by Dayton Ward
Just as my eyes had settled on an account of sesquicentennial celebrations for Earth’s first colony on Alpha Centauri, a sharp, skin-chilling snap sounded against my newspaper. I brought the paper down quickly from my face to discover a young woman in civilian clothing—professional attire, more precisely—smirking at me from across my table. Her right hand remained poised in front of where my paper had been, its fingers splayed out following the quick flick she evidently had given it to rouse my attention.
“Print is dead, Mister Pennington.”
“Sure it is, miss,” I said, allowing a smile. “Just as they’ve been saying for more than two centuries. Yet here it is in my hand, defying all predictions of its demise.”
“Just seems like a waste of resources to me,” she said.
“Not sure how you even figure that. I press a button and the printed copy appears. I read it. I press a button and it disappears again. It’s one more example of a completely efficient process of recycling, not too different from the way lots of other things are made around here.”
“It makes you look dated, anachronistic,” she said. “And we both know you’re not.”
“Let’s settle on it making me look . . . unconventional. And what we both do not know is who you are. You have me at a disadvantage.”
The young woman extended her dark brown–skinned hand and I took it, a bit fearful that my customary handshake might too roughly squeeze her slender fingers. The grip she returned changed my mind. “I’m Amity Price, and I’ve been wanting to meet you for some time now.”
“Then the least I can do is offer you a seat, if you’ll join me.” As she sat, I said, “And what did I do to earn the privilege of your attention?”
“I want to talk about being a journalist for the Federation News Service like you are.”
I laughed. “I can’t say that I would recommend being like I am to anyone, Ms. Price.”
“Amity.”
“Amity it is. And I’m not that big on being called a journalist. I’m a reporter. I’m much more comfortable in the thick of things learning what I can, getting interviews on the fly and writing it altogether as objectively as I can without using too many big words. I save those for when I want to be rakish and charming.”
“I’ll consider myself forewarned and forearmed.”
“So tell me about you then.”
“I’m from Earth, I studied at the William Allen White School, and I’ve been freelancing for a couple of years now.”
“A couple? I’m not wanting to be rude about things, but just how old are you?”
“I’m twenty-six, if it matters.”
“Only to my growing sense of my spent youth. And you say you have wanted to meet me. While I appreciate the flattery, I can’t imagine that you made your way from Earth in a week to talk to someone who for a fleeting moment happened to become as big as his story.”
“Of course not.” I must have winced visibly because her response was quick. “Don’t be offended—”
“I’m not,” I interrupted to say.
“Um, could have fooled me. What I meant was that the timing of your story about the Shedai and the commodore was simply circumstantial as far as I’m concerned. I’ve been reading your coverage of the Taurus Reach since I first found out about Vanguard Station, and I finally got myself together to see it for myself. It took me several weeks to get here.”
“To talk to me?”
“Yes.”
“They have this wonderful new invention called subspace radio, and you can use it to communicate with people from across the quadrant.”
As I looked across at Amity, she crossed her arms in front of her and hung her mouth slightly open in one of the most impatient looks I had received in some time. Well, from someone who was not my editor at the time, at least. She narrowed her deep brown eyes into a glare that made my mouth go dry. “Are you about done playing with me, Mister Pennington?”
“I apologize.”
“I’m serious about coming quite a ways, and this whole self-effacing and petulant thing of yours wears pretty thin pretty quick.”
“Sincerely, I apologize,” I said, taking a sip of water as I paused to regard Amity with a new seriousness. “It’s been a while since I’ve talked to someone in the business who either wasn’t gunning for my story or chewing me out for something.”
“Mm-hmm,” she said. “Subspace radio. Would you even have taken my call? Better yet, if you were me, would you have thought about simply making a call, even for a minute?”
I did not need to ponder that answer. “No chance.”
Her broad, white smile returned. “I knew we were kindred spirits, Mister Pennington.”
“Please. Just call me Tim.”
“All right then. Tim.”
Amity held my gaze a moment before digging into a handbag slung over her shoulder. “I did drop by unannounced, so I don’t want to take up more of your time tonight.”
“After a trip such as yours, I can understand your enthusiasm to track me down.”
She looked up from her bag. “Tim, I’m not fresh off the transport. I’ve been on Vanguard for nearly a month.”
“And you’re just finding me now?”
“I wasn’t ready to talk until now.” Amity pulled a light green data card from her bag and passed it to me. “Here are some clips—audio, video, and text—so you can get an idea of who I am and what I’ve been doing. I figure it’s only fair, since I’ve been reading you for a while.”
“So, once I read up on you, then we talk?”
“Something like that. I have a proposition for you.”
“See? I knew it. It’s the charm of the newsprint. Irresistible.”
Amity dropped her chin and looked up at me with an overly pained expression that I knew I deserved. “Tim, please. A little professional courtesy.”
“Certainly,” I said as I accepted the card. “And how shall I contact you?”
“You’re not hard to find. I’ll track you down tomorrow.”
