Rogue

by Michael A. Martin

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

  “They found the wreckage of the Slayton a 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. Something did happen to the ship. To that other agent’s mission. Commander Zweller.

  Keru took a sip of his ale. “Oh. I thought that might be what this mood is 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 told you 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—and 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 Romulans have been behind this attack, even at the risk of their own diplomats? They’re already our prime suspects in the Slayton affair, 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 Hagraté 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.

  How can we be sure of anything when every corner seems to hide someone’s secret agenda?

  Picard’s combadge chirped, and Beverly Crusher’s voice dispelled the silence of the room. “Captain, I’ve found something.”

  “The admiral and I will meet you in my ready room,” Picard said crisply.

  “What?” Batanides looked incredulous.

  Beverly Crusher stood her ground. Picard knew that as a doctor, she had become used to delivering bad news; it didn’t make it easier just because she had done it before, but it had made her emotional hide thicker, so that she didn’t take the reactions personally. Crusher placed a small vial down on the ready-room table, slowly and deliberately.

  “I’m not sure what it is, Admiral. But I found this implant in your . . . in Ambassador Tabor’s brain.”

  Picard picked up the vial and studied the small item inside it. It was a microchip of some sort, with multiple hair-thin cables extruding from its interface, looking like so many ganglia. “Do you have any idea what its purpose might be?”

  Crusher sighed. “I’m not sure. It could be medical, but it’s not a piece of technology that I’m familiar with. It might also be something unique to the Ullian species.” She turned slightly toward Batanides. “Did the ambassador ever mention having suffered a brain trauma or neurological disorder in the past?”

  “No. He was always in perfect health,” the admiral replied. “But I suppose it could date back to before we met.”

  The doors hissed open, and Lieutenant Commanders Data and Geordi La Forge stepped into the ready room, each of them snapping to a more formal posture than normal due to Batanides’s presence.

  “Good timing,” said Picard, handing his chief engineer the vial. “Geordi, Data, I want you to analyze this component and determine its p
urpose.”

  “Yes, sir,” La Forge said, and moved to a corner of the ready room with the vial. He scrutinized its contents closely while Data began scanning it with his tricorder. They spoke to each other in low tones.

  Batanides turned toward the doctor. “Did you find any other . . . abnormalities during the autopsy, Dr. Crusher?”

  “No, Admiral. A full scan showed that his health was as good as you’ve said. His death was entirely the result of the internal and external trauma caused by the Chiarosan weapons.”

  “Killed by a dagger and a sword. Not even a disruptor.” Batanides shook her head. “And we don’t even know who did it. Or why.” The admiral stepped over to the window, looking out at the stars. “Every calamity that’s happened on that world, every disaster that’s hit this region . . . and it’s all due to the hidden agendas of rebels and rogues.”

  A heavy silence hung in the air. