Текст книги "What Judgments Come"

A crisp breeze was cutting across the immense lake, and Tim Pennington shivered at the chill on his nose and cheeks. Stepping onto the wooden dock that extended twenty meters out over the water from the bank, he turned and waved to the pilot of the boat that had transported him three kilometers from the mainland to this small island. The pilot, as he had during the entire journey, feigned interest as he returned the gesture before directing his attention back to the boat’s controls. Pennington watched the small craft back away from the dock before turning clockwise until its bow pointed back the way it had come. The boat accelerated across the water and in a handful of seconds disappeared into the layer of fog that had moved in to shroud the lake.

“Have a nice day, mate,” Pennington muttered. Now alone on the dock, he jammed his hands deeper into the lined pockets of his jacket. A look to the forest on his right told him that the Caldos sun had already slipped behind the trees. It would be dark soon, nightfall taking with it any residual warmth. He was coming to realize that his jacket was not heavy enough to prevent the bracing, damp cold from reaching his body. A dull ache in his right arm was making itself known, and he reached up to massage his shoulder socket.

Almost makes me miss Vulcan. Almost.

Pennington walked the length of the dock until he reached a set of stairs leading down to a landing that was constructed of a dozen evenly cut and spaced sections of thick wood. Like the dock itself, the landing appeared to have been installed recently. Scrutinizing the framework of wooden railing running alongside the stairs, he noted that the metallic bolts and clamps used to anchor the support posts were free of rust. He supposed that the builders might have used components that would withstand corrosion for an extended time, but that seemed unlikely, given the tenets upon which the colony on Caldos II had been established, and by which it was continuing to expand.

Originally conceived as a re-creation of Earth’s Scottish Highlands from the seventeenth century, the Caldos colony’s various structures all were built using construction materials and techniques of the era. The settlement offered numerous modern technological conveniences, though whenever possible such equipment was housed within a traditional faзade. Even the weather modification network had been programmed to replicate the climate of the Highlands.

A bit too closely, for my tastes, Pennington decided. Despite any misgivings he might harbor about the local weather, to his practiced eye, the colony was a fine tribute to his homeland, the care and precision with which the re-creation had been realized succeeding in making him yearn for a return to the region of his birth. How many years had passed since his last visit to Earth? Too many, Pennington knew, and indeed he had been making his way in that direction when one of his colleagues at the Federation News Service had made contact, sending via subspace message the information that had led him here.

“Of all the places,” he said aloud, though there was no one—not even the party to whom his comment was directed—to hear, “you certainly found yourself a nice little hideaway, didn’t you?”

Pennington knew that calling the Caldos colony isolated was a bit extreme, but the star system was outside the established trade routes. Still, it was comfortably within Federation territory and benefited from semiregular Starfleet patrols through the region. Though the settlement was just establishing itself, long-term plans called for a sweeping spaceport that would benefit from both commercial and Starfleet traffic. That facility, according to information Pennington had read, would be constructed more than a hundred kilometers to the south, near the continental coastline, well away from the tranquil colony’s population center. For now, though, Caldos II was the perfect location for someone who did not want to be found.

Or who’d been ordered not to be found.

The walk from the dock was easy enough, with the gravel trail charting a winding path through the forest. It took only a moment for Pennington to realize that this section of the woods only partially obscured from view the straight, angular silhouette of a large, single-story building nestled within a small glade. The cabin was constructed from stone and wood, with a sharply sloped roof and a covered porch running along the structure’s frontage. As he drew closer, Pennington saw that the cabin’s large front window likely afforded its occupant a picturesque view of the lake as framed by the trees. Lights were on inside the house and visible through that window, as well as a few others, and a wisp of thin, light gray smoke drifted upward from the stonework chimney that was the most prominent feature of the cabin’s western wall. Stacks of wood lined that wall, each piece cut into serviceable lengths for easy transport through the adjacent door leading into the house. Besides the interior illumination, the only other noticeable clue to the presence of modern technology was a low, muffled hum Pennington heard as he walked closer to the cabin. It seemed to be coming from a small outbuilding situated near the tree line behind the house. A generator, perhaps?

He was half a dozen steps away from the cabin’s porch when the front door opened, light pouring out from the structure’s warm interior and highlighting the form of a muscled, middle-aged man. His appearance had changed since the last time Pennington had seen him, his thinning black-and gray hair having now grown to a point well past the man’s shoulders. A trimmed, salt-and-pepper beard highlighted his face, and the Starfleet uniform he once had worn with much pride was long gone, replaced with loose-fitting, comfortable-looking clothes that Pennington supposed were ideal for the Caldosian climate. What had not changed was the man’s expression. His eyes bored into Pennington’s, studying and sizing him up, while the rest of his features remained impassive.

