by Dayton Ward
Robinson sipped her coffee, her gaze shifting so that she appeared to be studying some point on the room’s far wall. “Give the lady a cigar.”
The attacks carried out on September 11, 2001, were the deadliest acts committed on American soil—until then, at least. Heffron, at that time a lieutenant colonel assigned to an unnamed organization attached to Majestic 12 at the Pentagon, was like many in her group trapped far belowground when American Airlines Flight 77, following its hijacking by five members of the al-Qaeda terrorist group, slammed into the building. Well protected far below the surface where the tragedy was unfolding, Heffron along with General Daniel Wheeler and the rest of his people had been forced to observe the rest of the day’s heart-wrenching events play out above their heads as well as in New York and Pennsylvania via televisions and computer monitors in her unit’s situation center. After nearly twenty-four hours spent in “the Trench,” as the room was known by those who worked there, Heffron and her people were able to piece together enough of the horrific puzzle to know who was responsible well before that information was made known to the rest of the world.
“My father was in the North Tower,” said Robinson, her voice cold and tense. “Managed to get most of his employees out of the building, then went back inside to look for stragglers. They never found him. Imagine how the world might have been in the years to come if those planes had been kept from hitting their targets. Maybe they didn’t need to be hijacked at all.” She shook her head. “Nope. Such overt action was apparently beyond the purview of my trusted friend and mentor, Roberta Lincoln, who didn’t even know about the attacks until it was too late. No need to know, as the saying goes.”
Listening to Rain Robinson give voice to something that continued to torment her even after all these years, Heffron wanted to offer some kind of sentiment or condolences, but words failed her. What must it be like, knowing you or the people you worked for possessed knowledge of future events, along with the means to affect the course of human history? How immense was the temptation to take active steps to shape that outcome? The responsibility to safeguard such information and abilities, along with the pressure to maintain a healthy perspective and not let that burden warp one’s judgment, must be all but overwhelming. It would take a special sort of person to wield such power; people like Gary Seven and Natalie Koroma, bred and trained for this very task. Then there were people like Roberta Lincoln and Rain Robinson, ordinary humans drawn into events beyond their comprehension, who had pledged themselves to the same arduous duty undertaken by Seven, Koroma, and others before them.
“Seven knew,” said Heffron, putting the pieces together. “Didn’t he?”
Draining whatever remained of her second cup of coffee, Robinson set the empty mug on the desk. “Of course he knew. He always knew, or at least he knew more than he let on, and certainly more than he told any of us. Even after he retired and left Roberta to run things, he’d still drop in every so often. You know, just to remind her—and me—who was really in charge. It wasn’t Roberta, and it sure as hell wasn’t me.”
“What did he do?” When Robinson did not answer her question, her expression once again taking on that faraway look, Heffron turned to Mestral, who despite his composed demeanor still appeared uncomfortable with the conversation.
“Yes,” he said. “Mister Seven knew of those events, and what it would mean for the people of this country and—ultimately—the rest of the planet. At least, he knew enough. Even he did not always possess complete knowledge of a particular event, let alone its ramifications. On many occasions, this reticence on the part of the Aegis to give him more information weighed on him, and there were times when he was not certain he was taking the correct action. This was especially true on that day.”
Heffron frowned. “He came back to Earth because of Nine Eleven?”
“In a manner of speaking. His mission was very small in scope, requiring him to prevent a single person from boarding one of the planes ultimately used in the attack. The Aegis tasked him with carrying out the assignment, rather than giving it to Miss Lincoln or Doctor Robinson. It was their contention that Mister Seven possessed the necessary detachment from the events to carry out the mission without . . . exceeding his mandate.”
“Exceeding his mandate.” When Robinson repeated the words, they were laced with contempt. “Rescue one person, who would go on to make significant contributions to human history. Shaun Christopher was worth saving, but Daniel Robinson wasn’t.”
The name was familiar. “Shaun Christopher, the astronaut?” Heffron recalled the man’s career, which concluded more than a decade earlier with his successful command of the first manned mission to Saturn. “Wow.” She looked to Robinson. “Doctor . . . Rain . . . I’m truly sorry.”
Robinson waved a hand in a dismissive gesture. “Not your fault. You weren’t the one with the book of secrets.”
She glanced to Mestral. “I don’t even blame Roberta, or you, Mestral. Neither of you had any idea, and that’s the only reason you’re still welcome here, but Seven?” She paused, blowing out a long breath that signaled she was wrestling to keep her emotions in check. “He knew. I don’t care what he told me. He had to know.”
“In my experience,” said Mestral, “Mister Seven was not given to lying, at least not to the people who worked with him.”
“Maybe not lying,” countered Robinson, “but he could definitely keep certain truths to himself. Even Roberta did that, sometimes, but never on that scale.” Her expression fell again. “At least, not that I know of.”
A tone from the Beta 7 caught their attention, and Heffron watched Mestral cross the office to the advanced computer’s console. Without saying anything, the Vulcan swept his hands across the station’s flat, smooth interface before tapping a series of illuminated keys. As he worked, the entire workstation seemed to die. The bars of multicolored light disappeared, the display monitors went dark, and even the console’s backlighting faded before the entire unit disappeared from view as the displaced section of brick wall returned to its proper position.
