Koval looked impatient for a fleeting moment. “ Falhain is having each of them interrogated. They are being held separately. And as far as any of them know, you are receiving precisely the same treatment.”
Zweller was relieved to learn that his cover wasn’t blown, though he knew he would still have to mend his fences with Commander Roget. But even though Zweller appreciated Koval’s professional courtesy, he knew it was never wise to mince words with a Romulan. Especially this Romulan.
“Thank you,” Zweller said. “May I also presume I have your guarantee that they won’t be injured or harmed in any way?”
Koval paused for a moment before responding. “You have my word. None of the officers we captured will suffer any injury while they are here.” Though his eyes were dilithium-hard, the Romulan spymaster’s expression was otherwise unreadable.
Then Koval moved on to other matters. “Now let us discuss our transaction. I am prepared to keep my part of that bargain. Are you?”
The list, Zweller thought. Who knew how many lives Section 31 would save by acquiring a list of Tal Shiar agents operating covertly not only within Starfleet, but also in civilian institutions across the Federation?
Zweller nodded. “Of course. With my help, Falhain and his troops will nudge the coming planetary vote on Federation membership to the side of the minority pro-Romulan factions. Then the Chiaros system will become a Romulan protectorate.”
Koval nodded impassively. “I’m certain that my . . . indigenous clients will be delighted to accept your assistance.”
Zweller kept thinking about the spy list. It would constitute a substantial countermeasure against Romulan espionage, even though the list would almost certainly be incomplete. Koval was no fool, after all. Still, the only cost to Section 31 would be the Geminus Gulf—a few worthless, backwater sectors of trackless interstellar desert. Zweller agreed with Section 31’s higher echelons that they had struck a good bargain.
But still . . .
“I have to ask you, Mr. Chairman . . . Why do you really want this system?”
Koval seemed more annoyed by the question than surprised. Zweller doubted whether much of anything surprised him. “Simple survival, Commander. When a state’s boundaries remain static, it will eventually die. Is that not reason enough?”
“If I may say so, the Geminus Gulf hardly seems worth the effort.”
“I could reverse the question, Commander. After all, under our agreements, either we expand into the Gulf—or you do. Why should your benevolent Federation begrudge our expansion into an admittedly resource-poor region? A region which you yourself have called worthless?”
Koval’s eyes flashed with a preacher’s fervor as he continued. “Allow me to speak plainly, Commander. Whether you accept it or not, your Federation is as bent on conquest and assimilation as the Borg collective. Oh, you are quiet about it. You shroud your acquisitiveness behind lofty-sounding ideals: the vaunted civil rights of your citizens; your renowned respect and tolerance of other cultures; your so-called ‘Prime Directive.’
“But your Federation has expanded greatly in every direction over the past century. One hundred and fifty worlds. Eight thousand light-years from border to border. And still you want more. What you cannot conquer with starships you take by subversion. You subtly change the cultures you encounter to suit yourselves. Your alliance with the Klingon Empire is a shining example, Commander. You’ve remade them in your own image.” Koval allowed himself a brief smile. “Why, thanks to the Federation, the Klingons are practically housebroken.”
Zweller chuckled, shaking his head. “I had no idea you were such a political hard-liner, Mr. Chairman. I had hoped that you’d agreed to cooperate with us because you wished the Federation well.”
Koval’s only response was the small, fleeting smile that played at the corners of his mouth. Then he touched the emblem on his collar, activating a tiny communications unit. “Please inform Falhain that his presence is requested for a high-level briefing to be conducted with one of our . . . guests.” A deep voice tersely acknowledged Koval’s transmission.
Then, folding his hands behind his back, Koval spoke again to Zweller. “A wise man knows when it is best to allow his adversaries to speculate about his motivations.”
And so does a good spy,
Zweller thought. As a single guard entered the room, no doubt to conduct him to the briefing, Zweller knew with certainty that he had just made a deal with the devil. He only hoped that, unlike Faust, he’d still have his soul after the bargain was complete.
