Declassified

“You don’t know him.”

“No, I don’t know him. But he’s got something to do with supply and cargo transport and storage. If you wanted something moved in or out of Vanguard without anyone noticing, he might be the guy.”

“That’s a conclusion an Orion might draw as well,” I said.

“I’d say so,” Ginther said. “So, this is the kind of thing you’re hoping to dig up here? Links between Starfleet perso

“It seems to be a recurring theme in my recent activities, yes.”

“You certainly don’t shy away from some potentially troublesome company.”

“So I’ve been informed.”

“Well, let’s call that a start. The rest you can do on your own time,” Ginther said as he slipped a data card into a slot on the computer station. “Computer, prepare to transfer all relevant files to this search and cross-reference, and encrypt file as . . . ‘newsboy 37.’ Initiate transfer.”

A whir of clicks and pulses of light followed the command, and as soon as they had ceased, Ginther slid the card from the slot and passed it to me.

“While I won’t inquire as to how you decided upon your encryption, I thank you. And you are welcome to keep a copy of my recording, Lieutenant, if it would help you in any open investigations.”

“Hmm,” he said. “I could do that anyway, but I appreciate the offer. I have a feeling this might go a ways in helping us with a number of situations. There’s only one problem.”

“Yes?”

“I’ve got this personal code about stuff like this. If you help me, then I help you. So you help me with this, then I’m stuck helping you.”

“I could let you off the hook.”

“It’s not that easy,” he said. “You’ve got another pass. What else do you want?”

As I opened my mind to ideas, I found myself thinking of Qui

“The cargo transport? Not to disappoint you, but I won’t be able to get into that investigation without raising some flags,” he said. “I can give you what has been released so far, but that’s about it. I’m sorry.”

I nodded. “I understand. I figured it was a long shot to ask.”

“We’re done here, then,” said the security guard, who extended his hand as a farewell. “Mind yourself, Mister Pe

I was puzzled. “What happened to ‘I don’t know you and you don’t know me’? “

“I told you things weren’t that easy,” Ginther said. “I still owe you one.”

11

As pleasant as a walk through Fontana Meadow could be, there were times that I found myself caught in a pattern of journalistic scrutiny that took much of the fun and mystery out of it all.

The meadow was what we called the green space blanketing the floor of a massive terrestrial enclosure that flourished within Vanguard. To the senses—the look, feel, and smell of it all— Fontana Meadow was in all ways natural. Grass and soil gave way under my stride with no physical indication to my feet of what my mind was acutely aware—that a few meters underneath it all lay cold metal deck plates to separate me from a set of docking bays, each one big enough to house comfortably a Constitution-class starship. In the distance, one could see groves of trees as well as structures for living and working nestled into rolling hills. My mind, however, was yanking me from the fantasy of that stretching horizon with the reminder that it was an optical illusion created by earthen berms and architectural trickery intended to keep me from seeing the walls rimming the enclosure. More than fifty meters above me stretched the dome itself, capping the enclosure and protecting us from the vacuum of space. But I knew it was merely camouflaged by paint and holographic projections to render the illusion of an actual sky as I walked along underneath it.

Then I let myself be reminded that despite the natural appearance of this environment, its behavior over time was anything but. Our temperature remained constant at a degree deemed most tolerable and pleasant by the majority of visitors to and residents of Earth. Weather was no real issue, as winds never blew beyond a pleasant breeze, rumbling thunderstorms never threatened, and blistering heat never baked. Ambient light in the enclosure artificially brightened during waking hours and dimmed during restful ones to account for the natural rhythm of light and darkness experienced on Earth as the planet spins on its axis. Its journey around the sun, however, was not approximated, as Fontana Meadow never experienced a seasonal change. No fall breezes swept shed leaves into small vortices to scoot down the street. No cycle turned grasses green then brown then green again as time passed. No sense of promise of what was to come ever was carried by budding trees and opening flowers.

Sometimes, the more technology accomplished to make the frontier seem like home to everyone else, the more reasons I found to make me miss it.

I was feeling a little wistful and maybe a little old as I then crossed the meadow into Stars Landing. While I was bemoaning my inability to just give up and appreciate the splendor of my surroundings—artificial as they may be—I also cursed my current struggle with the approach I was taking these days to my job. When I had started as a reporter, I likely would have paid little heed to anyone—friend, law enforcer, editor—who cautioned me against personal risk when it came to getting the story. Pointing a finger, righting a wrong, blowing a whistle—these felt like praiseworthy goals when I chased the news in my youth, ones worth the personal risk. Before Jinoteur, I felt as though my stories were being parceled out to me by authorities who dictated what and how I wrote them. Before Reyes had cut me free from his own restraint, I had forgotten what it had been like to write something capable of upending the world even a little bit.

So as I turned the corner toward Café Romano and spotted Amity Price sitting in its “outdoor” seating area, I could not help but feel a spring to my step with a renewed rush of my youthful vigor toward collecting the news. She was onto something, and while it might not have been big, I sensed it might have been just the thing to get each of us feeling good about why we do what we do.

“How about that for a night?” Amity said and smiled.

“Yeah, how about that. When you left me a message to meet here, I didn’t know whether I was going to show up to give you a hug or a beating.”

“Aw, you can be a little gracious about it. Had I told you what was going on, I was afraid I couldn’t count on you showing up.”

“Oh, I would have showed up,” I said. “But it might have been to forcibly escort you out of that place.”

“And yet you didn’t.”

“I’ll admit to a mild curiosity as to what might happen next.”

“Can I be curious about whether you’re going to sit down?”

“I wasn’t done admonishing you,” I said, letting myself smile a bit before I pulled a chair away from the table and settled into it comfortably. “Now, I’m done.”

“A little better?”

“A little. It does help that you chose for us to meet at my second-favorite spot on the whole station.”

“Oh, yeah?” Amity said. “Mere coincidence.”

“No reason at all?”

“Well, I always have a reason for doing something. I’m just not ready to tell you yet.”

I looked at Amity until she held my gaze. “I do hope you are ready to tell me a lot more than you have so far.”

“I am. You have been very kind to help me out, and I’m not trying to be secretive about anything.”

“That part I understand. You want to do this yourself.”