“Diego Reyes,” the journalist said, unable to suppress the smile he felt forming on his lips, “as I live and breathe.”

His expression betraying nothing, Reyes replied, “I’m pretty sure I told the concierge I only wanted maid service on weekends.” He said nothing else for several seconds, the silence lingering just long enough to become awkward.

Pennington cleared his throat. “It was a damned chore tracking you down, mate.”

“That was sort of the point,” Reyes said, moving not the slightest muscle as he continued to regard his unexpected visitor. After a moment, his features softened. “Though I’ll admit, it’s nice to see a familiar face, even if it has to be yours.”

Anxious as to how he felt this meeting might play out, Pennington allowed himself to release a small sigh of relief. “It’s good to see you, Commodore.”

Reyes held up a hand. “Not for a while, and not anymore. That’s all behind me now.” He seemed to consider the situation for a moment before reaching the decision to resign himself to Pennington’s presence. Stepping back into the cabin, he gestured for the journalist to follow him. “Come on in.”

Like the exterior, the inside of the home was a blend of masonry and wood. The wall with the fireplace was composed of elaborate stone work, with decorative, irregularly shaped rock in multiple colors set into a light gray mortar. A mantel above the fireplace looked as though it might have been fashioned from the trunk of a once-mighty tree, cut into the shape of a beam and laid atop a trio of rocks jutting out from the wall at chest level. On either side of the hearth were shelves containing a few dozen books as well as assorted keepsakes, some of which Pennington recognized from Reyes’s old office on Starbase 47. The room’s furnishings were simple—chairs, tables, a coat tree by the door, a pair of overstuffed recliners near the fireplace. Aside from the notable lack of modern equipment such as a viewscreen or computer terminal, there was one type of memento that was conspicuous in its absence, and that was any sort of photograph. None hung on the walls or occupied space on the shelves or tables.

“Rather cozy, I must say,” Pennington offered as he removed his jacket. He hung the garment from an unoccupied hook on the coat tree before turning back to face Reyes, who now regarded him while leaning against the waist-high bar separating the front room from what looked to be a modest yet still well-appointed kitchen. “A bit off the beaten path, though, you know.”

Reyes shrugged. “I like it here. It’s quiet, and nobody bothers me. Well, almost nobody.” Pausing, he stuck his hands in his pants pockets before nodding toward Pennington. “How’s the arm?”

It took a moment for the journalist to realize that, without thinking, he had reached up again to massage the mild twinge in his shoulder. “Only aches when it rains. Or it’s cold, or damp, or any combination of the three.”

“Well, then you’re going to love it here,” Reyes replied. Pushing himself from the bar, he made his way into the kitchen. “Want a drink?”

“Whatever you’re having,” Pennington said.

Reyes nodded. “Caldosian whiskey it is, then.” Reaching below the bar, he produced a stocky, square bottle made of green glass, and with his left hand extracted the sizable cork from the vessel’s neck. “It’s a local specialty, and better than anything you’ll find anywhere that’s not Scotland.”

“That good, eh?” Pennington asked, playing the game as he watched Reyes pour some of the bottle’s contents into two squat tumblers with thick bases.

“You’ll want to eat the glass when you’re finished,” Reyes said, holding up one of the tumblers and offering it to Pennington.

The journalist offered a nod of thanks as he accepted the drink, then held up the glass in an informal salute. “Cheers, mate.” Taking a tentative sip, Pennington braced himself for what he was sure would be the rush of peat-saturated, oversmoked rotgut as brewed by some local farmhand working with a storage drum hanging over an open fire pit behind his house. To his surprise, the whiskey was smooth and slightly sweet, warming his throat as he swallowed. “Now that’s nice,” he said, feeling the tingle of the alcohol as he exhaled. Nodding in approval, he tossed back the rest of the glass.

“Go easy with it,” Reyes warned. “It’s an acquired taste.” With that, he downed the contents of his own glass in a single swallow before refilling both glasses. Setting the bottle back on the bar, he retrieved his glass and moved back into the main room. “How’d you find me?”

Pennington shrugged. “It wasn’t easy,” he replied as he turned and followed Reyes to the pair of recliners positioned before the fireplace. “I had to call in quite a few favors, and even then I ended up owing some people. So far as the whole galaxy seems to be concerned, you ceased to exist the day you left the station.”

