On the viewer, Quinn’s smile faded a bit. “Listen, you’re smart, so you probably guessed this, but I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately. I guess some of those touchy-feely types would call it soul-searching, but my pappy used to just call it takin’ a good long look in the mirror. We both know I’ve had my share of screwups, and for whatever reason, someone or something has seen fit to give me what amounts to a second chance. I may be stupid, but I’m not crazy, so I think it’s high time I did the smart thing whenever somebody gives me a gift like that.”
He smiled again, gesturing toward himself with his right hand. “I clean up pretty good, don’t I? Too bad you’re not here to smell the fancy cologne I bought. It’s curling the paint right off the walls of the ship. But taking a bath more than once every other time I get kicked out of a bar is just the start. I’ve got some places I need to go, some people I need to see, and some things I need to work out. I guess it’s what you call a midlife crisis of conscience or something.”
Realization was beginning to dawn in Pennington’s mind. “Oh, don’t tell me you’ve…”
“By the time you get this message, I’ll be gone,”Quinn said, confirming the journalist’s budding suspicions. “The stuff I need to do I have to do alone. Besides, you probably don’t need me hangin’ around, crampin’ your style, now that you’re back in the news business. I saw the look on your face when you got your street cred back with the FNS, and you’ve been milkin’ that for all it’s worth for weeks now. As much fun as you’re havin’, I know it pisses you off that you weren’t able to report about that First Federation business.”He leaned forward, his expression taking on a conspiratorial air. “Between you and me, newsboy, those guys are amateurs compared with what we found running around in the Taurus Reach. You’re still number one in my book, even if your stories are getting bumped to back pages for the moment. Wait until something crazy happens out here again. Your bosses’ll be on you like—well—like me on a bottle of scotch.
“Anyway, I’m not one to wax philosophic or get all choked up about this kind of thing, but I want you to know, Tim, that you’ve been a good friend…a better friend than I deserved, to be honest, and one of these days, I promise I’ll tell you exactly what that means. Once I get some of this other baggage behind me, I’ll be back, so tell Tom and Allie not to let you drink all the good stuff while I’m gone.”He paused before reaching up and tapping his fingertips to his head in mock salute. “Stay out of trouble, and keep doin’ what you’re doin’. It makes for entertaining readin’ on these long trips.”
The image went dark a second or two later, leaving Pennington alone in the vestibule to contemplate what he had just heard. At first, he was somewhat disappointed and even angered at Quinn’s unilateral decision to leave without even saying goodbye, but that reaction was short-lived. His friend had obviously reached some type of crossroads in his life, and the path he had seen necessary to follow would be different from the road on which Pennington found himself. Would those two courses intersect again in the future, as they had when circumstances had cast them together in the first place?
Their friendship had been an interesting one from the start, coming as it had while Pennington dwelled in the lowest, darkest pit of personal and professional despair. He hesitated to describe as interesting the experiences they had shared in the weeks that followed—traveling to Yerad III to fetch Ganz’s irritating Zakdorn accountant, Sarkud Armnoj, fetching the Klingon sensor drone, and then being hijacked by rivals of Quinn’s, to say nothing of the insanity that was their visit to the Jinoteur system—but they had helped to forge the odd bond the men now shared.
Despite his initial regret at not being able to offer farewells to Quinn in person, Pennington had to admit that he admired his friend’s seeming new resolve. The man had made the difficult decision to exorcise his internal demons through direct action, which was to be admired.
You’ve got a demon or two of your own, mate,Pennington reminded himself. T’Prynn.
The very thought of her name caused his gut to tighten. Though he had not forgiven her for the sabotage she had wrought on his career—damage he was really just beginning to recover from, even with his recent successes at FNS—he could not bring himself to hold on to the hate that had festered within him when he learned what she had done. Watching her collapse on the hangar deck and having learned of her condition, Pennington could muster only pity for the stricken Vulcan. Of course, he now knew that her actions against him likely had prevented a war with the Tholians, a good thing on any occasion but more so given the Federation’s current political climate with the Klingons.
So, maybe—just maybe—you should cut her some slack?
Perhaps, Pennington decided, it was long past time he purged his own demons.
11
Diego Reyes sat at the table in the center of the drab gray meeting room, saying nothing. He was content to stare into his coffee cup, watching the dark brown liquid swirl as he stirred it with a swizzle stick. As far as he was concerned, it was likely to be the most productive task he accomplished all day.
It was as depressing a room as any he had ever seen. Even his cell was warm and welcoming by comparison. One of three such rooms in the station’s security section, it was designed for interviews or interrogations of criminal suspects and private conversations between detainees and their legal counsel. Unlike the food slot in his cell, however, the unit installed in these rooms provided food and drink at any time of day, not just at mealtimes.
The coffee tasted the same.
“Commodore?” a voice asked for the third time, preceded by a soft, polite clearing of the speaker’s throat.
Resigning himself to the fact that he would not be allowed to sit and enjoy his coffee in silence, Reyes looked up from the cup and into the wide, questioning eyes of the room’s only other occupant, Commander Nathan Spires.
“What?”
Taken aback by the gruff response, the young officer shifted position in his chair and made a show of reviewing whatever it was he had displayed on his data slate. Clearing his throat again, he leaned forward until his elbows rested on the metal table’s polished surface. “I thought we might begin to work on your defense, sir.”
“Seems to me we did that already,” Reyes replied, returning his attention to his coffee, which—he was finally forced to admit—looked only slightly more appealing than it tasted.
Spires nodded. “As you may recall, sir, we made no progress during my first visit. Perhaps it slipped your mind, but—”
“That’s twice in two sentences that you’ve questioned my mental faculties, Mr. Spires,” Reyes said, locking eyes with the lawyer. “I hope that’s not a precursor to you suggesting that my defense should be based on my being insane or simply a moron.”
He watched as Spires’s jaw clenched in reaction to the verbal jab, but to his credit, the lawyer did not rise to the bait. Still, Reyes could see this was a man who was used to controlling the situation around him.
Saying nothing for a moment, Spires instead reached for his own coffee and took a sip. “I take it you don’t consider that a viable option, Commodore?” he asked as he returned his cup to the table.
“Hell, no, I don’t,” Reyes snapped, allowing the first hints of genuine irritation to creep into his voice. “Listen to me very carefully on this point, Commander, for the one thing that well and truly pisses me off is having to repeat myself: I am not insane, and I was fully aware of my actions when I undertook them, as well as any potential consequences. Am I making myself clear?”