“On the salvage mission?” Xiong nodded. The turbolift shifted to a vertical drop as Pennington continued. “When?”

“A few hours from now. They told me to bring a phaser.”

“Why? Is there still a problem on the ship?”

Rolling his eyes, Xiong said, “No. For the landing party.”

“So the Bombay was lost in orbit of a planet?” Again, Xiong nodded but didn’t say anything. Pennington had heard T’Prynn say the Bombay was lost at Ravanar, but he needed a second source to confirm that fact before he could use it. “Which one?”

“I can’t tell you that. Not yet, anyway.”

Damn. He pondered mentioning Ravanar and seeing if Xiong would be willing to confirm it, but the A&A officer’s cagey behavior felt like a warning not to dig too deeply. Going with his instincts, Pennington moved on. “Do you think the Bombay was attacked?”

“I don’t know,” Xiong said. “And I don’t care to guess.”

“Fair enough.” Watching the level numbers tick by, Pennington noted that their privacy would soon be at an end. Time for one more question. “Why is Reyes sending you?”

“That’s classified,” Xiong said. “Look, do you want me to ask around about the Mitchell-Dehner thing while I’m aboard the Enterprise? Some of the officers might tell me things they won’t tell you.”

“Sure, I’d appreciate that,” Pennington said. “But I can’t use anything you tell me until it’s confirmed by another firsthand source. If you find anything really big, remember that I need a reliable source or hard evidence before I can publish.”

“I know,” Xiong said. The turbolift slowed, then stopped. A hydraulic hiss preceded the opening of the doors, which let out on a wide promenade in the torus-shaped residential tower that circled the core and faced out at the terrestrial enclosure. The two men stepped out of the turbolift. As they walked across the grass and basked in the synthetic solar warmth, Xiong said, “Could you do me a favor while I’m gone?”

Here we go again. Unlike most confidential sources, Xiong had no use for money, and to Pennington’s great relief he didn’t seem to have any political or personal vendettas to settle. For all the information he provided, Xiong only ever asked for information in return—and always about the same subject.

Pennington grinned. “What do you want to know about her this time?”

“I don’t care, anything. Did she have any pets growing up? Where did she go to school? Does she have a favorite flower?”

“Bloody hell,” Pennington said. “What am I doing, Ming? Writing her biography?”

“Okay, just the flowers. Find out her favorite flower.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” He began to veer away from Xiong, toward the outdoor café. “This bloody crush of yours had best be worth it, mate, that’s all I’m saying.”

“It will be,” Xiong said, and then he about-faced and headed back toward the turbolift.

Shaking his head, Pennington pulled his data recorder from his belt and jotted another item on his already lengthy to-do list: Anna Sandesjo, favorite flower. He eyed the note. Poor Ming. Knowing that woman, her favorite flower is poison ivy.

Xiong made it down the gangway and through the hatch just before the chief petty officer sealed it and signaled all-secure to his deck officer. Passing through the airlock, the A&A officer admired how meticulously the ship was maintained, from its pristine decks to its spotless pressure-hatch mechanisms. You’d never guess this ship had already seen twenty years of service.

Adding to the impression of newness were the rich, brightly hued uniforms the Enterprise crew had just been issued by Vanguard’s quartermaster. Retired now were the muted tones and ribbed turtlenecks of the previous generation of duty apparel; in its place were intense colors, of which the red was the boldest.

The airlock hatch was sealed behind Xiong before he’d made it two steps into the corridor. A Vulcan waited patiently beside the airlock door, standing in classic at-ease posture. “Lieutenant Xiong,” he said in a crisp baritone. “Welcome aboard the Enterprise. I am Lieutenant Commander Spock, first officer.”

“Thank you, sir.” Observing the Vulcan’s uniform, Xiong endured a moment of cognitive dissonance. “Permission to speak freely, sir?”

“Granted.”

Nodding at Spock’s bright blue shirt, he said, “I think you might have been issued the wrong color jersey, sir.”

“I assure you, Lieutenant, my uniform is correct.” Xiong wanted to argue that gold was the preferred color for command officers, but he had already learned better than to argue matters of fact with Vulcans. Perhaps sensing Xiong’s unspoken rebuttal, Spock added, “I am also the ship’s science officer…. I was offered my choice of uniform.”

“Interesting choice,” Xiong said.

“Perhaps.” Spock half-turned while keeping eye contact with Xiong. “Please follow me.” With that, he walked away, and Xiong had to step lively to keep pace with the taller man’s stride.

“Where are we going, sir?”

“The captain has asked to speak with you.”

Figuring that it was probably best not to pester the first officer with too many questions, Xiong kept quiet as he followed him through the corridors. Engineers and mechanics were in and out of wall panels and vestibules, all of them extremely busy but moving at a calm pace and speaking in level tones. The mood aboard the Enterprise reminded Xiong of the tenor of life aboard the Endeavour, another Constitution-class starship; it was efficient, professional, and driven by a quiet pride of purpose.

The turbolift ride to the bridge took longer than Xiong expected. It stopped at nearly every deck. Jumpsuited enlisted technicians got on and off, their hands full of tools and spare parts; male and female officers, all of them looking Starfleet-recruitment-brochure perfect, rode the turbolift while standing ramrod straight. If for nothing else, Xiong had to admire this crew for its dignity and discipline.

When the doors opened onto the bridge, a small charge of excitement made Xiong draw a short breath. Softly warbling computer tones mingled with the low buzz of overhead power relays. The main viewer showed the core of the station looming large, and the bridge crew was preparing for departure.

“All hatches secure, Captain,” said the helmsman. “All systems ready.”

“Very good, Mr. Leslie,” Kirk said. Turning his chair toward Spock and Xiong, he added, “Status, Mr. Spock?”

“All personnel accounted for, Captain,” Spock said. “Essential repairs complete. Ready for service.”

“Well done. Lieutenant Uhura, hail Vanguard Control.”

“Aye, sir,” said the elegant, attractive woman at the communications console. She pressed a few switches, then continued, “I have Vanguard Control on channel one.”

“On speaker,” Kirk said. Uhura pressed a button then nodded to Kirk, indicating that the frequency was open. “Vanguard, this is Enterprise, requesting permission to depart.”

“Permission granted, Enterprise. Standing by to clear moorings on your mark.”

“Helm,” Kirk said, “take us out.”

“Aye, sir,” Leslie said. He patched in his console to the comm channel. “Vanguard, clear moorings in four. Three. Two. One. Mark.” Even through several layers of deck plating and dozens of rows of bulkheads, Xiong heard the heavy clunks of Vanguard’s mooring clamps releasing the Enterprise. “Moorings clear,” Leslie said. “Vanguard Control, Enterprise is ready to depart spacedock.”

“Confirmed, Enterprise,” came the well-practiced reply. “Opening bay doors now. Stand by.”

On the main viewer, the core of the station gradually began to look smaller, as the Enterprise reversed away from it, toward the slowly parting spacedock doors.

Kirk swiveled his squarish chair toward Xiong, who had followed Spock down into the lower circle of the bridge. “Mr. Xiong. Welcome aboard.”

“Thank you, Captain.”