by Dayton Ward
“Since the 1950s. Not the same humans, of course, but somebody from the group they represent has been here, keeping an eye on things.”
Markham set the pen down on the table, and for the third time began tapping a finger. “And in all that time, what exactly have they done to help us?”
“They’ve prevented a world war on a couple of occasions.” In broad strokes, working from the limited information provided to her by Roberta Lincoln and her successors, Heffron recounted a few of the higher profile endeavors in which the covert agents had taken part. “It might’ve been all over for us, way back in 1968, if not for them. Remember the rocket that blew up in the atmosphere? It was really a top-secret nuclear weapons platform that malfunctioned and fell back to Earth. If it had detonated over Russia, they would’ve retaliated against us, and that would’ve been all she wrote.”
“You’re saying these agents prevented that from happening?”
Heffron nodded. “That, and they did so in a way that got everybody on all sides of the table to reconsider the risks of deploying such weapons.” The practice had not been eliminated altogether, but the United States and Russia had at least curtailed their plans for establishing a “nuclear umbrella” around the planet. As years progressed and relations between the two nations thawed—interrupted on occasion by brief bouts of regression back to the older ways of thinking and posturing—the need for ever-increasing nuclear arsenals had begun to fade. Both powers still possessed the means of obliterating the planet several times over, but there was an order to things. At least, insomuch as stability could be given to a situation born of chaos and, arguably, insanity.
“Assuming I believe any of this,” said Markham after a moment, “what would be their motivation? Why do that, while wars rage across the planet? How many conflicts have we had between 1968 and today?”
“Too many.” Born the year the incident with the rocket had taken place, Heffron had never known her father, who was killed in Vietnam the following year. An older brother had later died during a terrorist attack against U.S. Marines in Beirut, Lebanon, in 1983. None of this prevented her from earning a commission in the Marine Corps, but like many if not most who chose the profession of arms, she longed for a world that required far fewer people to venture into harm’s way for the sake of political ideology.
“How many of those conflicts could these friends of yours have stopped?” asked Markham. “Are the deaths associated with them their fault or ours?”
“Ours. We’re the ones deciding to wage the wars, remember?” Heffron sighed. “As I already told you, they’re trying to help us. Not watch over us like a parent or babysitter, but offer a nudge or two on occasion. The same way a child has to fail in order to really learn the value of effort and commitment, so do we. Maybe there’ll come a day when we’re not fighting each other, but I figure it’s not something anybody else can just hand to us. We’ll have to earn it for ourselves.”
Markham shook his head. “Or perhaps they’re grooming us for their own purposes, which they’ve not shared with you.”
“Two people? Grooming an entire planet?” Even as she spoke the words, Heffron regretted the slip, as she had been trying to avoid specifics about her mysterious benefactors. Markham seemed to appreciate her answers to this point, but now she noted the subtle changes in his posture and the set to his jaw.
Shit.
“Let’s talk more about these two people.”
Considering the man’s request, Heffron once more weighed her earlier decision about the level of cooperation she had decided to offer. Perhaps a bit of prudence was in order just now.
“I’m not in regular contact with them, if that’s what you’re asking. They don’t come just because I blow a whistle.” She had to pause to recall the details of her previous meeting with the agents. “It’s been years since I last heard from them. We touched base soon after the Bell Riots and when we started to close the first of the Sanctuary Districts.”
There had been concern among various government entities, including Majestic 12, that the districts—areas of major American cities where the homeless, mentally ill, and other indigent members of the society had been interned—were ideal hiding places for extraterrestrials moving covertly among the human population. Rumors persisted of aliens lurking within several of the districts and working to trigger a revolt of the people against their own government, though such wild conspiracies had never borne any fruit. Natalie Koroma and Jonathan McAllister, using whatever advanced resources they had at their disposal, had assured Heffron that no such uprising was in the offing.
“Were they behind that as well?” asked Markham.
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“Do you initiate contact in these instances?”
“I’ve never had to initiate contact.” Only when she said the words aloud did she realize the full truth of that statement. “I honestly never thought of that before today. It’s like they always just knew that it was a good time to reach out.”
Markham’s eyes narrowed. “But you were going to contact them the other night.”
“Yes. After our initial interview with Brinalri and the reports from the team who found him and his ship, I wanted to know if they were the ones who subdued the Marines.”
“Why would they do that?”
Heffron knew she was now moving into dangerous territory. “On occasions, when an alien craft has landed here, they’ve taken steps to ensure the visitors are able to get away undetected. In rarer instances, they’ve been required to . . . neutralize them.” She knew from experience that the agents used violence and lethal force as absolute last resorts, which in her mind only served to strengthen their benevolent intentions.
“I want to meet these friends of yours,” said Markham.
Gesturing to the pen that still lay on the table near his right hand, Heffron replied, “Knock yourself out.”
To his credit, Markham smiled. “No, I don’t think so. They attempted to contact you, remember? I suspect they’re aware by now that you are not available, after failing to respond to their call. I think we’ll just wait to see what they do next.”
