Section 31: Rogue (star trek: the next generation)

by Andy Mangels

  Falhain looked to Picard again, one eyebrow raised. “Your question is rather pointless, is it not, Captain? If the Romulans were going to conquer us, why have they not done so before now?”He paused for a moment, seemingly for the question to sink in, then continued. “I am not a blind man, Picard, nor one who is easily convinced in any argument. The Romulans have neither hindered nor aided us in our battles. My belief is that their chief concern in whether or not Ruardh continues to rule is that they wish to expand the boundaries of the worlds that are a part of their empire, and to stop the creeping expansion and domination of your people. If the referendum moves to Ruardh’s wishes—toward acceptance of Federation membership—the Empire will ultimately lose. If the people’s willwins out, and we rejectthe Federation, then we will be able to continue to chart our own destiny, free of an oppressive outside structure which would support a government that kills its own children!”

  Tabor held up his hands to call for order, and Picard broke his eyes away from his steady gaze into Falhain’s. Behind him, and to his side, he saw Deanna Troi’s expression change dramatically, from one of concern to one of pain and shock. Suddenly, she leaped forward, pushing Picard to the ground. A sizzling beam of energy sliced through the air where he had been standing seconds before.

  And then all hell broke loose. From the top of the arena, disruptor fire rained down upon the Chiarosan leaders, the Romulans, and the Starfleet personnel. The second blast struck one of Falhain’s rebels in the chest, leaving a smoking crater in his furred skin as he toppled backward. In moments, the Chiarosans—on both sides of the political spectrum—had drawn their scimitar-like swords, or other bladed weapons, and a melee erupted.

  As Troi dove toward a bench, a disruptor blast searing the marble floor by her feet, Picard rolled to one side. A Chiarosan rebel turned and saw him, and raised one scimitar above his head to strike a killing blow. Picard kicked his foot up between the warrior’s legs, and the impact had the desired effect. Picard rolled again as the rebel’s now-unsteady swing missed its mark. A sharp whistling sound went over the captain’s head, as a nearby Chiarosan used his own blade to chop off the sword arm of the attacker, burying the metal into his foe’s chest. The severed Chiarosan arm flopped down on top of Picard, still clutching its curved weapon.

  The captain quickly wrested the scimitar from the hand’s grasp and stood in a defensive crouch. In his mind, Picard cursed the rules of Federation diplomacy that forbade weapons, leaving himself and his officers the only ones unprotected in the fight. He searched for his friends in the melee, but couldn’t spot them. Nor could he see Tabor.

  The fighting was loud and brutal, and inhumanly fast. The soldiers and the rebels were interlocked in savagery, their guttural yowls and clanging steel blades creating an awesome din. Picard spotted a soldier advancing on two of the Romulans, holding his weapons in both hands. The captain launched himself at the warrior with a yell, but one of the Romulans was killed before he could cover the distance.

  The Chiarosan swung one sword high, and the other low, but Picard ducked and brought his own blade to parry the lower blow. Picard kept the blades in contact and forced both to swing to one side. Before the warrior could recover, Picard brought his weapon down again. It connected with his opponent’s wrist, and the lightly furred hand was cleanly separated from his arm.

  The attacker howled, and slashed at Picard with his remaining scythe. Although his aim was unsteady, he still managed to connect, the tip of his weapon slicing through Picard’s tunic and slitting his upper chest. Suddenly, the Chiarosan howled and crumpled forward, a saber wound bleeding at the base of his spine. Behind him was one of Ruardh’s bodyguards, who gave Picard a brief glance of respect before turning to fight another of the rebels.

  Picard sensed a presence behind him and turned, his blade at the ready. He relaxed only slightly when he saw that it was Data, now holding a Chiarosan sword himself. He had no doubt that the android’s reflexes allowed him to fight valiantly, but as he put a hand up to his own bleeding chest, engaging in more battle was not on his mind.

  “Data, access the shuttle’s onboard computer and beam us out.” Data used his free hand to punch several buttons on his tricorder, while Picard scanned the arena to see if he could spot Riker or Troi or Tabor; he still couldn’t see them through the fighting hordes. Picard tapped his combadge, and yelled to Riker, but the din was too intense for him to hear if there was a reply.

