Star Trek and all its intellectual property is owned by Paramount/CBS. No infringement intended, no profit made.

This story been beta-read by VesperRegina, to whom I offer my sincere thanks, as always.

With a familiar feeling of dread, Father Vincent Mackenzie pushed open the door of the diocesan administration building.

He hated these annual visits. He hated them for a great many reasons, primarily for the thought of how much was spent keeping up an ostentatious presence in this extremely affluent part of town that could be used for far more pressing needs more in tune with the fundamental message of Christianity: feeding the poor, sheltering the homeless, caring for the destitute. Still, it seemed that those further up the hierarchy thought differently; thought that it meant something to the world that the representatives of Christ in the world should have headquarters of gleaming glass and steel, fitted up and furnished in the latest style. The cost of the carpeting in the lobby alone would probably have run a drug abuse clinic for a year.

He had his own personal reasons for hating it, of course. This was the occasion when a flunky of the financial administration dragged him through his parish's accounts and complained that it was perpetually in the red because of his mismanagement.

Superficially, of course, things should have been different this year. The Xindi attack on Earth had turned many people's minds to more things than the everyday business of living, and attendances at most places of worship had soared. Many found comfort in praying for the success of those who had been sent to try to seek out those responsible, believing that their prayers might somehow be of benefit. Others prayed for the dead and bereaved. Some, even, sought out a church in order to hurl their grief and outrage personally at a God who hadn't lifted a finger to protect Earth from that cowardly and unprovoked assault. Wherever it was required, Father Mackenzie listened and prayed and comforted, or even just listened. It seemed to give a surprisingly large number of people consolation to think that someone was willing to listen to them – even if it wasn't God in person.

The success of the Enterprise's mission had resulted in a second attendance boom; people everywhere wanted to thank the deity for their answered prayers and their deliverance. St Jude's had reaped its share of the benefits. Father Mackenzie had also done his own share of thanking God, but for the courage and tenacity of their deliverers, and for the lifting of the threat that had hung over his world for all those months.

So, with the increased attendance, there naturally came an increase in donations. The priest had been able to place substantial sums regularly in the parish's bank account. Unfortunately, the needs of the parishioners in his care showed no signs of abating, and over and over again he hadn't been able to refrain from dipping into the account for one good cause or another. Most of his own stipend was spent supporting a shelter for the homeless, so much so that sometimes he went to bed hungry because there wasn't enough left over to buy food for himself, but that was a detail he felt was his own business and no-one else's. Unfortunately, the fact that the parish's bank account was now undoubtedly in the red again, when it should have been handsomely in the black for once, was something that the diocesan accountant would certainly not have failed to notice.

It was therefore with a heavy heart that Father Mackenzie knocked on the door of the accounting administrator's office and prepared for his annual ordeal.

He was surprised when the man was actually at the door to greet him, and even more surprised when the greeting was accompanied by a hearty handshake.

"Sit down, Father! Sit down! You'll have a cup of coffee?" Deloitte, that was the name – Randall Deloitte – beamed at him like the biblical father welcoming home the Prodigal Son as he took his seat behind the desk again.

"Tea, please," ventured the priest, taking his own chair and wondering if his annual persecutor had been indulging in some illegal stimulant the night before. He'd wondered whether the man's face was actually capable of forming a smile – other than the occasional shark-like grin that accompanied some cutting witticism on the topic of ill-advised generosity – and now it was impossible to avoid the reflection that when the owner thereof had taken himself off home that smile would linger in the air like that of the Cheshire Cat, floating bodilessly above the desk to disconcert the cleaning staff.

Deloitte paged his assistant and gave the order, omitting 'please' or 'thank you'. Mackenzie made a mental note to be particularly earnest in expressing his gratitude when the tea arrived, and then reproached himself for his lack of Christian charity in wanting to highlight the accountant's lack of decent manners.

"Well, let's get down to business! I'm sure you're a busy man, Father!"

"Just the usual," mumbled the priest, trying to surreptitiously rearrange his cassock so that the worn patches didn't show so badly; it would be awkward if questions were asked as to why he hadn't bought a new one with the allowance he was given for that purpose. This one was well over ten years old, and parts of it were getting threadbare, but he hoped it would see him through for a little longer.

"Well! Well! Indeed!" Deloitte turned to his computer and began scrolling through the screens. It was evident that the programme was practically ready to read, for it was bare seconds before he announced, "And here we have it! St Jude's Parish!"

The assistant came in, bearing a tray carrying the cup of tea and an espresso coffee. Father Mackenzie braced himself. This unnerving bonhomie must be the prelude to some particularly vindictive outpouring of sarcasm, to which he would be subjected in front of her; he had no expectation whatever that the castigation to come would be kept decently private.

The tray was set down on the desk. He mouthed 'Thank you so much!' and smiled at her.

She looked surprised, and smiled back. She was a pretty girl, and the sunlight through the window found an equally pretty ring on the slender hand that moved the milk and sugar closer for his convenience. Evidently she was engaged to some lucky young man.

He almost missed the total that had been read out. It only registered when it dawned on him that the man on the other side of the desk was still beaming.

He couldn't have heard it properly. "I…I beg your pardon?"

Deloitte repeated the sum. It was beyond respectably in the gray; it was positively pitch-black, at least by St. Jude's standards.

"There must be some mistake." There certainly must. He rarely took the time to inspect the parish accounts on his decrepit old third-hand computer (it wasn't working half of the time anyway), and the last time he'd done so it had already made depressing reading. He'd resolved to harden his heart for the rest of the financial year, but somehow he'd never quite gotten around to it. He kept a rough tally in his head, however, and had known as the end of the accounting year approached that once more he would undoubtedly be found wanting. As for where all the remaining money had actually gone, he couldn't really account for most of it in terms of receipts; he certainly hadn't benefited from any of it himself. The important thing was that a lot of people in dire straits had benefited instead, and surely that was what mattered to a Christian institution? Or what should matter, anyway. He and Randall Deloitte had exchanged Views on that particular issue on previous visits, and he'd come prepared for another clash between the accountant's preference for practical economics and his own for practical charity.

It seemed, however, that on this occasion he would not be the recipient of the usual scathing reprimand. He was entirely at sea as to why not.

He knew, of course, that God sometimes works in mysterious ways. He had rather less faith in His ability to magic an amount like that out of thin air and deposit it in the bank account of an extremely insignificant parish in a seedy and run-down back street of San Francisco. And although he was briefly grateful for the respite, he was intensely worried as to how such a sum had made its way mistakenly into the parish accounts. Somebody, somewhere, would be short of that money.

"Nope – no mistake. All checked out and verified." The accountant spun happily through the records. "It's been a wonderful year. Bumper receipts."

A wonderful year, Mackenzie thought to himself. Seven million people dead, and 'it's been a wonderful year'.

He shut his mouth firmly on the unchristian expression that sprang to his lips.

"Guess we won't have to have our little chat today after all!" Even the espresso coffee was delicious, if the smack of the lips that followed it was any indication.

"It seems not." Dazed, he helped himself to the tea, his mind still in a whirl. It went some way towards steadying him, but not nearly far enough. As he sipped at it, he formed a resolution. If there was no arguing with this … probably decent man, just doing his job, then there was the bank. They could go through the parish's accounts and give him the information he needed. And then someone somewhere would get a refund in full.

And to hell with what the Accounts Department thought.

All reviews received with sincere gratitude!