“We could be waiting a while,” said Heffron. “They’re not in the habit of just charging into a situation blind. They’ll take their time finding me.”
His smile fading, Markham replied, “Then I suppose we’ll have to use that time to find out every last thing you know about them, Director Heffron. Your days of collaborating with potential enemies of this planet are over.”
Heffron sighed.
I’m definitely in a very deep, very dark hole.
9
U.S.S. Enterprise
2386
“Are you all right?”
Sitting on the sofa in the main room of his family quarters, Picard did not realize at first that his wife was talking to him. When it finally registered that he was being rude, he blinked several times and looked up from the padd resting in his lap. Displayed on the device’s screen were shipboard systems and status reports that he had read and already forgotten.
“I’m sorry. What did you say?”
Beverly Crusher stood before him, arms crossed and studying him with that same expression she reserved for patients she knew were being less than forthcoming with her as she attempted to provide treatment. Her right eyebrow was cocked in almost Vulcan fashion, though Picard also saw the faintest hint of a smile at the corners of her mouth.
“I said, are you all right? I heard about what happened with Taurik. Want to talk about it?”
“The gossip still travels rather quickly, doesn’t it?” Picard shifted his position on the couch so that there was room for Beverly to sit next to him, and he laid the padd on the ledge behind him. The action allowed him to see Sralanya, the curve of the planet just visible outside the ports as the Enterprise held to its standard orbital path.
“Well, it’s not every day the captain has a meltdown on the bridge of his own ship.” Beverly settled onto the co
uch. “At least, not without there being some kind of alien probe or mind control or other outside force at work.”
“It was not a meltdown.” He was not proud of how he had handled Taurik or that entire affair in the presence of his bridge crew, but Picard would not concede to the notion that he had lost control of his emotions, even for the briefest of moments. “A junior officer challenged my authority, in the presence of other subordinates. I couldn’t allow that to go unanswered.”
Tucking her legs beneath her, Beverly said, “I know, and for what it’s worth, I agree with you. Whatever his intentions, Taurik was out of line at that moment, but you can’t really blame him for everything, Jean-Luc.”
Picard adjusted his position once more so that he could now rest his head on the back of the couch. “I know. This matter with Admiral Akaar is something I need to deal with, and quickly. I will, after this business with the Eizand is concluded.”
“But if Taurik knows something about these people and whatever happened here centuries ago, doesn’t it make sense to have him with you on the away team?”
“No.” The word came out with more force than he intended, and Picard caught himself. Placing a hand on her leg, he smiled. “I’m sorry. No, until I have a chance to speak with Presider Hilonu, I don’t want anything that might influence that dialogue. If Akaar wanted me to know something before I beamed down, he’d have told Taurik. That hasn’t happened, so I’m left to wonder if even he has all of the facts about what happened here.”
It was a thought that had been bothering him for hours. How much about this planet and its people did Akaar—and Starfleet, and even the Federation Council, by extension—truly know? If Taurik was any indication, there was still much to be learned, and Picard had no reason to believe the Vulcan was deliberately withholding information. He got the sense that everyone was waiting for him to solve the puzzle of this world and its mysterious connection to Earth.
When I said I wanted to go back to being an explorer, this isn’t really what I had in mind.
“You don’t think Taurik’s aboard to undermine you on behalf of Akaar, do you?” asked Beverly. “I mean, I know the admiral’s methods can be unconventional, but this doesn’t sound like him at all.”
Picard replied, “The admiral is more than capable of playing his cards very close to his vest, and it’s a tactic that’s served him well.”
In the aftermath of President Nanietta Bacco’s murder and the whirlwind of events that had transpired during the search for her assassins, Leonard James Akaar was one of the few people who began to identify trouble within Starfleet and the Federation government. To that end, he had enlisted William Riker, another officer with a gift for unorthodox strategy and thinking, to help him search for the truth. Promoting Picard’s former first officer from captain to admiral had given Riker more latitude to move about and hunt for the answers needed to uncover the conspiracy and ultimately rescue the Federation from traveling down a path of darkness from which there might be no escape. Their efforts, along with those of the Enterprise and others, succeeded in exonerating those who were falsely accused of the crime while exposing the conspirators. At the center of the entire sordid affair was Ishan Anjar, the Bajoran who rose to power as the president pro tempore while the Federation prepared to hold elections to select Bacco’s permanent successor. Akaar and Riker, to say nothing of Beverly Crusher herself, were directly responsible for revealing Ishan as an imposter as well as a Cardassian collaborator during their occupation of Bajor. These staggering disclosures saw to it that Ishan was removed from office in disgrace, clearing the way for the legitimate election of the Andorian Kellessar zh’Tarash as the new Federation president.
“Okay, so he’s a good tactician,” said Beverly. “What do you think Akaar is doing now?”
Picard shook his head. “I don’t think it’s anything sinister. Given whatever it is that Taurik found in the computer files we extracted from the Raqilan weapon ship, I think this is Akaar’s way of playing things safe, at least for the time being.” So far as he knew, he had done nothing personally to arouse the admiral’s suspicion or his ire. Was it simple paranoia, or was there something more at work here?
