“Perhaps Pennington himself has means we are not aware of.”

“No,” Kirk said, shaking his head. “He’s a competent reporter, the Gary Mitchell piece proved that. But to get a break like this…it’s almost impossible. Look here, in paragraph seven—he’s quoting information that would have to have come from our duty logs. Pennington’s good, but he’s not that good, Spock…. Something’s wrong with this picture.”

“Your hypothesis suggests three likely scenarios, Captain. First, that there is a security leak in the command staff of Starbase 47. Second, that an enlisted crewman or non-commissioned officer gained access to classified data for the purpose of relaying it to Mr. Pennington. Or third, that Mr. Pennington himself has the requisite skills to penetrate Starfleet security protocols.”

“None of which’ll make me rest any easier tonight.” Kirk clicked off the monitor. “Start encrypting all communications with Vanguard. That includes routine operations. And put a hold on all personal transmissions by the crew until we’re safely out of the base’s monitoring range tomorrow night.”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Dismissed.”

Spock left quickly, no doubt on his way to the bridge to relieve Scotty at the conn and implement the new security protocols.

Alone in his quarters, Kirk continued to ponder the security leak aboard Vanguard. Determining who had provided Pennington with such sensitive information would likely be a nigh-impossible task. Figuring out what other secrets might have been compromised by the leak would be even more difficult. But one other question, perhaps the least knowable of them all, was the one that haunted Kirk the most profoundly.

Why?

Reyes steeled himself for another miserable day of depositions. He and his department heads filed into the wardroom, their already grim moods further darkened by the morning news feeds about the Bombay. Rumors of war had already made the rounds of the starbase and were well on their way to a second circuit, freshly embellished with new exaggerations.

Desai and the two JAG lawyers, Liverakos and Moyer, entered through a separate door at the back of the room and quickly took their seats. No sooner had everyone settled into their seats than Desai double-tapped the judge’s bell on the polished-wood table three times. “This board of inquiry is hereby reconvened,” she said. For the past several days, she had ended her opening remarks there, preferring to allow the attorneys to take over. Today, she continued, “Because of new evidence made known to this board, evidence that suggests the loss of the Bombay was the result of a carefully premeditated sneak attack by forces of the Tholian Assembly, it is the summary ruling of this board that Captain Gannon and her crew are absolved of any wrong-doing.

“Furthermore, this board also finds insufficient evidence to warrant further deposition of the Bombay’s supervising flag officer, or the command and support staff of Starbase 47.

“All records of these proceedings are hereby ordered sealed and classified by order of the Starfleet Judge Advocate General. These proceedings are closed. We are adjourned.”

She tapped her bell once, collected her papers, rose from the table, and exited so quickly that her gold dress uniform resembled, to Reyes’s eyes, little more than a blur. Moyer and Liverakos followed her out, exchanging confused shrugs and bewildered stares as they went. As the door closed behind them, Reyes and his department heads remained seated at the table, all of them stunned into silence.

Finally, it was fleet operations manager Ray Cannella who made the remark that needed to be said.

“Who wants to get lunch?”

Heads turned as Pennington walked past one of the outdoor cafés of Stars Landing. Affecting a nonchalant demeanor, he secretly basked in the sudden embrace of notoriety. He tried not to be too proud of his “accomplishment.” If his story had the impact that he expected it to, then war between the Federation and the Tholian Assembly likely was not far off. Dark days would soon come to Vanguard, and to countless other places.

But the Truth is served, he reminded himself. Justice for the Bombay . And for Oriana.

Back in his apartment, Lora was still fuming about the late-morning search and interrogation by the Starfleet JAG office, but he had been expecting it. In fact, for the sense of vindication it offered him, he had welcomed it. Being despised was acceptable as long as he wasn’t being ignored.

Getting closer to the café, the inviting aroma of espresso and pastry drew him in. He had all but surrendered himself to the anticipation of a latte and a beignet when his FNS pager buzzed softly on his wrist. The message on it was very brief: Real Time. It was the instruction his editor used when she wanted him to make contact via accelerated subspace radio. This far from Earth, even FTL communications normally lagged by as much as a full day. To maintain a real-time channel across such a vast distance required enormous amounts of power, and for most civilians it was prohibitively expensive.

Forcing away thoughts of the latte and pastry that would have to wait until later, he made his way up to the starbase’s communications office. The small but technology-packed facility buzzed with countless overlapping audio feeds from around the galaxy. A bank of monitors on a far wall flickered with activity. Pennington held up his FNS credentials for Ensign Mugavero, the liaison officer on duty. “I have a request for a real-time channel to Earth,” he said.

The blue-shirted young man led Pennington into a private room and entered the FNS code into a computer terminal. Moments later, the FNS icon appeared on the screen.

Mugavero motioned for the reporter to have a seat. “Here you go. It’ll take a few seconds to connect, but once it does you should be in real-time contact.”

Pennington sat down. “Thank you.” The ensign left the room and closed the soundproof door behind him. A few seconds passed while Pennington pondered what Arlys could be so eager to tell him. An award? A promotion? An invitation to serve as the Paris correspondent? After breaking this story for them, it’s the least they could do.

Arlys Warfield’s image flickered onto the screen. A stern-jawed woman with a steel-gray brush cut, her fiery glare was said to be capable of breaking people’s will, and her bullhorn of a voice could clear a path on any urban thoroughfare in the Federation in seconds flat. During the brief time that Tim had worked for her in the Paris office, he had overheard one of her senior editors remark that her last name was Warfield because a warpath simply wasn’t wide enough to grant passage to her rage.

She reached forward, apparently adjusting the picture on her own monitor. “Tim, is that you?”

“Yes, Arlys, I’m here—in real time.”

“Ah, there you are,” she said. Her tone became venomous. “You idiot.”

“Excuse me?”

“You blithering Edinburgh blockhead.”

“Arlys, I’m sensing you’re not entirely happy.” Despite the staticky subspace feed, he now noticed that she looked even more disheveled and fatigued than was normal.

“Do you have any idea how many hornets you stirred up? How much trouble we’re in?”

“We knew we’d be ruffling feathers,” he said. “You said—”

“Forget what I said. That was when I trusted you.”

“Now hang on, there’s no—”

“How credible were your sources?”

“First-rate,” he said, suddenly very defensive. “I heard it from a command-level source, found a stack of corroborating evidence, then I got that vouched for by someone directly involved.”

“Well, check your syndicated feeds, because you’ve been duped,” Arlys said. “We all have.”

Sweat dampened his collar. His pulse throbbed uncomfortably in his temples. “Duped?…I don’t understand.”