Declassified

“So, you’re thinking this is divine retribution for doing a favor for Cervantes Qui

Qui

I sensed his authenticity when he posed the question, rhetorical as it may have been. I had not been gripped by any overwhelming feeling of compassion for the stricken woman, aside from the levels of concern I would for anyone whom I had witnessed suffer a great illness or injury. But Qui

“What can I be doing, Qui

“Just keep me posted,” he said. “And fix the thing with the girl.”

“I hear you,” I said as the door slid closed. I did hear him about Amity—but part of me was unsure whether I wanted to listen.

10

“I’m not doing this for you, you know. Just so we’re clear.”

“I fully understand, Lieutenant,” I said to Thomas Ginther just after stepping into a small security monitoring station within Vanguard’s command tower. It was a simple, flatly illuminated gray-colored room that consisted of little more than a computer access console, a workdesk, and a couple of chairs. I had contacted him quickly, as Qui

“I don’t even know what it is you want from me,” Ginther said. “And I’m not guaranteeing I can even access it. Even if I can access it, I’m not sure I’ll do it for you until I understand what exactly it is you want and why you want it.”

“You’ve extended me quite a courtesy here, and I appreciate what’s at stake for you.”

“It’s not like I would just lose my job. This is a court-martial offense. I could end up at a prison colony.”

“I am aware of that.”

“And this, what we’re doing, it’s a one-time situation. Once we walk out of here, never again. I don’t know you and you don’t know me. You have never seen me and you have never seen this office, and we never talk about this to anyone ever.”

“You certainly cover your bases.” The stern expression on Ginther’s face assured me that my previous path of being as contrite and appreciative as I could muster was the one of lesser resistance. “As well you should. I like knowing our Starfleet security guards are thorough.”

“So, what do you want?”

“I need to be candid with you, Lieutenant. I’m not entirely sure.”

“Oh, perfect. Qui

“He did?”

“Yes.” Ginther thumbed the switch that illuminated a pedestal-mounted viewer as well as several rows of flashing bulbs and started the streams of audible ticks and clicks that seemed to characterize Starfleet computers.

“ Working,” came a digitized female voice from a speaker mounted separately on the desktop.

“Computer, disable audio responses,” Ginther said. “What do you want?”

“Right . . . and forgive me, Lieutenant, but just what did Qui

Ginther sighed. “He said I shouldn’t give you the keys to the candy store, but then again, maybe it wouldn’t matter because you would just go in there and not even know where to start. He said that if I helped you narrow your search parameters, you would be in and out of my hair pretty quickly.”

“Hmm. Well, he’s not that far off,” I admitted. “While I’m thinking, if I may, tell me what happened between you and him that you now find yourself with me.”

“I’m not going to discuss that. Period. What else do you got?”

“Well, there is this,” I said, reaching into my pocket to extract my recording device. “I have some video recorded on this and I wonder whether it might be cross-referenced against the central computer banks so I might learn the identities of the persons on it.”

Ginther knit his brow. “Um, that’s it? You want some IDs?”

“If it’s not too much trouble.”

“Pass that to me,” he said, holding out his hand. I gave him the recorder and he placed it near the flashing console. “Computer, scan this device and retrieve all audio and video recorded in the past . . . twenty-four hours.” He looked at me as he established the time parameters for the scan, and I nodded in agreement. In moments, the viewer displayed a still image of what appeared to be a skewed view of the bathroom in which I had started my recording.

“Well, would you look at that.”

“Computer, play video and cross-reference facial characteristics of persons with all identification files on record.” The image on the viewer began to move, and before long it displayed a very clear shot of the subject of Amity’s attentions. “Where did you shoot this?”

“Aboard the Omari-Ekon,last night.”

“You’re kidding me,” Ginther said, turning his face toward me with a look of near appreciation. “You got on and off that ship with a pocket recorder?”

“Well, I didn’t necessarily keep it in my pocket, but yes.”

“I don’t need details,” Ginther said, raising his hand as if to shield himself from any unsavory information. “But this just got a whole lot more interesting.”

The viewer continued to reflect the chronicle of my path from the brightly lit bathroom into the cavernlike dimness of the recreation deck. The video image jostled and blurred almost to the point of inducing nausea, and several times I had to take my eyes from the screen. Faces swept in and out of view, some of them revealed in no more than a profile, or perhaps an eye and lock of hair that happened to catch one of the venue’s swaying spotlights. The great majority of the patrons I managed to capture appeared as no more than smudges of light amid the blackness, indistinguishable from the surrounding gaming tables or background objects, let along from each other. Excepting my lone successful shot in the bathroom, the entire exercise appeared to be a wash.

When the image showed me nearing the gangplank, I spoke. “You can cut it here. There’s nothing really beyond this.” Given that I already felt that I had squandered my opportunity to glean a story from Qui

“Computer, end playback. Begin cross-reference and display full and probable matches.”

“I have to admit, Lieutenant, that I was hopeful my recording had contained better raw material for you to sc—”

“Got it.”

“What?”

“It’s done. See for yourself.”

I looked back at the viewer, which displayed the following message: Identification cross-reference complete. Probable/partial matches: 14. Verified matches: 37. I was shocked, to say the least. “Thirty-seven?!”

“We do know what it is we’re doing around here, you know,” Ginther said with a definite air of self-satisfaction as he seemed to warm to me. “Computer, present identity information in chronological order.”

The viewer displayed a small still image of the bathroom man as an inset next to a more official looking mug shot and some biographical data. I sca

“Adan Chung.”

“Looks like a solid match to me.”

“Says he’s with matériel supply command. You know him?”

“Starfleet’s a pretty big organization. It’s not like we all get together on the weekends or read the company newsfeed to see who went on what mission and got what promotion.”