Текст книги "Declassified "

Автор книги: David Mack

Соавторы: Marco Palmieri,Dayton Ward
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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

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 had 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.”

“Can I be curious about whether you’re going to sit down?”

“I wasn’t done admonishing you,” I said, letting myself smile a bit before I pulled a chair away from the table and settled into it comfortably. “Now, I’m done.”

“A little better?”

“A little. It does help that you chose for us to meet at my second-favorite spot on the whole station.”

“Oh, yeah?” Amity said. “Mere coincidence.”

“No reason at all?”

“Well, I always have a reason for doing something. I’m just not ready to tell you yet.”

I looked at Amity until she held my gaze. “I do hope you are ready to tell me a lot more than you have so far.”

“I am. You have been very kind to help me out, and I’m not trying to be secretive about anything.”

“That part I understand. You want to do this yourself.”

“Yeah.”

“But, Amity, I need to tell you that more than one person has cautioned me against trying to pull a fast one on Ganz and his people. He is a resourceful and dangerous man, and he will let nothing get in the way of his business and his plans for controlling trade in the Taurus Reach.”

“Are you telling me to quit?”

“I, well, I don’t know.” I paused as a server stopped at our table to deliver a pair of iced teas that Amity evidently ordered. “I was told to wave you off, yes.”

“And?”

“I want to know what you know and what you’re planning.” Amity took a drink from her glass. “You know I am pretty new to Vanguard, but it didn’t take long for me to get the sense that whatever is happening between this station and that ship just isn’t right.”

“I can’t fault you for your observations, but amicable relationships between Starfleet and fringe elements in frontier territories is nothing new. It’s a necessary evil that can reduce friction among locals and maintain the established ways of doing things until Starfleet gets in a position to truly control a territory.”

“Tim, I’m all about going along to get along. But this is a lot more than our guys occasionally looking the other way while their guys run past with a few cases of contraband. What I’m seeing is profiteering and exploitation of the situation by Starfleet personnel.”

“What you’re seeing, or what you’re expecting you’ll see? You’ve been here for all of, what, three weeks?”

“What of it? I certainly think you’re smart enough to come into a new situation and assess what’s right and what’s wrong pretty quickly.”

“So you have proof of Starfleet officers violating their duties, Starfleet regulations, or Federation law through their activities with the Orions?”

She paused. “No, but I think I’m close.”

“Well, the truth is that you may very well be close.”

Amity’s eyes widened and she rocked forward in her chair. “What do youknow, Tim Pennington?”

I laughed a bit at her intensity. “With the help of station security, I did a little cross-checking on the man to whom you introduced me last night. And you were right about him being in Starfleet. He is in a position that would greatly benefit Ganz were he to be compromised.”

“Compromised? Let me tell you, he is plenty compromised,” she said. “He has regular meetings, um, ‘behind closed doors’ meetings if you follow me, with a woman who works with me. Their meetings are like clockwork.”

“How did you land that job, anyway?”

“I applied.”

“No, seriously.”

“I am being serious! I spent some time over there, made friends with a few of the ladies, got them to vouch for me, and the bar manager gave me a uniform.”

“Some uniform.”

Amity smiled and narrowed her eyes at me. “You liked seeing me in that uniform, didn’t you?”

“I’m not answering that.”

“What part did you like most, Mister Pennington?”

“That’s enough,” I said, hoping that my tone of frustration might have couched the likelihood of my uncontrollably blushing were she to continue. “What about your credentials?”

“I provided them,” she said. “Not legitimate ones, but they’re airtight. I know a guy who set me up.”

“The catch, though, is that Ganz knows a lot of guys. Ganz ownsa lot of guys.”

“I wouldn’t do this if I wasn’t careful.”

“I trust you. But I have to tell you, Amity. In a story such as this, as exciting as it can be—and I need to admit that I’m a little caught up in it myself—there’s just not a lot to be gained by working it from our end.”

“So whose end works it? Starfleet? Tim, they are involved.”

“Well, one or more individuals may be involved. But don’t go into this thinking you’re going to tug on one string and unravel an entire conspiracy with the Orions. I think we are better off delivering what we know to Starfleet security as an internal matter and moving on to another story.”

“What weknow? This is my story.”

I sensed an understandable edge of defensiveness creeping into her voice. “Of course it is. I get that.”

“And as you have pointed out, we don’t really know anything. So let me make you a deal.”

“You’re all about this deal-making.”

She smiled. “Let me see this through long enough to get some real evidence on this guy. Let me do my reporting my way and then we take it to the authorities.”

I weighed the option Amity proposed, but not against my concerns for her continued involvement on board the Omari-Ekon,which were bolstered by Quinn’s reactions as well as Ginther’s apprehension. I weighed it against my agreeing with her choice and her continuing to inform me of her activities versus my refusal and her going ahead with her investigation but leaving me totally in the dark. In the end, I simply did not want her in this by herself. “Okay. So what’s your next step?”

“Hmm,” she said. “The next step is for me to tell you why I picked this location in the first place.”

“I’m listening.”

Amity answered not with her voice but with a subtle nod of her head toward my right. I waited a moment, then shifted in my chair so a sideward glance might be a little less noticeable. I looked just in time to see an impassioned and lingering kiss between a strikingly beautiful and totally bald woman and the subject of last night’s surreptitious recording, Adan Chung. It was simultaneously uncomfortable to watch and impossible to turn away from.

“Now I see what you mean by totally compromised.”

“See? Just like clockwork,” she said. “That’s Aurelie, and she’s Deltan.”

“And you’re suggesting Aurelie is a woman who isn’t adhering to her people’s oath of celibacy in regard to humans in Starfleet?”

Amity simply looked at me. “ Please.”

“So they come here for dinner? Breakfast?”

“If they come here for food, I’ve never seen it. They kiss, sometimes they’re even more involved than they were today, make their swap, chat a bit, and leave.”

“Make their swap? What? I didn’t see them swap anything. Well, a few germs, perhaps.”

“That’s exactly it,” Amity said. “You watched the kiss. Everyone watches the kiss. I watched her palm something he slipped into her hand.”

“I sure as hell missed that.”

“Mm-hmm. So, who are we following?”

“Pardon?”

“Who are we following? I’ve never figured out where they go when they leave.”

“Right. Well, his activities would likely be traced through records on Starfleet computers, and hers might not be recorded anywhere. If she really did take something from him, my guess is that she’s heading directly back to the Omari-Ekon,but I’m all for tailing her if for nothing else than to satisfy our curiosity.”

Amity scooted back from the table and practically leapt from her chair to dash toward the patio doorway into the café. “We’ll cut through the– Watch out!”

My body tensed with adrenaline at Amity’s shriek as she roughly collided with a server carrying a tray filled with plates of food. Amity screamed again as it became clear that the server would not be able to recover the teetering tray, which showered its contents loudly onto the brick patio. Metal plate covers, china serving dishes and the various meals they contained, all of it smashed and clattered to the ground amid cries of alarm from several nearby diners.

I looked to Amity as she lay on the ground spattered with bits of food, then I snapped my head up toward the Deltan—only to discover her staring right into my eyes. I felt time expand uncomfortably in that moment, each of us caught searching the face of the other in what certainly was a mere moment but felt like an eternity. I regained my presence of mind as soon as I saw Amity start to rise from the ground.

“Stay down!” I implored in a stage whisper that must have struck anyone overhearing it as very odd in the moment. Amity began to reposition herself but thankfully did not rise from the ground right away. I looked up again to see the Deltan woman had disappeared. “Okay, it’s okay now. Are you all right?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Humiliated, but that’s not new.” As she rose, she turned to share a sour look of embarrassment with me before reaching out to the server she had toppled. “I am so, so sorry. Please tell me what I can do.”

The server, who by this time was joined by several other members of the café staff, responded with grace and told us all would be set to rights shortly. Amity turned to me, her clothing soiled to the point of ruin, smiling seemingly in the hope of making a joke out of the situation to defuse her anxiety over causing a scene. I took her hand and led her away from the clamor.

“Your friend, Aurelie.”

“I know. I don’t even know what to say about that.”

“No, listen,” I said. “She saw me, and I mean she took a really hard look at me while all that was happening.”

“Do you think she saw you or she saw Tim Pennington?”

I shrugged. “There’s no way of knowing. It may be nothing. Maybe it was just the kind of look you give to a passerby when you share a strange moment. I’m sure I’m simply reading too much into this. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“You’re just being cautious, and it’s cute. I’m fine.” Amity leaned into me, completely unconscious of a smudge of some sort of sauce on her face, and softly kissed me on the cheek. “But I need to go home and get ready for work.”

“Is that really such a good idea?”

“How about this? I go tonight. I get a feel for my own comfort level while I’m there and we talk about it again tomorrow.”

“I can live with that.”

“Good,” she said, and smiled. “I’ll give you a call then. Oh, and one more thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Be a dear and pick up our tab, would you?”