Текст книги "Summon the Thunder"

Автор книги: Dayton Ward

Соавторы: Kevin Dilmore
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Текущая страница: 28 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

Though she remained at her desk and contemplated the vague nature of T’Prynn’s responses to questions, Sandesjo could not comprehend what was to be gained by alerting the Klingons. Of course, she had undertaken several actions in similar fashion since being assigned to T’Prynn; it was the nature of any covert operative to obey the instructions of his or her overseer even if one did not possess complete understanding of the situation’s salient details. Often, such insulation was necessary for security reasons in the event the operative was discovered or even captured, a possibility Sandesjo knew she faced every day while working as a double agent.

With that thought, however, came reawakened doubts about the precarious circumstances in which Sandesjo now found herself, how she had come to be the tool of not one but two clandestine intelligence-gathering organizations. It was not a simple story; there was no single incident that had led her down her present path. T’Prynn had played a major role in that odd confluence of events, certainly, and Sandesjo often wondered if the Vulcan regarded their relationship merely as an affiliation of convenience while she carried out whatever larger scheme she was perpetrating. Instinct told Sandesjo that it was true—in the beginning, certainly, and continued even now to some extent. But there were also those moments when the emotions Vulcans guarded with such care could be glimpsed, and she felt she was seeing T’Prynn’s true self, the one Sandesjo had been unable—no, unwilling—to resist. Where the line separating love and duty was drawn, and how muddled it had become, was something she suspected she soon would have to confront once and for all.

Still, she was correct about one thing. Turag was a liability, and it was only a matter of time before his fragile pride or inability to stifle his wine-loosened tongue became a detriment to her cover. Despite the inherent risk, Sandesjo knew that removing him as a source of potential trouble was something which must be performed with all haste.

That it also would bring personal pleasure was merely a tangential benefit.

49

For the first time in a long while, Tim Pennington was once again beginning to feel like a reporter.

His second night back on the station and occupying a corner booth in Tom Walker’s place while nursing a cup of hot tea—watching Quinn slosh his way through life had made him reconsider his own alcohol intake—Pennington sat back and surveyed the room’s various demonstrations of humanoid interaction. Resting his head against the wall behind his seat, he listened to snippets of different conversations, content to allow others to provide the words for a time. For the moment, he had exhausted his own supply following an hours-long frenzy of composition and editing to polish his latest submissions to the Federation News Service.

Writing with passion he had not felt in some time, Pennington drew inspiration from—of all things—his recent excursion with Quinn. The entire ludicrous journey to Yerad III and the lunacy that had followed when faced with execution at the hands of the hapless privateer’s professional rivals had sparked a zeal he had not experienced since the loss of his lover, Oriana D’Amato. While part of him missed the lost opportunity to interview colonists on Boam II, he knew that whatever comments and perspective he might have gathered on that backwater colony would not have energized him as had his experiences of the past few days.

He at first had questioned the logic behind expending his time and energy in such a manner. None of his former editors—even those who owed him a few personal favors—had so much as acknowledged his previous two dozen efforts. With sobriety, Pennington seemed to have found some of what he had been missing these past weeks, shades of his former, tenacious self. Optimism as well as hints of his once reliable news sense seemed to be moving slowly from the shadows into the light.

It probably doesn’t hurt that I’ve got nothing else to which I might devote my attention.

The lingering, bitter thought was fleeting and he gave himself a mental kick to send it on its way. Yes, he conceded, his personal life lay in ruins, by his own hand as much as, if not more than, the actions of anyone else. Even his wife, Lora, who had dealt the most recent and vicious—if not unjustified—blow, could not be blamed for the mistakes he had made. Pennington’s only option, he knew, was to knuckle down, square his jaw, and forge ahead. No other choice was acceptable, or even thinkable.

It was that resolve which had guided him to Tom Walker’s, though not to drown his sorrows in drink. Instead, he started to write, not allowing himself to leave the booth at the back of the bar until he had composed a story for transmission to FNS.

By the time he was finished, he had completed two.

