“You’re that journalist, aren’t you?”
With a bite of my eggs poised on my fork and almost in my mouth, I stopped myself before being forced to respond to the question with my mouth full. I also had to mentally revisit a few personal mantras upon which I relied in moments like those, the ones when what I would like to do is answer no and keep eating: the next story can come from anywhere and anytime, be polite, and when I don’t want to be interrupted I don’t eat at Tom Walker’s.
“I can’t be certain I am that journalist, but I am one, yes.” I looked up to find standing next to my table a young man wearing a Starfleet uniform with a red tunic, which told me he was in some area of operational services. From the look of his chest and upper arms, I assumed he was in security. At least, I hoped someone of his size was in security.
“The one who wrote the reports about what we’re doing out here. That’s you, right?”
I could sense from the man’s tone of voice that his intensity was rising, but I could not imagine he was there to pick a fight. I hoped that my being in a public restaurant at a time of day that one was not likely to be drunk—Quinn’s example excepting— might be my saving grace. “Yes, sir, that’s me.”
“I thought I recognized you. Hey, I have a story for you.”
“Really? Then let’s hear it.”
“Get the hell off the station. There’s my story.”
“I see,” I said, noting that the scowl now on the man’s face had done an effective job of checking any condescending remark that might have tumbled from my mouth in reply. Instead, I ventured to think that some civility might defuse the situation. It certainly was not the first time I had been approached by an upset reader and I doubted it would be the last. Such incidents typically worked to my advantage. “You seem anxious to talk about it. Would you like to join me?”
“No, I’m fine where I am. You must feel pretty good about what you wrote.”
“Well, I feel as though I presented a fair story about activities here, yes. I won’t lie about that.”
“Fair,” he said. “Is it fair to put a Starfleet mission at risk? People’s lives at risk?”
I set my fork down onto my plate. “My personal observations on a planet that now no longer exists as we comprehend it should not put lives at risk, sir.”
“It’s more than that and you know it. The more people who know about what is happening here, the more of them will get interested in what might happen next out here, and the more of them will show up.”
“Well, I do appreciate there might be some sightseeing interest out here.”
“It’s not just civilians. It’s traders, anyone who thinks there are ancient ruins with advanced technology just waiting to be discovered and turned into credits from the highest bidder. That’s just the kind of circus Starfleet doesn’t need at a time like this.”
“I can understand your frustration and concerns about keeping people in line, but look around you. Starfleet didn’t build simply a collection of laboratories, refueling stations, and supply storerooms out here. There’s a hotel, restaurants, shopping, a theater, a full-fledged terrestrial area that feels closer to being back on Earth than you can get for hundreds of light-years around. Vanguard is practically a resort at the rim of the quadrant with some of the most spectacular views of space that I’ve ever seen. Regardless of what I might report, word is going to get around that it’s an interesting place to be and people are going to come.”
“Oh, people will come, and not just people inside the Federation. The Klingons are already here, trying to figure out what’s going on, and nothing good can come from that. You think they don’t monitor our news reports to decide what military actions they want to take here? You keep telling everyone what there is to see here and find here, and the Klingons and everybody else will push in and we could have a war on our hands.”
My adrenaline surged a little at this point, but I did my level best to keep that from creeping into my voice. “If war were to break out between the Federation and the Klingon Empire, it would be the result of a great many more circumstances than a reporter’s accounting of events.”
The man glared at me. “And we are in the perfect position to defend ourselves with our commanding officer in the brig.”
“Ah, so that’s what this is really about. You are upset about what has happened to Commodore Reyes.”
“It’s your fault he’s in there.”
“I disagree. Commodore Reyes is facing charges brought by Starfleet Command for actions he took that violated the code of conduct for an officer. I may have made people aware of his conduct, but the decisions he made to do the things he did were entirely his own.”
“Part of what he’s being court-martialed for is because of what you put in your story. You can’t deny that.”
“His charges include releasing information to me that was deemed confidential by a higher authority. I did not force the commodore to tell me what he did. And the information I reported came directly and completely from him. I did not steal classified documents and shoot them across subspace channels without a care as to how that information might put lives at risk, as you put it. I take my responsibilities as a reporter very seriously, Mister . . .”
“You don’t need to know who I am. I’ve said what I wanted to say.” The young man tugged at the hem of his red tunic, pulling it taut across his chest, almost as if he wanted to make sure I was aware of just how defined his musculature underneath it might be. “Maybe you’ll think about it the next time we have a ship blow up inside a docking bay or when we watch this station rubbed right out of space like what happened to that planet.”
The man left the table and I picked up my fork again to poke at my eggs. From the looks of them, I could tell without needing a taste that my breakfast had cooled beyond the point of palatability for me.
“Now that was worth getting up to see,” came a voice from across the table. I looked up and into the deep brown eyes of Amity Price.
“I didn’t notice you come in,” I said, offering a small smile as I felt the tension start to leave my body.
“You were a little busy,” she said, sliding into the chair opposite mine. “But you sure sounded convincing.”