“Whoa,” said Robinson, rising from her chair. “What the hell just happened?”
Straightening his posture, Mestral replied, “I . . . am not certain. The alert we heard was due to a transmission being received from off-world, but it was not a message. I was only able to examine it for a moment, but it appeared to be a protocol for the Beta 7 to terminate all systems support for current operations here on Earth and then deactivate itself.”
“They ordered the computer to turn itself off?” asked Heffron. “Why?”
Mestral said, “I do not know. I attempted to countermand the directive, to no avail.” He looked to Robinson. “I am sorry, Doctor.”
“Figures.” The other woman’s expression was one of disdain. “Terminate all systems support? They’re pulling out and leaving us holding the bag. Bastards.”
Folding his arms, Mestral said, “It would seem a logical course of action. After the incident on Arran, our presence here is compromised. Majestic 12 knows about us, and they also know that we escaped. They will not stop looking for us, and it appears they were able to track us to our previous location. Whether they have obtained sufficient information about our technology and abilities to pose a threat remains to be seen.”
“Well, I was thinking bigger picture,” said Robinson. “I mean, the Aegis has been here in one form or another since the 1950s, right? In all that time, they’ve never done anything like this, and humans have put this planet through plenty over the years, but they’re leaving now? Something’s not making sense.”
Heffron could not believe her ears. “Seriously? They hung you out to dry? What the hell are we supposed to do now? Maybe something’s coming that they know they can’t stop, or feel that they shouldn’t even try.”
That’s pretty encouraging, isn’t it?
“The Aegis? Those saviors of humanity?” Robinson rolled her eyes. “Perish the thought.”
“For the
time being,” replied Mestral, “it seems that maintaining a low profile is the most prudent course of action available to us.”
Sighing in exasperation, Robinson said, “It’s been a while since I had a roommate. It’s a good thing I like you two, or else I’d kick both your asses to the street.”
19
Sralanya
2386
Picard watched T’Ryssa Chen pace her fiftieth circuit of the holding cell, if his count was to be trusted. In all fairness, he was unsure of his own figure. Losing track of time was easy in a place such as this, with no windows or timepieces. It was without doubt a deliberate measure on the part of his captors and part of a preplanned strategy for dealing with prisoners that would disorient them and make them more receptive to interrogation.
It might be working.
“Lieutenant,” he said when it appeared Chen might begin her fifty-first trip around the room. “Perhaps you should have a seat. The rest might do you some good.”
Chen smiled. “Thank you, sir, but I’m not really tired.”
“But watching you is exhausting your captain.”
Her smile turning to an expression of embarrassment, Chen moved to take a seat next to him. “Sorry, sir.”
Along with Chen, Picard was relieved to be reunited with the rest of the away team. Lieutenants Dina Elfiki and Austin Braddock along with Glinn Ravel Dygan occupied seats on one of the four benches lining two of the holding cell’s walls. Like him, the other members of the away team had been relieved of their communicator badges as well as any weapons or other equipment they may have been carrying. The communicators were the biggest loss, as without them there was no ready way to contact the Enterprise. If they were being held in an underground facility, the starship’s sensors might have difficulty locating them through whatever interference was being produced by the surrounding rock and mineral deposits.
The room they occupied was unremarkable, with stone walls, floor, and ceiling colored a uniform pale gray. Lighting panels set into the ceiling provided ample illumination, and the only exit was a heavy metal door set into the forward wall. The benches, each fashioned from a single piece of unidentified metal with no joints, right angles, or sharp edges, were secured to the floor against the side walls. An angled section of wall jutted out from the room’s far corner, providing a modicum of privacy around a hole in the floor that served as the holding cell’s lavatory.
Noting that Braddock had said little since Picard’s unceremonious arrival, he said, “Mister Braddock, I’m sorry about Lieutenant T’Sona. She gave her life defending mine, without hesitation. Presider Hilonu assures me that her remains will be treated with respect.” She had told him about the postdeath rituals observed by many Eizand, which involved cremation and interment in a special vessel that could, she promised, be delivered to the Enterprise at a more appropriate time.
“Thank you, Captain.” The young security officer swallowed before reaching up to wipe his forehead. “She was a good officer and an even better friend. I know she could come off sounding aloof, but once you got to know her, you realized she had a wicked sense of humor.” A small smile brightened the man’s features. “Even for a Vulcan, she had one of the best deadpan deliveries.”
One aspect of command with which Picard had never been comfortable was dealing with the death of a crewmember. He could in time come to accept it as an unfortunate aspect of a chosen life, but that did not ease the accompanying pain, in particular when it involved someone sworn to serve under his leadership. It did not matter how well he knew an individual officer—it was impossible to know each of the more than one thousand beings assigned to the Enterprise—for that lack of familiarity did not lessen their loss. It was no different when it came to those horrific occasions when he ordered subordinates on missions that led to their deaths. He never undertook such action lightly, and the repercussions of those decisions would always haunt him. Picard was grateful for that burden; it reminded him of the sacrifices made by those who answered the call to service and the tremendous costs that duty sometimes exacted.
