And I realized I no longer felt the pressure of my recorder wedged into my shirtsleeve.

Hoping a look of wide-eyed shock was not more pronounced than it ought to have been, I immediately crouched down to scoop up my jacket with a burst of nervous laughter. “Och! Sorry about that, gentlemen.” I grabbed the jacket and held it in a wadded ball to my chest, hoping the dislodged recorder might have been caught up in the folds of its fabric, while making sure to offer quick apologetic smiles to each of the massively muscled guards. My heart thumping in my chest loudly enough to ring in my ears, I turned and headed down the gangway once more.

“You dropped something, sir.”

At the baritone sound of the voice behind me, I quelled an immediate and unbidden urge to rush headlong down the gangway. Despite my greatest hopes, my rational mind grasped I had no chance of escaping the Orions regardless of how far I may have made it into the station and, more important, into sovereign territory of the Federation.

“Oh, thank you,” I said as I trembled a bit and turned back to see what he might have found.

The guard held a folded piece of paper in his meaty green fist.

“Ah,” I said, exhaling a breath that until then I had not realized I had held. “Old theater program. Shows you the last time I wore this coat.”

“Enjoy your night, sir,” the guard said.

“I will, thanks,” I said, hoping I had turned out of view before the beads of sweat I sensed were forming on my brow became visible. As nonchalantly as possible, I hugged my coat while patting down my right sleeve . . . until I found my recorder had slid down closer to my elbow.

9

“Newsboy, you look crappier than a Klingon outhouse. And that’s saying something.”

“Particularly coming from you.”

While I had not walked myself past a mirror yet that morning, I had no reason to doubt Quinn as he stood in my apartment doorway. On my way home from the Omari-Ekon,I had picked up a right bottle of whisky and managed to get a good amount of it down me before settling into sleep. Okay, before passing out. I did not want to admit to anyone, least of all myself, that the close encounter with the Orion guards had put the fear of God in me in a way I had not felt in some time—Jinoteur notwithstanding. But the situation on Jinoteur was flat-out survival against the elements. Last night was a matter of trusting my wits in the face of danger, and I had looked that danger in the eye and nearly soiled myself. So, I drank it away when I got home. And if I now looked at all the way I felt, his comments likely were generous. Quinn, on the other hand, appeared to have avoided what I assumed was his usual evening bender. He was shaven, his hair was groomed back into a ponytail, and his clothing appeared clean and unwrinkled. He was everything I was not.

“I looked for you last night,” Quinn said.

“And you found me this morning. Coming in?” I turned from the doorway to head into the kitchen area and heard the door slide shut without a response from Quinn, but I knew he had entered as his shoes across my floor made an echo that the empty room did not do well in absorbing. “I’ll make coffee.”

“You actually going to make coffee or are you just going to pull two cups from the food slot instead of one?”

“Why, Mister Quinn, I had no idea you were a man of such refined tastes. Yes, the food slot.”

“That’s fine. Not that I really care. I just wanted to know what I was in for.”

I came from the kitchen bearing a pair of gray cups that were standard issue for the slot. “I’m sorry to disappoint.”

“Truth is, you didn’t,” he said before taking a sip. “I happen to know how you make coffee.”

“I’d offer you a seat, but . . .”

“I didn’t expect one, and I’m not staying.” He fished into a pocket of his coat and passed me the folded slip of paper he removed from it. “There’s your name.”

With no place to set down my coffee, I fumbled a bit as I unfolded the paper one-handed. “Thomas Ginther.”

“He owes me a favor, and he knows you’ll be the one asking for it. He’s Starfleet security, and he will give you a one-time pass through the computer records and help however he can. For what it’s worth, I’d get ahold of him sooner rather than later. He’s a little fidgety about lending a hand.”

“Because I’m not you?”

“No, because you are you. He’s not as sweet on you these days as I am, what with the commodore and all.”

“Right. This comes as a complete shock to me.” I refolded the paper. “Thanks for this. I don’t mean to sound unappreciative.”

Quinn took another sip of his coffee and paced a couple of steps within my empty living room. “So where were you last night?”

“Depends on how I want to spin it. I could say I was with a woman, and that would pique your interest in an approving way.”

Quinn looked at me with a hint of a smile. “And were you?”

“In a fashion, yes. Or I could say that I was on the trail of a possible story. Not that I even know what it is or how things might shake out, but I truly was working and not just drinking and carousing around. And that might earn your favor, too.”

“Maybe. Or maybe what you need is some . . . carousing. I’m the last person to judge someone for that.”

“Fair enough,” I said. “Or I could tell you that I spent part of my evening aboard the Omari-Ekon.”

“What the hell made you think thatwas a good idea?” Quinn snapped his words through an instant scowl.

“Precisely why I led my story with the woman.”

“Seriously, Tim. What were you doing there?”

For the first time in what felt like quite a while, I found myself wanting a chair in my living room. As there was little I could do to remedy that situation, I chose to sit on the floor with my back against a wall. Quinn decided to sit as well, but cross-legged and facing me rather than positioning himself along the wall. “I’ve started working with someone, a young woman who fancies herself a reporter for the FNS. Evidently, she has been living on the station for several weeks and has struck out on her own initiative to get a story she can use to break in.”

“If you’re leading up to answering my question, I have a feeling I’m not going to like it.”

“She asked me to meet her on the ship’s recreation deck last night to discuss what she’s working on.”

“You’re kidding me. Fishing for a story in Ganz’s pond is a piss-poor way of getting a start at anything,” he said. “Back her off. Today.”

“I’m well aware of what problems she could be creating for herself.”

“The hell you are.”

“And it gets more complicated,” I said. “What I didn’t realize until I had arrived last night is that she is working there, aboard the ship, as a cocktail server or something.”

Quinn lowered his head and pinched the bridge of his nose between his eyes. “Then it’s not a matter of just backing off. She needs to get off the station, head toward wherever else she might want to try and make a name for herself, and not look back. I know you’re not right in the head, newsboy, but this girl is clueless.”

“She’s enthusiastic,” I said. “She’s young.”

“Yeah, no shit.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

“You need to, and send her on her way.” Quinn rose to his feet, prompting me to push myself from the floor as well. “How’s T’Prynn?”

“I don’t know. The impression I have is that nothing has changed. I tried to get more information for you, but I wasn’t able. I apologize.”

“It’s fine,” he said as he crossed to the door. “I’m just curious. I have to admit, she’s been on my mind.”

“Not to sound callous or anything, but why?”

The door slid open as Quinn approached. “Well, the timing, I suppose. She goes to whatever trouble to put things right for me, you know, to smooth everything over to reset my life. And then this happens.”