“Less than you’d expect.” Pennington dug his hands into his coat pockets to keep them warm. “The Tholians made a stink in Paris about ‘the crimes of the Taurus Reach,’ or some such twaddle. The Federation Council passed off the attack as a ‘benevolent Tholian intervention’ to help Starfleet contain the Shedai threat after an accident aboard the station.”

Reyes chortled and cracked a cynical smile behind his salt-and-pepper beard. “And who blew the lid off that lie? You or the Tholians?”

“Neither. Starfleet started jamming and censoring all transmissions out of Tholian space, and the editorial board at FNS ran with the official spin from the Palais.” He strained to see anything through the fog, mostly as an excuse to avoid eye contact with Reyes as he added, “That was when I handed in my resignation and went to work for INN.”

“And they broke the story.”

“Nope. They’d been co-opted, too.” The memory still made him angry. “Sometimes, I think the whole galaxy’s in on the lie, and I’m the only one left who cares about the truth.” Suddenly recalling that Reyes had been court-martialed years earlier for helping Pennington expose some of Starfleet’s shameful secrets, he added, “Present company excluded, of course.”

A dour glance let him off the hook. “Naturally.” Reyes looked down at the compass resting between his feet and adjusted his stroke to make a minor correction in the skiff’s course. “Speaking of which, whatever happened to my successor?”

“Just what you’d expect for a man who had a Watchtower-class starbase shot out from under him: He got promoted.” That drew a short but good-natured laugh from Reyes, and then Pennington continued. “Since I know you’re probably dying to ask, Captain Khatami and the Endeavour are exploring the Taurus Reach, and so are Captain Terrell and the Sagittarius.”

Reyes looked pleased. “Seems only fair, after all the legwork they did.” He glanced over his shoulder, as if he expected to find something there, then he turned back toward Pennington and continued his slow-and-steady rowing. “Did you keep tabs on anybody else?”

“Everyone I could,” Pennington confessed. “Doctor Marcus and her civilian partners are in some top-secret location—nobody really knows where—doing God-knows-what. Probably learning how to stop time or turn old chewing gum into black holes. Your old pal Jetanien’s still living on that backwater rock, Nimbus III. When I asked him why, he said he was there ‘for the waters.’ Rumor has it the old turtle’s finally lost his mind.”

A thoughtful frown. “What about T’Prynn?”

“No idea,” Pennington said. “Vanished into her work at SI, along with every last shred of proof the Shedai ever existed. I figure at least some of those artifacts must have been taken off the station before it went up in flames, but I’ll be damned if I can find any trace of them.”

“Probably all boxed up in a warehouse on some airless moon at the ass end of space. I doubt they’ll ever be seen again—at least, not in our lifetimes.”

“Maybe that’s for the best,” Pennington said. “I just wish I could find a lead on my old mate, Quinn. He not only disappeared, he erased himself from history, like he was never born.”

Reyes stopped rowing to mop the sweat from his creased forehead with the sleeve of his insulated red flannel shirt. “Take it from me, Tim: some people don’t want to be found.”

Pennington grudgingly saw the wisdom in Reyes’s point. “I know. It’s just my nature to dig at these sorts of things.”

The older man resumed rowing while eyeing him with open suspicion. “True, but you don’t usually do it for free. At least, you never used to. So . . . who paid you to dig me up?”

He tried to deflect the question. “Who says anyone did?”

“FNS? INN?” When he realized no confirmation or denial was forthcoming, he seemed to grow concerned. “The Orions? . . . The Klingons?”

Realizing his reticence had unnecessarily alarmed Reyes, Pennington held out a hand to cue him to stop. “No, no, nothing like that, I promise. If you must know, I’m here on a personal contract. I’m acting more as a private investigator than as a journalist, to be honest.”

Behind Reyes, the mainland dock appeared from the fog—a dim suggestion of a shape at first, then a dark gray outline slowly growing more solid. As Reyes guided the skiff to a halt alongside the mooring posts, a shadowy figure on the dock became half visible through the leaden mist. Reyes stood to secure the skiff for Pennington’s departure with his back toward the unannounced traveler on the dock, and Pennington said nothing as he climbed out of the narrow boat and took a few steps toward the mainland. Then he stopped and looked back.

Reyes turned and climbed onto the dock—probably to bid Pennington farewell and safe travels, the writer surmised—only to find himself speechless.

He faced Rana Desai, who stood and gazed back at him, and in their eyes Pennington saw an affection undimmed by their years apart. Neither of the estranged lovers said anything. Ever a willing martyr to romantic illusion, Pennington imagined the two were so attuned to each other’s feelings that they had no need of words.

Desai graced Reyes with a bittersweet smile. His eyes misted with emotion. He beckoned her with one outstretched hand. She went to him. He lifted her off her feet and swept her into a passionate embrace. As they kissed, Pennington turned and walked away, granting them some well-earned privacy.

Arriving at dry land, he looked back. Desai was in the skiff with Reyes, who rowed them slowly away toward his island, into the veil of fog. Watching their details fade into the mist, Pennington knew that they, like so many other figures both noble and tragic, despite being deserving of honor and remembrance, would be forgotten by history. Their names and deeds would sink into obscurity, borne away by time’s ceaseless current.

He reached inside his jacket, took out his wallet, and opened it to admire a single white blossom, a token of love and memory, a memento of life as it once had been.

Let the world forget, he consoled himself, tucking his wallet back inside his coat and walking back toward town. I’ll remember.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

There’s a lot I want to say in this space, because for me this was a very special undertaking, the culmination of a seven-year literary journey that has meant a great deal to me both personally and professionally. First, I want to thank my wife, Kara, for her support and patience over the past several months. She has been my muse, my cheering section, and my sounding board as I wrote the manuscript for this novel. I would have been lost without her.

I also am grateful to my friends and creative partners in the Star Trek Vanguard series. Marco Palmieri, with whom I developed the Vanguard concept seven years ago, and who edited the first four volumes of the series, has been a terrific mentor, guide, and collaborator. His creativity and passion inspired me to challenge myself and craft a more thoughtful work than I had ever attempted before. Authorial duo Dayton Ward and Kevin Dilmore helped make this series the best it could be by infusing it with their vision, talent, and hard work. Our friendly game of one-upmanship, which informed many of the twists and turns of the series’ early installments, made writing each new Vanguard novel a true joy and a labor of love. Thank you, guys, for making this all more fun than I could ever have imagined.

I’d be remiss if I failed to acknowledge two other remarkable visionaries whose artistic contributions are as integral to the Vanguard series as those of the writers and editors. I speak, of course, of designer Masao Okazaki and digital artist Doug Drexler. Masao designed the exterior and interior of Starbase 47, a.k.a. Vanguard, as well as those of the Archer-class scout ship U.S.S. Sagittarius. It was Masao’s designs that brought both the station and that plucky little ship to life in my imagination; thank you, Masao, for making these places “real” to me. Doug, of course, is the man who transformed Masao’s designs into the series’ striking CGI cover renderings. Each time we saw one of Doug’s covers, Marco, Dayton, Kevin, and I would all be blown away—and then we’d collectively wonder, “How will he ever top this one?” And then, whenever the next book in the series came along, he did. You are a master without equal, Doug. Thank you for making ours some of the finest-looking novels on anyone’s bookshelf.