Tabor sensed Hawk’s confusion before he spoke. “Surely you can’t be saying that you plan to defy the Federation Council’s agenda,” the younger man said. “You can’t just act on your own initiative.”
“My own initiative? No, not entirely. But I do have a certain autonomy once the negotiations start. As a diplomat, the specific direction of the talks is often mine to choose.” Tabor felt Hawk inwardly wince, and quickly added, “As much as I care about galactic peace and interstellar amity, I feel just as strongly that the Federation must be protected, at all costs. Sometimes, that goal can only be achieved in unorthodox ways. Why, your very own captain has bent the rules of the Prime Directive more than once to achieve a greater good.”
“I’m not sure I know what you mean, sir . . . Aubin.”
“Haven’t you ever felt that the people making the rules sometimes make mistakes?”
“You aren’t suggesting that Starfleet Command is—”
Tabor leaned in closer to Hawk, conspiratorially. “I’m not suggesting that Starfleet Command is incompetent. But Starfleet is a gargantuan organization. Surely you can understand how some things might slip through the cracks? How mistakes can be made? How poor policies can be implemented and perpetuated?” Tabor probed again, and heard Hawk’s mind whisper Maquis, as if validating the ambassador’s words. He was relieved that Hawk was not prejudging him. He was, in fact, wanting to understand Tabor better.
“I will let you in on a secret, Sean. Starfleet knows that mistakes can be made. Are made. They’ve known it since the beginning. It’s why the founders of Starfleet created a secret bureau, an elite group whose job is to provide for the organization’s best interests.”
“You mean Starfleet Intelligence? They’re hardly a secret.”
“No, not S.I.” Tabor paused for a moment, knowing that what he was about to say marked the turning point in their conversation. “The group I’m talking about is known as Section 31.”
“I’ve never heard of it,” Hawk said. Tabor could feel the hunger for more information within the young man.
“Most people haven’t. I doubt even your Captain Picard, as wise and as knowledgeable as he is, is aware of the group, even though it was a part of Starfleet’s original charter two hundred years ago. Section 31 exists to identify anything that might threaten the Federation—and then deals with it, efficiently and quietly.”
“Has Starfleet really been all that bad at indentifying and handling threats?” Hawk said. Tabor could feel the lieutenant’s mind—his very conscience—struggling to wrap themselves around the ideas they were receiving.
Tabor smiled. “I didn’t mean to imply that, Sean. But the laws and principles that Starfleet’s officers of the line are sworn to uphold can hamstring them in certain . . . ethically gray situations. Section 31 has no such encumbrances. And that autonomy protects the ethical integrity of Starfleet’s mainline officers and the Federation’s leaders. Its agents answer to internal superiors, who, in turn, implement the decisions that other Federation operatives cannot.”
Tabor could tell that Hawk was truly becoming conflicted; he had begun to question not only modern-day Starfleet’s decisions, but also the schoolboy assumptions about history that most Federation citizens rarely called into question.
And yet, the lieutenant still could go either way. Tabor knew he had no choice but to press on.
“Sean, Section 31 also exists to make sure that mistakes that are made can be corrected. That the dangers which threaten the Federation’s existence—and those who are naive enough to expose the Federation to those dangers—are neutralized. Sometimes the agents have to step outside the rules to help keep the Federation’s true best interests in the forefront.”
Hawk rocked back on his seat, his brow furrowed. His voice was soft, almost a hiss. “Are you saying Starfleet has something like the Cardassian Obsidian Order or the Romulan Tal Shiar? That they sanction those sorts of operations?”
Tabor put on a wounded expression, and prepared to take the next step—confirming that he was a part of Section 31. He could read in Hawk’s mind that the young man had guessed it anyhow.
“We’re not assassins, son. The steps those groups will take to accomplish their ends are much more . . . proactive than ours. However, we value the survival of our way of life every bit as much as our adversaries do theirs. ‘Necessity knows no law except to prevail.’ One of Earth’s philosophers said that.”