We’ll find out sooner or later.
A glance to the chronometer on the desk across the room told him that his brief respite was nearly at an end. Stifling the urge to yawn, he pushed himself from the couch.
“I need to go,” he said as he turned and headed for the small room where he knew his son was napping. “I’ll say goodbye to René before I leave.” Seeing the look of caution on Beverly’s face, he held up a hand and smiled. “Don’t worry. I won’t wake him.”
He paused at the bedroom’s entrance, looking to where his son lay unmoving on the bed. Blankets were kicked aside and one leg dangled over an edge, and his hands were cast atop his head as though his entire body were conspiring to take up as much space on the bed as possible. Picard listened to the sound of the boy’s low, steady breathing and watched the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest, and with a pang of envy tried to recall when he had last enjoyed such total, peaceful slumber.
“Why don’t you go down to the planet,” he said as Beverly moved to stand next to him, “and I’ll stay here with him.”
“You want me to negotiate an interplanetary relations treaty or whatever you’re going to do down there, while you tend to my patients?” Beverly shrugged. “Deal. I could use the change of scenery.”
Picard wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “I wonder what Admiral Akaar would have to say about that?”
• • •
T’Ryssa Chen did not even wait for the door to slide open before she was pushing her way into Taurik’s quarters.
“What the hell is going on?” Realizing the door was still open and her voice might be carrying into the corridor, she moved away from it and allowed it to close. In a lower voice, she said, “Sorry. Now, what the hell is actually going on?”
Standing in the middle of the room, his hands clasped behind his back, Taurik regarded her. “Come in.”
“Don’t start with me.” Chen held up a hand as though to forestall whatever meaningless attempt at detachment Taurik might next offer. “We’re supposed to be friends, but you never told me you were working for Admiral Akaar. How long has that been going on? Since your last visit to Earth?”
She knew that he had been debriefed by officials at Starfleet Headquarters during their recent return to Federation space. Those meetings had, according to unsubstantiated rumor, involved agents from the Department of Temporal Investigations, following the events with the Raqilan weapon ship and Taurik’s apparent discovery of information detailing events that would not happen for years if not decades. For his part, Taurik had taken numerous steps to isolate himself and the potentially dangerous information he had found in the weapon ship’s computer banks, refusing to discuss it with her or anyone else, including Captain Picard. In fact, he had weathered several of her attempts to goad him into talking about it, steadfastly refusing to offer even the slightest hint about what he had seen. His integrity and resolve could be damned infuriating at times, but what did any of that have to do with Akaar?
“I was under orders not to reveal the nature of my assignment,” replied Taurik. “Even Captain Picard was not aware of this development until earlier today. It was deemed by Admiral Akaar a matter of utmost secrecy.”
Unimpressed, Chen scowled. “Well, I think it’s safe to say that the secret’s out.” Hoping to grab a quick meal before beaming to the planet’s surface, she had made a cursory pass through the officer’s mess after being dismissed from the bridge, and speculation was already running rampant among the members of the crew. “You’re not really some kind of spy, working for Akaar, are you?”
“That is at best a mischaracterization of the assignment I have been given.” Despite his Vulcan discipline and training, Chen saw that her comments had an effect. She noted the tensing of his jaw even as he stared at her. “Our current
mission involves matters of a sensitive nature, much of which the admiral has not yet revealed to me. I have already discussed this matter with Captain Picard, and we have reached . . . an understanding.”
Chen snorted. “Yeah, I saw that. So did everyone on the bridge. Taurik, I’ve never seen the captain that angry, even when he’s mad at me. So, whatever this is that you’ve got going on, it’s obviously something he’s taking very seriously and very personally.” She desperately wanted to ask him what all of this was about, but she knew that he would not tell her, thanks to orders of confidentiality and whatever other secrecy agreements to which he was bound.
“I regret that my actions, or any perception that I am withholding information, are responsible for his reactions. I have no desire to disrespect him or circumvent his authority.” He paused, breaking his gaze from hers, and began to pace the length of his quarters’ living area. “I find myself conflicted, T’Ryssa. To the best of my knowledge, Admiral Akaar has not given me any unlawful orders. He has not instructed me to disobey Captain Picard or do anything that might undermine him in any way. And yet, the very nature of my assignment makes it appear inevitable that I will be forced to choose between conflicting obligations. Captain Picard has already warned me about this possibility. All I can do is my utmost to keep both him and Admiral Akaar informed. Anything beyond that is out of my control.”
It was obvious to Chen that her friend had spent a great deal of time pondering the dilemma his assignment presented, and she knew he would do his best to proceed with integrity, but would he place Admiral Akaar’s needs over the captain’s? She found it hard to believe.
“Look, Taurik, I don’t think the admiral’s a bad guy, but what he’s done here is incredibly unfair to you and Captain Picard. It’s obvious the captain feels that way, too, or else you wouldn’t be sitting here, relieved of duty and sent to bed without supper.”
Taurik eyed her quizzically. “I do not believe my replicator has been deactivated.”