“What about the Enterprise?” asked Chen. “I don’t care what Hilonu said. You just know Commander Worf is doing everything he can to find us.”
Picard said, “If she’s to be believed, the Enterprise encountered difficulty with the planet’s orbital defense network.”
Sitting across from the captain, Lieutenant Elfiki said, “If those satellites used their EMP generators, Commander Worf may have had no choice but to break orbit, rather than risk the ship being incapacitated.”
“According to Hilonu, that’s more or less what happened.” Picard recalled the terse report the presider had offered, following the message she sent to the Enterprise to warn them about taking us into custody. He was confident that Worf, whose diplomatic skills had evolved to rival his command abilities, would also be employing restraint, at least for the moment. The first officer would be assessing the situation and determining a course of action that would avoid or at least minimize possible casualties, in the hopes of salvaging any chance of brokering peaceful relations with the Eizand people. Crafting such a solution would take time, which meant that Picard and the away team would have to be patient.
Here’s hoping Hilonu and her people are equally tolerant.
“Captain,” said Elfiki, “can it be true? Is it really possible that we—Earth, I mean—could be responsible for what happened to these people?”
It was a question Picard had been pondering since Presider Hilonu’s startling revelation. “There’s strong evidence to suggest it, Lieutenant, but I’m not yet convinced. However, if it is true, then we are obligated to find out everything we can about what occurred here, and do everything in our power to balance the scales with the Eizand.”
“Three hundred years ago,” said Braddock, shaking his head. “It seems impossible, sir. I mean, we were barely able to leave our own planet back then. How could we possibly have managed something so advanced?” His expression turned sour. “And so terrible.”
Picard nodded. “That’s the rub, isn’t it? I suppose it’s possible that someone on Earth found and was able to exploit some piece of alien technology and use it for such a purpose, but that doesn’t give us a reason.”
“It couldn’t have been a sanctioned action,” said Chen. “I understand that Earth was having its share of problems during that time, but that’s what makes this illogical. Earth and humanity were embroiled by all sorts of internal strife, including the Third World War. How would they have had time or resources for something like that?”
Braddock added, “There’s certainly nothing in any of the history texts. According to everything I ever read, our space program slowed down considerably after the Mars missions of the mid-twenty-first century and didn’t really pick up again until after first contact with the Vulcans.”
Sitting next to Elfiki on the bench with his hands clasped before him, Glinn Dygan replied, “History is usually written by those in power, Lieutenant; all governments have their secrets. A lack of record does not mean that event did not happen.”
“Dygan has a point.” Picard offered a small, wan smile. “After all, history doesn’t record my witnessing humans’ first contact with the Vulcans.”
Chen crossed her arms. “Point taken, sir. Still, this? It’s just so beyond anything that makes any sense.”
“On that, we agree,” replied Picard, “but Glinn Dygan makes a valid observation. Why would such an action take place, and why would it be carried out in secret?”
The Cardassian said, “There have always been groups and organizations that have operated in the shadows, working clandestinely and often without accountability while striving for what they perceive to be a greater good. In many of these cases, the ends, in their mind, justify the means. Sometimes, these groups take the form of the Obsidian Order or the Tal Shiar. Even Starfleet Intelligence carries out covert missions in the name of security, Captain.”
“But even those groups an
swer to someone,” replied Elfiki.
“What about groups like Section 31?” asked Braddock. “We know they’ve been around in one form or another for more than two hundred years.”
Picard nodded. “And perhaps longer.” His own encounters with the mysterious shadow organization were few, but all were memorable, including one or two instances he would prefer to forget and even was ashamed to acknowledge. The group, which was active even before the Federation’s founding, had been involved in countless acts and decisions from behind the proverbial curtain, guiding and influencing and even coercing the history first of Earth and later the entire Federation. Even today, and despite a greater awareness of its existence and activities, the group remained couched in shadows, and pinning down the group or anyone affiliated with it continued to be a daunting task.
“When I was first offered command of the Enterprise—the predecessor to our current ship—I read the official logs of every captain of a ship named Enterprise dating back to the twenty-second century. Jonathan Archer, the captain of the first starship Enterprise, with the first propulsion system capable of achieving warp five, had a lot to say regarding his own encounters with Section 31. Even then, he expressed concerns that such a group, despite whatever noble intentions had led to its creation, ultimately could undermine the principles that had brought together the people of Earth and Vulcan, and later the Andorians and the Tellarites and indeed the entire Federation.”
He wasn’t wrong.
“Could something like Section 31 be behind whatever happened here?” asked Elfiki. “Regardless of what it became, the group was formed with a mission of defending humanity from external threats. It wasn’t a bad idea, but the lack of accountability probably doomed them from the start.”
Rising from the bench, Picard straightened his uniform before beginning to pace his own circle around the room’s perimeter. “There have been stories about such organizations, created for similar reasons by every national power on Earth dating back centuries. Nothing substantiated, but can every account be fiction? Most likely not.”