“Publilius Syrus,” Hawk said quickly. “But he also said, ‘Pardon one offense, and you encourage the commission of many.’ It seems as if this group is above the law.”
“Not above it. Beneath it, perhaps. You might think of the bureau as the bulwark that makes the Federation’s ideals possible in the first place. The only reason freedom exists at all, Sean, is because of those who stand vigil outside on the ramparts. Section 31 upholds the Federation’s principles. Just as Picard has done on those occasions when he has bent the rules. Even in your short time on the Enterprise, I’m sure you can think of more than a few instances wherein he, or Commander Riker, have made decisions based more upon conscience than on the rule book.”
Tabor could feel Hawk’s thoughts swirling, but one question rose to the forefront more quickly than any other. “You’re wondering why I’m telling you this, aren’t you?” Tabor asked.
“Yes,” Hawk said, simply.
“It’s because Section 31 has need of new agents. Strong, reliable, honest men and women who are committed to the dreams of the Federation.” Tabor looked him directly in the eyes. “I believe you to be one of those men, Mister Hawk.”
“Me? I’m not—”
“You embody all of the qualities of the best Starfleet officers. Additionally, I believe that you may have an eidetic memory, a valuable tool for an agent.”
“I’ve always had a near-photographic memory, but . . .” Hawk shook his head, then asked, “Why now?”
“Because I fear that Section 31 may have lost an agent who was aboard the Slayton. Commander Cortin Zweller. He was on an important mission to Chiaros IV—a mission that would have altered the outcome of the peace talks in a way that would ultimately have benefited the Federation.”
“You mean . . . he was there to make sure the Romulans gain control of Chiaros IV.”
Tabor nodded slowly. “As you’ve no doubt surmised, I’ve decided to make sure that his mission succeeds. Especially if that mission has cost him his life.”
If Cortin died trying to trade the Geminus Gulf for that list of Romulan spies, Tabor thought, then I’ll be damned if I’m going to let his death be in vain. There’s too much history between us for that.
“I may need your aid in this matter, especially if something has happened to the Slayton and its crew. And beyond that . . . I would like to call upon you from time to time to help Section 31 in defending the Federation.”
Tabor felt Hawk’s apprehension and fascination grappling like opposing storm fronts. There’s trepidation there, yes, and confusion, Tabor thought. But the lad does indeed love a good adventure.
“Are you asking me to leave the Enterprise?” Hawk said.
“Not necessarily. This is the Federation’s flagship, after all. Section 31 could certainly use some alert eyes and ears here.”
Hawk’s crystal-blue eyes were wide as he considered everything Tabor had just said. Tabor could feel that he had punched all the right buttons for the young officer; now, the lieutenant just had to make the right decisions.
“I’m not sure about this, Ambassador. Covert operations, spying . . .” Hawk trailed off.
“Sounds like something out of one of your mother’s books,” Tabor said, almost lightheartedly. “There are many instances in history where selfless people have had to stand alone or work in secret for the benefit of all.” He let his words hang in the air for a moment. Tabor could sense that it was time to ease up and disengage. Gently, he said, “I understand, Sean. Really, I do. And I appreciate the gravity with which you are appro
aching my offer. It speaks highly of your personal ethics.”
He paused, then added, “But I would ask you to keep our conversation confidential, even from your partner. I am not exaggerating when I tell you that the very safety of the Federation depends upon Section 31’s continued secrecy. And I’m trusting you with an enormous secret.” Tabor stood, and offered his hand to the young man.
“I understand, sir,” Hawk said, standing as well. He gripped the ambassador’s hand firmly and shook it. “I just need some time to think.” Probing gently, Tabor noted with relief that Hawk had made no plans as yet to inform his superiors of this meeting.
“Certainly. But I hope you can decide soon. I believe that something may have gone terribly wrong in the Chiaros system. We could discover things there that we didn’t anticipate. And such surprises could jeopardize not only the bureau’s Chiarosan mission, but also the Federation’s vital interests elsewhere. If you truly care about the Federation’s security as much as I think you do . . . well, I hope we’ll be talking again soon.”