While his former editors had purchased some of his pieces since his disastrous flameout with the Bombaystory last month, they had not so much as acknowledged his accompanying communiqués with a cursory reply indicating receipt of the stories. Pennington shrugged off their attitude. So long as they were paying him and—more importantly—publishing his work, he could handle the cold shoulders offered by onetime colleagues and friends. If he could keep at least one foot in the proverbial door, there was still a chance that when he finally did report a major news story—one that truly would shake the foundations of the Federation itself—his words would once again engender the trust they currently lacked. Only then would he be able to salvage and perhaps even rebuild the career he had lost—partly through his own admitted recklessness, but also at the hands of those pursuing an agenda and who wished their actions to remain unobserved.

Good luck with that,he thought as he sipped his tea and thought of T’Prynn, the chief architect of his downfall. At least, he believed her to be responsible, as he of course possessed no evidence to substantiate his claims. Further, his instincts told him that she was the key—or one key, at least—to all of the strange activities taking place on the station and indeed Starfleet’s actions within the Taurus Reach. T’Prynn held the answers, of that Pennington was sure.

His odd relationship with the commander also had taken a surprising turn after his return to the station. After catching sight of her while walking through Stars Landing and taking note of the odd, almost distracted look on her face, Pennington had decided to follow her along with his reporter’s nose. What he had not expected to see was her heading with evident purpose directly for hisapartment.

Taking care to avoid being seen—a tactic seemingly wasted given T’Prynn’s apparently single-minded focus—Pennington had watched as the commander stood outside his door for several moments, appearing to weigh some kind of decision. Had she come to leverage her hold over him as part of some unknown agenda? Given how she already had treated him, it would seem to be the next logical step.

That line of thought went into the recycler, however, as he watched her hesitate at his door before turning and walking away. Had she lost her nerve? Pennington of course found that unlikely. In fact, as he observed her, he could not help thinking that were T’Prynn human, her strange actions might well have been born from guilt.

She certainly did not seem to display such feelings a few hours earlier. Knowing that T’Prynn also had Quinn under her thumb, Pennington had followed the hapless rogue to his meeting with her, watching as Quinn surrendered the Klingon data core. What information did it contain that might justify the clandestine yet overt actions she had put in motion to obtain it? How did it tie into the larger picture?

Perhaps there even was a connection to the events which had transpired on Erilon. Though he had reviewed the official Starfleet releases on the incident and even had used some of that information in crafting one of his latest stories, Pennington’s instincts told him there was more there than met the eye. While the information as presented in the reports might be the literal truth, his instincts told him that it was but one layer of truth—the only one that had been allowed to see light while other and perhaps more damaging aspects of that same truth remained cloaked in shadow.

Much like the shadow that fell across his table.

“Mr. Pennington, am I interrupting?”

Startled, the reporter looked up to see Commodore Reyes, standing tall in an ever crisp and immaculately tailored Starfleet uniform. His normally cold, craggy features were warmed somewhat by the suggestion of a smile.

“Commodore,” Pennington said, straightening in his seat. Clearing his throat, he added, “No, not at all. Just enjoying a spot of tea.”

Nodding, Reyes moved without invitation to lower himself onto the cushioned bench seat opposite Pennington’s. For his part, the journalist hoped his expression did not convey nervousness or uncertainty at the other man’s presence, though he guessed his efforts were wasted. Based on his past encounters with the commodore, he knew Reyes to be a remarkably observant man.

“I’ve just finished some interesting reading,” the station commander said, leaning against the bench’s backrest while leaving his forearms on the table, interlocking his fingers. He said nothing else, though Pennington noted that the man’s smile widened—ever so slightly.

When no further clues seemed to be forthcoming, Pennington asked, “Something I ought to read myself, Commodore?”

“Something you wrote yourself,” Reyes clarified. “Your dispatches for the FNS. I thought it was excellent work, and wanted to tell you so.”

Pennington’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Already?” He had transmitted the pieces less than two hours ago. Only on rare occasions had he received such expedient turnaround on one of his submissions, and that was when he was still in good favor. “I can’t believe they posted that. Any of it, for that matter.”

“Your perspective on colony life in the Taurus Reach was rather insightful,” Reyes said. “It’s nice to be able to put a face on the personal struggles colonists have amid the political circus we’re holding out here. Getting Ambassador Jetanien to chime in was a nice touch, though I have to admit I’m surprised you were able to pin him down for a statement.”

