“That was me,” Reyes said.

“I know.”

“I didn’t say anything because I didn’t know what to say.”

“It was the right choice. Now shut up and sip your drink.”

The better part of an hour crept by while they nursed their scotch in silence. Finally, Reyes muttered quietly, “I wish I could be with Rana right now.”

Realizing that he had no sage commentary on that subject, either, Fisher uncorked the Macallan and poured them each another double.

Working from the information on the data card, Pennington had determined that every entry by Chief Petty Officer Medina was made during gamma shift, and that he appeared to be responsible for loading and unloading operations in salvage bay four. Putting those two details together, Pennington reasoned that if he made it down to salvage bay four before the shift change at 0800, he should be able to find Chief Medina.

As he approached the entrance to the salvage bay, the door swished open and a distinctly metallic odor flooded out. Ozone and acetylene exhaust were thick in the air.

Stepping inside, he saw that the place was packed from floor to ceiling with shipping containers, broken machines, bins of spare parts, and open-top crates of scrap metal. Somewhere in the distance, probably on the far side of the cavernous compartment, he heard the soft hum and whine of an antigrav load lifter. As in so many other areas of the starbase, the lighting was uniformly bright and flat.

He felt like a rat in a maze as he wandered into the monotonous grid of stacked and ordered crates and bins. His footsteps echoed and reechoed, announcing his presence more clearly than he would have preferred. At each intersection he glanced to either side, seeking some sign of another sentient presence. He walked for more than two minutes before a man with a cargo tracker appeared from around a corner two intersections ahead. Pennington waved to the olive-skinned man, who wore the blue coverall jumpsuit of a Starfleet cargo handler. Within a few paces’ distance, he noticed that the man’s jumpsuit was partially unzipped to midchest, and the top of it had folded over, partly obscuring the name stenciled over the cargo handler’s left chest pocket. Only the last four letters were visible: DINA. Close enough, he decided. “Chief Medina?”

The man had a slight Spanish accent. “Who wants to know?”

“My name’s Tim Pennington,” he said. Laying his cards on the table, he added, “I’m with the Federation News Service.”

Medina looked at Pennington as if he had just said he had the plague. It was a reaction to which Pennington had become accustomed. Leaning slightly away, he said, “What do you want?”

“I just need to ask you a few questions,” Pennington said. “It can be off the record, no names. I’m not looking to put you on the spot here.”

The man was becoming more apprehensive. “About what?”

“I just need you to look at some orders that have your name on them,” Pennington said. “Cargo transfers, matériel receipts.” He reached into his coat pocket and retrieved printouts of the official documents he had seen on the data card. Handing them to Medina, he said, “Have you seen these before?”

Waving his hands, Medina stepped back. “No, not here.” He looked around nervously, then grabbed Pennington’s coat sleeve and pulled him down one of the side lanes, then into a shadowy nook between two large shipping containers. Safely under cover, he plucked the papers from Pennington’s hand. “Where’d you get these?”

“That’s not important.”

“Yes, it is.” Medina flipped from one page to the next, growing more agitated as he went. “This is all classified.”

“I have other sources,” Pennington said.

“Then why do you need me?”

“Because I never trust just one source.” Tugging on the pages, he added, “Sources lie. Documents can be faked.”

The dismay on Medina’s face grew more obvious. His voice diminished to a horrified whisper. “Not this time,” he said. “These are my work orders.”

Lowering his own voice, Pennington said, “So you did load a sensor screen on the Starship Bombay?” Medina nodded. “And you off-loaded the Bombay’s log buoy from the Enterprise?”

“Sí,” Medina said.

“Was its data intact?”

Again Medina nodded quickly. “Lieutenant Commander T’Prynn and Lieutenant Farber recovered its memory core as soon as we brought it aboard.”

“The logs said the Bombay was attacked by six Tholian cruisers, and your cargo receipt says you transferred wreckage from Tholian hulls into the salvage bay.”

“Sí,” Medina said. “It’s all with the forensic team now.” Pennington jotted notes in his recorder. Medina watched him and looked very nervous. “You can’t use my name.”

“I don’t have to,” Pennington said. “You’re a confidential source. Federation law says I don’t have to reveal your identity to anyone, no matter what.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m positive.” He switched off his recorder and tucked it safely away inside his coat. “Thanks, Chief. I owe you.”

Pennington slipped away and walked quickly for the nearest exit. The urge to run, to sprint, was bursting inside him. He felt history waiting for him, he heard Truth and Justice summoning him back to his computer terminal. It took all his discipline to preserve a façade of calm as he made the long trek back to his quarters.

It was the greatest feeling he knew.

He had a story to write.

18

Every new sentence that Commodore Reyes read added to his furor. Filed just over a day earlier, it was the lead story on the Federation News Service’s afternoon feed, and apparently every other major news service had picked up the story with the FNS attribution: “The Ambush of the U.S.S. Bombay,” by Tim Pennington, FNS Correspondent, Starbase 47.

Jetanien paced back and forth in Reyes’s office, reading the same report off a small handheld device. The Chelon’s tired groans occurred almost synchronously with Reyes’s, leading the commodore to conclude that they were on the verge of a collective apoplexy.

His desk intercom buzzed, and Yeoman Greenfield said, “Lieutenant Commander T’Prynn is here, sir.”

“Send her in!”

The door opened and T’Prynn entered, looking crisp and unruffled and all but perfect in her pale, graceful way. As soon as the door closed, Reyes’s harangue began.

“I thought you were going to put a lid on this!”

Jetanien joined the dressing-down. “This is a complete fiasco, Commander. We are poised on the brink of war!”

Without breaking her stride, she continued walking until she was directly in front of Reyes’s desk. “The situation is under control,” she said.

Reyes held up his copy of Pennington’s feature story. “You call this ‘control’? This cocky little newshound has names, dates, sensor logs that prove that the Tholians destroyed the ship…is there something I’m missing, Commander? Because it looks to me like the worms are out of the can here.”

Behind T’Prynn, Jetanien stormed up and loomed over her, bellowing down at her like a father castigating an unruly child. “Billions of lives are in jeopardy because of this lapse! The Federation Council is already speaking of war against the Tholian Assembly, and Ambassador Sesrene has severed diplomatic relations as a result. Our entire mission could be over in a matter of hours unless we—”

“—remain calm, Ambassador,” T’Prynn interrupted, in her softest dulcet tone. “Unless we remain calm. Which I urge you both to do now.”

“Give me one good reason to trust you,” Reyes said.

The communicator on T’Prynn’s belt beeped twice. She unclipped it and flipped it open. “T’Prynn here.”

“Commander, this is Captain Desai. I’m in the residence of reporter Tim Pennington, in Stars Landing. Could you join me here as soon as possible, please?”

“On my way, Captain. T’Prynn out.” She closed her communicator and secured it back on her belt. Looking at Reyes, she said, “You should trust me because I am about to make one of your problems go away.” Glancing at Jetanien, she added, “And the other will soon follow.”