“ Your duties do not require you to possess that information at this time,”said T’Prynn, from where she sat in the dimmed illumination of her own quarters. “ When it is appropriate, I will provide you with further instructions.”
She had changed from her uniform into a robe, though it was not a typical meditation robe as Sandesjo had seen worn by other Vulcan females. This one appeared to be woven from silk, maroon in color and highlighted by gold stitching as well as an ornate floral pattern rendered in a darker shade of burgundy. Bare skin below her throat was visible at the point the robe wrapped across her chest, and Sandesjo felt her pulse jump as she remembered her own lips pressed to that very spot earlier in the evening.
“Assuming Turag is cognizant in the morning and manages to relay the information I gave him,” she said, “the Klingons will certainly send ships to the Jinoteur system to investigate. Why is that advisable?”
“ All in good time,”T’Prynn replied, her right eyebrow arching. “ For now, carry on with your normal duties. Maintain your cover, especially with respect to Turag. His judgment is lacking, but that only makes him more dangerous.” She paused, and Sandesjo was sure she detected the faintest hint of a smile on the Vulcan’s lips. “ I will be in contact soon.” The image faded, leaving Sandesjo to stare once more at the now-inactive viewscreen.
Though she remained at her desk and contemplated the vague nature of T’Prynn’s responses to questions, Sandesjo could not comprehend what was to be gained by alerting the Klingons. Of course, she had undertaken several actions in similar fashion since being assigned to T’Prynn; it was the nature of any covert operative to obey the instructions of his or her overseer even if one did not possess complete understanding of the situation’s salient details. Often, such insulation was necessary for security reasons in the event the operative was discovered or even captured, a possibility Sandesjo knew she faced every day while working as a double agent.
With that thought, however, came reawakened doubts about the precarious circumstances in which Sandesjo now found herself, how she had come to be the tool of not one but two clandestine intelligence-gathering organizations. It was not a simple story; there was no single incident that had led her down her present path. T’Prynn had played a major role in that odd confluence of events, certainly, and Sandesjo often wondered if the Vulcan regarded their relationship merely as an affiliation of convenience while she carried out whatever larger scheme she was perpetrating. Instinct told Sandesjo that it was true—in the beginning, certainly, and continued even now to some extent. But there were also those moments when the emotions Vulcans guarded with such care could be glimpsed, and she felt she was seeing T’Prynn’s true self, the one Sandesjo had been unable—no, unwilling—to resist. Where the line separating love and duty was drawn, and how muddled it had become, was something she suspected she soon would have to confront once and for all.
Still, she was correct about one thing. Turag was a liability, and it was only a matter of time before his fragile pride or inability to stifle his wine-loosened tongue became a detriment to her cover. Despite the inherent risk, Sandesjo knew that removing him as a source of potential trouble was something which must be performed with all haste.
That it also would bring personal pleasure was merely a tangential benefit.
49
For the first time in a long while, Tim Pennington was once again beginning to feel like a reporter.
His second night back on the station and occupying a corner booth in Tom Walker’s place while nursing a cup of hot tea—watching Quinn slosh his way through life had made him reconsider his own alcohol intake—Pennington sat back and surveyed the room’s various demonstrations of humanoid interaction. Resting his head against the wall behind his seat, he listened to snippets of different conversations, content to allow others to provide the words for a time. For the moment, he had exhausted his own supply following an hours-long frenzy of composition and editing to polish his latest submissions to the Federation News Service.
Writing with passion he had not felt in some time, Pennington drew inspiration from—of all things—his recent excursion with Quinn. The entire ludicrous journey to Yerad III and the lunacy that had followed when faced with execution at the hands of the hapless privateer’s professional rivals had sparked a zeal he had not experienced since the loss of his lover, Oriana D’Amato. While part of him missed the lost opportunity to interview colonists on Boam II, he knew that whatever comments and perspective he might have gathered on that backwater colony would not have energized him as had his experiences of the past few days.
He at first had questioned the logic behind expending his time and energy in such a manner. None of his former editors—even those who owed him a few personal favors—had so much as acknowledged his previous two dozen efforts. With sobriety, Pennington seemed to have found some of what he had been missing these past weeks, shades of his former, tenacious self. Optimism as well as hints of his once reliable news sense seemed to be moving slowly from the shadows into the light.
It probably doesn’t hurt that I’ve got nothing else to which I might devote my attention.
The lingering, bitter thought was fleeting and he gave himself a mental kick to send it on its way. Yes, he conceded, his personal life lay in ruins, by his own hand as much as, if not more than, the actions of anyone else. Even his wife, Lora, who had dealt the most recent and vicious—if not unjustified—blow, could not be blamed for the mistakes he had made. Pennington’s only option, he knew, was to knuckle down, square his jaw, and forge ahead. No other choice was acceptable, or even thinkable.
It was that resolve which had guided him to Tom Walker’s, though not to drown his sorrows in drink. Instead, he started to write, not allowing himself to leave the booth at the back of the bar until he had composed a story for transmission to FNS.
By the time he was finished, he had completed two.
While his former editors had purchased some of his pieces since his disastrous flameout with the Bombaystory last month, they had not so much as acknowledged his accompanying communiqués with a cursory reply indicating receipt of the stories. Pennington shrugged off their attitude. So long as they were paying him and—more importantly—publishing his work, he could handle the cold shoulders offered by onetime colleagues and friends. If he could keep at least one foot in the proverbial door, there was still a chance that when he finally did report a major news story—one that truly would shake the foundations of the Federation itself—his words would once again engender the trust they currently lacked. Only then would he be able to salvage and perhaps even rebuild the career he had lost—partly through his own admitted recklessness, but also at the hands of those pursuing an agenda and who wished their actions to remain unobserved.
Good luck with that,he thought as he sipped his tea and thought of T’Prynn, the chief architect of his downfall. At least, he believed her to be responsible, as he of course possessed no evidence to substantiate his claims. Further, his instincts told him that she was the key—or one key, at least—to all of the strange activities taking place on the station and indeed Starfleet’s actions within the Taurus Reach. T’Prynn held the answers, of that Pennington was sure.
His odd relationship with the commander also had taken a surprising turn after his return to the station. After catching sight of her while walking through Stars Landing and taking note of the odd, almost distracted look on her face, Pennington had decided to follow her along with his reporter’s nose. What he had not expected to see was her heading with evident purpose directly for hisapartment.