  “I’ve got it, sir.” As Picard looked toward Data, two Chiarosans toppled toward them, caught in a mutual death grip, each skewered on the other’s blades. “Energizing.”

  And in a moment, Picard was back aboard the shuttlecraft. He tumbled off the transporter pad, still flinching from the two warriors who had been falling toward him. Data squatted on a nearby pad.

  “Where are Will and Deanna? And Tabor?”

  Data scrambled over to the transporter console, and punched a few buttons, moving his fingers downward in a swift motion on the touchpad. “Attempting retransport now, Captain.”

  The familiar sparkle of the transporter shimmered on three pads, but what materialized wasn’t Picard’s first officer and counselor. Instead, their combadges clattered to the floor. On the third pad was Tabor, his back to them as he stood, hunched over. He turned toward them, stumbling, his right hand holding his throat, his left hand at his chest.

  Tabor’s legs could no longer hold him, and he fell forward, his left hand moving forward to break his fall. Picard heard a chilling sound when the ambassador hit the floor, as the point of a Chiarosan dagger pushed up through Tabor’s spine. Data and Picard turned Tabor over, only to discover purplish-crimson liquid spilling from between the diplomat’s fingers.

  “We’ve got to get him to the Enterprise,”Picard said. “Data, get us out of here.”

  As the android moved to the shuttle’s flight controls, Picard tried to apply firmer pressure to Tabor’s neck wound, holding his head upward. The knife still jutted from his chest, but Picard knew better than to try to remove it before getting him back to the Enterprise.Crusher could save him, if anyone could. He silently cursed the fact that shuttles did not come equipped with Emergency Medical Holograms, and vowed to bring that up with Starfleet Command in his next report.

  Entering the stormy atmosphere, the shuttle lurched from side to side. Picard braced himself with one hand, trying not to let Tabor move too much. Tabor’s left hand grabbed weakly at Picard’s tunic, pulling him down. The ambassador was trying to say something, though the sounds coming from his mouth made Picard’s skin crawl. He leaned in closely, listening.

  “Fal . . . Falhain . . . is . . . dead.”

  What had seemed a heated debate less than ten minutes ago had just ended more horribly than Picard could ever have imagined. Falhain, the leader of the rebels, was now a martyr. Ambassador Tabor lay dying in his arms. Riker and Troi were missing, and possibly killed as well. The Chiarosan government—however corrupt— might soon fall to the Romulan Empire. And there was still no sign of survivors from the Slayton.

  These are the times that try men’s souls,he thought ruefully as the shuttle sped into orbit.

  Chapter Five

  Hawk sat in the darkened quarters, the soothing voices of a Celtic choir washing over him from the computer speakers. Sometimes it felt odd to him, hearing the ancient songs and melodies of his pre-Martian forebears—the bohdran and the oud and the harps—reverberating in the pristine starship environment. He did feel, however, that the juxtaposition of his life now, traveling the stars with the lives of his ancestors, the nomadic Celts who explored ancient Europe, created a comfortable overlap. Exploration was in his blood.

  But is espionage?

  Following his meeting with Ambassador Tabor in the arboretum, Hawk had eaten a meal—alone in a storage bay—and then wandered the corridors of the ship. He purposely avoided walking anywhere near work stations of crewmembers he was friendly with; he didn’t really want to talk to anyone. Ranul hadn’t cont
acted him on his combadge, but he knew that eventually, he would.

  Hawk had finally returned to their quarters to further ruminate about what he’d been told. The ambassador’s words replayed in his mind almost exactly. His memory was—as always—crystal clear. An eidetic memory.That’s what Tabor had called it. But what good were Tabor’s words, laid out in his mind like a map, if he wasn’t sure whether he could trust the intent behind them?

  It made sense, really, that Starfleet would have a secret intelligence branch. Every other major power in the quadrant had its own intelligence communities. Still, it felt at odds with the stated purpose of Starfleet to engage in the kind of surveillance and skulduggery that Earth’s inhabitants had left behind after making first contact.

