What could a lone sensor drone of admittedly inferior capabilities offer that Starfleet’s own sensor arrays could not?

Curiouser and curiouser.

There was also the point to consider that the Rocinante,being a civilian merchant vessel, would conceivably be able to move through the Taurus Reach without attracting too much in the way of official attention—particularly if Quinn held to whatever course and timetable T’Prynn had given him. On the other hand, if the Klingons discovered what was going on, at worst Quinn and anyone unfortunate or stupid enough to be with him at the time would likely be captured or killed, leaving T’Prynn and Starfleet untainted by any accusations of illegal or antagonistic actions against the empire.

With Quinn involved in preparing the Rocinantefor warp speed, Pennington mulled over this new information, taking pieces of it and putting it together with what else he knew of T’Prynn’s activities aboard Vanguard. Was the unusual assignment she had given Quinn—and by extension, himself—somehow connected to some of the other things for which he knew she was responsible? Did it somehow dovetail with the questions that troubled Pennington himself, the answers to which he had pledged to answer by any means available to him?

While the story he had fed to Quinn about interviewing colonists and how they were faring in the Taurus Reach was not technically a lie, it was only part of the reason he had asked to accompany the privateer on his journey to Boam II. After several weeks of careful contemplation, the journalist had decided that in the wake of the personal and professional setbacks he had suffered, the only way he would ever regain his status—and his sense of self-worth—was by aggressively striving to solve the mystery that had taunted him for weeks.

What really happened to the U.S.S. Bombay,and who was responsible? Further, why did Starfleet already possess these answers while taking extraordinary steps to keep that truth from the public?

Pennington had found himself caught in the middle of that conundrum a month earlier when a tip, received from an anonymous source, had led him to information about the starship’s tragic loss at the hands of Tholian vessels while in orbit of Ravanar IV. More evidence—in the form of log entries, requisition and status reports, and transcripts of subspace communiqués—indicted Starfleet, specifically Commodore Reyes and members of his senior staff, as participants in a secret intelligence-gathering operation on the planet, which also had been destroyed by the Tholians. The evidence, which Pennington painstakingly had corroborated by interviewing people named in many of the reports and logs, should have formed the foundation for the story of his career while simultaneously bringing justice for the crew of the Bombay.

For Oriana,he thought, reminded once again of the captivating woman with whom he had shared a bed. That loss and the pain he still felt were made worse by the fact that he had been unable even to say goodbye to Oriana D’Amato before she had left on what turned out to be the Bombay’s final mission. The unexpected arrival of the U.S.S. Enterpriseat Vanguard, aboard which her husband served as a geologist, prevented him from seeing her in the days leading up to her ship’s departure.

While her death gnawed at him, Pennington’s grief and ire also were driven by the fact that Starfleet seemed hell-bent to keep the truth about the Bombay’s fate a secret. That alone was deplorable, but the measures that had been taken to accomplish the cover-up were beyond the pale. Evidence, sources, and testimony Pennington had acquired all had been manufactured in a deliberate scheme to draw the reporter into a web of lies, which he then had written and submitted to the Federation News Service. No sooner had the tremendous news story been published than it was immediately discredited, with Starfleet able to demonstrate that the information Pennington had used for his report contained incorrectly time-stamped log entries and notations by people either already deceased or not known to exist at all. And almost as immediately, he was fired from the FNS.

He had been set up. Deliberately. Everything was a fraud.

Not everything,he reminded himself. It can’t be.

Pennington was certain that the data itself—the sensor logs, communications transcripts—was simply too detailed and voluminous to all be a sham. Somewhere, beneath the surface of the lie which had been perpetrated, the truth lay concealed. He was certain of it—just as he knew that T’Prynn had been behind the entire affair. The intelligence officer had denied the accusation of course, but despite her best efforts he had seen the truth peeking out from beneath her rigid Vulcan façade.

Part of him understood the reasons for the cover-up. Any open acknowledgment of the Tholians’ role in the destruction of the Bombaywould damage the diplomatic relations the two powers currently enjoyed, which doubtless were already strained by the simple fact that Starfleet knew the Tholians were guilty and had called them on it. Pushing the issue would almost certainly lead to war.

Still, it made no sense to Pennington that the Federation should back away from the issue now. A strong, vibrant façade during its movements into the Taurus Reach seemed critical, not only with the Tholians watching their every move but also the Klingon Empire and any other power throughout the Alpha and Beta quadrants. To him, this action only seemed to further drive home the notion that this mysterious region of space contained something that the Federation—or more specifically, Starfleet—wanted to possess. Their apparent need was sufficient grounds in official eyes to downplay the loss of a starship and its crew.

Well, that’s just not bloody good enough,Pennington decided. Not for Oriana.

He was pulled from his thoughts by the unmistakable shift in the Rocinante’s engines as the freighter’s warp drive engaged. Beyond the cockpit’s canopy, he watched the stars stretch and distort into multicolored streaks as the ship entered subspace. Such would be the view, he knew, for however long it took to get to wherever Quinn’s formidable Vulcan master was sending them.

Turning in his seat, Pennington regarded the interior of the dilapidated cockpit before looking down the short corridor leading to the ship’s equally cramped and decidedly untidy passenger compartment.

“Three days to get there,” he said. “Maybe you could spend some of that time straightening up around here, mate.”

Quinn leaned back in his seat, releasing another sigh as he reached up to rub his bloodshot eyes with the heels of his hands. “I had to fire the maid. Feel free to strap on an apron if you’re bored. I’m getting me some shut-eye.” As he closed his eyes, he added, “And it’s twelve days, round trip.”

“Twelve days?” Pennington repeated, aghast. “Where the hell are we going?”

Several moments passed before Quinn opened his eyes once more. “Oh yeah, I forgot. What I said before, about picking up somebody? That wasn’t a lie. We’re going to Yerad III first, to pick up a guy and bring him to Ganz.”

“You’re kidding.” In the month that had passed since first meeting Quinn, Pennington had taken the time to learn as much as he could find about the Orion merchant prince whose ship currently was docked at Vanguard. From what he had learned, the journalist had decided that Ganz was a most unsavory individual, someone to be avoided if indeed one possessed an ounce of common sense or self-preservation instinct.

When Quinn spoke this time his voice had already taken on the groggy drawl of someone fighting to stay awake. “It’ll be fine. Trust me.” There was something else, but by that point the man’s voice had deteriorated to little more than an incoherent mumble, though Pennington thought he picked up something about T’Prynn and what sounded like an observation of how her legs looked in the newest version of Starfleet uniform for female officers.