Was it a naturally occurring phenomenon, or something artificial? If it was the latter, then who was responsible? How did they wield such power, and what other capabilities did they possess? Despite her best efforts to glean any sort of clarifying information, Sandesjo had so far been unable to penetrate the cloak of secrecy surrounding the Federation’s motives. Whatever mystery lay in wait in this region of the galaxy, it surely must be of immense value to incite Starfleet to such brazen action while undertaking significant risk.
For her to be successful in discovering those motives—particularly in time for the empire to beat the Federation to reaping any as-yet-unknown benefits—Sandesjo knew she would soon have to invite similar risk. Even with the limited amount of information at her disposal, it was easy for her to comprehend that whatever secrets the Gonmog Sector harbored, the Klingon Empire was compelled to find them first.
“Alert the Chancellor and the High Council,” she said. “A strategy must be put into motion that allows our ships to investigate this region without making it appear we learned of its value from the Federation.”
“ And what are they to look for?”Turag asked.
Sandesjo shook her head. “I have no idea, but time is of the essence. I will continue my efforts to learn more, but you must not dawdle with this, Turag. We cannot afford for this to be lost amid one of your nightly repasts of drinking and whoring or whatever it is you do.”
“ I know my duty, Lurqal,”Turag said, his tone reflecting his dissatisfaction at her answers and general attitude. “ You, however, would do well to remember your place.” Leaning closer to the visual pickup once more, any trace of humor vanished from his features. “ Yours is a dangerous profession, after all. Peril waits beyond every turn, and accidents do happen. It would be a shame for such a tragedy to befall you, particularly before you find your way to my bed.”
Without waiting for a reply, he reached forward and the transceiver’s display screen went dark as he severed the communication from his end, leaving Sandesjo to stare at the inert monitor and her own muted reflection.
Dismissing the idiot Klingon from her thoughts, if only momentarily, she keyed a new command sequence into the transceiver’s control keypad. A moment later, the screen flared once more to life as the new frequency was established.
“It’s done,” Sandesjo said without preamble. “Turag has the information, though I have no idea what he’ll do with it.” Frowning as she regarded the image on the compact viewscreen, she added, “I also have no idea what purpose it serves to tell him in the first place.”
“ Your duties do not require you to possess that information at this time,”said T’Prynn, from where she sat in the dimmed illumination of her own quarters. “ When it is appropriate, I will provide you with further instructions.”
She had changed from her uniform into a robe, though it was not a typical meditation robe as Sandesjo had seen worn by other Vulcan females. This one appeared to be woven from silk, maroon in color and highlighted by gold stitching as well as an ornate floral pattern rendered in a darker shade of burgundy. Bare skin below her throat was visible at the point the robe wrapped across her chest, and Sandesjo felt her pulse jump as she remembered her own lips pressed to that very spot earlier in the evening.
“Assuming Turag is cognizant in the morning and manages to relay the information I gave him,” she said, “the Klingons will certainly send ships to the Jinoteur system to investigate. Why is that advisable?”
“ All in good time,”T’Prynn replied, her right eyebrow arching. “ For now, carry on with your normal duties. Maintain your cover, especially with respect to Turag. His judgment is lacking, but that only makes him more dangerous.” She paused, and Sandesjo was sure she detected the faintest hint of a smile on the Vulcan’s lips. “ I will be in contact soon.” The image faded, leaving Sandesjo to stare once more at the now-inactive viewscreen.
Though she remained at her desk and contemplated the vague nature of T’Prynn’s responses to questions, Sandesjo could not comprehend what was to be gained by alerting the Klingons. Of course, she had undertaken several actions in similar fashion since being assigned to T’Prynn; it was the nature of any covert operative to obey the instructions of his or her overseer even if one did not possess complete understanding of the situation’s salient details. Often, such insulation was necessary for security reasons in the event the operative was discovered or even captured, a possibility Sandesjo knew she faced every day while working as a double agent.
With that thought, however, came reawakened doubts about the precarious circumstances in which Sandesjo now found herself, how she had come to be the tool of not one but two clandestine intelligence-gathering organizations. It was not a simple story; there was no single incident that had led her down her present path. T’Prynn had played a major role in that odd confluence of events, certainly, and Sandesjo often wondered if the Vulcan regarded their relationship merely as an affiliation of convenience while she carried out whatever larger scheme she was perpetrating. Instinct told Sandesjo that it was true—in the beginning, certainly, and continued even now to some extent. But there were also those moments when the emotions Vulcans guarded with such care could be glimpsed, and she felt she was seeing T’Prynn’s true self, the one Sandesjo had been unable—no, unwilling—to resist. Where the line separating love and duty was drawn, and how muddled it had become, was something she suspected she soon would have to confront once and for all.
Still, she was correct about one thing. Turag was a liability, and it was only a matter of time before his fragile pride or inability to stifle his wine-loosened tongue became a detriment to her cover. Despite the inherent risk, Sandesjo knew that removing him as a source of potential trouble was something which must be performed with all haste.
That it also would bring personal pleasure was merely a tangential benefit.
49
For the first time in a long while, Tim Pennington was once again beginning to feel like a reporter.
His second night back on the station and occupying a corner booth in Tom Walker’s place while nursing a cup of hot tea—watching Quinn slosh his way through life had made him reconsider his own alcohol intake—Pennington sat back and surveyed the room’s various demonstrations of humanoid interaction. Resting his head against the wall behind his seat, he listened to snippets of different conversations, content to allow others to provide the words for a time. For the moment, he had exhausted his own supply following an hours-long frenzy of composition and editing to polish his latest submissions to the Federation News Service.
Writing with passion he had not felt in some time, Pennington drew inspiration from—of all things—his recent excursion with Quinn. The entire ludicrous journey to Yerad III and the lunacy that had followed when faced with execution at the hands of the hapless privateer’s professional rivals had sparked a zeal he had not experienced since the loss of his lover, Oriana D’Amato. While part of him missed the lost opportunity to interview colonists on Boam II, he knew that whatever comments and perspective he might have gathered on that backwater colony would not have energized him as had his experiences of the past few days.
He at first had questioned the logic behind expending his time and energy in such a manner. None of his former editors—even those who owed him a few personal favors—had so much as acknowledged his previous two dozen efforts. With sobriety, Pennington seemed to have found some of what he had been missing these past weeks, shades of his former, tenacious self. Optimism as well as hints of his once reliable news sense seemed to be moving slowly from the shadows into the light.