Nodding without looking away from the fire, Reyes said, “That’s the way it was supposed to be.” Using a metal poker, he shifted the quartet of smoldering logs around the elevated grate inside the firebox, stirring the embers until hints of new flame appeared from beneath the wood.

“We didn’t get a chance to say much that day,” Pennington said.

Reyes returned the poker to a stand situated to the left of the firebox. “That was more my fault than yours, I suppose. I’ve never been big on good-byes. Besides, I was on something of a schedule. There were a lot of people who were pretty anxious to have me away from there as quickly and quietly as possible. I imagine a few of those people are still pretty pissed that I didn’t end up at the bottom of a hole somewhere.”

“True enough,” Pennington replied, “but Admiral Nogura told me he got over it.”

The deadpan remark was enough to elicit the first real grin from Reyes since Pennington’s arrival, and he even chuckled as he moved to one of the recliners. He motioned for the journalist to have a seat, and the two men sat in silence for a moment, sipping their drinks and staring at the fire. Pennington breathed a sigh of contentment, the effect of the fire on his feet similar to that of the whiskey in his belly.

I could get used to this.

After a moment, his right hand turning his glass in a slow circle as it sat atop his thigh, Reyes said, “Don’t take this the wrong way, Tim, but what the hell are you doing here? I know you didn’t come all this way for a drink.”

“Well,” Pennington said, “for what it’s worth, I also haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

Releasing another small laugh, Reyes sipped from his whiskey. “I’ll get right on that. Okay, out with it. What really brought you to the ass end of space? To talk to some washed-up relic nobody’s going to remember in a hundred years?”

“There are a handful of people who know the truth about what happened out there,” Pennington replied, holding up his glass and swirling its contents. “Not much was said about your departure. Top secret, hush-hush and all that. Starfleet and the Federation have washed their hands of you, so I figure now was as good a time as any to try cornering you somewhere and getting you to tell me your side of the story.”

Reyes eyed him. “You can read about it in my memoirs. I’ve got a contract from Broht and Forester sitting on my desk. They want a juicy tell-all book for Christmas.”

Laughing at that, Pennington shook his head. “That’d get some Starfleet knickers in a twist, wouldn’t it? I’m impressed you even know the name of a major publishing company.”

“I got it from one of the books Zeke gave me before I left the station,” Reyes replied, waving toward one of the shelves near the fireplace. “The first time, that is. You know, before all that fun I had with the Klingons and Orions.”

“Right, that,” Pennington said, his gaze settling once again on the fire. “Quite a holiday you had there. You never talked much about that before you left, either.”

“I lost the books Zeke gave me,” Reyes said, “thanks to those Orion pirates’ blowing up my prison transport.” He paused, and Pennington wondered if he was recalling the events of what had to have been a most bizarre day, or if his thoughts had turned to his longtime friend, Ezekiel Fisher. “I had to get new copies made,” he added after a moment, “just so I could find out how they ended. Bastards.” Chuckling again, Reyes finished the whiskey in his glass before rising from his chair and crossing the room to the kitchen. Pennington did not turn to follow his movements, but he did look up when the other man returned to the fireplace, whiskey bottle in one hand and his refilled glass in the other. Without saying anything, Reyes gestured toward Pennington’s glass, and the journalist held it up for a refill.

“I figure this might take a while,” Reyes said, setting the bottle on a small table positioned between the two recliners before reclaiming his seat.

Pennington shifted in his chair in order to regard the former, now-disgraced Starfleet officer. “As it happens, I have time to kill.”

“It’s not like they’ll ever let you write about it,” Reyes said, his gaze drifting to the fire before them. “You try publishing anything, and the best you can hope for is being allowed to retire gracefully to some backwater colony.”

“Maybe we could be roommates?” Pennington suggested.

“Not for nothing,” Reyes replied, “but I have a shovel and access to a lot of uninhabited forest. You won’t be missed. At least, not for a while.”

Laughing at that, Pennington said, “Noted.” He paused, watching flames lick at one of the logs burning in the fireplace, before adding, “Look, I know there’s no way a lot of what happened will be made public, certainly not within our lifetimes and perhaps not ever, but I still want as much of the story as I can pull together, for my own curiosity and maybe even for my sanity. I’d like to think that what we all experienced meant something, even if most people will never really know about it. Does that sound so crazy?”

“No, it doesn’t sound crazy at all.” Reyes sipped from his glass, saying nothing for a moment, but then he released a sigh that to Pennington’s ears sounded more than a bit like resignation.

“All right. What do you want to know?”

THE TAURUS REACH