Wait just a damned minute.

Something about this was not right, Pennington decided. Even if his former editor had seen fit to publish one of his stories, there was no way she would have done so without first checking, cross-checking, and—because it came from Pennington—triple-checking before committing to publication.

Reaching into his satchel for his data slate, Pennington activated it and keyed it to tie into the current FNS news feed. He glanced up at Reyes while he waited for the connection to complete, noting with rising alarm that the commodore’s expression remained irritatingly placid.

By the time the tablet emitted a tone, announcing that the most current update from the data feed was complete, Pennington was not surprised to see neither of his stories listed among the recent headlines. “They haven’t published anything of mine.”

Reyes shrugged. “Well, not yet, anyway. I’m hoping they will.”

His eyes narrowing in growing suspicion and even a hint of dread, Pennington said, “I don’t understand.”

“I screen your mail.”

Such was the blunt, casual manner in which Reyes offered the caveat that it took an additional second for the reporter to comprehend it. When realization dawned, he felt heat rise to his face. With restraint that almost failed him, Pennington remained with his back against his seat, even as he glared at the commodore. “You…what?” He blinked several times, processing the statement again before finally shaking his head in disbelief. “That’s… bollocks!” he said, clenching his jaw in an effort to keep his voice down. The last thing he wanted was to cause a scene in a public place.

Reyes, for his part, shrugged. “I don’t make any secret of it, Mr. Pennington. All communiqués to and from the station are scanned by the computer for security reasons. Anything that matches certain parameters is brought to my attention.”

“But my stories were legitimate,” Pennington protested. “There was nothing in there that was a breach of any bloody security.”

“I agree,” Reyes replied. “In the case of journalists, it’s standard procedure to verify anything intended for the news outlets.”

“That’s censorship!” Pennington shouted, feeling the heat rising in his cheeks but no longer caring about the reactions his outburst might provoke. While numerous heads turned in his direction, Reyes did not so much as blink.

Though he had suspected that the commodore had at least passively sanctioned the actions taken against him by T’Prynn, Pennington of course had possessed no evidence to prove his theories. Here and now, however, Reyes was all but admitting not only complicity in that earlier violation, but that it was in fact simply one act in an ongoing campaign to quash not only his professional voice but his civil liberties as well.

“Do you think for one minute I can’t find a way around your ‘security measures’?” Pennington asked, his voice low and cold as he spat the words through gritted teeth. “I will be heard, Commodore, one way or another.”

“Of that I have no doubt,” Reyes said, his voice and demeanor remaining composed even as his eyes bored into Pennington’s, “just as you should have no doubts about my not tolerating anything which undermines the safety and security of this station, whether that disruption is caused by someone wielding a sword ora pen.”

Swallowing a lump which had formed in his throat, the reporter nodded. “Well, I suppose I should appreciate your being forthright about the situation.”

“Then we have an understanding,” Reyes said, adopting a wistful expression. “Life is so much easier with a few understandings, don’t you think?”

Seething, Pennington only nodded.

The commodore leaned forward, adopting a lower tone. “Listen, I know you see things, hear things. You have your ‘sources,’ and I know that when you’ve poked around here, sometimes you’ve gotten two from me and two from Starfleet Command, and it’s added up to five in your book. Am I right?”

Intrigued at where the discussion might be heading, Pennington also leaned toward the table. “You have my attention, Commodore.”

“Maybe things even added up to five while you were writing about Erilon. Your gut was probably giving you signals, and you thought that, with a little digging, you might even score that story you’re hoping will resurrect your career. You’ll be back in the good graces of your editors. Your readers would believe you again. Your wife…”

“Lora is gone,” Pennington said, cutting off Reyes.

Pausing a moment, the commodore nodded. “Sorry.”

“I said she’s gone,” Pennington repeated, his voice harsher and louder this time as he relived the scene that had greeted him upon entering his apartment after returning to the station with Quinn. During his absence, Lora had returned and stripped his living quarters clean. Not a single piece of furniture, clothing, or even food remained.

The only thing left to greet him was the single sheet of paper, pinned to one bare wall, announcing to all who read it that Lora Brummer sought divorce from her husband, Timothy.

“She even took the lighting elements from the fixtures,” Pennington said, only now realizing that he had recounted the entire depressing scene aloud. “What kind of twisted individual takes the bloody lightingelements?” he asked, anguish enveloping the words as he regarded Reyes.

The commodore studied him a moment before replying. “I said I was sorry, Mr. Pennington, as in ‘I’m sorry, and I understand,’ not ‘I’m sorry, please feel free to discuss it at length with me.’”

Embarrassed at having divulged the disheartening turn his personal life had taken, Pennington cleared his throat, reaching for his now quite cold tea. “My apologies, sir.”

Shaking his head as if to clear it of the sudden detour in the conversation, Reyes said, “What I’m trying to say is that I know you could have made this a huge pain in my ass, but you didn’t, for whatever reason. My guess is that you’re probably waiting for bigger fish to fry. Regardless, I appreciate the restraint you showed, and the respect you paid to those who died on Erilon. I’m here to say thank you, and to tell you that this is something I’ll be keeping in mind for next time.”

“Next time?” Pennington asked.

“Sooner or later,” Reyes said, “you’re going to want to talk to me about something important. Maybe it’ll be something you learn about before I do.” His expression hardening, he added, “Though I doubt it. Anyway, at some point, you’re going to need something from me. If I can trust you to do what’s right—for everyoneinvolved—then I’ll be more inclined to help you.”

“If you’re proposing some sort of partnership,” Pennington said, “then I’ll need more from you and your people than what I’ve gotten to this point, the sort of in-depth information to produce a credible, objective account of what’s going on out here. You promise me that, and I’ll promise you’ll never get sucker-punched by anything I write.”

Saying nothing for several seconds, Reyes nodded. “That requires a level of trust you’ll have to earn. You’re a journalist, Mr. Pennington, and a damned good one. It’s second nature to dig for the great story. What assurances do I have that you won’t run with every juicy little tidbit you get your hands on?”

Pennington shrugged. “I haven’t told anyone you’re sleeping with Captain Desai.”

Even as he uttered the words, he imagined the ambient noise of Tom Walker’s place abruptly dropping to total silence, as every person in the bar turned to face him and regard him with matching expressions that all conveyed the same question now sprinting through his mind: Are you insane?

That did not happen, of course, though neither did Reyes say anything, his expression no more malleable than the bulkhead behind him. Then, a broad grin materialized as if by transporter. “Point taken.”