“Not a problem,” Gannon said. “Anything else?”

“A few things. You need to pick up a team of dilithium prospectors stuck on Getheon because their warp drive committed seppuku; Lieutenant Commander Stutzman needs to hitch a ride out to the colony on Talagos Prime, so he can rejoin the Endeavour when she comes off patrol in a few weeks; and you need to confirm some long-range scans in Sector 116 Theta and update the star maps for a set of grid coordinates that astrocartography will send over in about an hour.”

“And make our usual circuit of the homesteader colonies after we do our midsector recon, right?”

“Right, but make the run to Ravanar first.”

She seemed to sense the urgency in Reyes’s tone. “How soon do you need us to ship out?”

“How soon can you be ready?”

Gannon sighed. “We need repairs and supplies. If I cancel shore leave, and your people move us to the front of the line—”

“It’s already done.”

Her shoulders hunched into a resigned shrug. “Twenty-four hours?” Reyes’s incredulous stare conveyed his disapproval. She revised her estimate. “Sixteen if we push it.”

“Do your best,” he said.

“Mind if I have lunch first?”

“Eat quickly.”

“Do you want to join me?” She gestured out the transparent-aluminum wraparound window, toward the Enterprise, which was docked in the next bay, ninety degrees away on Vanguard’s main core. “Maybe Captain Pike would—”

“That’s Kirk’s command now,” Reyes said.

“Who?”

“Jim Kirk.”

“Never heard of him. What’s he like?”

“Don’t know,” Reyes said. “Haven’t met him. Rumor has it he’s some kind of young hotshot.”

“That’s what they used to say about Pike,” Gannon said. She looked over at the Enterprise again and chuckled. “I can’t believe he finally gave her up.”

“I know. The Enterprise without Pike—it seems like the end of an era.” He patted her shoulder then quickened his pace. “Talk to T’Prynn about getting that gear for Ravanar.”

“Will do,” Gannon said.

Reyes veered off toward a nearby turbolift. Gannon continued along and swiftly vanished into the crowd of red, blue, and gold uniforms swarming through the corridor. Looking out the turbolift door, Reyes eyed the Enterprise with quiet admiration. Chris Pike had captained that vessel for two consecutive five-year missions, and he and his crew had distinguished themselves as few others ever had. It was hard for Reyes to imagine someone who could earn greater accolades as a starship commander than Christopher Pike, especially when that officer was as young as Jim Kirk.

Well, someone at Starfleet Command thinks he’s qualified, Reyes mused as the turbolift doors hissed closed. But that’s a mighty big ship for a first command. I hope he’s up to it.

Tim Pennington pressed his back into a narrow niche in the wall, not so much to stay clear of the dense pedestrian traffic in the main spacedock corridor as to stay out of sight. Peeking around the corner, he strained to pierce the shifting wall of bodies coursing past him.

Several meters down the corridor, on the opposite side, Oriana waited near the gangway entrance at bay three, where the Enterprise was docked. The curvaceous Italian woman paced anxiously, but her face was the epitome of calm. You’d never guess she’s a woman with a secret, Pennington thought.

Oriana glanced down the gangway, stopped pacing, and waved. All her attention was directed toward Lieutenant Robert D’Amato, who emerged from the gangway and swept her up in a bear hug that lifted her off the deck. He spun her around, a full turn, before planting her back on her feet. Jealousy burned Pennington from within as he watched them kiss. It didn’t matter to him that, as the “other man,” he had no claim to be jealous of his lover’s husband. Feelings were irrational things, immune to logic and reason, and he had never said otherwise.

Fantasies of revealing the affair tempted him, but he knew no good would come of such impulses. As he watched Oriana with Robert, the truth that he had denied for the past several weeks made itself abundantly, brutally clear: She was not going to leave her husband. Robert was her security, her long-term plan, her ace in the hole. Tim was just a luxury, a convenience, a taboo entertainment to be discarded.

They were still kissing. I should just end it, he knew. Walk away. Hang on to my dignity. As the two lovers pulled apart and began walking down the corridor in his direction, he retreated around the corner and did his best to press himself into the duranium bulkhead. Dignity? What dignity?

The D’Amatos passed by him, too wrapped up in the bliss of their reunion to notice him skulking in the half-shadowed corner. For a brief moment, he was grateful to feel invisible, inconsequential. Then relief gave way to shame and resentment.

Before he could savor the maudlin flavor of the moment, his news-service pager vibrated silently on his wrist. An angry sigh flared his nostrils as he raised the device to his eyes and checked the incoming message. It was from his editor.

Haven’t seen a story from you in eight days. Unless you’re dead, file something by tomorrow or we’re giving your column to the new intern.

—Arlys

P.S.—Stop filing meals on your expense report.

They’re not covered, and you know it.

He turned off the pager and pulled his sleeve back down over it. Time to get back to work, he told himself. Looking around at the frenzy of activity produced by having two starships in port, he knew that there had to be a story waiting to be found.

He would make the usual token gestures of asking the senior officers for comments, and he would pretend to be annoyed when they refused to talk. It was all part of the game. Years of thwarted efforts had taught Pennington that it was very rare for people in positions of authority to talk on the record, unless they had an ulterior motive for doing so. Officers had nothing to gain and everything to lose by speaking to the press. In Pennington’s experience, the only way to get a quote of value from an officer was to already know the truth, then make them either confirm it, deny it, or utter a pathetic “no comment.”

His best chance of finding something newsworthy soon enough to make his deadline was to talk to the people no one normally paid any attention to. He scanned the crowd of Starfleet personnel, paying special attention to their shirt cuffs. He was looking for the ones with no braid at all.

He was looking for enlisted personnel.

Decorum prohibited Ambassador Jetanien from complaining.

While Lieutenant Xiong sat beside Lieutenant Commander T’Prynn in front of Commodore Reyes’s empty desk, Jetanien stood behind them and loomed over the debriefing session. He did it not out of a sense of authority or entitlement, but because he simply could not use the human-friendly chairs, which, even if enlarged for his greater size, were generally unsuited to his less-flexible torso. Forcing himself into a seated position usually resulted in a contortion of his body that was uncomfortable for him and unintentionally amusing for others.

He never complained about the absence of his preferred furniture for waking repose—a forward-sloping seat pad with a counterpoised kneeling pad—because he didn’t want to be perceived as the sort of person who always accentuated the negative. In his opinion it was far less inflammatory to simply hold his peace and say that he preferred to stand.

Xiong was in the middle of explaining in exhaustive detail how soil samples had confirmed an age of nearly one hundred thousand years for the recently excavated find on Ravanar IV when Reyes interrupted, “That’s all well and good, Lieutenant, but do we know anything useful about it?”