“I’m looking forward to it already.”
“And Tim,” Amity said as she slid from the stool. “Be ready to work.”
5
I had not intended to be stealthy as I crossed the metal-walled hangar bay toward the squat, discolored Mancharan starhopper that had pulled my fat out of the fire several times over, but any noise of my footsteps had been effectively neutralized by the clanging of tool on hull plating as the craft’s owner and pilot, Cervantes Quinn, sat cross-legged on the ship’s port wing and undertook what I could only assume was some sort of repair work near one of its warp nacelles.
“Baaah!” Quinn let out his exasperation physically as well as vocally by putting a little too much energy into tossing the tool he held toward a handled tray of other implements perched on the ship’s wing behind him. The impact of the tool slid the tray just enough from its somewhat precarious perch to send it off the wing’s edge and clattering to the deck.
“Quinn!” I decided to announce my arrival as soon as the din subsided so as not to startle the man. He turned, his brow and white hair showing the first signs of sweat from his labors, and on seeing me it seemed some of the tension left his face.
“No scoop here, newsboy,” Quinn called out as I closed the gap between the Rocinante and me. “Just a rogue and a ship and they’re both pretty beat to hell this morning.”
“Differentiating the morning from your typical routine precisely how?” I swung my left arm to lob in his direction the small white paper bag I had been carrying. If he had been drinking the night before, something I had assumed from his remark, his reflexes showed no ill effects as he snatched the bag from the air with ease.
“What’s this?” He opened the bag without waiting for a response and squinted to peer inside. “Oh, look. It’s a biscuit.”
“It’s a proper scone, you damn savage. Thought I would bring you breakfast.”
“He brings me a biscuit without any coffee,” Quinn said to no one
, “and I’m the savage.”
“I’ve seen you drink coffee a grand total of once. I bought it for you, and for my trouble you punched me in the jaw and chipped two of my teeth.”
“Things change.” Quinn bit down on the bag and it swung from his mouth as he made his way down from the wing and onto the deck. He spoke again through clenched teeth. “Thanks for this.”
“Enjoy,” I said as he tugged the bag from his mouth and grabbed its contents. “How goes it?”
“You’re looking at it,” he said between bites. “Just getting her ready for the next run.”
“What have you got lined up?”
“A couple of prospects, nothing certain.” Quinn squared his shoulders against the Rocinante’s hull and leaned back. “You’re not asking to tag along, are ya?”
“As much as I might enjoy another opportunity to nearly get killed, it’s probably in my best interests to stay behind and get some work done.”
“Suit yourself. That’s probably the better idea, anyway. Quit resting on your laurels of fame and get back to the job of digging up stories to write.”
I laughed despite myself. “I’m resting. Right.”
“What’s the latest with the commodore? Talked to him?”
“I should think not. Starfleet has him locked away in a cell under limited access. Even if Reyes himself said he wanted to see me, I can’t imagine I would have a chance to talk to him until the court-martial proceedings conclude. And should things go bad for him, I doubt I’d get a chance at all.”
“Hmm. Guess you’ll be asking someone else about him then.”
“That’s a brilliant idea, Quinn,” I said a little too sharply. “And I don’t suppose you have any suggestions who.”
“Damn,” he said. “I hit close to the nerve?”
“Sorry. I’ve been getting pressure from the boss about following up my Jinoteur report as well as my Reyes report, but no one is talking to me. It’s a bit of a surprise if I get even the courtesy of a hello from someone in a Starfleet uniform who just happens to pass me by.”
“That’s no good. I would think someone out there would be willing to at least point you in a direction for a story.”
“Not that I’m aware.” I paused and looked at Quinn. “But maybe you are?”
“Maybe.”
Quinn simply looked at me and took another bite of the scone.
I waited what I assumed was long enough to get an answer before filling the silence. “But maybe you don’t want to tell me?”
“Because that’s how I do things? Dangle something out in front of you to tease you when I know you’re struggling?”
“What makes you think I’m struggling?”
“Damn, this thing’s dry.” Quinn paused to chew and swallow. “Fine. So you’re not struggling. But I haven’t seen ya coming around for a while, so I figured something was up. And I hadn’t seen anything big on the news about the station with your name on it, so . . .”
“Wait a minute. You look for my byline?”
“What of it?”
“No, it’s just . . . I’m flattered,” I said. “You look for my byline.”
“And I’m not seeing it.”
I paused for a moment and drew a breath. “Okay, yeah, I’m struggling.”
“And maybe I can help.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t go thanking me until something breaks loose,” Quinn said. “I know a guy who owes me a favor. I can’t guarantee that I can call in my marker for you, but I don’t mind asking. I’ve been calling in a few lately, anyway.”
That gave me pause. “Something going on?”
“Simmer down, newsboy. I said there were no scoops here. Give me a little time and I’ll let ya know.”
“I didn’t come around looking for handouts, but I’ll take this one,” I said. “Thanks. Sincerely.”
