She rested her head in one hand, distorting the left half of her face into a caricature of exhaustion. “I’d feel a lot better about this if you’d at least name your sources for me.”
“Sorry, I can’t,” he insisted. “I promised them all complete anonymity and confidentiality. But I sent you all my hard evidence. You can see for yourself it’s rock-solid.”
His insistence seemed to have depleted her will to argue. “All right, fine. It is too good a story to pass up. But I’m warning you, Tim—you’ve already used up your second chance. If this story goes tits up, you’re done as a reporter. You sure you want to take that chance?”
“Positive. Run it. It’s good.”
“Okay, hotshot. Look for it tomorrow at the top of the morning feed.” As she reached forward to terminate the call, she added, “I still hate you, by the way.”
“Sleep well, Frankie.”
The screen went dark, and Pennington took a sip of his coffee only to find it had gone tepid. He left the kiosk and dumped the quarter-full cup into a waste reclamation slot.
It was late afternoon, and the lanes of Stars Landing were busy with visitors of many species—some dining in small restaurants, others carousing in the pubs, a few shopping at the independently owned specialty shops. Pennington considered making his way to the edge of the ersatz village to grab a late lunch at Cafй Romano when he felt a sudden flutter of anxiety about the story he had just filed.
It wasn’t that he doubted his sources. His information had come directly from Ambassador Jetanien and a well-known, highly placed director at the civilian-run Federation Security Agency. He had taken advantage of connections in Vanguard’s intelligence and security divisions to verify the intelligence his sources had forwarded to him, and they had guaranteed him that everything checked out. And yet . . .
He couldn’t help but remember how easily and thoroughly T’Prynn had deceived him years earlier after the Bombay incident. She had fed him just enough truth to help him swallow her lies, and he had seen his career nearly demolished when his story—despite being essentially correct—was revealed to have been based on a series of easily discredited witnesses and details. He didn’t have reason to think she would do that to him again—quite the opposite. But that didn’t mean that someone else, maybe someone in Starfleet or the Federation government or even an agent of a foreign power, might not try to fool him again. If he had learned nothing else of lasting value during his tenure on Vanguard, it was that the truth was an infinitely malleable commodity, and that to find it in its unadulterated state required the utmost effort and vigilance.
The more he considered what he had just gotten himself into, the more his hands shook. At a key intersection, he had a change of heart and made his destination Tom Walker’s place. Minutes later he strolled in, planted himself on a stool at the bar, and nodded at the comely Irish bartender, Maggie. “Double of Glenmorangie 18, neat, and a Belhaven Ale.”
Maggie smiled and started drawing his pint. “Drinkin’ two-fisted are ya?”
“It’s all right, love—I’m a writer.”
She set his drinks in front of him, and he fought not to spill his scotch as he lifted it to his lips. Staring at it, he speculated that he had either just launched his career to the next level—or brought his entire life’s work crashing down in flames.
So be it. He downed the double shot in one toss. Here’s to luck.
In the face of slurs and hissing from his assembled peers, Duras entered the High Council chamber with his head held high, projecting proud defiance.
The chorus of disapproval was practically unanimous; only Chancellor Sturka and his lackey Gorkon abstained from the collective condemnation. Bristling at the public humiliation being heaped upon him but powerless to silence the council’s self-righteous spectacle, Duras felt his ears tingle with the heat of shame.
“Traitor!” shouted one, while others called him quisling, spy, or whore. Some spat upon him as he passed through the center of the chamber on his way to his place in the ranks of the Great Houses. Then the throng pressed inward, surrounded him, and harangued him. Cries of “Romulan stooge!” mixed with a medley of epithets in the dim and musky council chamber.
He did not need to ask why he had been cast as the Empire’s whipping boy. By the time he had risen from his bed that morning, half the galaxy had seen the latest top story from the Federation News Service: a feature article that accused Duras personally as well as his entire House with numerous specific acts of collaboration with the Romulan foreign intelligence service known as the Tal Shiar. His first instinct had been to dismiss the story as a clumsy attempt at a smear campaign—but then he’d read it.
To his chagrin, it appeared to have been impeccably researched, sourced, and documented. It was replete with names, dates and places of events, accounts of criminal activities perpetrated by Duras and his agents, and the details of promises made by and transactions between both Duras and his Romulan contacts. It had laid bare his House’s plan to ally itself with the Romulan Star Empire as a means of seizing political and economic power at home, even if it meant turning the Klingon Empire into a de facto puppet state of the Romulans.
Worst of all, it had revealed his affair with Valina. After surviving the wrath of his wife, confronting the High Council had come to seem like a trifling matter to Duras.
He let them shout their curses and heap derision upon his name until his temper boiled over and he could bear no more. “Silence! Who are you to judge me? Mine is one of the oldest Houses in the Empire! Why would you take the word of novpu’ over mine?”
Councillor Kesh yelled back, “You deny its claims?”
“Of course I deny them, you fool!”
“If we investigate this ourselves,” said Councillor Kulok, “what will we find?”
Duras waved away the accusation. “Nothing!”
Councillor Molok howled, “Because you’ve buried the evidence?”
“Because there’s no evidence to find!” Duras’s protestations were met by another long, deafening babel of discord. Spittle flew with the invective, all of it directed at him. Pivoting and snarling like a trapped animal, his bloodlust grew hotter and more bitter until he roared, “Damn you all! Since when does this council believe the lies of its enemy’s propaganda machine? Not one soul inside the Empire has ever accused me of such heinous crimes. To think I would debase myself and dishonor my House by betraying the Empire is absurd!” He drew his d’k tahg and waved it menacingly at his detractors. “If any of you have proof, present it. If any of you have the courage to accuse me, step forward and draw your blade.”
Gorkon’s stentorian voice reverberated from the far end of the chamber. “Enough of this. All of you step back. Duras, sheath your blade.” The councillors withdrew from Duras with great reluctance. Some glowered at him with contempt while others stared resentfully at Gorkon. When Duras returned his blade to its sheath, Gorkon continued. “Councillor Duras is correct: the slander of a Federation civilian carries no weight under Klingon Imperial Law. The contents of that article are to be considered suspect, and may not be introduced as evidence here.”
Duras accepted Gorkon’s support with a small nod. “Well said.”
“However,” Gorkon added, drawing out the word for dramatic effect, “the surprising level of detail in that article does raise a number of difficult questions, Councillor Duras—some of which might be possible to answer with a formal inquiry by Imperial Intelligence.”
The mere suggestion had Duras squeezing the grip of his blade and shooting a murderous look at Gorkon. You arrogant toDSaH! Swallowing his curses for another time, Duras bellowed to the other councillors, “This is a smear campaign! My House is being framed! Can’t you see that?” None of his peers would look him in the eye. Some merely averted their gaze; others turned away from him entirely. He turned in one direction, then another, searching for support but finding none. Even his old friend Kesh had turned against him. Desperate for an ally, he turned to Sturka. “Chancellor! Tell me you haven’t been taken in by these outrageous lies!”