MCKINLEY STATION WAS EXACTLY as Koll Azernal had last seen it three years ago—cold, sterile, and depressing. Little more than a ring of prefabricated industrial modules, it embodied all the least-glamorous aspects of Starfleet. It was drab, utilitarian, and uniform to a degree that Azernal suspected even the Borg might envy. The facility’s one redeeming feature was its stunning low-orbit view of Earth, but even that was only visible half the time, unless one walked constantly around the station’s outer ring to keep up with its semihourly rotation.

Looking down from a currently unoccupied docking port, Azernal admired the delicate webs of lights adorning the Eurasian continent. The crisp edge of daybreak was creeping across the curve of the planet. Dawn was rising on Moscow and Tehran; in a few short hours it would rouse Rome, then Paris.

Another thing Azernal disliked about McKinley Station was its acoustics. Sounds of all kinds could bounce their way around the outer ring and come back, full circle, to their point of origin; voices carried like curses in a cathedral. Which is why he heard Quafina’s footsteps a full minute before he saw him.

Nelino Quafina was, by his species’ standards, a fairly handsome individual. His glistening scales were a splendidly uniform shade of silvery gray, and his eyes were large, even for an Antedean. His cranial fins were large and well shaped, and ever so slightly darker than the rest of his scales. He walked in long, graceful strides, his webbed feet padding softly across the smooth metal deck. His flowing garments, tailored in five different shades of metallic blue, gave his towering frame an almost imperial bearing, in Azernal’s opinion.

Viewing the species objectively, Azernal couldn’t understand why so many humanoids found the icthyoid visage of Antedeans aesthetically displeasing. He surmised that recent history played a role; there were more than a few individuals in the Federation who, for some inexplicable reason, still bore a grudge over the trivial fact that an Antedean assassin, disguised as one of his planet’s delegates, had tried to blow up the Pacifica conference fourteen years ago.

Quafina stopped next to Azernal and joined him in admiring the view. “You called,” he said. His voice sounded hollow, a peculiar effect of the Antedeans’ efforts to mimic humanoid speech. Their larynges evolved to produce vibrations in a fluid medium, by drawing liquid or air inward. Consequently, Quafina, like most Antedeans when removed from their natural aquatic environment, always sounded like he was swallowing his words.

Azernal opened the door to the airlock. “Step inside.”

Quafina looked into the cramped pressure compartment, then fixed his expressionless eyes on Azernal. “You first.”

“Your faith is touching,” the Zakdorn said as he stepped into the airlock. Quafina followed him in a moment later, and stooped sharply to fit inside. Azernal shut the door. The setting was now intimate to the point of being claustrophobic, but at least it was private.

“We have to stop meeting like this,” Quafina said.

Azernal ignored the quip. “We need more shipments to Tezwa,” he said.

“Unofficial, I presume?”

“Of course,” Azernal said.

“More of the same?”

“Not exactly,” Azernal said. “We need to mask the source of our earlier shipments.”

Quafina made a few short clicking noises. “In what way?”

“We need to make it look like they came from the Tholians.”

Quafina made a few more clicking sounds, slower and deeper this time. “Difficult,” he said. “I can do it, but it will take time to prepare and arrange.”

“How long?”

“At least a few weeks,” Quafina said.

“That might be too late,” Azernal said.

“It could be done faster using official resources,” Quafina said, his tone accusatory.

“Absolutely not,” Azernal said. “Strictly off the books. I can’t have Starfleet Intelligence putting their hands all over this. Use whatever channels worked last time.”

“Then it will take a few weeks,” Quafina said. “Unless you can get me access to a time machine.”

“And bring Temporal Investigations into it? No, thank you.”

“Then we’re done.”

Azernal bristled at Quafina’s openly confrontational tone, but said nothing as the Antedean opened the inner airlock door. Quafina ducked his head and exited, then moved quickly away down the gradually curving corridor.

Trade secrets being the lifeblood of the intelligence profession, Azernal knew better than to pry into Quafina’s methods. Honestly, it was better if he didn’t know all the details. He still had no clue how the wily Antedean had smuggled to Tezwa the vast quantities of contraband technology needed to build the nadion-pulse cannons, or how, under constant scrutiny as the Federation’s secretary of military intelligence, he’d kept his activities hidden from his subordinates.

What mattered was Quafina got results without getting noticed, and that’s all Azernal really needed to know.