Declassified

“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.”

8

I considered the stale, regulated smell of the air in a spacecraft, a smell that typically strikes but quickly fades as nasal passages dry out, neutralizing the act of breathing to a point that wrings every bit of satisfaction from it. Then I thought of the u

And then I took another breath of the smell where I sat on the recreation deck of the Omari-Ekon.Too heavy to be scrubbed clean and too desperate to be ignored, the atmosphere seemed almost foggy with spiced smoke from pipes filled with narcotics, flowery perfumes used nearly to saturation point, and unsavory aromas existing in that range of human olfaction that made it impossible to distinguish whether they emanated from a steaming platter of saucy food or from the unwashed individual consuming it. I did not want to think too long about how effectively it would permeate the fibers of the jacket, shirt, and slacks I chose to wear that night.

Combining that with a lighting scheme that alternated between sporadic spotlights and bursts of strobing white light, and the pervasive thumping that seemingly set every song to the same rhythmic time, it was not an environment to which I willingly exposed myself.

Yet there I was at a side table, watching my fellow patrons with a curiosity that admittedly was high enough to overrule my nostrils’ desires to relocate. If nothing else could be said about the Omari-Ekon,the Orion merchantman craft certainly had the ability to draw a varied crowd. Besides the requisite emerald-ski

From the looks of the gamblers and diners filling the place, I gathered that the majority of them were merely visitors to the station rather than perso

I let my attention become transfixed by the Edosians once again. Evidently, they had found some success at the gaming table because the pair tipped their heads up and engaged in an ululating bleat of a cheer, then began some sort of choreographed victory dance together that appeared intricate and involved, at least to someone with only four limbs, such as myself. Just as I began to sense a pattern to their movements, I heard a voice next to me rise above the din.

“Hey, can I get you something to drink?”

Recognizing the words as Amity’s, I spoke while keeping my eyes on the dancers a moment longer. “Just sit down. I’m sure a server will be by here in a moment.”

“Sir, can I get your order?” I felt a tug at the tail of my jacket.

Not understanding her impatience, I turned to look at Amity and saw her standing next to the table—in an outfit identical to that worn by the females working in the gaming area. I could not hold back my first response. I laughed. “Now that’s an odd coincidence to show up in that outfit, of all nights.”