Star Trek: Vanguard: Declassified

by Dayton Ward

  Quinn looked at me with a hint of a smile. “And were you?”

  “In a fashion, yes. Or I could say that I was on the trail of a possible story. Not that I even know what it is or how things might shake out, but I truly was working and not just drinking and carousing around. And that might earn your favor, too.”

  “Maybe. Or maybe what you need is some . . . carousing. I’m the last person to judge someone for that.”

  “Fair enough,” I said. “Or I could tell you that I spent part of my evening aboard the Omari-Ekon.”

  “What the hell made you think that was a good idea?” Quinn snapped his words through an instant scowl.

  “Precisely why I led my story with the woman.”

  “Seriously, Tim. What were you doing there?”

  For the first time in what felt like quite a while, I found myself wanting a chair in my living room. As there was little I could do to remedy that situation, I chose to sit on the floor with my back against a wall. Quinn decided to sit as well, but cross-legged and facing me rather than positioning himself along the wall. “I’ve started working with someone, a young woman who fancies herself a reporter for the FNS. Evidently, she has been living on the station for several weeks and has struck out on her own initiative to get a story she can use to break in.”

  “If you’re leading up to answering my question, I have a feeling I’m not going to like it.”

  “She asked me to meet her on the ship’s recreation deck last night to discuss what she’s working on.”

  “You’re kidding me. Fishing for a story in Ganz’s pond is a piss-poor way of getting a start at anything,” he said. “Back her off. Today.”

  “I’m well aware of what problems she could be creating for herself.”

  “The hell you are.”

  “And it gets more complicated,” I said. “What I didn’t realize until I had arrived last night is that she is working there, aboard the ship, as a cocktail server or something.”

  Quinn lowered his head and pinched the bridge of his nose between his eyes. “Then it’s not a matter of just backing off. She needs to get off the station, head toward wherever else she might want to try and make a name for herself, and not look back. I know you’re not right in the head, newsboy, but this girl is clueless.”

  “She’s enthusiastic,” I said. “She’s young.”

  “Yeah, no shit.”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  “You need to, and send her on her way.” Quinn rose to his feet, prompting me to push myself from the floor as well. “How’s T’Prynn?”

  “I don’t know. The impression I have is that nothing has changed. I tried to get more information for you, but I wasn’t able. I apologize.”

  “It’s fine,” he said as he crossed to the door. “I’m just curious. I have to admit, she’s been on my mind.”

  “Not to sound callous or anything, but why?”

  The door slid open as Quinn approached. “Well, the timing, I suppose. She goes to whatever trouble to put things right for me, you know, to smooth everything over to reset my life. And then this happens.”

  “So, you’re thinking this is divine retribution for doing a favor for Cervantes Quinn? In this universe, no good deed goes unpunished?”

  Quinn closed his eyes and smiled as he smoothed his hand over his head of salt-and-pepper hair. “Something like that, newsboy. There’s not much I can do to get right with her in return, though, is there?”

  I sensed his authenticity when he posed the question, rhetorical as it may have been. I had not been gripped by any overwhelming feeling of compassion for the stricken woman, aside from the levels of concern I would for anyone whom I had witnessed suffer a great illness or injury. But Quinn was in a different place. He seemed beholden to her, while acting as if he could share that burden only with me. In that moment, I hoped I was providing the support he seemed to need.

  “What can I be doing, Quinn?”

  “Just keep me posted,” he said. “And fix the thing with the girl.”

  “I hear you,” I said as the door slid closed. I did hear him about Amity—but part of me was unsure whether I wanted to listen.

  10

  “I’m not doing this for you, you know. Just so we’re clear.”

  “I fully understand, Lieutenant,” I said to Thomas Ginther just after stepping into a small security monitoring station within Vanguard’s command tower. It was a simple, flatly illuminated gray-colored room that consisted of little more than a computer access console, a workdesk, and a couple of chairs. I had contacted him quickly, as Quinn had suggested, and he seemed anxious to meet and dispose of the albatross around his neck that I evidently represented. After meeting the broad-shouldered and square-jawed man somewhat furtively, I followed him through an alternating series of corridors and turbolifts to arrive at this destination. Were I pressed to reach this place again on my own, I was certain the task would be impossible.

  “I don’t even know what it is you want from me,” Ginther said. “And I’m not guaranteeing I can even access it. Even if I can access it, I’m not sure I’ll do it for you until I understand what exactly it is you want and why you want it.”

  “You’ve extended me quite a courtesy here, and I appreciate what’s at stake for you.”

  “It’s not like I would just lose my job. This is a court-martial offense. I could end up at a prison colony.”

  “I am aware of that.”

  “And this, what we’re doing, it’s a one-time situation. Once we walk out of here, never again. I don’t know you and you don’t know me. You have never seen me and you have never seen this office, and we never talk about this to anyone ever.”

  “You certainly cover your bases.” The stern expression on Ginther’s face assured me that my previous path of being as contrite and appreciative as I could muster was the one of lesser resistance. “As well you should. I like knowing our Starfleet security guards are thorough.”

  “So, what do you want?”

  “I need to be candid with you, Lieutenant. I’m not entirely sure.”

  “Oh, perfect. Quinn said you might be like this.”

  “He did?”

  “Yes.” Ginther thumbed the switch that illuminated a pedestal-mounted viewer as well as several rows of flashing bulbs and started the streams of audible ticks and clicks that seemed to characterize Starfleet computers.

  “Working,” came a digitized female voice from a speaker mounted separately on the desktop.

  “Computer, disable audio responses,” Ginther said. “What do you want?”

  “Right . . . and forgive me, Lieutenant, but just what did Quinn say?”

  Ginther sighed. “He said I shouldn’t give you the keys to the candy store, but then again, maybe it wouldn’t matter because you would just go in there and not even know where to start. He said that if I helped you narrow your search parameters, you would be in and out of my hair pretty quickly.”

  “Hmm. Well, he’s not that far off,” I admitted. “While I’m thinking, if I may, tell me what happened between you and him that you now find yourself with me.”

  “I’m not going to discuss that. Period. What else do you got?”

  “Well, there is this,” I said, reaching into my pocket to extract my recording device. “I have some video recorded on this and I wonder whether it might be cross-referenced against the central computer banks so I might learn the identities of the persons on it.”

  Ginther knit his brow. “Um, that’s it? You want some IDs?”

  “If it’s not too much trouble.”

  “Pass that to me,” he said, holding out his hand. I gave him the recorder and he placed it near the flashing console. “Computer, scan this device and retrieve all audio and video recorded in the past . . . twenty-four hours.” He looked at me as he established the time parameters for the scan, and I nodded in agreement. In moments, the viewer displayed a still image of what appeared to be a skewed view of the bathroom in which I ha
d started my recording.

  “Well, would you look at that.”

  “Computer, play video and cross-reference facial characteristics of persons with all identification files on record.” The image on the viewer began to move, and before long it displayed a very clear shot of the subject of Amity’s attentions. “Where did you shoot this?”

  “Aboard the Omari-Ekon, last night.”

  “You’re kidding me,” Ginther said, turning his face toward me with a look of near appreciation. “You got on and off that ship with a pocket recorder?”

  “Well, I didn’t necessarily keep it in my pocket, but yes.”

  “I don’t need details,” Ginther said, raising his hand as if to shield himself from any unsavory information. “But this just got a whole lot more interesting.”

  The viewer continued to reflect the chronicle of my path from the brightly lit bathroom into the cavernlike dimness of the recreation deck. The video image jostled and blurred almost to the point of inducing nausea, and several times I had to take my eyes from the screen. Faces swept in and out of view, some of them revealed in no more than a profile, or perhaps an eye and lock of hair that happened to catch one of the venue’s swaying spotlights. The great majority of the patrons I managed to capture appeared as no more than smudges of light amid the blackness, indistinguishable from the surrounding gaming tables or background objects, let along from each other. Excepting my lone successful shot in the bathroom, the entire exercise appeared to be a wash.

  When the image showed me nearing the gangplank, I spoke. “You can cut it here. There’s nothing really beyond this.” Given that I already felt that I had squandered my opportunity to glean a story from Quinn’s proffered computer access, I was not interested in exposing myself to the humiliation of my encounter with the Orions.

  “Computer, end playback. Begin cross-reference and display full and probable matches.”

  “I have to admit, Lieutenant, that I was hopeful my recording had contained better raw material for you to sc—”

  “Got it.”

  “What?”

  “It’s done. See for yourself.”

  I looked back at the viewer, which displayed the following message: Identification cross-reference complete. Probable/partial matches: 14. Verified matches: 37. I was shocked, to say the least. “Thirty-seven?!”

  “We do know what it is we’re doing around here, you know,” Ginther said with a definite air of self-satisfaction as he seemed to warm to me. “Computer, present identity information in chronological order.”

  The viewer displayed a small still image of the bathroom man as an inset next to a more official looking mug shot and some biographical data. I scanned for the man’s name, and when I found it, I read it aloud.

  “Adan Chung.”

  “Looks like a solid match to me.”

  “Says he’s with matériel supply command. You know him?”

  “Starfleet’s a pretty big organization. It’s not like we all get together on the weekends or read the company newsfeed to see who went on what mission and got what promotion.”

  “You don’t know him.”

  “No, I don’t know him. But he’s got something to do with supply and cargo transport and storage. If you wanted something moved in or out of Vanguard without anyone noticing, he might be the guy.”

  “That’s a conclusion an Orion might draw as well,” I said.

  “I’d say so,” Ginther said. “So, this is the kind of thing you’re hoping to dig up here? Links between Starfleet personnel and the Orions that may not be on the level?”

  “It seems to be a recurring theme in my recent activities, yes.”

  “You certainly don’t shy away from some potentially troublesome company.”

  “So I’ve been informed.”

  “Well, let’s call that a start. The rest you can do on your own time,” Ginther said as he slipped a data card into a slot on the computer station. “Computer, prepare to transfer all relevant files to this search and cross-reference, and encrypt file as . . . ‘newsboy 37.’ Initiate transfer.”

  A whir of clicks and pulses of light followed the command, and as soon as they had ceased, Ginther slid the card from the slot and passed it to me.

  “While I won’t inquire as to how you decided upon your encryption, I thank you. And you are welcome to keep a copy of my recording, Lieutenant, if it would help you in any open investigations.”

  “Hmm,” he said. “I could do that anyway, but I appreciate the offer. I have a feeling this might go a ways in helping us with a number of situations. There’s only one problem.”

  “Yes?”

  “I’ve got this personal code about stuff like this. If you help me, then I help you. So you help me with this, then I’m stuck helping you.”

  “I could let you off the hook.”

  “It’s not that easy,” he said. “You’ve got another pass. What else do you want?”

  As I opened my mind to ideas, I found myself thinking of Quinn and, not surprisingly, T’Prynn. If I could in some way offer peace of mind to one, maybe it could help them both. “What can you tell me about the explosion of the Malacca? Something I don’t know. It’s important to a friend.”

  “The cargo transport? Not to disappoint you, but I won’t be able to get into that investigation without raising some flags,” he said. “I can give you what has been released so far, but that’s about it. I’m sorry.”

  I nodded. “I understand. I figured it was a long shot to ask.”

  “We’re done here, then,” said the security guard, who extended his hand as a farewell. “Mind yourself, Mister Pennington. If I were offering advice, I’d say let us take a look at Mister Chung’s situation from our end. And please keep me posted.”

  I was puzzled. “What happened to ‘I don’t know you and you don’t know me’? “

  “I told you things weren’t that easy,” Ginther said. “I still owe you one.”

  11

  As pleasant as a walk through Fontana Meadow could be, there were times that I found myself caught in a pattern of journalistic scrutiny that took much of the fun and mystery out of it all.

  The meadow was what we called the green space blanketing the floor of a massive terrestrial enclosure that flourished within Vanguard. To the senses—the look, feel, and smell of it all— Fontana Meadow was in all ways natural. Grass and soil gave way under my stride with no physical indication to my feet of what my mind was acutely aware—that a few meters underneath it all lay cold metal deck plates to separate me from a set of docking bays, each one big enough to house comfortably a Constitution-class starship. In the distance, one could see groves of trees as well as structures for living and working nestled into rolling hills. My mind, however, was yanking me from the fantasy of that stretching horizon with the reminder that it was an optical illusion created by earthen berms and architectural trickery intended to keep me from seeing the walls rimming the enclosure. More than fifty meters above me stretched the dome itself, capping the enclosure and protecting us from the vacuum of space. But I knew it was merely camouflaged by paint and holographic projections to render the illusion of an actual sky as I walked along underneath it.

  Then I let myself be reminded that despite the natural appearance of this environment, its behavior over time was anything but. Our temperature remained constant at a degree deemed most tolerable and pleasant by the majority of visitors to and residents of Earth. Weather was no real issue, as winds never blew beyond a pleasant breeze, rumbling thunderstorms never threatened, and blistering heat never baked. Ambient light in the enclosure artificially brightened during waking hours and dimmed during restful ones to account for the natural rhythm of light and darkness experienced on Earth as the planet spins on its axis. Its journey around the sun, however, was not approximated, as Fontana Meadow never experienced a seasonal change. No fall breezes swept shed leaves into small vortices to scoot down the street. No cycle turned grasses green then brown then green again
as time passed. No sense of promise of what was to come ever was carried by budding trees and opening flowers.

  Sometimes, the more technology accomplished to make the frontier seem like home to everyone else, the more reasons I found to make me miss it.

  I was feeling a little wistful and maybe a little old as I then crossed the meadow into Stars Landing. While I was bemoaning my inability to just give up and appreciate the splendor of my surroundings—artificial as they may be—I also cursed my current struggle with the approach I was taking these days to my job. When I had started as a reporter, I likely would have paid little heed to anyone—friend, law enforcer, editor—who cautioned me against personal risk when it came to getting the story. Pointing a finger, righting a wrong, blowing a whistle—these felt like praiseworthy goals when I chased the news in my youth, ones worth the personal risk. Before Jinoteur, I felt as though my stories were being parceled out to me by authorities who dictated what and how I wrote them. Before Reyes had cut me free from his own restraint, I had forgotten what it had been like to write something capable of upending the world even a little bit.

  So as I turned the corner toward Café Romano and spotted Amity Price sitting in its “outdoor” seating area, I could not help but feel a spring to my step with a renewed rush of my youthful vigor toward collecting the news. She was onto something, and while it might not have been big, I sensed it might have been just the thing to get each of us feeling good about why we do what we do.

  “How about that for a night?” Amity said and smiled.

  “Yeah, how about that. When you left me a message to meet here, I didn’t know whether I was going to show up to give you a hug or a beating.”

  “Aw, you can be a little gracious about it. Had I told you what was going on, I was afraid I couldn’t count on you showing up.”

  “Oh, I would have showed up,” I said. “But it might have been to forcibly escort you out of that place.”

  “And yet you didn’t.”

  “I’ll admit to a mild curiosity as to what might happen next.”