Aubin Tabor turned and walked away, his eyes and nose taking in the lovely sights and smells of the arboretum, while his mind drank in the thoughts of a very conflicted Lieutenant Hawk.
As the bridge turbolift doors hissed open, Captain Picard saw Commander Will Riker stand abruptly from the captain’s chair, tugging at his tunic. With Admiral Batanides at his side, the scowling Picard strode toward the center of the bridge, looking at the viewscreen.
“Is that what I think it is, Number One?”
“Yes, sir. It’s wreckage from the Slayton. It seems to be scattered throughout this region of space. It might have been spread out by radiation pressure, or maybe by a spatial distortion wave of some sort.”
Data, already at his post, looked down at the computer panels upon which information scrolled. “These specific pieces are hull plating from the starboard side. Scans show a distinct pattern of disruptor weaponry. The type is indeterminate. I am attempting a more complete scan to match any residual disruptor particles with—”
“Data, are there any survivors?” Picard asked, interrupting.
“Unknown, sir. The dispersal of the wreckage over such a wide volume of space has made it impossible for us to tell if any escape pods were jettisoned.” Data turned, looking over his shoulder toward Picard. “If there are any survivors, it is likely that they would have traveled to Chiaros IV.”
Batanides spoke up. “Have you been able to trace any combadge signals?”
“The planet’s atmosphere appears to be impenetrable to combadge signals and disrupts most other subspace traffic as well, including transporters and sensors,” Data said. “Ship-to-ground communication is possible only through the Chiarosan government’s orbiting communications tether.”
“Have the Chiarosan authorities made any progress searching for survivors?”
“They have been conducting searches ever since the delegation from the Slayton failed to arrive in the capital city. However, the authorities report that no Starfleet personnel have been located anywhere on the planet’s surface, either on the Dayside or the Nightside.”
“We can’t give up on them, Mr. Data,” said Picard. “Continue searching for survivors any way you can.”
A voice came from behind them. “There are other concerns, Captain.” Picard turned to see Ambassador Tabor, standing just outside one of the turbolifts. He had not heard the doors open, nor did he know how long the ambassador had been standing there.
“With all due respect, Ambassador, the Chiarosan negotiations can—”
“Captain, was not your primary mission to this system a diplomatic one?”
Picard seethed inwardly, resenting the ambassador’s intrusion. “Yes, it is. But there are missing Starfleet personnel who may be alive in an extremely hostile environment.” He pointed to the aurora-swept surface of the planet on the viewscreen, the backdrop to the floating debris from the Slayton.
“I’m well aware of that, Captain. One of those missing is an old friend of yours, and of Vice-Admiral Batanides. But since there seems to be little you can do at the moment to expedite the search, the preparations for my mediation between First Protector Ruardh’s government and Falhain’s dissident faction should take precedence. It’s entirely possible that the Slayton’s survivors are safe and sound in the company of the Chiarosan rebels.”
Such a development didn’t quite fit with Picard’s notion of “safe and sound.” His eyes narrowed slightly as he considered the ambassador’s words. He turned, addressing Riker.
“Number One, prepare a shuttlecraft. We’ll depart for the planet just as soon as it’s ready. We’ll be arriving a little early for the peace talks, but we can spend the extra time searching for survivors.”
“Here’s hoping we’ll find out what happened to the Slayton by talking to her crew,” Riker said, as he left for the shuttlebay.
“Amen to that, Number One,” Picard said quietly to Riker’s back. He turned again toward Tabor. “I trust this will be acceptable to you, Ambassador?”
“Certainly, Captain,” Tabor said, smiling graciously. “It seems you have devised a wonderful solution.”
“I’ll be in my ready room,” Picard announced curtly, and exited the bridge.
