Taking care to avoid being seen—a tactic seemingly wasted given T’Prynn’s apparently single-minded focus—Pennington had watched as the commander stood outside his door for several moments, appearing to weigh some kind of decision. Had she come to leverage her hold over him as part of some unknown agenda? Given how she already had treated him, it would seem to be the next logical step.
That line of thought went into the recycler, however, as he watched her hesitate at his door before turning and walking away. Had she lost her nerve? Pennington of course found that unlikely. In fact, as he observed her, he could not help thinking that were T’Prynn human, her strange actions might well have been born from guilt.
She certainly did not seem to display such feelings a few hours earlier. Knowing that T’Prynn also had Quinn under her thumb, Pennington had followed the hapless rogue to his meeting with her, watching as Quinn surrendered the Klingon data core. What information did it contain that might justify the clandestine yet overt actions she had put in motion to obtain it? How did it tie into the larger picture?
Perhaps there even was a connection to the events which had transpired on Erilon. Though he had reviewed the official Starfleet releases on the incident and even had used some of that information in crafting one of his latest stories, Pennington’s instincts told him there was more there than met the eye. While the information as presented in the reports might be the literal truth, his instincts told him that it was but one layer of truth—the only one that had been allowed to see light while other and perhaps more damaging aspects of that same truth remained cloaked in shadow.
Much like the shadow that fell across his table.
“Mr. Pennington, am I interrupting?”
Startled, the reporter looked up to see Commodore Reyes, standing tall in an ever crisp and immaculately tailored Starfleet uniform. His normally cold, craggy features were warmed somewhat by the suggestion of a smile.
“Commodore,” Pennington said, straightening in his seat. Clearing his throat, he added, “No, not at all. Just enjoying a spot of tea.”
Nodding, Reyes moved without invitation to lower himself onto the cushioned bench seat opposite Pennington’s. For his part, the journalist hoped his expression did not convey nervousness or uncertainty at the other man’s presence, though he guessed his efforts were wasted. Based on his past encounters with the commodore, he knew Reyes to be a remarkably observant man.
“I’ve just finished some interesting reading,” the station commander said, leaning against the bench’s backrest while leaving his forearms on the table, interlocking his fingers. He said nothing else, though Pennington noted that the man’s smile widened—ever so slightly.
When no further clues seemed to be forthcoming, Pennington asked, “Something I ought to read myself, Commodore?”
“Something you wrote yourself,” Reyes clarified. “Your dispatches for the FNS. I thought it was excellent work, and wanted to tell you so.”
Pennington’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Already?” He had transmitted the pieces less than two hours ago. Only on rare occasions had he received such expedient turnaround on one of his submissions, and that was when he was still in good favor. “I can’t believe they posted that. Any of it, for that matter.”
“Your perspective on colony life in the Taurus Reach was rather insightful,” Reyes said. “It’s nice to be able to put a face on the personal struggles colonists have amid the political circus we’re holding out here. Getting Ambassador Jetanien to chime in was a nice touch, though I have to admit I’m surprised you were able to pin him down for a statement.”
“My inbred tenacity, I guess,” Pennington replied, basking in satisfaction. That the Chelon ambassador had agreed to the exclusive interview, during which he had spoken quite candidly about the challenge of colonizing space that also was of interest to the Klingons and the Tholians, was a coup. The journalist had strived to keep his writing sincere rather than sensational, refusing to pick apart gaps in veracity and instead telling what he hoped was a story that might enlighten rather than incite a reader.
“The piece about the accident on Erilon was also very well done,” Reyes continued. “Very respectful, particularly toward Captain Zhao and those of his crew who were lost. I wanted to say I appreciated that.”
I wonder if he’s feeling all right,Pennington mused as he took in the compliments. Writing what he had hoped was a poignant tribute to the latest Starfleet personnel to pay the ultimate price for the Federation’s presence in the Taurus Reach, he had—uncharacteristically—waxed heroic on the leadership of Captain Zhao Sheng of the Endeavouras well as the entire group of colonists who had so valiantly struggled against the elements on distant Erilon, only to be killed in the crippling earthquake and subsequent reactor explosion that had wiped the nascent settlement from the face of the planet. Creating the piece had been difficult at first, given his natural inclination to distrust any sort of official Starfleet statement. Nevertheless, reading the report on the accident had nearly moved him to tears, after which words seemed to flow without effort.
Wait just a damned minute.
Something about this was not right, Pennington decided. Even if his former editor had seen fit to publish one of his stories, there was no way she would have done so without first checking, cross-checking, and—because it came from Pennington—triple-checking before committing to publication.
Reaching into his satchel for his data slate, Pennington activated it and keyed it to tie into the current FNS news feed. He glanced up at Reyes while he waited for the connection to complete, noting with rising alarm that the commodore’s expression remained irritatingly placid.
By the time the tablet emitted a tone, announcing that the most current update from the data feed was complete, Pennington was not surprised to see neither of his stories listed among the recent headlines. “They haven’t published anything of mine.”
Reyes shrugged. “Well, not yet, anyway. I’m hoping they will.”
His eyes narrowing in growing suspicion and even a hint of dread, Pennington said, “I don’t understand.”
“I screen your mail.”
Such was the blunt, casual manner in which Reyes offered the caveat that it took an additional second for the reporter to comprehend it. When realization dawned, he felt heat rise to his face. With restraint that almost failed him, Pennington remained with his back against his seat, even as he glared at the commodore. “You…what?” He blinked several times, processing the statement again before finally shaking his head in disbelief. “That’s… bollocks!” he said, clenching his jaw in an effort to keep his voice down. The last thing he wanted was to cause a scene in a public place.
Reyes, for his part, shrugged. “I don’t make any secret of it, Mr. Pennington. All communiqués to and from the station are scanned by the computer for security reasons. Anything that matches certain parameters is brought to my attention.”
“But my stories were legitimate,” Pennington protested. “There was nothing in there that was a breach of any bloody security.”
“I agree,” Reyes replied. “In the case of journalists, it’s standard procedure to verify anything intended for the news outlets.”
“That’s censorship!” Pennington shouted, feeling the heat rising in his cheeks but no longer caring about the reactions his outburst might provoke. While numerous heads turned in his direction, Reyes did not so much as blink.
Though he had suspected that the commodore had at least passively sanctioned the actions taken against him by T’Prynn, Pennington of course had possessed no evidence to prove his theories. Here and now, however, Reyes was all but admitting not only complicity in that earlier violation, but that it was in fact simply one act in an ongoing campaign to quash not only his professional voice but his civil liberties as well.