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SEVENTEEN

Jupiter Station

GANNET BROOKS CURSED QUIETLY after the transport vessel’s captain had announced the unscheduled one-day layover at Jupiter Station, a development that she’d assumed had something to do with the ominous vibrations and noises she’d noticed right around the time the ship had passed the large, nearly round minor planet Vesta.

But that was only the bad news, and it wasn’t altogether bad at that. After all, Brooks now had an opportunity to try for on-the-fly interviews with Jupiter Station’s usually isolated staff. Like the lonely keepers of Earth’s ancient lighthouses, or the scientists in the Antarctic outposts of previous centuries, these folks were almost sure to be eager to share their perspectives about war, peace, and who knew what else.

But Brooks put those plans on hold the moment she looked out the window beside her seat. Despite the overpowering multi-hued vista of Jupiter that dominated her view of space, she couldn’t help but notice that an NX-class starship was docked alongside the landing slot that her own transport was approaching.

Enterprise? she thought as her eyes searched the starship’s battle-worn blue-gray hull for markings. She wondered whether Travis would have time for a sit-down interview over dinner. Better yet, he might get her access to Captain Archer, who might be eager to share his side of the Kobayashi Maru incident with her audience.

No, not Enterprise, she realized a moment later as she recalled that the NX-01 was still quite far away from Earth. It’s Columbia. Probably picking up or dropping off equipment related to the new Vulcan defense grid.

It was all Brooks could do not to run down the gangway once the transport’s stewards had opened the inner airlocks, allowing the small craft’s dozen or so passengers, mostly well-heeled tourists from Earth and Mars, to disembark.

She had known enough starfarers, both in and out of Starfleet, during her journalistic career to know that the bar was her best starting place. Within perhaps ten minutes, she was rewarded with the sight of several people dressed in identical dark blue Starfleet coveralls.

Brooks decided to approach the nearest uniformed person, a young woman with flaming red hair who was sitting alone at a table near the room’s center, finishing up a sandwich and a tall glass of beer.

Pausing for a moment to study the rank insignia on the woman’s collar, Brooks said, “Mind if I join you, Ensign?”

The officer took a final swallow of beer, pushed her mostly empty plate to the side, and gestured noncommittally at the chair on the small table’s opposite side. “Go right ahead,” she said, speaking in a brogue that evoked images of the Scottish highlands. “I’m afraid I can’t stay long, though.”

Brooks sat, nodding. “Ah. Setting up the warp-field detection grid must be keeping you pretty busy.” Extending her right hand across the table, she added, “My name is Gannet Brooks. I’m a journalist from Newstime.”

A look of recognition ignited behind the young woman’s eyes, replacing the momentary glare of suspicion that had preceded it. “Sidra Valerian,” she said, apparently granting Brooks at least a little provisional trust. Valerian rose slightly from her chair momentarily as she grasped Brook’s proffered hand. “I’m the chief communications officer aboard the Starship Columbia.”

“Do you mind sharing some of your thoughts about the Romulan conflict with my audience?”

Ensign Valerian appeared to mull that over for a moment. “On or off the record?”

Brooks smiled slyly. “Entirely up to you. And if your captain wants to chime in as well, on or off the record, then so much the better.”

After another several heartbeats of silent contemplation, Valerian returned Brooks’s smile and waved to a passing waiter who was carrying a number of exotic-looking fluted bottles.

Before getting comfortable, Brooks reached into her pocket, her fingers immediately closing around the reassuring rectangular shape of her official Newstime credit chit.