Chapter Four
The search had proved fruitless, with not a single trace of wreckage from the Archimedes—nor any combadge signals—showing up on the sensors, even once the Enterprise shuttlecraft Brahe had gone below the worst of the roiling atmospheric storms. As Picard and his away team traveled to the Chiarosan capital, sensors had picked up faint traces of energy signatures which could have belonged to Starfleet weaponry, but the ion-charged air had dispersed the particles so much that nothing conclusive could be found. Still, Picard was wary, remembering Marta Batanides’s assertions that the rebel factions were using stolen Starfleet weapons.
The shuttle had been joined by a Chiarosan escort as it neared the capital city, Hagraté, a glittering collection of low-built monolithic towers and spires. The ships had threaded their way between the buildings, flying just above the tallest of them; since the winds buffeted the shuttle even at this low altitude, Picard understood why no building stood higher.
The tallest of them appeared to be religious temples or churches; when the captain had mentioned this, Tabor confirmed that the Chiarosans worshiped multiple deities, and that the more affluent were seen as blessed by the gods. Religious classism, Picard thought, glad that Earth’s society had long ago evolved beyond such artificial stratification.
Throughout the city was a vast tangle of pipes and aqueducts, which Picard guessed carried water from whatever processing stations or reservoirs existed. He suspected, given the planet’s known shortage of agricultural resources, that the most heavily guarded buildings they had passed on the outskirts of Hagraté might be the water-pumping stations, vapor-extraction facilities, and soil-enhancement plants.
Upon landing, Picard’s team—Commander Riker, Data, Counselor Troi, and Ambassador Tabor—disembarked from the Brahe, and were greeted by an armed escort, each carrying bladed weapons hung from ornate sashes. Picard tugged at his formal dress-uniform tunic, straightening it, as a female Chiarosan stepped forward, from behind several of the guards. “I am Senator Curince. Welcome to Chiaros IV.”
Picard smiled slightly, gesturing to his companions. “I’m Captain Jean-Luc Picard, of the U.S.S. Enterprise. This is my first officer, Commander Will Riker, and two other members of my senior staff, Lieutenant Commander Data, and Counselor Deanna Troi. And this gentleman is Federation Ambassador Aubin Tabor.”
Tabor stepped forward and performed a complex series of movements with his hands before bowing almost imperceptibly, his formal robes shimmering slightly as the light caught their metallic threadwork patterns. “I apologize that I cannot greet you with the grace of your people,” said Tabor, “but my joints have never been as limber as yours, Madam Senator.”
Senator Curince evinced a sharp-toothe
d grin, obviously impressed. “Your greeting is appreciated nonetheless, Ambassador.” Her gaze took him in for a moment more, then she turned her head slightly toward Picard, ignoring his other officers completely. “Were your ship’s instruments able to find any trace of the missing diplomatic shuttle?”
“No, Madam Senator,” Picard said. “I’m afraid the atmospheric turbulence of your world limits the full range of our sensors.”
Curince raised an eyebrow, and said, “Our planet is a harsh and unforgiving one. You are among the first members of any . . . weaker species to ever visit its surface.”
Picard offered a wan smile, unsure whether to feel insulted or not. His eyes shifted over to Tabor, who was smiling calmly.
A Chiarosan assistant approached and handed Curince a large electronic tablet, mounted on which were a display screen and a number of blinking buttons. She looked at it briefly, then held it out to Picard. “This device contains all the data we have on your missing shuttle, and on the apparent use of Starfleet weaponry against our defense troops. Our comm tellers transmitted the files to you previously, but given the effect that recent storms have had on our communications relay, it was decided that an uncorrupted transmission recording might aid you in your search.” As Picard prepared to take the device, she added, “If you need one of our people to help you interpret the use of the recorder, we can provide a technician.”
Picard gave another polite smile. This woman is really taxing my patience. “Thank you, Senator. We have excellent technicians on our ship. As generous as your offer is, I’m sure we will be able to decode the files ourselves.” He turned and handed the machine to Data, almost imperceptibly rolling his eyes. Only his crew saw the gesture.
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