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“Very funny. Starfleet Command feels that Newstime’s correspondents have been offering up far too much unconstructive criticism of the government’s handling of the Romulan situation.”

“That’s debatable. Who’s to say what’s constructive?” McEvoy said, scowling.

“Crowds of frightened people get even more people scared. Fear snowballs, and that’s never good.”

“Brooks and Naquase are polar opposites, both politically and in terms of the war,” McEvoy observed. “If they’re both hitting Starfleet in the same sore place, maybe that means the problem lies with Starfleet.”

Black waved a hand dismissively. “I’m not going to spend the whole day debating that. Politics aside, we think their reporting has been a huge factor in motivating the people outside to break out their torches and pitchforks. What those people out there don’t know could fill the Valles Marineris twice. Regardless of that, they’re convinced that everybody from the Coalition Council and the United Earth Parliament down to Starfleet and MACO isn’t handling this crisis correctly.”

Maybe they’re right, McEvoy thought, though he clung to the hope that that wasn’t so.

“Come on, Greg. The people have a right to get as much information as possible. We need an informed citizenry to remain free. That’s all we’re doing, trying to fill that need.”

“Journalism school talking points,” Black scoffed. “People are scared, Mac. And it’s largely because of your organization’s reporting.”

McEvoy took another swallow. “People are scared because these are scary goddamned times, Greg. But if you start trying to muzzle the press, it’s gonna get a hell of a lot scarier.”

Black leaned forward, his eyes blazing. “What’s scarier still is letting side issues like demonstrations—maybe even full-fledged riots—get Starfleet’s civilian decision-makers so distracted that they start making bad decisions regarding how best to take on the Romulans.”

“You start taking away the people’s freedoms,” McEvoy said, emptying his glass, “and you’re doing the Romulans’ work for them.”

“You have a responsibility for the safety of your planet,” Black said, his tone sharpening. “A responsibility toward your species, just as Starfleet does.”

“Don’t lecture me about my responsibilities, Greg,” McEvoy said, rapidly running out of patience. “We both have the same responsibilities to the United Earth Constitution. You’ve even sworn an oath to uphold it.”

“You’re damned right I have. And my oath won’t mean a whole hell of a lot once Romulan flags are fluttering over Starfleet Headquarters and the Place de la Concorde. If those feather-bellied alien bastards even use flags.”

“My responsibility starts and stops with keeping the public informed,” McEvoy said, his chest swelling with a fury that he would have expected more from Gannet Brooks than from himself. But then, Greg Black had always had a talent for pushing his buttons.

“Really?” Black said, folding his arms. “That’s the extent of your responsibility?”

McEvoy slammed his empty glass down on the desktop, perhaps a little harder than he’d intended. Somehow, it didn’t break. “Yes! As long as Newstime doesn’t lie, or let anything classified slip out.”

“Well, that’s the rub, isn’t it, Mac? I’m glad that you at least acknowledge that as part of your sphere of responsibility.”

“I’d like to go back on the record now, if you don’t mind,” McEvoy said, trying to reel in his indignation.

Black held up a hand, temporizing. “Let me ask you one question first: Where was that sense of responsibility when Newstime started shouting from the rooftops about the Vulcan warp-field detection grid?”

That brought McEvoy up short. He stood up, his knees slightly wobblier than he had expected after just one drink.

“Thanks for the breakfast, Greg,” he said. “I think I can find my own way out.”

And he did, with the help of what appeared to be the same two Starfleet security officers who had brought him here.

Although it was past lunchtime by the time he had settled