The Romulan War_ Beneath the Raptor's Wing (Book 1) - Michael A. Martin [171]
Which was why Trip thought, even now, that having a fellow spycum-saboteur working alongside him—a man who might suddenly forget his carefully crafted identity and “go Romulan” at an inopportune moment—was such a terrible potential liability.
Trip suddenly noticed that Ych’a was still speaking, a look of something that closely resembled consternation creasing her usually composed features. “Mister Sodok, do I have your attention? It is far too late for you to decide that you cannot follow through on this assignment. There is entirely too much at stake.”
Despite his misgivings, he knew she was right. The time for doubt was long past.
“Don’t worry, Ych’a,” he said.
“Vulcans do not worry.”
“Sure they don’t. Anyway, this thing is going to work because I’m gonna make sure it works.” That meant, among other things, maintaining an engineer’s readiness to improvise at all times.
And keeping an extremely close eye on one Tevik of Vulcan.
FORTY-EIGHT
San Francisco, Earth
NASH MCEVOY FUMED as the two interchangeable Starfleet security officers escorted him deep into the interior of the office complex, all the way to the man who had precipitated this unscheduled visit.
Only this time, the admiral had not summoned him.
McEvoy tried to draw strength from the agitated murmuring that lingered in his ears, thanks to the angry crowd—a commonplace these days—that had gathered beyond the security perimeter of Starfleet Headquarters. Although the thickness of the walls precluded his actually hearing anything from outside, he imagined he could still hear the chants, the imprecations, the pleas.
People were becoming desperate for Starfleet to get off its collective brass and finally do something about the Romulans, and McEvoy could hardly blame them.
As his uniformed chaperones conducted him into the plushly carpeted office of Admiral Gregory Logan Black, the editor thought, If this jackbooted fascist expects me to tug my forelock and beg his forbearance, then he’s got another goddamned thing coming.
But Black, his back to the door as McEvoy entered, looked anything but imposing as he turned around and dismissed the security people.
“Drink?” he said, offering McEvoy one of the two glasses he carried.
“I’m not thirsty.”
Black shrugged, and then set both glasses down on his desktop. “Have a seat,” he said, gesturing toward the hard-backed chair before the desk as he took the taller, more lavishly upholstered seat behind it.
McEvoy folded his arms across his chest. “I prefer to stand.”
Another shrug. “Suit yourself, Mac. Now what can I do for you?”
“You know damned well why I’m here, Admiral.”
“Of course I do, Mister McEvoy.” Black’s earlier pretense of being a gregarious host, much less an old college friend, abruptly vanished. “And I’d think you might approach me with a bit more politeness, given that I didn’t owe you a return call, much less an unscheduled face-to-face meeting.”
“This isn’t about my manners, Admiral,” McEvoy said. “You know damned well you owe me an explanation.” You owe everybody on the whole damned planet an explanation, he thought, now beginning to regret having agreed to treat this meeting as off the record as a precondition for even having it.
Black nodded and leaned back in his chair, his earlier fit of pique appearing to extinguish itself in the drink into which he had begun staring. McEvoy began to wonder if the explanation he had demanded was actually forthcoming.
But after a pregnant pause, Black said, “There’s a crucial distinction between freedom and license, Mister McEvoy.”
“And you obviously believe that Newstime can’t tell the difference,” McEvoy said. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have suddenly pulled all of my people’s credentials.”
“I didn’t ‘pull’ them,” Black said. “The reporters holding those credentials