Harbinger

“That was me,” Reyes said.

“I know.”

“I didn’t say anything because I didn’t know what to say.”

“It was the right choice. Now shut up and sip your drink.”

The better part of an hour crept by while they nursed their scotch in silence. Finally, Reyes muttered quietly, “I wish I could be with Rana right now.”

Realizing that he had no sage commentary on that subject, either, Fisher uncorked the Macallan and poured them each another double.

Working from the information on the data card, Pe

As he approached the entrance to the salvage bay, the door swished open and a distinctly metallic odor flooded out. Ozone and acetylene exhaust were thick in the air.

Stepping inside, he saw that the place was packed from floor to ceiling with shipping containers, broken machines, bins of spare parts, and open-top crates of scrap metal. Somewhere in the distance, probably on the far side of the cavernous compartment, he heard the soft hum and whine of an antigrav load lifter. As in so many other areas of the starbase, the lighting was uniformly bright and flat.

He felt like a rat in a maze as he wandered into the monotonous grid of stacked and ordered crates and bins. His footsteps echoed and reechoed, a

The man had a slight Spanish accent. “Who wants to know?”

“My name’s Tim Pe

Medina looked at Pe

“I just need to ask you a few questions,” Pe

The man was becoming more apprehensive. “About what?”

“I just need you to look at some orders that have your name on them,” Pe

Waving his hands, Medina stepped back. “No, not here.” He looked around nervously, then grabbed Pe

“That’s not important.”

“Yes, it is.” Medina flipped from one page to the next, growing more agitated as he went. “This is all classified.”

“I have other sources,” Pe

“Then why do you need me?”

“Because I never trust just one source.” Tugging on the pages, he added, “Sources lie. Documents can be faked.”

The dismay on Medina’s face grew more obvious. His voice diminished to a horrified whisper. “Not this time,” he said. “These are my work orders.”

Lowering his own voice, Pe

“Sí,” Medina said.

“Was its data intact?”

Again Medina nodded quickly. “Lieutenant Commander T’Pry

“The logs said the Bombay was attacked by six Tholian cruisers, and your cargo receipt says you transferred wreckage from Tholian hulls into the salvage bay.”

“Sí,” Medina said. “It’s all with the forensic team now.” Pe

“I don’t have to,” Pe

“You’re sure?”

“I’m positive.” He switched off his recorder and tucked it safely away inside his coat. “Thanks, Chief. I owe you.”

Pe

It was the greatest feeling he knew.

He had a story to write.

18

Every new sentence that Commodore Reyes read added to his furor. Filed just over a day earlier, it was the lead story on the Federation News Service’s afternoon feed, and apparently every other major news service had picked up the story with the FNS attribution: “The Ambush of the U.S.S. Bombay,” by Tim Pe

Jetanien paced back and forth in Reyes’s office, reading the same report off a small handheld device. The Chelon’s tired groans occurred almost synchronously with Reyes’s, leading the commodore to conclude that they were on the verge of a collective apoplexy.

His desk intercom buzzed, and Yeoman Greenfield said, “Lieutenant Commander T’Pry

“Send her in!”

The door opened and T’Pry

“I thought you were going to put a lid on this!”

Jetanien joined the dressing-down. “This is a complete fiasco, Commander. We are poised on the brink of war!”

Without breaking her stride, she continued walking until she was directly in front of Reyes’s desk. “The situation is under control,” she said.

Reyes held up his copy of Pe

Behind T’Pry

“—remain calm, Ambassador,” T’Pry

“Give me one good reason to trust you,” Reyes said.

The communicator on T’Pry

“Commander, this is Captain Desai. I’m in the residence of reporter Tim Pe

“On my way, Captain. T’Pry