“My inbred tenacity, I guess,” Pennington replied, basking in satisfaction. That the Chelon ambassador had agreed to the exclusive interview, during which he had spoken quite candidly about the challenge of colonizing space that also was of interest to the Klingons and the Tholians, was a coup. The journalist had strived to keep his writing sincere rather than sensational, refusing to pick apart gaps in veracity and instead telling what he hoped was a story that might enlighten rather than incite a reader.

“The piece about the accident on Erilon was also very well done,” Reyes continued. “Very respectful, particularly toward Captain Zhao and those of his crew who were lost. I wanted to say I appreciated that.”

I wonder if he’s feeling all right,Pennington mused as he took in the compliments. Writing what he had hoped was a poignant tribute to the latest Starfleet personnel to pay the ultimate price for the Federation’s presence in the Taurus Reach, he had—uncharacteristically—waxed heroic on the leadership of Captain Zhao Sheng of the Endeavouras well as the entire group of colonists who had so valiantly struggled against the elements on distant Erilon, only to be killed in the crippling earthquake and subsequent reactor explosion that had wiped the nascent settlement from the face of the planet. Creating the piece had been difficult at first, given his natural inclination to distrust any sort of official Starfleet statement. Nevertheless, reading the report on the accident had nearly moved him to tears, after which words seemed to flow without effort.

Wait just a damned minute.

Something about this was not right, Pennington decided. Even if his former editor had seen fit to publish one of his stories, there was no way she would have done so without first checking, cross-checking, and—because it came from Pennington—triple-checking before committing to publication.

Reaching into his satchel for his data slate, Pennington activated it and keyed it to tie into the current FNS news feed. He glanced up at Reyes while he waited for the connection to complete, noting with rising alarm that the commodore’s expression remained irritatingly placid.

By the time the tablet emitted a tone, announcing that the most current update from the data feed was complete, Pennington was not surprised to see neither of his stories listed among the recent headlines. “They haven’t published anything of mine.”

Reyes shrugged. “Well, not yet, anyway. I’m hoping they will.”

His eyes narrowing in growing suspicion and even a hint of dread, Pennington said, “I don’t understand.”

“I screen your mail.”

Such was the blunt, casual manner in which Reyes offered the caveat that it took an additional second for the reporter to comprehend it. When realization dawned, he felt heat rise to his face. With restraint that almost failed him, Pennington remained with his back against his seat, even as he glared at the commodore. “You…what?” He blinked several times, processing the statement again before finally shaking his head in disbelief. “That’s… bollocks!” he said, clenching his jaw in an effort to keep his voice down. The last thing he wanted was to cause a scene in a public place.

Reyes, for his part, shrugged. “I don’t make any secret of it, Mr. Pennington. All communiqués to and from the station are scanned by the computer for security reasons. Anything that matches certain parameters is brought to my attention.”

“But my stories were legitimate,” Pennington protested. “There was nothing in there that was a breach of any bloody security.”

“I agree,” Reyes replied. “In the case of journalists, it’s standard procedure to verify anything intended for the news outlets.”

“That’s censorship!” Pennington shouted, feeling the heat rising in his cheeks but no longer caring about the reactions his outburst might provoke. While numerous heads turned in his direction, Reyes did not so much as blink.

Though he had suspected that the commodore had at least passively sanctioned the actions taken against him by T’Prynn, Pennington of course had possessed no evidence to prove his theories. Here and now, however, Reyes was all but admitting not only complicity in that earlier violation, but that it was in fact simply one act in an ongoing campaign to quash not only his professional voice but his civil liberties as well.

“Do you think for one minute I can’t find a way around your ‘security measures’?” Pennington asked, his voice low and cold as he spat the words through gritted teeth. “I will be heard, Commodore, one way or another.”

“Of that I have no doubt,” Reyes said, his voice and demeanor remaining composed even as his eyes bored into Pennington’s, “just as you should have no doubts about my not tolerating anything which undermines the safety and security of this station, whether that disruption is caused by someone wielding a sword ora pen.”

Swallowing a lump which had formed in his throat, the reporter nodded. “Well, I suppose I should appreciate your being forthright about the situation.”

“Then we have an understanding,” Reyes said, adopting a wistful expression. “Life is so much easier with a few understandings, don’t you think?”

