“Someone to play cards with on long hauls.” Looking around at the now-empty bleachers and increasingly empty athletic fields, he added, “Unless you think your legion of friends and adoring fans wouldn’t approve.”

“All right, I’ll take it,” Pe

“Finish it,” Qui

Pe

I helped wreck this guy’s life, Qui

Though Manón’s Cabaret would not officially open for a few more hours, its proprietress kindly admitted T’Pry

Never.

Her fingers found the right keys purely by muscle memory. Improvised notes of a somber tone flowed from her mind to her hands, giving vent to her sorrow. Her face remained stoic as she wept in chords and melodies, grieving in slow progressions of D-minor. By an infinitesimal degree, the psycho-emotional pressure battering her brittle mental shields abated, and for a brief time Sten’s harassing voice fell silent.

A key change helped her find a roundabout passage into Paul Tillotson’s moody instrumental “Morphine.” It didn’t bother her to play without an audience; their applause was of no interest to her. She didn’t play for them.

Minutes passed as she savored every subtle riff and turn in the centuries-old composition. She was uncertain which she admired more, its emotional complexity or its mathematical subtlety. As with most enduring musical forms, she concluded that the two were, in fact, inalienable.

She finished the song and reveled in the silence.

“Most skillfully executed,” Spock said.

T’Pry

“My visit will be brief,” Spock said. “I must return to the Enterprise. We leave within the hour.”

“I understand.” She gestured to a nearby table. “Sit down.”

The two Vulcans took seats opposite each other. Manón emerged from the kitchen carrying a tray, on which rested a china teapot, two cups, and spoons. The supernaturally radiant woman set down the beverages on the table, between Spock and T’Pry

T’Pry

“You are most proficient in your art,” he said. “Though I suspect few Vulcans would approve of your techniques.”

“Do you disapprove, Spock?”

“I seek to understand.”

Holding her cup in both hands, she sipped her tea. Its gentle bitterness was tempered with jasmine and peppermint. “It would be a privilege to share my art with you.”

He lifted his chin, betraying a small glimmer of pride. “I think that our styles would not be compatible.”

Despite her struggle for control, her left eyebrow lifted, betraying her a

“The public disgrace of reporter Tim Pe

“Evidence can suggest many things.”

“I submit that it is now you who is not speaking plainly.”

T’Pry

“I find lying offensive,” Spock said. “In particular when its effect is to inflict harm.”

“What if its primary effect is to avert violence, or even a war? Does the pursuit of a noble aim make some lies permissible, even if collateral damage occurs as a result?”