Текст книги "Storming Heaven"
Автор книги: David Mack
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Научная фантастика
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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 21 страниц)
“Listen to me: this is serious. When this story goes out, if it’s as solid as you claim, heads will roll. And I’m not talking in metaphors, Tim. You’re shining a light on the kinds of people who don’t think twice about solving disputes with duels to the death.” She pressed the side of her fist to her mouth and looked away, perhaps debating whether she wanted to say what was really on her mind. Then the look in her eyes turned fierce, and Pennington braced himself for what he’d known would be in the offing from the moment he submitted the story. “The thing is,” she said, “the last time you turned in a feature like this, it was the Bombay story.”
He felt like throwing his coffee, mug and all, through the vid screen. “That’s crap! The two stories have nothing in common!”
“Yes, they do, Tim. What they have in common is you. Not to mention they’re both politically explosive exposйs that affect the Federation’s diplomatic relationship with a foreign power, and they’re both predicated on the undocumented accounts of a bunch of anonymous sources whose stories can’t be fact-checked on our end. The whole thing’s a bomb waiting to go off. Give me one good reason I shouldn’t spike it right now.”
Leaning in as if they were locking horns, Pennington said, “Do it and I’ll go to INN.”
Pennington derived a perverse satisfaction from watching Libertini’s eyes narrow in contempt at the mention of the Interstellar News Network, the chief competitor of the Federation News Service. “You can’t do that,” she said. “You already gave the story to us.”
“If you spike it, the rights revert,” he shot back. “And my revised contract only gives you right of first refusal—not exclusivity. I don’t do work-for-hire anymore, Frankie.” Just to tweak her temper a degree further, he made a show of examining his own well-manicured fingernails. “So, what’s it gonna be? Run it and dominate the next two news cycles, or get aced by INN?”
She rested her head in one hand, distorting the left half of her face into a caricature of exhaustion. “I’d feel a lot better about this if you’d at least name your sources for me.”
“Sorry, I can’t,” he insisted. “I promised them all complete anonymity and confidentiality. But I sent you all my hard evidence. You can see for yourself it’s rock-solid.”
His insistence seemed to have depleted her will to argue. “All right, fine. It is too good a story to pass up. But I’m warning you, Tim—you’ve already used up your second chance. If this story goes tits up, you’re done as a reporter. You sure you want to take that chance?”
“Positive. Run it. It’s good.”
“Okay, hotshot. Look for it tomorrow at the top of the morning feed.” As she reached forward to terminate the call, she added, “I still hate you, by the way.”
“Sleep well, Frankie.”
The screen went dark, and Pennington took a sip of his coffee only to find it had gone tepid. He left the kiosk and dumped the quarter-full cup into a waste reclamation slot.
It was late afternoon, and the lanes of Stars Landing were busy with visitors of many species—some dining in small restaurants, others carousing in the pubs, a few shopping at the independently owned specialty shops. Pennington considered making his way to the edge of the ersatz village to grab a late lunch at Cafй Romano when he felt a sudden flutter of anxiety about the story he had just filed.
It wasn’t that he doubted his sources. His information had come directly from Ambassador Jetanien and a well-known, highly placed director at the civilian-run Federation Security Agency. He had taken advantage of connections in Vanguard’s intelligence and security divisions to verify the intelligence his sources had forwarded to him, and they had guaranteed him that everything checked out. And yet . . .
He couldn’t help but remember how easily and thoroughly T’Prynn had deceived him years earlier after the Bombay incident. She had fed him just enough truth to help him swallow her lies, and he had seen his career nearly demolished when his story—despite being essentially correct—was revealed to have been based on a series of easily discredited witnesses and details. He didn’t have reason to think she would do that to him again—quite the opposite. But that didn’t mean that someone else, maybe someone in Starfleet or the Federation government or even an agent of a foreign power, might not try to fool him again. If he had learned nothing else of lasting value during his tenure on Vanguard, it was that the truth was an infinitely malleable commodity, and that to find it in its unadulterated state required the utmost effort and vigilance.
The more he considered what he had just gotten himself into, the more his hands shook. At a key intersection, he had a change of heart and made his destination Tom Walker’s place. Minutes later he strolled in, planted himself on a stool at the bar, and nodded at the comely Irish bartender, Maggie. “Double of Glenmorangie 18, neat, and a Belhaven Ale.”
Maggie smiled and started drawing his pint. “Drinkin’ two-fisted are ya?”
“It’s all right, love—I’m a writer.”
She set his drinks in front of him, and he fought not to spill his scotch as he lifted it to his lips. Staring at it, he speculated that he had either just launched his career to the next level—or brought his entire life’s work crashing down in flames.
So be it. He downed the double shot in one toss. Here’s to luck.
In the face of slurs and hissing from his assembled peers, Duras entered the High Council chamber with his head held high, projecting proud defiance.
The chorus of disapproval was practically unanimous; only Chancellor Sturka and his lackey Gorkon abstained from the collective condemnation. Bristling at the public humiliation being heaped upon him but powerless to silence the council’s self-righteous spectacle, Duras felt his ears tingle with the heat of shame.
“Traitor!” shouted one, while others called him quisling, spy, or whore. Some spat upon him as he passed through the center of the chamber on his way to his place in the ranks of the Great Houses. Then the throng pressed inward, surrounded him, and harangued him. Cries of “Romulan stooge!” mixed with a medley of epithets in the dim and musky council chamber.
He did not need to ask why he had been cast as the Empire’s whipping boy. By the time he had risen from his bed that morning, half the galaxy had seen the latest top story from the Federation News Service: a feature article that accused Duras personally as well as his entire House with numerous specific acts of collaboration with the Romulan foreign intelligence service known as the Tal Shiar. His first instinct had been to dismiss the story as a clumsy attempt at a smear campaign—but then he’d read it.
To his chagrin, it appeared to have been impeccably researched, sourced, and documented. It was replete with names, dates and places of events, accounts of criminal activities perpetrated by Duras and his agents, and the details of promises made by and transactions between both Duras and his Romulan contacts. It had laid bare his House’s plan to ally itself with the Romulan Star Empire as a means of seizing political and economic power at home, even if it meant turning the Klingon Empire into a de facto puppet state of the Romulans.
Worst of all, it had revealed his affair with Valina. After surviving the wrath of his wife, confronting the High Council had come to seem like a trifling matter to Duras.
He let them shout their curses and heap derision upon his name until his temper boiled over and he could bear no more. “Silence! Who are you to judge me? Mine is one of the oldest Houses in the Empire! Why would you take the word of novpu’ over mine?”
Councillor Kesh yelled back, “You deny its claims?”
“Of course I deny them, you fool!”
“If we investigate this ourselves,” said Councillor Kulok, “what will we find?”
Duras waved away the accusation. “Nothing!”
Councillor Molok howled, “Because you’ve buried the evidence?”
“Because there’s no evidence to find!” Duras’s protestations were met by another long, deafening babel of discord. Spittle flew with the invective, all of it directed at him. Pivoting and snarling like a trapped animal, his bloodlust grew hotter and more bitter until he roared, “Damn you all! Since when does this council believe the lies of its enemy’s propaganda machine? Not one soul inside the Empire has ever accused me of such heinous crimes. To think I would debase myself and dishonor my House by betraying the Empire is absurd!” He drew his d’k tahg and waved it menacingly at his detractors. “If any of you have proof, present it. If any of you have the courage to accuse me, step forward and draw your blade.”
Gorkon’s stentorian voice reverberated from the far end of the chamber. “Enough of this. All of you step back. Duras, sheath your blade.” The councillors withdrew from Duras with great reluctance. Some glowered at him with contempt while others stared resentfully at Gorkon. When Duras returned his blade to its sheath, Gorkon continued. “Councillor Duras is correct: the slander of a Federation civilian carries no weight under Klingon Imperial Law. The contents of that article are to be considered suspect, and may not be introduced as evidence here.”
Duras accepted Gorkon’s support with a small nod. “Well said.”
“However,” Gorkon added, drawing out the word for dramatic effect, “the surprising level of detail in that article does raise a number of difficult questions, Councillor Duras—some of which might be possible to answer with a formal inquiry by Imperial Intelligence.”
The mere suggestion had Duras squeezing the grip of his blade and shooting a murderous look at Gorkon. You arrogant toDSaH! Swallowing his curses for another time, Duras bellowed to the other councillors, “This is a smear campaign! My House is being framed! Can’t you see that?” None of his peers would look him in the eye. Some merely averted their gaze; others turned away from him entirely. He turned in one direction, then another, searching for support but finding none. Even his old friend Kesh had turned against him. Desperate for an ally, he turned to Sturka. “Chancellor! Tell me you haven’t been taken in by these outrageous lies!”
“I’ve heard a great many outrageous lies in recent days, Duras.” Sturka’s guttural croak of a voice was thick with disdain. “Most of them, I think, from you.” He got up from his throne and gathered his long cloak of silvery fur lined with black silk. “Gorkon is correct: This is a matter best remanded to Imperial Intelligence for investigation.” He turned his back on Duras and walked away, heading toward his private portal.
Standing beside the throne, looking down at Duras with smug self-assurance, was Gorkon. “Take heart, Duras. If you’re guilty of no wrong, you have nothing to fear.”
Standing alone in the midst of his rivals, Duras realized Gorkon was the only person in the room who would meet his stare. In that moment, he intuited who it was who had bested him. He snarled at the chancellor’s йminence grise. “This isn’t over, Gorkon.”
Gorkon taunted him with his maddening, wry smile. “Nothing ever is.”
Duras turned and marched out of the chamber, vowing revenge every step of the way.
Jetanien greeted Lugok by holding out a large stein as the portly Klingon waddled into his office. “A drink to celebrate our fruitful collaboration,” said the Chelon ambassador emeritus.
Lugok accepted it but held it at arm’s length. “This isn’t a mug of that rotten fruit you like to swill, is it?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, old friend. Only the most ungracious host serves his guest an unpotable beverage. You hold in your hand some of the finest warnog ever smuggled off Qo’noS. I believe it’s of a variety known as QIp’chech bel’uH.”
The Klingon took a deep whiff of the liquor’s bouquet and reacted with delight. “Now that’s more like it.” He quaffed a cheek-bulging mouthful and gasped in appreciation.
“Typically, one waits for the toast before indulging in one’s drink,” Jetanien said. The mild reproof earned Jetanien a low growl of irritation from his guest. Lifting his own glass, Jetanien continued. “To the truth: may it always come back to haunt our enemies.”
“And leave us in peace,” Lugok added. “Can I drink now?”
“Go ahead.” Jetanien sipped from his bowl of N’va’a.
Lugok emptied his stein and set down the empty vessel. “Gorkon and I are in your debt for feeding that story to the human reporter. I’m told that Duras is politically toxic now, and it might be a generation or more before his House regains its former stature.”
“That is good news,” Jetanien said. “I hope it gives us enough time to steer our two nations toward peace—and keep the Romulans on their side of the Neutral Zone.” He waved a clawed manus toward the bottle of warnog atop the liquor cabinet beside his desk. “Another?”
“Yes!” Lugok handed Jetanien his stein. He waited while Jetanien refilled it and smiled as he handed it back. “A very generous pour, my friend. You’d make a good bartender.”
“Hardly,” Jetanien said. “I have no patience for other people’s problems.”
“I see. You like the idea of serving the people, but you don’t actually like people.”
“In essence, yes.” Jetanien savored another long sip of his fermented fruit cocktail while Lugok filled the room with the joyous noise of a deep belly-laugh.
The Klingon slapped Jetanien’s shoulder. “You slay me, Jetanien, really.” After recovering some of his composure, he added, “This business with your friend Pennington has given me a new appreciation for a peculiar human phrase.”
“Which one?”
“I believe the saying is, ‘The pen is mightier than the sword.’ That certainly proved true in Duras’s case.” He took another gulp of warnog and smiled. “But I’d still rather go to war with a bat’leth than a quill.”
Jetanien lifted his bowl in affirmation. “Very sensible, old friend. Very sensible, indeed.”
22
The longer he spoke to his supervising officer at Starfleet Command, the more seriously Nogura considered the possibility of early retirement. “All I’m saying,” he argued, “is that we should consider giving Doctor Marcus the benefit of the doubt. She has a distinguished record as a research scientist, and she’s responsible for many of our biggest discoveries about the Shedai.”
Admiral Harvey Severson, a rail-thin, pale-complexioned man of Swedish ancestry, looked back at Nogura over the real-time subspace channel, his affect one of long sufferance that was reaching its limit. “I don’t mean to denigrate your faith in her, Chiro, but this isn’t a time for sentimental decision-making.”
“I think my concerns are eminently practical.”
“Other members of the admiralty don’t agree,” Severson said.
“Tell me which ones, and I’ll talk to them myself. I’m not saying we should close down the Vanguard project. I’m simply suggesting we heed Doctor Marcus’s advice to take a step back and make sure we aren’t being careless in our approach.”
A worried look crossed Severson’s face. “I hope you haven’t encouraged her dissent.”
Nogura was almost offended by the question. “Not at all. I’ve been careful to make clear that I represent the express wishes of Starfleet. But in case you’ve forgotten—”
“Marcus is a civilian—we know.” The senior admiral took an accusatory tack. “Most of your researchers are civilians, which is one reason we’re concerned. If she gets them riled up with her political agitation—”
“Most of them are too engrossed in their work to pay her any mind.”
“What about the ones who aren’t?” He lifted a hand to stave off Nogura’s reply. “The point of this is that we can’t afford any more delays on the Vanguard project.”
Moments such as this made Nogura feel as if talking to Starfleet Command was about as productive as shouting at the back wall of his office. “I think the point ought to be that Doctor Marcus might be right. We might have pushed this project too far, too fast.”
Severson seemed genuinely surprised. “Forgive me, but weren’t you the one in command of Vanguard when a Shedai ripped through it like a battle-ax through a piсata?”
“I vaguely recall a Shedai attack on the station, yes.”
“Spare me the sarcasm, Chiro. You of all people ought to recognize the urgency of the Shedai threat. Do I really need to spell this out for you?”
Eager to hear his superior’s latest litany of condescension, Nogura reclined his chair and folded his hands across his lap. “Enlighten me.”
“The Federation is hemmed in on all sides,” Severson said, lowering his voice as he leaned closer to the screen. “The general public knows we’re butting heads with the Klingons and the Romulans, and a small percentage know about the Tholians, the Patriarchy, and the Gorn. But there are plenty of others the public doesn’t even know about yet.”
The implication of Severson’s words snared Nogura’s attention. “Such as . . . ?”
“Our long-range scouts have reported hostile encounters with several new species. Two in particular, the Breen and the Cardassians, might be real trouble in the next few decades. A few others, like the Tzenkethi and the Talarians, don’t seem likely to warm up to us, either.
“Now, add all that to the ongoing threat posed by the current Romulan-Klingon alliance and the fact that the Tholian ambassador just walked away from diplomatic talks in Paris. Regardless of what direction the Federation tries to expand, it’s slamming up against foreign powers that don’t want us there, and a few that actively want us dead.
“All those threats are potentially disastrous but ultimately manageable, with time, effort, and strategy. Those are enemies we can understand and defend ourselves against, if necessary.
“But the Shedai? They’re an angry genie we’ve let loose from the bottle. It was just sheer, stupid luck that your crew had the resources and expertise to capture the one that hit you. But imagine what would happen if one of those things got loose on a populated Federation planet. Civilian law enforcement and local militaries don’t have the technology or firepower to defend themselves against the Shedai. We’d be talking about millions of fatalities, at a minimum. Hell, the only way your predecessor stopped those things was by turning Gamma Tauri IV into radioactive glass. As you might imagine, that’s not a solution I’d want to use on planets like Rigel, Vulcan, or Earth. But until you and your team give us something better, General Order 24 is the only weapon we’ve got against these things.
“So, while I understand the sincere and reasonable concerns that you and Doctor Marcus have raised with regard to the pace of the Vanguard project, I need you to put them aside. We need that array up and working, and we need your team to figure out how to use it, as soon as possible—if not sooner. That’s not a request, it’s an order. Get it done.
“Severson out.”
The screen faded to black as Severson terminated the subspace link. Nogura looked at the ceiling of his office and wondered who, ultimately, history would decide had been on the right side of that argument: Severson or Marcus? At the same time, he knew that in the here and now, the answer to that question was irrelevant. All that mattered was that he had his orders, and like a good soldier, he would follow them—even if he suspected the result would be a catastrophe.
As he sat and brooded, the words of an ancient Earth poem haunted his thoughts.
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die.
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
Nogura looked at the star map on the wall to his left, and his eyes fell upon the dense cluster of icons that reminded him daily of the Tholian armada assembled within prime striking distance of Vanguard.
Into the valley of Death, indeed.
Carol Marcus stood back from the Vault’s master control panel and watched Lieutenants Xiong and Theriault. The young Starfleet scientists conferred in excited whispers in front of a huge vid screen as they debated how to apply the new intel from T’Prynn to the alien array. Hours earlier, when the Vulcan intelligence officer had delivered the results of her follow-up debriefing of Cervantes Quinn, Marcus had succumbed to curiosity and pored over the arcane mishmash of symbols, formulas, and molecular models. She had even felt a flush of excitement when she, Xiong, and Theriault had begun to parse the alien syntax—a bizarre fusion of pure mathematics, applied chemistry, and quantum physics. Then she had remembered what they were working toward, and her elation turned to shame.
“Look at this sequence,” Xiong said, pointing at the screen. “I think the twelve elements in this pattern correspond to the differences we detected on the facets of each artifact. I think it defines the unique way each facet absorbs or reflects energy.”
Theriault pushed his pointing finger aside with her own. “Yes! And this larger sequence tells us which facets to place in contact with one another.” She glowed with delight. “Oh, my God! It’s an assembly guide!” Then realization set in. “You know what this means, don’t you?”
“Unfortunately, yes. It means we did this completely wrong.”
Xiong stepped away from the screen, put two fingers in his mouth, and split the sedate atmosphere of the Vault with a shrill whistle. His flock of white-coated scientists and Starfleet specialists all looked up at him, their reflex Pavlovian in its perfection. “Everyone! Listen up! I have bad news, and I have good news. First, the bad news. I know you’re all eager to start running experiments and testing your new protocols, but all that’s going to have to wait—because we need to go in there and take that thing completely apart.” Groans of disbelief and disappointment resounded inside the lab, then subsided as Xiong raised his arms and waved everyone back into line. “The good news is the reason why. We have new intel that we think will clear up all the problems we’ve had bringing this array on line. I want you all to get started on breaking down the array. By the time you’re finished, Lieutenant Theriault and I should be ready to give you specific instructions for how to put it back together—the right way, this time.” He clapped his hands, breaking the spell of attention. “Let’s get to work!”
With varying degrees of enthusiasm and equanimity, the research team trudged inside the isolation chamber and began the delicate, tedious labor of disassembling the makeshift array. Theriault joined in to help speed things along as Xiong continued to study the data on the screen and add more of his own annotations. Hoping this might be a chance to make an appeal to his better nature, Marcus joined him at the master control panel.
“Ming,” she said softly. “Can I talk to you for a moment?”
He paused in his analysis and gave her his attention. “Of course, Doctor.”
She gathered her courage. “Now that you’re taking the array apart, I want to ask you to hold off on putting it back together, even if just to—”
“You know I can’t do that,” he cut in. “I have my orders. We all do.”
The same old argument; it made her want to scream. “I’m aware of that, Ming. But I’m worried about what our work is being used for. And about how it’s being used.”
Xiong crossed his arms. “We’ve talked about this. You voiced your concerns, and Admiral Nogura overruled them.”
“And you agree with his decision?”
Conflicting emotions played across his youthful face. “It’s complicated.”
“I understand that.” She reached out and gently grasped his arm, hoping a bit of real human contact would help put her point across more effectively than mere words. “But this thing you’re building—I think it’s dangerous, Ming. It could be used for unethical purposes.”
He gently brushed away her hand. “That’s true of any technology. A warp drive could be used to accelerate payloads into planets at superluminal velocities. To an undefended planet, a warp drive can be a doomsday weapon. Technologies aren’t inherently good or evil.”
“Are you sure?” She aimed a troubled look at the array, which had already been stripped of a dozen crystals. “That thing was made to be a prison, Ming. And the research you did on the first two artifacts showed us that when those crystals are occupied, they can be used to generate almost limitless power. They destroyed eleven worlds from hundreds of light-years away. Does that seem like an ethical piece of technology to you? A weapon that runs on slavery?”
“Those worlds were destroyed by mistake.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
He looked flustered. “We checked, Doctor. None of those planets were inhabited. In fact, most of them were lifeless rock-balls. No harm done.”
“Tell that to the ecosystem on Ceti Alpha V. It was completely destroyed when we blew up Ceti Alpha VI and changed its orbit.”
“Well, then,” Xiong said, “it’s a good thing nobody lives on Ceti Alpha V.”
She could see he was becoming defensive, but she had come too far to abandon her argument now. “So why is Starfleet covering it up? Did you know they forged new charts of the Ceti Alpha system? They’re pretending Ceti Alpha V is actually Ceti Alpha VI! Why?”
“We’ve been ordered not to talk about that, Doctor. Ever.”
“Damn it, Ming, ask yourself why they’re keeping it a secret even from their own people. What if it’s because some admiral at Starfleet or some politician on Earth wants to see if the array can destroy chosen worlds on purpose? What if they want to make a weapon out of it?”
“They wouldn’t do that.”
“Don’t be so sure, Ming. Power corrupts, and this array is about as close as we’ve come to absolute power.” Turned half away from her, his body language suggested he was ready to shut her out. She changed tactics. “Ming, you’re better than this.”
“What makes you think so?”
“I read the reports you wrote after you first got here.” She leaned sideways to catch his eye one last time. “You did some groundbreaking work. And you used to be a voice for mercy and reason. You represented everything Starfleet claims it stands for. Now you’re in charge of a project whose principal objective seems to be trapping and enslaving the Shedai.”
His mood darkened. “Actually, our primary objective is to eliminate the Shedai as a threat, for the good of the Federation and the galaxy at large. Studying their technology for new applications is actually our secondary mission.”
The revelation horrified Marcus. “So your most human option is slavery, and the only alternative is genocide?” Xiong didn’t seem inclined to respond to her outburst, so she added, “The Ming Xiong whose research I admired would never agree to be a party to this.”
“People change, Doctor.” Determination put a fierce cast on his angular features. “I’ve seen good people killed, watched nations push each other to the brink of war, and faced an enemy so powerful that I still have nightmares about it. I sent one of my few real friends to her death so we could obtain the intelligence T’Prynn brought us today. I’ve made more compromises, broken more promises, and shed more blood than I’d ever thought possible. The reasons why don’t really matter anymore. I’ve come too far and seen too much to believe that everything will be all right if only we make token gestures to morality. What matters now is that the whole galaxy seems to be out to kill us, and the Shedai are at the front of the line. So either help us get this array working, or get the hell out of my lab.”
Stung by Xiong’s vitriolic rebuke, Marcus stormed away, leaving him to his infernal device and willing collaborators. Those morons at Starfleet Command are going to get us all killed, she decided. It was time to put a halt to the madness, to plead her case to someone who would listen to reason and intervene before it was too late.
As she opened the secure hatch and left the Vault, she was not surprised to note that none of her so-called colleagues and peers paid the slightest heed to her departure. But she vowed they would not continue ignoring her for much longer.
Sequestered in her private office, T’Prynn drew quiet satisfaction from the comfort of slightly higher gravity and temperatures, and lower humidity and air pressure, than were standard aboard Vanguard—or, for that matter, inside most Starfleet vessels and facilities. She had configured her environmental controls to approximate as closely as possible the climate of her native Vulcan. It was a small indulgence, but one that made her daily work routine more agreeable.
A number of tasks still awaited her attention before that day’s duty shift drew to a close. She needed to decrypt a few packets of intercepted Klingon signal traffic, review reports from a handful of recently debriefed field operatives, scan the latest public news from both the Federation and its neighboring rivals for patterns of interest, and conduct a cursory review of the official identity files of all newly arrived visitors to the station to see if any triggered alerts from the biometric recognition systems concealed inside the docking bays and primary corridors.
It was a slow day aboard Vanguard, all things considered.
A soft beeping from the companel on her wraparound desk alerted her to an incoming subspace message on a secure frequency from Earth. She checked the encryption keys, which confirmed the message had originated at the headquarters of Starfleet Command. Following protocol, she tapped in her authorization code to accept the transmission. The Starfleet emblem on her panel’s vid screen was replaced by the careworn features of Admiral Selim Aziz, the director of Starfleet Intelligence. His skin was of an especially rich shade of brown, a visible testament to his Tunisian heritage. When he smiled, his gleaming teeth seemed almost blinding in contrast to his complexion. “Good morning, Lieutenant T’Prynn.”
“Good afternoon, Admiral.”
His smile faltered, then vanished. “Ah, yes. I forgot to account for local time aboard the station. My mistake.”
She saw no point in prolonging or capitalizing upon his apparent discomfort at the minor faux pas. “It’s of no consequence, sir. How can I assist you?”
“I noted with interest your report of a successful reinterview of Cervantes Quinn. Has the intelligence produced by that debriefing proved useful to the team in the Vault?”