He waved his hand at me as if to brush aside my appreciation as he got the final bite of his breakfast down. “Been to the hospital?”
“Why?”
“I figured you were keeping an eye on T’Prynn.”
“Oh,” I said, my mind snapping to the last time I had seen the Vulcan intelligence officer who arguably was the person most responsible for the shattered state of my career at that point. She had witnessed, as had Quinn and I, the explosive destruction of the Starfleet cargo ship U.S.S. Malacca while it was docked at Vanguard. But in that moment, and either as a result of the sight or merely coincidentally, T’Prynn suffered a completely debilitating psychic collapse, one that I imagined could yet prove fatal to a being with her cultural mastery of emotional control. I had even captured the entire event on my recorder, but chose not to keep it. “Well, no, I haven’t been following her case. I’m a little surprised to know you thought I would be.”
“I get that she’s not your best friend and all, but I thought you would at least be curious.”
“Curious as you are.”
“Sure.”
“So why not stop by and check on her yourself?”
“I’ve got no business poking around up there,” Quinn said. “And it’s not hard to guess what her reaction would be to my doing anything that might connect her to me personally. No, I won’t be making a visit.”
“So, is this your fee for trying to connect me with a source? Asking me to pay a visit on your behalf?”
“I won’t ask you to go for me,” he said. “I want you to think about going for yourself. The two of you have some unfinished business, and I don’t think you would want it to end that way.”
“To be truthful, I hadn’t considered it. I also can’t deny that part of me might have wished this on her.”
“Not the part of you that deleted the vid you made,” he said. “I’m just saying that you might want to wander past the hospital. When you get there, you can decide whether to go in.”
“If it’s any consolation, you do have my curiosity piqued about one thing.”
“Okay.”
“How something got into your system to reactivate your compassion program,” I said. “Maybe there are more risks in being exposed to the Shedai than Starfleet is telling us.”
“Well, look at the time,” Quinn said. “Someone needs to be moving along.”
“Evidently, I do,” I said as I started back across the hangar. “You know how to find me. And for what it’s worth, Quinn, you look good.”
He squeezed his eyebrows together at the unexpected compliment, almost as if he did not believe me.
“Okay, maybe that’s generous. You look . . . better.”
I actually managed to get a smile out of the man. “Now that I’ll buy, but only because I’ve looked a lot worse.”
6
“Damn you, Quinn,” I said under my breath as I passed through the main doors of Vanguard’s medical center. I promised myself in that moment I would not divulge to him how I walked to the central facility directly following our conversation. I needed to maintain some sense of pride.
In my time on the station, I had made relatively few visits to the hospital, and when I did, I happened to be the one in need of care. The last time, I had come for a brief scan to follow up on the injuries I had suffered on Jinoteur, and as I walked into the main reception area, I hoped my visit had been recent enough that I might look a little less conspicuous as I breezed past the admissions desk. I was following one of the most useful pieces of advice from my days in journalism school: if you look like you belong somewhere and know what you’re doing, no one will ask you any questions. I gave a sideways glance to the desk, and to a woman seated there wearing a loose-fitting nurse’s uniform whose attention seemingly was on the desk-mounted viewer before her, and turned the back of my head to her just as I passed.
“Sir? Can I help you, please?”
I sighed, knowing it would be too unbelievable had I pretended not to hear her. “Oh, hello. Sorry, I didn’t want to interrupt. You looked busy.”
She looked up at me with her slender face framed b
y straight blond hair and what may have been the widest pair of hazel eyes I had ever seen. “You’re very kind, but I’m fine. Now, what can I do for you?”
“I’m wanting to check on a friend. She would have come in about a week ago with what I suspect was brain trauma.”
She returned to her desk monitor. “Can you tell me her name?”
“Yes, it’s T’Prynn, and as you might suspect, she’s a Vulcan woman.”
“Ah,” she said, looking back at me. “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid she is not allowed visitors at this time.”
I leaned a bit onto the desktop. “I’m just trying to ease my concern, Ms. . . .”
She lowered her eyes and softened her posture a bit, almost as if she had been hoping I might ask. My hope for getting past the desk buoyed a bit, so I offered a smile as soon as she looked back up. “Braun. Jennifer Braun.”
As I offered my hand, I had considered keeping my name to myself, or even giving a false one, but when she took my grasp, I could not help but play straight with her. “I’m Tim. And I assure you that I would not stay if I could only look in on her. I was with her when she fell ill, you see, and I’ve heard nothing about her condition.”
Jennifer withdrew her hand. “And going back into the isolation wards will ease your concerns?”
“Is that where she is, Jennifer?”
“I’m not able to release any information about a patient, or even confirm that someone is a patient,” she said. “But the isolation wards are where you might have ended up, had you kept going.”
“I see. And I do understand. You’re sticking to policy and you should, given that we’ve only just met.”
Jennifer smiled. “But as we get to know each other, I’ll certainly relax my approach to hospital policy. Is that what you’re hoping, Tim?”