Chapter Two
Captain’s log, stardate 50390.8. Starfleet Command has dispatched the Enterprise to Chiaros IV, the only known inhabited planet in the entirety of the Geminus Gulf—and a world whose future is now uncertain in the extreme. As the Chiarosan electorate prepares to vote on whether to pursue Federation membership or a formal alliance with the Romulan Empire, pro-Romulan guerrilla groups are attacking the planet’s governmental institutions and civil infrastructure in order to further their cause. This volatile situation could lead to a bloody planetary civil war, disqualifying the Chiarosans for Federation membership—and thereby giving the Romulans control of the Geminus Gulf. My primary mission therefore is to assist the Chiarosan leader, First Protector Ruardh, in maintaining order and ensuring that the referendum on Federation membership proceeds freely and fairly. While in the system, my crew will also make a thorough search for the Federation starship Slayton,which vanished near Chiaros IV a week ago on the eve of its diplomatic mission there. I agree—
The ready room’s door chime sounded, momentarily interrupting Jean-Luc Picard’s train of thought. “ Computer, pause log entry,” he said. Shifting in his chair, Picard addressed his visitor. “Come.” The doors parted with a pneumatic hiss, and a smiling Will Riker entered the room. Picard gestured to one of the chairs in front of the desk. “Have a seat, Number One. I’ll be finished updating my log in a moment.”
As Riker sat, Picard resumed his dictation: “I agree wholeheartedly with Starfleet’s assessment that the only way to assuage the unrest on Chiaros IV is to arrange a negotiated settlement between the government and the dissidents. However, because of my renowned lack of experience in such matters, Starfleet Command is sending us a ‘professional’ diplomat—”
Picard paused again when he saw Riker’s smile expand into an ear-to-ear grin. The captain responded with a wry smile of his own. “Computer, pause log entry.” To his second-in-command, he said, “You’re quite right, Number One. That won’t do at all.
“Computer, delete the last sentence.”
The computer acknowledged, and Picard continued: “To this end, Starfleet has given overall command of the Chiarosan mission to . . . an expert in the field of interstellar diplomacy.
“Computer, end entry.”
Picard rose from his chair and straightened his tunic. Riker got to his feet as well, his smile persisting. “We’re about to rendezvous with the Thunderchild to pick up our ‘expert diplomat,’ Captain. Has Starfleet Command said yet who they’re sending?”
“No,” Picard said, frankly annoyed at that fact. “But it isn’t the first time a starship captain has been left out of the loop.”
Then he strode toward the door, which parted and admitted him onto the bridge.
“Activate viewer, Lieutenant Hawk,” Picard said, settling into the center seat as Riker took up a position behind the duty station at his right. “Let’s have a look at her.”
Hawk’s fingers sped nimbly across the helm console, his enthusiasm for his job apparent. The dark-haired young man reminded Picard of a decade-younger version of his first officer.
Counselor Troi was already seated at Picard’s left. Her dark eyes were fixed on the sleek, catamaran-like image that had just taken shape on the viewer.
“The U.S.S. Thunderchild,” Picard said. “The new Akira class. One of Starfleet’s latest designs.”
“Thunderchild,” Troi repeated. “What a peculiar name.�
��
Standing beside one of the starboard science consoles, Lieutenant Commander Data watched the approaching ship with evident appreciation. “Actually, the starship’s nomenclature is an allusion to the imaginative literature of Earth’s late nineteenth century. In The War of the Worlds by H. G. Wells, the H.M.S. Thunderchild was one of the vessels the British navy sent to fend off an invasion by hostile Martians.”
Picard heard Hawk’s quiet chuckle. He recalled then that Hawk had grown up on Mars.
“And how did the Thunderchild’s crew fare against these . . . Martians?” Troi asked Data, her eyes brimming with restrained amusement.
“They were . . . not entirely successful. However, the literary genre in question was often prone to unfounded speculation, well into the twenty-first century. Many of these works contain an abundance of factual inaccuracies.”
“Such as the existence of bloodthirsty, tentacled Martians,” Riker deadpanned.
Data nodded. “Precisely, Commander.”
