“Is that right?” Pennington asked, hoping his words carried the appropriate level of surprise and annoyance. “What’s the problem? I just got here.”

The guard leaned closer. “All I know is that I’ve been ordered to see you off the ship, sir. You can either come willingly, or I’ll carry you.”

Okay, that’s enough, Pennington decided. “All right, mate. No worries. I promise not to make a fuss.” Turning back to Reyes, he provided a mock salute. “Cheers, Diego.”

Reyes nodded. “Take it easy, Tim.” Pennington thought he saw something else, some question or request, in the other man’s eyes, but then it was gone as the former Starfleet flag officer signaled with his glass to the bartender. “Hit me, barkeep.”

And that’s it, then.

As he had promised, Pennington did not make a scene while being escorted to the security guard station near the gaming floor entrance. There, his Orion chaperones stood in silence as he collected his portable recorder and the other odds and ends he had been forced to remove from his pockets for safekeeping. Only one of the guards walked with him to the docking port and collar that served as a connecting gangway between the Omari-Ekon and Starbase 47.

“Thanks, but I think I’ve got it from here,” Pennington joked as they reached the Omari-Ekon’s docking hatch, knowing full well that the Orion would not venture into the passageway, much less onto the station itself. The guard’s sole response was to glare at him, though Pennington was sure he heard a low growl from somewhere at the back of the Orion’s throat.

The short stroll through the gangway was followed by a brief inspection at the Starfleet checkpoint inside the docking hatch that served as an entrance to Vanguard, with the two security officers positioned there grateful for the interruption in their otherwise boring assignment. Pennington passed through the checkpoint without difficulty and made his way toward the bank of turbolifts at the far end of the passageway. Dinner at Tom Walker’s place, one of the civilian establishments in the station’s retail center, Stars Landing, was sounding pretty inviting right about now, followed by a drink or two and then, most likely, bed.

Living life on the edge again, I see.

However mundane his evening schedule was looking, none of those activities would be happening right away, he knew. At least, not until he got past T’Prynn. The Vulcan was waiting for him near the turbolifts, her hands clasped behind her back as she stared at him. She was dressed in a standard female Starfleet officer’s duty uniform, the form-fitting one-piece red skirt and tunic working in concert with the polished black boots to accentuate her trim, athletic figure. Her long dark hair was worn in a regulation style, pulled away from her face and secured with a clip at the back of her head, leaving a ponytail to drop between her shoulder blades.

“Lieutenant T’Prynn,” he said as he approached her. “What a pleasant surprise, meeting you here.”

T’Prynn’s initial response was to raise her right eyebrow, though she offered no rebuttal to his comment. Instead, she asked, “Were you successful?”

“I think so,” Pennington replied, sticking his hands into his pants pockets. “I managed to slip the code phrase you gave me into our conversation. I don’t think the bartender or anyone else who might’ve been eavesdropping took anything from it.” He had no idea why T’Prynn would instruct him to ask Reyes if the man wanted to send a message to his mother, who so far as Pennington knew had died nearly three years earlier. Despite his uncertainty, he had done as the Vulcan intelligence officer asked, the whole reason for his venturing aboard the Omari-Ekon being to meet with Reyes and make that request on her behalf. It was obviously a signal of some kind, as had to be the case with Reyes’s response. “The commodore said that he’d be in touch with her soon.”

Nodding in approval, T’Prynn said, “And you’re certain your actions were not understood to be anything more than a casual conversation with Mister Reyes?”

“I don’t know about that,” the journalist replied. “I mean, I know we were overheard, and there’s no way the bartender wasn’t a spy for Ganz or one of his lieutenants. However, I was careful with what I said, and the commodore was very guarded.”

“Was he under guard, or accompanied by any other escort?” T’Prynn asked.

Pennington shook his head. “No, but I’m sure they’re watching every move he makes.” Wondering where all of this might be heading, he frowned. “You’re not thinking of trying to snatch him off that ship, are you?” Was Reyes’s response to the code phrase a call for help? Did he perhaps possess some information T’Prynn sought?

All this cloak and dagger bollocks makes my gut ache.

Rather than answer his question, T’Prynn instead said, “Thank you for your assistance, Mister Pennington. Your efforts are most appreciated.”

“Whoa,” Pennington said, holding out a hand as the Vulcan turned to leave. “That’s it? What the hell did I just do?”

“You provided information that may well prove quite useful,” T’Prynn replied. “However, I’m sure you understand that discussing this matter any further risks violating the station’s operational security. Now, I must return to my duties, but when you check your station credit account, you’ll note that your apartment’s rental fee has been paid for the next six months. Consider it a small token of our appreciation for your efforts.”

Caught off guard by the intelligence officer’s abrupt dismissal, Pennington said, “So, you just used me as a go-between, and now you’re paying me off? After all we’ve been through, that’s how you treat me? What if Ganz or his men had decided to drag me into some back room or toss me out an airlock?” Or worse, he mused, recalling what his unlikely friend, Cervantes Quinn, had told him about Ganz’s treatment of the Sakud Armnoj, one of several accountants employed by the merchant prince. After the crazy—and quite nearly fatal—adventure Quinn and Pennington had undergone to retrieve the insufferable Zakdorn and bring him to Ganz, the Orion had, according to Quinn, “disappeared him with extreme prejudice.” Quinn had not elaborated, and Pennington had never quite summoned the will to want to know the details.

“The risk to you was actually quite minimal,” T’Prynn answered. “Neera would not allow Ganz to take any action which might endanger the relative protection their ship receives merely by being docked at the station.”

Pennington scowled. “Right, Neera.” He recalled what T’Prynn had told him about the truth behind Ganz’s organization, and Orion women in general. According to the Vulcan’s intelligence-gathering efforts, Neera was the true head behind Ganz’s criminal enterprise, allowing her lover to act as its public face while she pulled his strings from a position of relative anonymity. It was a startling revelation, given the common perception of Orion females and their role in the supposedly maledominated culture. “Something tells me that if she wields that kind of power, she can order the removal of a bothersome journalist without too much trouble.”

T’Prynn’s eyebrow cocked again. “In that unlikely event, we would have ensured that any funeral expenses were addressed.”

Releasing a chuckle, Pennington replied, “Good to know. With friends like you, and all that.”

“I really must return to my duties, Mister Pennington,” T’Prynn said, once more turning to leave. “Thank you again.” She said nothing else as she entered one of the nearby turbolifts, but her eyes met his, and he could swear he caught the faintest hint of a smile tugging at one corner of her mouth just as the lift doors closed. Once she was gone, Pennington stood alone in the corridor, shaking his head in disbelief.

No matter how long he lived, he was certain he never would understand that woman.