“I sure as hell ought to. It’s the same discussion I’ve been having with myself several times a day for a week. First time I’ve heard it out loud, though.”
Amity nodded. “My grandfather was a reporter.”
“No kidding?”
“Mm-hmm. Not for the FNS directly, but I suppose his stories got picked up once in a while. He moved around a lot and just wrote for the newsfeeds about whatever colony or outpost he lived in at the time. When I told my dad that I wanted to go into the news like Papa did, he told me about when he was growing up and how he remembered very clearly seeing people stop Papa and give him hell for something he wrote. Didn’t matter whether they were having lunch or shopping or just walking someplace, and he never knew when it might happen but it just happened. A lot, from what he said. And the rule was that if they got stopped, my dad had to stand perfectly still and quiet, and let whoever was talking say their piece.”
“Ah, so you were just following the rule.”
Amity smiled and gestured to the water glass on the table. “That one yours?”
“Yes, but I’ve not touched it,” I said, pointing my thumb toward my half-drunk glass of tomato juice.
“Thanks,” she said before taking the glass and sipping from it. “And I talked to Papa about it and he laughed and laughed. And you know what he said? ‘Amity, a colony is a small place. And you can write up when someone is born and when he scores a touchdown to win the big game. You can write when he gets married and has a boy of his own. You can write about his accomplishments or his discoveries or his travels, all of it, and you won’t hear a word from him. But you write about something he did wrong, even if it’s little, and you’re that son-of-a-bitch with the news service and you always have been and you always will be.’ “
I laughed, and that appeared to satisfy her. “Your grandfather is an insightful man.”
“He is . . . he is. And inspiring, too.”
“I can see from your writing that you’re getting inspiration from somewhere.”
The bright smile I recalled from our first meeting returned to her face. “You read my work?”
“I did, and you’ve got good stuff. Thank you for sharing it with me. But I’m still a little puzzled why you did.”
“How did you get started with the FNS?”
“Well, I do things pretty much the way you described your grandfather’s work. I just happened to catch someone’s attention at the FNS a few years back with a story I did about a Starfleet officer who had just gotten promoted to fleet captain. The editor said it sounded like I had a good rapport with the officers and that I knew my way around explaining missions and what they really meant for the Federation at large. So she asked me whether I had ever considered a Starfleet beat. And here I am. It was probably more luck of the draw than anything.”
“You might get away with saying that to a lot of people, but not to me. You’re a great fit. You’re creating quite a record of this place with what you’re getting that actually makes it into the feeds. I can only imagine what you’ve got that you’re keeping for your book.”
“My book.”
“Absolutely! What, you haven’t thought about that?”
“Frankly, no,” I said. “But you’re straying from the point. What’s got you here and with me?”
“Things are happening out here. I want to tell a story that gets me some attention from the FNS just like you did. It sure seems like a big enough beat for the both of us.”
“Big enough and dry enough,” I said, taking a drink of my juice. “I hate to disappoint you, Amity, but right now even I can’t squeeze a story out of this place. Nothing seems to be happening and no one is talking.”
“No one is talking to you.”
“So that’s your angle? Slip in and talk to my sources while they’re freezing me out?”
“Not your sources. I want to talk to the people you’re not talking to—people you can’t talk to, at least for a while.”
“What’s stopping me from talking to people?”
“You. That smiling face of yours,” she said as she reached across the table and patted my left cheek several times. “Right now, people recognize you. You’re part of your own story, and that’s going to work against you with sources you don’t really know—people like your new friend I just met. If anyone has something to say with any real merit, he’s not going to come up and just offer it.”
“But he might offer it to you?”
“Didn’t say that, either. But he sure won’t recognize me while I’m eating my eggs.”
“Right,” I said. “So what are you proposing?”
“I want to work together. You dig up your stories and I’ll dig up mine. I’ll do my own reporting and my own writing. But if I come up with something that you think is worth putting on the feed, you vouch for it with your editor and it goes with my byline.”
“And you want to work totally independent of me.”
“Well, it kind of defeats the purpose of my being an undercover reporter if everyone sees me just tagging along with you, right?”
“Very true. And I’m not responsible for you, and neither is the FNS. So don’t go poking around into things that might get you into trouble. If you end up incarcerated, there won’t be much I can do about it.”
“I’d never dream of it.”
“Well, fine, then. You’re on. So, what is your first idea?”
“I’ll tell you tonight, late, if you’re up for meeting me.”
“Okay, I’ll bite.”
“Perfect,” she said, sliding from her seat and stepping over to me. “And thank you. This means more to me than you might imagine.” She leaned in without warning and planted a soft, quick kiss on the same cheek she had patted earlier.
“So, where are we meeting?”
“The Omari-Ekon,” she said. “Heard of it?”
“Well, of course I have. Everyone on Vanguard has. Are you telling me you have a propensity to gamble?”
“We’ll talk there,” she said and smiled. “Maybe roll some dice, if you like.”
“Amity, I believe I may be rolling the dice with this agreement already.”