“You. That smiling face of yours,” she said as she reached across the table and patted my left cheek several times. “Right now, people recognize you. You’re part of your own story, and that’s going to work against you with sources you don’t really know—people like your new friend I just met. If anyone has something to say with any real merit, he’s not going to come up and just offer it.”
“But he might offer it to you?”
“Didn’t say that, either. But he sure won’t recognize me while I’m eating my eggs.”
“Right,” I said. “So what are you proposing?”
“I want to work together. You dig up your stories and I’ll dig up mine. I’ll do my own reporting and my own writing. But if I come up with something that you think is worth putting on the feed, you vouch for it with your editor and it goes with my byline.”
“And you want to work totally independent of me.”
“Well, it kind of defeats the purpose of my being an undercover reporter if everyone sees me just tagging along with you, right?”
“Very true. And I’m not responsible for you, and neither is the FNS. So don’t go poking around into things that might get you into trouble. If you end up incarcerated, there won’t be much I can do about it.”
“I’d never dream of it.”
“Well, fine, then. You’re on. So, what is your first idea?”
“I’ll tell you tonight, late, if you’re up for meeting me.”
“Okay, I’ll bite.”
“Perfect,” she said, sliding from her seat and stepping over to me. “And thank you. This means more to me than you might imagine.” She leaned in without warning and planted a soft, quick kiss on the same cheek she had patted earlier.
“So, where are we meeting?”
“The Omari-Ekon,” she said. “Heard of it?”
“Well, of course I have. Everyone on Vanguard has. Are you telling me you have a propensity to gamble?”
“We’ll talk there,” she said and smiled. “Maybe roll some dice, if you like.”
“Amity, I believe I may be rolling the dice with this agreement already.”
8
I considered the stale, regulated smell of the air in a spacecraft, a smell that typically strikes but quickly fades as nasal passages dry out, neutralizing the act of breathing to a point that wrings every bit of satisfaction from it. Then I thought of the unnatural, chaotic smell of the air in a gambling establishment, with its attempts at creating a pleasant atmosphere for patrons through timed wafts of deodorizing fragrances that ultimately mask only a portion of ambient body odors, breath vapors, and whatever else might be exuded from the individuals surrounding every table and viewscreen in the place.
And then I took another breath of the smell where I sat on the recreation deck of the Omari-Ekon.Too heavy to be scrubbed clean and too desperate to be ignored, the atmosphere seemed almost foggy with spiced smoke from pipes filled with narcotics, flowery perfumes used nearly to saturation point, and unsavory aromas existing in that range of human olfaction that made it impossible to distinguish whether they emanated from a steaming platter of saucy food or from the unwashed individual consuming it. I did not want to think too long about how effectively it would permeate the fibers of the jacket, shirt, and slacks I chose to wear that night.
Combining that with a lighting scheme that alternated between sporadic spotlights and bursts of strobing white light, and the pervasive thumping that seemingly set every song to the same rhythmic time, it was not an environment to which I willingly exposed myself.
Yet there I was at a side table, watching my fellow patrons with a curiosity that admittedly was high enough to overrule my nostrils’ desires to relocate. If nothing else could be said about the Omari-Ekon,the Orion merchantman craft certainly had the ability to draw a varied crowd. Besides the requisite emerald-skinned Orions, all wearing outfits of a flashy gold lamé that accentuated the rich hue of their skin, members of a dozen or more races—some of which I could not even identify—comprised the population of the gaming area. While I waited in view of the main entrance, and a chance to see Amity enter the place, I let my gaze wander about the main floor. To one side, a Tellarite waved his arms and complained loudly about his meal to the waitstaff and then who knew what else. A pair of Edosians—or perhaps Triexians or some other tripedal race—wandered around, craning their oblong heads over the crowds at several tables before deciding to place a bet at what approximated a roulette wheel, from what I could see of it. I spotted a Zaranite walking past my table and I envied him the breathing apparatus he wore to be able to survive in these particular environs. I wondered whether it was efficient enough to filter out the airborne horrors of the place. Then again, I had no clue as to whether he might ultimately prefer the ship’s relatively polluted atmosphere. Maybe for a Zaranite, this place feels like home.
From the looks of the gamblers and diners filling the place, I gathered that the majority of them were merely visitors to the station rather than personnel. From the looks of their attire—soiled jumpsuits and the like—many were laborers of some variety and had probably been aboard some of the civilian supply ships docked at the station before coming here for whatever recreation they sought. In my few times aboard the vessel, I rarely if ever spied someone I recognized from my daily dealings aboard Vanguard. And if civilians from the station were that infrequent, Starfleet personnel were even more infrequent. Evidently, even Commodore Reyes’ removal from command was not enough to tempt crew members into ignoring his standing orders against paying a visit to the Omari-Ekon.
I let my attention become transfixed by the Edosians once again. Evidently, they had found some success at the gaming table because the pair tipped their heads up and engaged in an ululating bleat of a cheer, then began some sort of choreographed victory dance together that appeared intricate and involved, at least to someone with only four limbs, such as myself. Just as I began to sense a pattern to their movements, I heard a voice next to me rise above the din.
“Hey, can I get you something to drink?”
Recognizing the words as Amity’s, I spoke while keeping my eyes on the dancers a moment longer. “Just sit down. I’m sure a server will be by here in a moment.”
“Sir, can I get your order?” I felt a tug at the tail of my jacket.
Not understanding her impatience, I turned to look at Amity and saw her standing next to the table—in an outfit identical to that worn by the females working in the gaming area. I could not hold back my first response. I laughed. “Now that’s an odd coincidence to show up in that outfit, of all nights.”
“Shall I just bring you a beer, sir?” Amity opened her eyes wide and nodded slightly, just enough for me to catch on that she needed me to agree to the request. I nodded back and she wheeled around on a heel and walked into the crowd. While I had no clue as to why she might be impersonating a server, I could not fault her effort at successfully blending into the situation. She cut a very fine form in the outfit, from the fullness of her bikini top to the curve she added to the sarong-style short skirt that exposed a very large portion of her ebony legs. I tried to rationalize my ogling as a professional appreciation for her undercover efforts, but stopped when enough guilt had made its way to the forefront of my mind.
She returned a few moments later carrying a tray laden with a bottle and a clear, empty glass. “I’ll pour this for you,” she said, setting the glass onto my tabletop then scooping the bottle off the tray, which she then deftly tucked under her arm.
“Okay, I get that you’ve done this kind of work before. Want to join me now?”
“I’m working,” she said in a softer voice as she poured.
“Wait . . . you mean you’re employed here?”
“Have been for a few weeks now.”
“Seriously?”
“We’ll talk specifics later. I have to keep moving. Did you bring your recorder?”
“Recording devices are strictly prohibited at gaming establishments,” I said. “I was searched at the door after being asked specifically whether I had any communication devices on me at all.”