by Andy Mangels
“We are even prepared to listen to Ruardh’s honeyed words of peace,” Grelun said with a sneer, his anthracitehard gaze engaging Falhain’s. “Even though doing so may well be an exercise in futility.”
Moving too quickly to see, Falhain’s hands flew to the hafts of his blades, making plain his intended response to any further challenge to his authority. Grelun remained as still as a statue for several protracted heartbeats, then backed slowly away. But Zweller could see that fire still burned in the dark-haired warrior’s eyes.
Falhain won’t be able to keep that Good Right Hand of his tied behind his back forever.
The rebel chieftain relaxed his posture and turned his cold gaze once again upon Roget and Zweller. “My people are not bandits, humans. But we aredetermined. We willachieve peace, either at the talking table . . . or with the sword.”
Then Falhain brought his impossibly limber elbows quickly together, a motion that produced an alarmingly loud noise which was half whistle and half sandpaper rasp. Responding immediately, the guards hustled the sextet of Starfleet officers out of the room.
Zweller was the first to be separated from the others. Almost an hour after the meeting with Falhain had concluded, one of the guards escorted Zweller from a rockwalled holding cell and ushered him into a small, darkened office. A pneumatic door hissed shut behind him. Zweller was now unguarded, though still manacled. He approached the door through which he had entered. It remained solidly closed. Zweller guessed that the guard had locked it from the outside.
He heard a footfall behind him, and turned quickly toward the noise. “Lights,” said an aristocratic male voice, and the chamber’s illumination immediately rose to a faint twilight level.
A tall, ramrod-straight figure stepped into view from the shadows of an alcove. He had straight raven-black hair, combed forward, and the tips of his ears came to graceful points. His upswept eyebrows lent an air of expectation to his expression, as though he were a man accustomed to receiving satisfactory answers to his every question. He wore a gray-and-black Romulan military uniform, which was unadorned except for the emblem on his collar. The stylized sigil conjured for Zweller a mental image of a voracious, predatory bird.
Commander Cortin Zweller stood facing Koval, the chairman of the Tal Shiar, the Romulan Star Empire’s much-feared intelligence bureau—an agency which even members of the Romulan Senate crossed only at their peril.
Zweller held his shackled hands up. Koval spoke a terse command to the computer on his desk. The manacles dropped to the floor and Zweller gently rubbed his wrists to restore their circulation.
“Mnek’nra brhon, Orrha,”Zweller said, a phrase that meant “Good morning, Mr. Chairman,” in the other man’s language. Sometimes it was a good idea to remind an adversary that his secrets might not be as safe as he thinks—especially an adversary with whom one expects to do business.
Koval raised an eyebrow slightly, then replied in perfect Federation Standard. “Morning? An odd choice of words, Commander Zweller, considering where we are. But I must compliment you. Your accent is virtually undetectable. Section 31 trains its operatives well indeed.” He bowed his head almost imperceptibly.
Zweller failed to suppress a wry smile. Conversational Romulan 101,he thought. Aloud, he offered, “All part of the service. And likewise, I’m sure.”
“Then let us avoid any further irrelevancies and proceed directly to the business at hand.”
“A moment, please,” Zweller said, carefully holding the Romulan’s gaze. “About my colleagues—”
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 thisRomulan.
“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 reallywant 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 weexpand into the Gulf—or youdo. 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 theEnterprise 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 starshipSlayton, 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 Thunderchildto 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 Akiraclass. 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 Worldsby H. G. Wells, the H.M.S. Thunderchildwas 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 Worldswell, 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 Thunderchildwould 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.
