“Talking about it means I have to remember it,” Quinn countered. “And coffee would only get in the way of my drinking, which helps me forget about it, or at least gives me a break from thinking about it. I like my plan better.” It was such a straightforward idea. Why was it that no one besides him could see its simple beauty? Still, even the bourbon he had consumed could not keep Quinn from asking himself why he was coming down so hard on Pennington. Had the journalist truly done anything to be the target of such ire? Quinn had decided that one of the advantages of not caring about anything was that it liberated him to direct his anger at anyone he chose. That included innocent bystanders, idiots taking up space in his favorite bar, or even the man now standing before him.
Friendly fire’s a bitch, ain’t it?
Sighing, Pennington said, “Look, Quinn, I’m just trying to make sure you’re all right. I know you’ve been having a rough time of it.”
That prompted Quinn to offer a disapproving grunt, and before he realized he was even uttering the words, they seemed to just pour forth from him, unimpeded by any filter he might once have used to parse his comments. “Seems like everybody around here knows how rough I’ve had it. I’m surrounded by people who want to be my friend. Well, let me tell you something, newsboy: I don’t need any friends. Life was easier when I didn’t have friends, or didn’t give a damn about anybody.” Despite the occasional stumbling block, that attitude had served him well for most of his adult life, and returning to that path held a definite appeal.
“That’s the booze talking,” Pennington snapped, his irritation now evident. Stepping closer, he held out a hand as though reaching for Quinn’s arm. “Come on, let’s get you someplace where you can catch some sleep.”
Before he even realized what he was doing, Quinn was swinging. His right fist connected with Pennington’s jaw, sending the reporter staggering backward until he stumbled and fell to the faux cobblestone street. Other Stars Landing visitors stopped in their tracks, turning to observe the altercation, and Quinn was sure he heard at least one person using a communicator to summon station security.
“What the bloody hell?” Pennington asked, rolling onto his back and sitting up as he reached to rub his jaw. “Quinn, you damned tosser. What in the name of Satan’s codpiece is wrong with you?”
Stepping toward the journalist, Quinn pointed one long finger at him. “Do us both a favor, and just stay the hell away from me. You’re better off not associating with a damned loser like me, anyway.” He stepped back as Pennington pushed himself to his feet, wincing as he reached once more for his injured jaw.
“You know what, Quinn, you win,” Pennington said, brushing dust off his clothes. “You want to wallow in self-pity, that’s your choice. Try not to die of liver failure or alcohol poisoning while you’re busy feeling sorry for yourself. I’m sure that’s just what Bridy Mac would’ve wanted.”
Now genuinely angry, Quinn advanced on Pennington, once more pointing a finger at his face. “You watch your mouth, or next time I’m not pulling my punch.”
Holding up his hands in surrender, Pennington shook his head. “Don’t worry, Quinn. That’s the last you’ll hear from me. Call me when you clean up, assuming both of us are still alive. See you ’round, mate.” Turning, he walked away without another word, moving past several curious onlookers on his way deeper into Stars Landing. Quinn watched him go, trying to make some sense of what had just happened, and why he had allowed things to deteriorate as they had.
Because you’re an idiot, you idiot.
“What the hell are you looking at?” he called to the spectators, some of whom wore expressions of undisguised disapproval, while others seemed to look upon him with pity. “You never seen a drunk making bad decisions before?”
The next of those, Quinn decided, would be where to find his next drink.
6
Tapping his fingers on the polished surface of his desk, Heihachiro Nogura studied the image of the Omari-Ekonon his office’s main viewscreen. The Orion ship, moored at one of Starbase 47’s lower docking ports, appeared as innocuous as any of the other vessels that made use of the station’s facilities. Nogura knew better. To him, the ship represented nothing less than a tumor requiring excision. Left unchecked, how badly would the vessel and those who worked and played aboard it infect his station and crew?
My, aren’t we melodramatic in the morning.
Stifling an urge to yawn—itself a consequence of having been roused from slumber that was already too short and prone to interruption—Nogura reached for the steaming cup of green tea sitting on his desk. As he cradled the cup near his chest and allowed it to warm his hands, he savored its aroma. Its effects were soothing, helping to alleviate the foul mood that had hovered over him since he was awakened. If only solving all of the other problems he faced could be accomplished with such ease.
Turning his attention from the viewscreen to the cadre of officers he had assembled at far too early an hour, he took a first, tentative sip of his tea before asking, “So, what’s the story?”
Lieutenant Haniff Jackson, Starbase 47’s brawny chief of security, was the first to answer, “At approximately 2240 hours last night, one of our informants observed an altercation between Diego Reyes and one of the Omari-Ekon’s Orion employees.” Standing near the viewscreen, Jackson consulted the data slate he carried, which appeared small and fragile in his large hands. “My informant doesn’t know what caused the fight, only that it took place shortly after Reyes met with Tim Pennington near the bar in the Omari-Ekon’s central gaming hall. By his account, the Orion seemed to be acting in a belligerent manner toward Mister Reyes, before attempting to restrain him from leaving the bar.”
“Restrain him?” Nogura repeated, frowning.
Despite his composed bearing, Jackson smiled. “That was his word, Admiral, but based on his report, I don’t know if I’d go that far. Apparently, Reyes and the Orion exchanged words, and when Reyes tried to leave, the Orion grabbed him by the arm. Mister Reyes promptly demonstrated the risks that come with such foolhardy action.”
“That sounds like Reyes,” said Lieutenant Commander Holly Moyer, Starbase 47’s ranking representative of Starfleet’s Judge Advocate General Corps, from where she sat in one of the two chairs positioned before Nogura’s desk. Recently promoted to her current rank, Moyer at present was standing in as the station’s interim JAG liaison until Starfleet decided what to do about replacing Captain Desai, who had departed the station following Nogura’s granting her a transfer to an Earth-based posting. While he had been reluctant to approve her request, it had become evident from Desai’s conduct and attitude that she harbored no small measure of disapproval of Operation Vanguard’s classified nature as well as decisions and actions which had come about as a consequence of maintaining that secrecy. Following Desai’s departure, Starfleet had promised a proper replacement for her at the earliest opportunity, and until then Moyer was shouldering a formidable load. So far as Nogura could tell, the commander was adapting to her new responsibilities with aplomb.
“I take it he’s okay?” Nogura asked, blowing on his tea to cool it.
Sitting next to Moyer, the station’s intelligence officer, Commander Serrosel ch’Nayla, nodded. “Yes, Admiral. Mister Reyes was not further challenged after the incident, and our informants say that, so far, neither Ganz nor any of his people seem interested in pursuing the matter.” The Andorian chanshifted in his seat as he cleared his throat. “However, it’s worth noting that the Orion who initiated the exchange, Lekkar, seems to have gone missing.”
Moyer’s expression was one of concern. “Does that mean what I think it means?”
From where she stood behind ch’Nayla and to the left of Jackson, Lieutenant T’Prynn replied, “It would not be out of the question for Ganz or his employer, Neera, to sanction the removal of an employee who posed potential security risks.” The Vulcan woman’s hands were clasped behind her back, her expression passive even as her right eyebrow arched. “It is a proven method of Ganz’s when dealing with persons he finds threatening or otherwise undesirable.”