  At the same time, he knew that Starfleet wasn’t infallible. During his time as a junior officer and serving on the Enterprise— especially,perhaps, while serving on the Enterprise—he had seen many of his superior officers make decisions that ran counter to the tenets he had been taught at the Academy. Although those choices were always made with the best intentions, he saw that the rules were made to flex and bend to fit the situations. The Prime Directive was clearly notthe end-all of solutions.

  Although the music drowned out the sound of the opening doors, the sliver of light that came into the room signaled to Hawk that Keru had returned. He looked up and gave his partner a half-smile, then resumed his downward gaze. He knew that Keru would sense that something was wrong; he just didn’t know how he could talk to him about the subject without breaking the secrecy Tabor had requested of him.

  “Computer, lower music,” Keru said, as he crouched down in front of Hawk. He looked to him, his eyes showing concern. “What’s wrong, Sean?”

  “Nothing I can talk about.”

  “What? Did I do something?” Keru looked crestfallen for a moment, and Hawk knew that he was steeling his nerves for whatever was to come next.

  Hawk quickly amended his statement. “It’s not about us,”he said, reassuringly. “It’s . . . it’s something classified.”

  The Trill looked up, relief showing on his face. He moved up and sat next to Hawk, putting a hand on his shoulder. “I understand. Is it something about this Chiarosan situation?”

  Hawk hated being evasive, especially with the man he loved. “Yes and no. I can’t talk about it.”

  “Is the ship in danger? The Romulans?”

  “I saidI can’t talk about it,” Hawk said edgily. He stood, and paced over to the wall.

  “They found the wreckage of the Slaytona few hours ago,” Keru said, getting up and moving to the replicator. “No survivors. Still no sign of the Archimedes,though.” He ordered a dark ale, and it shimmered into solidity on the replicator pad.

  “I hadn’t heard.” Hawk’s hand reflexively clenched. Tabor was right. Somethingdid happen to the ship. To that other agent’s mission. Commander Zweller.

  Keru took a sip of his ale. “Oh. I thought thatmight be what this moodis about.”

  Hawk sighed heavily. “No, it’s not, Ranul. And I’m not in a ‘mood,’ I just have some important things to think about.”

  Keru sat down on the couch, spreading one hand wide as if sweeping the air. “And here I thought that after two years together I could recognize your moods. Dark room, Celtic music, avoiding the topic—”

  “I toldyou it was classified,” Hawk said sharply.

  “Fine, whatever.” Keru took another sip of his ale and sat in silence for a moment. “Do you want to get something to eat?”

  “I already ate.”

  Keru put his glass down on a table next to the couch and stood up, wiping a bit of foam from his mustache. “Well, I guess I’ll go eat alone,then. Let you continue your nonmood.” He moved toward the door and hesitated, looking over at Hawk.

  “I’m sorry,” Hawk said quietly.

  The door whisked open in front of Keru, and the sound of raised voices and running came from down the outside hallway.

  “Something’s wrong,” Keru said, peering down the corridor. Hawk moved over swiftly to join him, in time to see the turbolift doors close in front of a very distraught-looking Vice-Admiral Batanides and two security officers.

  Hawk looked down the corridor, and spotted another pair of security officers. He recognized one of them as Lieutenant Sallee Huber, and called out to her. “ Lieutenant Huber. What’s happening?”

  The older of the two stopped and turned toward the two men. “It’s all hit the fan, Hawk. There was a massacre down on Chiaros IV. Commander Riker and Counselor Troi are missing, and Ambassador Tabor’s been badly wounded. They’ve just beamed him to sickbay!”

  The color drained from Hawk’s face as he turned toward Keru. Standing next to him, his partner appeared equally surprised by the news, his mouth hanging open.

  First had come Commander Zweller’s disappearance, then the discovery of wreckage from the Slayton.Now Tabor had been attacked. If Hawk needed another sign that he needed to act, then perhaps this was it. Something was seriously wrong, and Hawk knew that he would do whatever it took to help find a solution. And if that meant working with Section 31, then so be it.

  “I’m going up to the bridge. They might need me.” Hawk gave his partner a quick kiss on the cheek, and stalked into the hallway, tugging at the bottom of his tunic.