Seething, Pennington only nodded.

The commodore leaned forward, adopting a lower tone. “Listen, I know you see things, hear things. You have your ‘sources,’ and I know that when you’ve poked around here, sometimes you’ve gotten two from me and two from Starfleet Command, and it’s added up to five in your book. Am I right?”

Intrigued at where the discussion might be heading, Pennington also leaned toward the table. “You have my attention, Commodore.”

“Maybe things even added up to five while you were writing about Erilon. Your gut was probably giving you signals, and you thought that, with a little digging, you might even score that story you’re hoping will resurrect your career. You’ll be back in the good graces of your editors. Your readers would believe you again. Your wife…”

“Lora is gone,” Pennington said, cutting off Reyes.

Pausing a moment, the commodore nodded. “Sorry.”

“I said she’s gone,” Pennington repeated, his voice harsher and louder this time as he relived the scene that had greeted him upon entering his apartment after returning to the station with Quinn. During his absence, Lora had returned and stripped his living quarters clean. Not a single piece of furniture, clothing, or even food remained.

The only thing left to greet him was the single sheet of paper, pinned to one bare wall, announcing to all who read it that Lora Brummer sought divorce from her husband, Timothy.

“She even took the lighting elements from the fixtures,” Pennington said, only now realizing that he had recounted the entire depressing scene aloud. “What kind of twisted individual takes the bloody lightingelements?” he asked, anguish enveloping the words as he regarded Reyes.

The commodore studied him a moment before replying. “I said I was sorry, Mr. Pennington, as in ‘I’m sorry, and I understand,’ not ‘I’m sorry, please feel free to discuss it at length with me.’”

Embarrassed at having divulged the disheartening turn his personal life had taken, Pennington cleared his throat, reaching for his now quite cold tea. “My apologies, sir.”

Shaking his head as if to clear it of the sudden detour in the conversation, Reyes said, “What I’m trying to say is that I know you could have made this a huge pain in my ass, but you didn’t, for whatever reason. My guess is that you’re probably waiting for bigger fish to fry. Regardless, I appreciate the restraint you showed, and the respect you paid to those who died on Erilon. I’m here to say thank you, and to tell you that this is something I’ll be keeping in mind for next time.”

“Next time?” Pennington asked.

“Sooner or later,” Reyes said, “you’re going to want to talk to me about something important. Maybe it’ll be something you learn about before I do.” His expression hardening, he added, “Though I doubt it. Anyway, at some point, you’re going to need something from me. If I can trust you to do what’s right—for everyoneinvolved—then I’ll be more inclined to help you.”

“If you’re proposing some sort of partnership,” Pennington said, “then I’ll need more from you and your people than what I’ve gotten to this point, the sort of in-depth information to produce a credible, objective account of what’s going on out here. You promise me that, and I’ll promise you’ll never get sucker-punched by anything I write.”

Saying nothing for several seconds, Reyes nodded. “That requires a level of trust you’ll have to earn. You’re a journalist, Mr. Pennington, and a damned good one. It’s second nature to dig for the great story. What assurances do I have that you won’t run with every juicy little tidbit you get your hands on?”

Pennington shrugged. “I haven’t told anyone you’re sleeping with Captain Desai.”

Even as he uttered the words, he imagined the ambient noise of Tom Walker’s place abruptly dropping to total silence, as every person in the bar turned to face him and regard him with matching expressions that all conveyed the same question now sprinting through his mind: Are you insane?

That did not happen, of course, though neither did Reyes say anything, his expression no more malleable than the bulkhead behind him. Then, a broad grin materialized as if by transporter. “Point taken.”

Feeling relief wash over him at the realization that the commodore was not—for the moment, at least—going to kick his ass all over the bar, Pennington returned the smile. “So, we have an agreement, then?”

The grin vanished.

“We’ll talk later,” Reyes said, rising from his seat and marching toward the bar without another word.

Watching the commodore leave, no doubt returning to the station’s operations center and the plethora of responsibilities that came with his rank and station, Pennington reached for his tea. The beverage might be cold, he decided, but it did nothing to quell the fire of curiosity and resolve heating up in the core of his being and beginning to spread outward with growing intensity.

I think this place just got a whole lot more interesting.