Picard remembered The War of the Worlds well, having savored the Victorian tale of alien invasion several times during his boyhood in Labarre, France. He had reread it during his Starfleet Academy days, and again years later aboard the Stargazer. He could only hope that this latter-day Thunderchild would never face a crisis like the one that had beset her literary namesake.
“We are now within transporter range,” Data said.
A tall, slender Skorr female, whose golden-feathered wings were closed unobtrusively behind her, swiveled from behind a communications console toward the bridge’s center. “They’re hailing us, Captain,” the avian said.
“Thank you, Ensign Rixa,” Picard said, rising to his feet. “Thunderchild, this is Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the Enterprise.”
The image on the viewer shifted, displaying the Thunderchild’s bridge, where a half-dozen Starfleet officers busied themselves at various tasks. A uniformed human female, fiftyish, occupied the captain’s chair. To her right sat a male humanoid of robust middle age, dressed in a high-collared, gray civilian suit. Picard could not recall ever having seen him before. Sitting at the captain’s other side was a slightly built, silver-haired human woman, wearing Starfleet regalia and an admiral’s pips.
Picard recognized her instantly. Had his heart not been artificial, it might have skipped a beat. He suddenly became aware of Troi watching him, her eyebrows slightly raised in an unspoken question.
“Captain Picard,” the Thunderchild’s commander said. “I am Captain Evelyn Hoffman. Please allow me to introduce the Federation’s special envoy, Ambassador Aubin Tabor.”
The civilian beside Hoffman smiled and nodded in Picard’s direction. He projected an air of authority that was just short of arrogance. When he spoke, his words were crisp and precisely measured.
“I am looking forward to working with you and your crew, Captain Picard.”
Picard noticed the gray mottling at the man’s temples, markings that identified him as a member of the telepathic Ullian species. He could now see a good reason for putting aside his initial umbrage at not having been selected to head up the Chiarosan diplomatic mission; having a true telepath in the thick of things might be a real boon to the coming negotiations.
“Likewise, Mr. Tabor,” Picard said, bowing his head slightly.
“And this is Vice-Admiral Marta Batanides,” Hoffman said as the silver-haired woman smiled and rose to her feet. Picard was struck by how little she had changed during the forty-odd years since they had exchanged their farewells at Starbase Earhart. Certainly, her hair color was different, her rank had advanced, and many small lines now framed her eyes. But those eyes and that winsome smile took him straight back to his hell-for-leather Academy days.
“Captain,” she said simply. Though her tone was businesslike, her smile struck him as mischievous.
Picard’s throat suddenly felt as dry as the desert on Lambda Paz. “Admiral. We’ll beam you and the ambassador aboard as soon as you’re ready.”
“We are ready now, Captain,” Tabor said, rising and taking a step toward one of the turbolifts. “The sooner we get under way the better. And I would appreciate it if you would organize a briefing so that I can bring your senior staff up to speed on some of the difficulties we’ll be facing. Say in thirty minutes?”
“Absolutely, Ambassador. In the meantime, my first officer will see that you are issued appropriate quarters.”
Apparently satisfied, Tabor dismissed Picard with a nod, then strode toward the Thunderchild’s turbolift, with the admiral in tow. Captain Hoffman signed off, and the viewer once again displayed the other vessel. “I’ll meet them in transporter room three,” Riker said, then excused himself from the bridge as several betawatch officers entered, their shifts about to begin.
Picard faced the helm. “Mr. Hawk, make best speed to Chiaros IV as soon as our guests are aboard.”
“Aye, sir. ETA in approximately twenty-three hours.”
“Mr. Data, you have the conn,” Picard said as he walked back toward his ready room.
Marta, Picard thought. Whatever have you been up to all these years?
Even after the ready-room doors had closed behind him, he thought he could feel Troi’s inquisitive gaze burning holes into the back of his head.
Awash in memories, Picard ran a finger along the model Stargazer’s warp nacelles when the ready-room door chime sounded once again.
“Come,” Picard said, facing the door and straightening his uniform tunic with a quick tug. The doors hissed open and Vice-Admiral Marta Batanides entered.
