Though the litany of Quinn’s criminal misdeeds would have filled a book, the one principle that he clung to was that he never deliberately hurt anyone just to make a profit. Stealing a man’s property from a warehouse was one thing; violating that man’s home was going too far. Scamming a man who had decided to play cards was to be expected; cheating an honest man who never asked for trouble was just plain wrong.

He had thought he was passing information to Pennington, doing the young reporter a favor. Instead, he’d handed the man the professional equivalent of hemlock.

Pennington was sitting on the top row of the bleachers closest to the podium. He looked terrible; his hair was un-washed, stubble peppered his cheeks and chin, and his clothes were wrinkled and stained. Poor bastard, Quinn thought, he looks as bad as I do.

Quinn climbed the bleachers to the top row and walked toward Pennington, who was busy composing text on his handheld recording device. The younger man looked up at Quinn as he sat down next to him. Pennington’s face registered recognition first, followed by dread.

“Sorry I sucker-punched you the other day,” Quinn said.

Still wary, Pennington pretended to resume working on his recorder. “No worries.”

Unsure how to proceed, Quinn watched the crowd for a moment, then said, “How ’bout we do this over?”

“Do what over?”

Quinn held out his hand to Pennington. “Cervantes Quinn—have rustbucket, will travel.”

Cautiously, as if he might be reaching toward a live wire, Pennington reached over and grasped Quinn’s hand. “Tim Pennington, public laughingstock.”

“Glad to meet you.” Quinn reached inside his coat and produced a flask. He unscrewed the cap, downed a swig of booze, then offered it to Pennington. “Care for a drink?”

Pennington gave the flask a suspicious look. “What is it?”

“Green and foul.”

He took the flask from Quinn’s hand. “Sounds perfect.” He helped himself to a long pull from the flask, then handed it back. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

While Quinn took another nip of the sour green stuff, Pennington put away his recording device. “I can’t place your accent,” the young man said. “Where are you from?”

Quinn sleeved a small dribble from his chin. “All over.”

“No,” Pennington said, “I meant, what’s your ancestry?”

“Oh,” Quinn said, making a large nod of comprehension. “I’m a drunkard.”

“A citizen of the galaxy, then.”

“Precisely.”

Pennington’s cynicism reasserted itself. “So what’s this all about? What do you want?”

Quinn shrugged. “Like I said, I felt bad.”

“About punching me in the bar.”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

The reporter shook his head. “That’s pretty thin, mate.”

“Take it or leave it,” Quinn said.

Pennington pondered that. “What’s in it for me?”

“I travel a lot,” Quinn said. “Here and there, wherever. You can tag along, if you don’t mind tight quarters. Get out and see the galaxy a little. Who knows? You might learn something.”

Nodding, Pennington volleyed back, “What’s in it for you?”

“Someone to play cards with on long hauls.” Looking around at the now-empty bleachers and increasingly empty athletic fields, he added, “Unless you think your legion of friends and adoring fans wouldn’t approve.”

“All right, I’ll take it,” Pennington said, then plucked the flask from Quinn’s hand and took another drink. The alcohol made his voice sound choked-off as he tried to pass the flask back to Quinn. “Cheers, mate.”

“Finish it,” Quinn said. “We’ll get more later.”

Pennington knocked back the last of the green hooch in the flask and winced. Quinn didn’t know what the young reporter had done to deserve what T’Prynn did to his career, or even if he had deserved it at all. What he did know was that the next time someone came looking to take a cheap shot at Pennington, he would be there to make sure they didn’t get the chance.

I helped wreck this guy’s life, Quinn brooded behind his crooked smile. But I swear to God, I’m gonna help him fix it.

Though Manón’s Cabaret would not officially open for a few more hours, its proprietress kindly admitted T’Prynn shortly after the end of Commodore Reyes’s address at the memorial. Taking her place at the piano, T’Prynn closed her eyes and railed against the katra of Sten, whose voice jabbed at her conscious and subconscious mind with his endless calls for her submission.

Never.

Her fingers found the right keys purely by muscle memory. Improvised notes of a somber tone flowed from her mind to her hands, giving vent to her sorrow. Her face remained stoic as she wept in chords and melodies, grieving in slow progressions of D-minor. By an infinitesimal degree, the psycho-emotional pressure battering her brittle mental shields abated, and for a brief time Sten’s harassing voice fell silent.

A key change helped her find a roundabout passage into Paul Tillotson’s moody instrumental “Morphine.” It didn’t bother her to play without an audience; their applause was of no interest to her. She didn’t play for them.

Minutes passed as she savored every subtle riff and turn in the centuries-old composition. She was uncertain which she admired more, its emotional complexity or its mathematical subtlety. As with most enduring musical forms, she concluded that the two were, in fact, inalienable.

She finished the song and reveled in the silence.

“Most skillfully executed,” Spock said.

T’Prynn opened her eyes and turned her head. The first officer of the Enterprise stood at ease in front of the stage. His long face was stern and unyielding, in the finest Vulcan tradition. She nodded to him. “Most kind, Spock.” With a focus on embodying calm in her every word and gesture, she slowly rose from the bench, closed the keyboard cover, and stepped off the low stage. “Manón usually brings me tea after I play. Would you care to join me?”

“My visit will be brief,” Spock said. “I must return to the Enterprise. We leave within the hour.”

“I understand.” She gestured to a nearby table. “Sit down.”

The two Vulcans took seats opposite each other. Manón emerged from the kitchen carrying a tray, on which rested a china teapot, two cups, and spoons. The supernaturally radiant woman set down the beverages on the table, between Spock and T’Prynn, then left the room without saying anything.

T’Prynn poured herself a small cup of steaming-hot green tea. Still holding the pot, she cast an inquiring look at Spock. He declined with a small gesture of his hand. She set down the teapot. “Share your thoughts, Spock.”

“You are most proficient in your art,” he said. “Though I suspect few Vulcans would approve of your techniques.”

“Do you disapprove, Spock?”

“I seek to understand.”

Holding her cup in both hands, she sipped her tea. Its gentle bitterness was tempered with jasmine and peppermint. “It would be a privilege to share my art with you.”

He lifted his chin, betraying a small glimmer of pride. “I think that our styles would not be compatible.”

Despite her struggle for control, her left eyebrow lifted, betraying her annoyance. “Double-entendres do not become you, Spock. Speak plainly.”

“The public disgrace of reporter Tim Pennington,” he said. “Evidence suggests it was your doing.”

“Evidence can suggest many things.”

“I submit that it is now you who is not speaking plainly.”

T’Prynn set down her teacup. “For the sake of discussion, let us proceed on the assumption that Mr. Pennington’s disgrace was deliberately engineered. Does that offend you, Spock?”

“I find lying offensive,” Spock said. “In particular when its effect is to inflict harm.”

“What if its primary effect is to avert violence, or even a war? Does the pursuit of a noble aim make some lies permissible, even if collateral damage occurs as a result?”