Reyes said nothing.
Holding up a hand, Desai continued, “I understand operational security, Diego, but even that requires accountability. If I thought I could prove T’Prynn broke regulations, I’d have already hoisted her from the nearest yardarm. You need to know that I’m not done looking for that proof, either.” She pointed a finger at his chest. “Don’t put me in the position of having to file false reports or participating in any further cover-ups. I know you need some leeway here, but that doesn’t mean I’m willing to violate the law.”
Reyes kept his expression fixed. “You’re sexy when you take a stand, you know that?”
The joke had its intended effect, as he noted the ghost of a smile play across her lips before she clamped down, driving it away. “I mean it, Diego.”
Nodding, Reyes replied, “I know you do, and frankly I expect no less from a Starfleet captain. I won’t prevent you from doing your job or following your orders, but you need to know that I’ve got my orders, too, and one of them is that operational security here has to be maintained.” Looking down at his feet, he released a sigh. “If there’s going to be any lying or covering up, I’ll be the one to do it.”
There was a moment of uncomfortable silence, both of them looking at each other and contemplating the ramifications of his words. Reyes saw in Desai’s eyes the burden of what she had learned here today.
“Don’t let me catch you,” Desai said, her voice softer now as she stepped closer. “I’d hate to have you court-martialed.” She moved to where she could lay her head against his chest, and Reyes felt her arms wrap around his back, pulling him tight against her. He returned the embrace, resting his chin atop her head and reaching up to stroke her dark hair with his hand.
Holding her, Reyes could feel the tension in her body. He imagined he could sense a struggle already beginning within her, as though her unflinching devotion to the rule of law and her ability to understand the need for latitude when dealing with the unknown already were taking up arms against one another. Those forces were readying for battle, preparing for the day when, inevitably, Desai’s convictions would be put to the test as a consequence of what she now knew.
He could sympathize, given that the same war waged within him.
That such a conflict would visit Rana Desai, Reyes was certain. What he did not know was—when that time came—how it would affect her actions and feelings toward him. Would she be an enemy or an ally?
It was a question—like countless others that continued to plague him—for which Reyes had no answer.
42
As always, it was one big party on the gambling deck of the Omari-Ekonand, as usual, Cervantes Quinn was not on the invite list.
Walking behind Sakud Armnoj and preceding Zett Nilric, Quinn made his way through the room and tried to ignore the atmosphere of merriment surrounding him. Music provided a festive backdrop, blending with the voices and laughter of patrons all around the room. Money in assorted currencies and denominations changed hands; a layer of smoke lingered about the gaming parlor, along with a mixture of odors generated by the plethora of substances various beings were inhaling into their lungs—or what might pass for lungs in nonhumanoid species; more than one patron moved about the room with a drink of some kind, reminding Quinn that it had been some time since he last had partaken of his favorite beverage.
Lucky bastards,he thought, thinking again of how fortunate Tim Pennington was at the moment. Upon the Rocinante’s return to Vanguard and still upset over the string of events that had unseated his plans to visit the colonists on Boam II, the journalist had declined Quinn’s offer to accompany him to see Ganz, opting instead for a visit to Tom Walker’s place and, as he had put it, “Life.”
“I’ve counted fourteen health and safety code violations since we boarded,” Armnoj said, holding close to his chest the black briefcase which seemed more like an extension of his own body and doing his best to avoid coming into contact with anyone he passed. “This place is a hive of disease and pestilence, to say nothing of its utter moral depravity.”
“Shut up,” Quinn said, the Zakdorn’s perpetually squeaky voice once more threatening to give him a headache to go with his bruised ribs and his sore jaw. Five minutes, he figured. Five minutes, and this putrid, annoying excuse for a sentient being would finally be out of his life.
As they passed one of the roulette tables, Quinn was forced to step to his left in order to avoid one guest who even by his standards seemed to have enjoyed far too much of the apparently free-flowing spirits. His movement nearly made him brush up against a sultry Orion woman, one of several employed by Ganz as part of his ship’s “entertainment staff,” who in turn smiled at him as she gave him a frank visual once-over from head to toe. She apparently was unaffected by the bandage over his left eye or the swelling along the right side of his jaw—souveniers from his short visit with Broon. Despite himself, Quinn nodded his head in greeting.
“Stop gawking, Quinn,” Zett said from behind him, his low menacing voice somehow managing to carry over the bustle of the gambling deck. “You know Mr. Ganz doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
It was the first thing the Nalori had said to him since meeting him at the Ekon’s entry ramp. Quinn had been tempted to bring up the whole mess with Broon, but figured the assassin already had received a report from his hired minion. He had half-expected Zett to gut him like a fish the moment he stepped through the airlock, but was reassured by the fact that—for the moment, anyway—Ganz still had need of his services.
Let’s hope my luck isn’t running out.
Quinn offered a sidelong glance toward the Nalori, noting that his dark, dapper suit served only to make his obsidian complexion seem even more sinister than normal. “It’s not like you to wear black this early in the day. The regular maitre d’call in sick?” Though Zett said nothing in reply, Quinn could tell by the narrowing of his eyes that the comment had achieved its intended goal. The trader smiled in satisfaction, saying nothing else as he followed Armnoj up the stairs from the gambling deck to Ganz’s private balcony.
The Orion merchant prince awaited him, lying in repose atop the cushions and pillows that adorned the raised dais dominating the upper tier of the gambling deck. Dressed in a maroon toga that complemented his emerald green skin, Ganz propped himself up on his left elbow while holding a silver goblet in his enormous right hand. An Andorian zhen,wearing only a thin wrap of gold fabric that left to the imagination precious little of her otherwise nude figure, lay next to him, feeding Ganz small pieces of exotic-looking fruit.
Quinn’s stomach chose that moment to remind him he had yet to eat today.
He knew enough to hang back, standing just in front of Zett and waiting his turn for an audience with Ganz. Experience had taught him that if the crime boss was anything, he was a stickler for his particular brand of protocol. Putting his hands in his pockets, Quinn looked over to see Morikmol, one of the Orion’s associates, regarding him with his customary expression of annoyance and repressed disgust.
The thug stepped forward at their approach, indicating for Armnoj to stand between the pair of black obelisks situated before Ganz. The Zakdorn hastened to comply, his usual bluster all but gone now as he stood in front of his employer.
“Mr. Ganz,” Armnoj said, holding his right hand out in greeting while using his left to clutch his briefcase close to his chest, “I can’t tell you what a privilege it is for me to meet with you. It truly has been too long.” The words came so fast that Quinn was sure the accountant would keel over from oxygen deprivation.