It probably doesn’t hurt that I’ve got nothing else to which I might devote my attention.
The lingering, bitter thought was fleeting and he gave himself a mental kick to send it on its way. Yes, he conceded, his personal life lay in ruins, by his own hand as much as, if not more than, the actions of anyone else. Even his wife, Lora, who had dealt the most recent and vicious—if not unjustified—blow, could not be blamed for the mistakes he had made. Pennington’s only option, he knew, was to knuckle down, square his jaw, and forge ahead. No other choice was acceptable, or even thinkable.
It was that resolve which had guided him to Tom Walker’s, though not to drown his sorrows in drink. Instead, he started to write, not allowing himself to leave the booth at the back of the bar until he had composed a story for transmission to FNS.
By the time he was finished, he had completed two.
While his former editors had purchased some of his pieces since his disastrous flameout with the Bombaystory last month, they had not so much as acknowledged his accompanying communiqués with a cursory reply indicating receipt of the stories. Pennington shrugged off their attitude. So long as they were paying him and—more importantly—publishing his work, he could handle the cold shoulders offered by onetime colleagues and friends. If he could keep at least one foot in the proverbial door, there was still a chance that when he finally did report a major news story—one that truly would shake the foundations of the Federation itself—his words would once again engender the trust they currently lacked. Only then would he be able to salvage and perhaps even rebuild the career he had lost—partly through his own admitted recklessness, but also at the hands of those pursuing an agenda and who wished their actions to remain unobserved.
Good luck with that,he thought as he sipped his tea and thought of T’Prynn, the chief architect of his downfall. At least, he believed her to be responsible, as he of course possessed no evidence to substantiate his claims. Further, his instincts told him that she was the key—or one key, at least—to all of the strange activities taking place on the station and indeed Starfleet’s actions within the Taurus Reach. T’Prynn held the answers, of that Pennington was sure.
His odd relationship with the commander also had taken a surprising turn after his return to the station. After catching sight of her while walking through Stars Landing and taking note of the odd, almost distracted look on her face, Pennington had decided to follow her along with his reporter’s nose. What he had not expected to see was her heading with evident purpose directly for hisapartment.
Taking care to avoid being seen—a tactic seemingly wasted given T’Prynn’s apparently single-minded focus—Pennington had watched as the commander stood outside his door for several moments, appearing to weigh some kind of decision. Had she come to leverage her hold over him as part of some unknown agenda? Given how she already had treated him, it would seem to be the next logical step.
That line of thought went into the recycler, however, as he watched her hesitate at his door before turning and walking away. Had she lost her nerve? Pennington of course found that unlikely. In fact, as he observed her, he could not help thinking that were T’Prynn human, her strange actions might well have been born from guilt.
She certainly did not seem to display such feelings a few hours earlier. Knowing that T’Prynn also had Quinn under her thumb, Pennington had followed the hapless rogue to his meeting with her, watching as Quinn surrendered the Klingon data core. What information did it contain that might justify the clandestine yet overt actions she had put in motion to obtain it? How did it tie into the larger picture?
Perhaps there even was a connection to the events which had transpired on Erilon. Though he had reviewed the official Starfleet releases on the incident and even had used some of that information in crafting one of his latest stories, Pennington’s instincts told him there was more there than met the eye. While the information as presented in the reports might be the literal truth, his instincts told him that it was but one layer of truth—the only one that had been allowed to see light while other and perhaps more damaging aspects of that same truth remained cloaked in shadow.
Much like the shadow that fell across his table.
“Mr. Pennington, am I interrupting?”
Startled, the reporter looked up to see Commodore Reyes, standing tall in an ever crisp and immaculately tailored Starfleet uniform. His normally cold, craggy features were warmed somewhat by the suggestion of a smile.
“Commodore,” Pennington said, straightening in his seat. Clearing his throat, he added, “No, not at all. Just enjoying a spot of tea.”
Nodding, Reyes moved without invitation to lower himself onto the cushioned bench seat opposite Pennington’s. For his part, the journalist hoped his expression did not convey nervousness or uncertainty at the other man’s presence, though he guessed his efforts were wasted. Based on his past encounters with the commodore, he knew Reyes to be a remarkably observant man.
“I’ve just finished some interesting reading,” the station commander said, leaning against the bench’s backrest while leaving his forearms on the table, interlocking his fingers. He said nothing else, though Pennington noted that the man’s smile widened—ever so slightly.
When no further clues seemed to be forthcoming, Pennington asked, “Something I ought to read myself, Commodore?”
“Something you wrote yourself,” Reyes clarified. “Your dispatches for the FNS. I thought it was excellent work, and wanted to tell you so.”
Pennington’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Already?” He had transmitted the pieces less than two hours ago. Only on rare occasions had he received such expedient turnaround on one of his submissions, and that was when he was still in good favor. “I can’t believe they posted that. Any of it, for that matter.”
“Your perspective on colony life in the Taurus Reach was rather insightful,” Reyes said. “It’s nice to be able to put a face on the personal struggles colonists have amid the political circus we’re holding out here. Getting Ambassador Jetanien to chime in was a nice touch, though I have to admit I’m surprised you were able to pin him down for a statement.”
“My inbred tenacity, I guess,” Pennington replied, basking in satisfaction. That the Chelon ambassador had agreed to the exclusive interview, during which he had spoken quite candidly about the challenge of colonizing space that also was of interest to the Klingons and the Tholians, was a coup. The journalist had strived to keep his writing sincere rather than sensational, refusing to pick apart gaps in veracity and instead telling what he hoped was a story that might enlighten rather than incite a reader.
“The piece about the accident on Erilon was also very well done,” Reyes continued. “Very respectful, particularly toward Captain Zhao and those of his crew who were lost. I wanted to say I appreciated that.”
I wonder if he’s feeling all right,Pennington mused as he took in the compliments. Writing what he had hoped was a poignant tribute to the latest Starfleet personnel to pay the ultimate price for the Federation’s presence in the Taurus Reach, he had—uncharacteristically—waxed heroic on the leadership of Captain Zhao Sheng of the Endeavouras well as the entire group of colonists who had so valiantly struggled against the elements on distant Erilon, only to be killed in the crippling earthquake and subsequent reactor explosion that had wiped the nascent settlement from the face of the planet. Creating the piece had been difficult at first, given his natural inclination to distrust any sort of official Starfleet statement. Nevertheless, reading the report on the accident had nearly moved him to tears, after which words seemed to flow without effort.