  “Marta, please!” Picard grabbed the admiral by the shoulders, more forcefully than he had intended. Ambassador Tabor had died fifteen minutes ago on the operating table, despite Dr. Crusher’s best efforts. Since then, once the scimitar gash to his own chest had been sealed, Picard had tried to comfort Marta Batanides. At first, she had resisted being taken from sickbay, until Crusher had made it a medical order. Picard had brought her to his quarters; her own would have been a painful reminder of Tabor.

  Picard had just slipped into a new tunic in the other room—he had discarded his blood-splattered outer garments in sickbay—when he heard a crash. He emerged to find that Batanides had thrown a glass vase across the room and into a wall. Now, as he grabbed her, she moved into his open arms, sobbing.

  He found himself simultaneously uneasy and comfortable as he held her. Her hair was falling down in strands from the back of the intricate braided bun she wore, tickling his hands. He felt the years melt away, recalling their friendship at the Academy, the romance that could have been but had never blossomed. And he now felt like her protector; she may have outranked him, but for the moment, she was a friend in pain, and he was doing what he could to shield her, to comfort her.

  Batanides stopped crying, and sniffed. He felt her hand unclench near his clavicle and wipe at her eyes. And then, she backed away from him, turning slightly as she wiped her cheek.

  “Marta, I’m so sorry.”

  She straightened slightly, closing her eyes and breathing in deeply through her nose. And then she finally spoke, the tremors still evident in her voice, but the commanding presence of mind returning to her once again. “Yes, thank you, Jean-Luc. I know you did everything you could to help him.”

  “It wasn’t nearly enough,” Picard said, resignedly.

  “No, I don’t blame you. From what you’ve said, nothing could have prevented what happened . . . except perhaps a little restraint on the rebels’ part.”

  “We don’t know for certain who initiated the fighting. In fact, the first one I saw killed by disruptor fire was a rebel soldier.”

  Batanides looked him steadily in the eye, once more the cool senior Starfleet officer. “Regardless, from what you’ve already told me, the rebels were definitely firing on your away team, the government delegation, and the Romulans as well. This Army of Light seems willing to resort to any level of violence to thwart Ruardh’s diplomatic efforts, and to bring the legitimate government down.”

  “Marta, there is more to this situation than the Federation has been told. Falhain’s people have made grievous charges against the government. I saw evidence implicating Ruardh in military strikes against civilian dissidents—a
nd even ‘ethnic cleansing.’ I’m no longer so firmly convinced that we’re supporting the right side in this matter.”

  She frowned. “Are you saying that we should throw our support behind Falhain’s followers instead? Allow Chiaros IV to fall into the hands of the Romulans?”

  “No. What I’m saying is that—”

  “Wait.” The admiral held up her hand, her face expressing surprise. “Why didn’t we look at this before? Could the Romulanshave been behind this attack, even at the risk of their own diplomats? They’re already our prime suspects in the Slaytonaffair, whether or not we can prove it.”

  Picard nodded, weighing her words. “It could be that the Romulans’ plans for the Geminus Gulf are related to the Slayton’s destruction.”

  “Maybe the rebels didn’t touch off the chaos in HagratÈ after all, Johnny. Maybe the real culprits were a few well-placed Romulan agents provocateurs.”

  “Unfortunately, Commander Data’s analysis doesn’t quite bear that out. None of the energy signatures he detected were Romulan in origin. But some of them actually appear to belong to Starfleet weapons.”

  “So the finger of blame points back toward the rebels after all,” she said, looking satisfied.

  “No, not necessarily,” Picard said. “You said that Starfleet Intelligence had been given reports that the rebels were using stolen weapons, but that could have been deliberate disinformation intended to muddy the local politics even further. You could have been strung along, given false information. . . . It certainly seems possible, given that the alleged atrocities of Ruardh’s regime have been kept secret until now.”

  For a long moment, Picard’s eyes locked with Batanides’s. Behind her intense stare, he knew that her mind was racing, trying to overcome her grief using cold, hard logic. But the situation on Chiaros IV was too complex, too unstable, to be explained by simple dialectic reasoning. Too many elements were wild, or just plain unknown.