The doors closed behind her. They were alone together.
She smiled broadly. “Johnny. It’s been a long time.”
“Indeed it has, Marta,” was all he could think of to say.
The admiral took a step toward him and extended her arms. “Don’t tell me you can’t spare a hug for an old friend.”
He paused to look at her face. Even after all these years, she still had the same elfin, graceful quality he had found so endearing during their Academy days. But overlying that was a subtle toughness that only years of experience could bring. Somewhat awkwardly, he allowed himself to be drawn into a firm but chaste embrace.
They separated to arm’s length moments later, and continued regarding one another in companionable silence. Like Picard, Batanides had graduated from the Academy class of ’27, and despite the intensity of his subsequent experiences over the intervening decades, his thoughts often drifted back to those heady yet relatively carefree times, when cadets Jean-Luc Picard, Marta Batanides, and Cortin Zweller had been an inseparable team. Picard suspected that those days had left an equally strong imprint on Batanides. And although they had never been more than close friends, Picard knew that he would always wonder what he and Marta might have shared together had they both been less caught up in the exigencies of their duties.
And less afraid, he thought wistfully. But that ship sailed long ago.
“Would you like something to drink?” Picard said finally, breaking the long silence.
She grinned. “I’ll have whatever you’re having.”
He rose, chuckling as he walked toward the replicator niche. “I’m afraid my tastes have become somewhat . . . tamer since we last saw one another. Computer, tea, Earl Grey, hot. Two cups.” The replicator hummed as the beverages materialized.
Batanides seated herself in front of his desk as he set down a pair of steaming cups. She accepted one and took a tentative sip.
Picard settled into his chair, holding his cup while its contents slowly cooled. “I couldn’t help but notice that you’ve beaten me to the rank of admiral.”
She laughed briefly, a pleasant, liquid sound. “It’s not nearly as much fun as it looks, Jean-Luc. My advice? Don’t be in too much of a hurry to get promoted.”
“Believe me, I’m not,” he said, tasting his tea. “I’m perfectly happy right here.”
“You have a right to be,” she said over the edge of her cup. “I’ve
followed your career since we went our separate ways. You’ve made quite a mark for yourself. Rescuing that ambassador on Milika III. Your years aboard the Stargazer. And then commanding two Federation flagships after that. Pretty impressive.”
He felt a surge of embarrassment. “I’m afraid I have a confession to make, Marta. I don’t think I can encapsulate your career quite so readily.”
Setting her cup down on the desk, she said, “Don’t blame yourself for that, Johnny. When you work for Starfleet Intelligence, you try to keep a low profile.”
Picard tried to hide his surprise, evidently without complete success. He could see that she noticed his reaction.
“Johnny?”
After a considered pause, he said, “Forgive me for saying so, Marta, but I’m not terribly enthusiastic about Starfleet Intelligence.”
“Care to elaborate?”
“Three years ago, I became aware that your department had covered up an illegal cloaking device test. That incident nearly cost me the best first officer I ever had.”
She nodded contritely. “The Pegasus affair. It came to light shortly before I made admiral. ‘Ranar’s folly,’ we called it. It was a blot on the bureau’s reputation, and won’t be repeated. At least not as long as I’m wearing all these pips.”
Though he knew he was unlikely ever to forget or forgive the Pegasus incident, Picard allowed his anger to subside. But he still had unanswered questions about the bureau and its agenda.
“Marta, I’d wager that your presence is proof that Starfleet Intelligence is more than a little interested in the Chiarosan situation. I have to wonder what they know that I don’t. Perhaps the Geminus Gulf isn’t so strategically worthless as the official reports seem to indicate?”
“That would make this whole business a lot simpler, wouldn’t it?” she said, smiling ruefully. “But as far as Intelligence knows, you can take the Geminus Gulf at face value. It consists of one barely habitable inhabited planet, dozens of lifeless star systems, some fluky subspace readings that are probably just instrumentation errors, and about sixty-six thousand cubic parsecs of otherwise extraordinarily uninteresting space.”
Rogue Page 4
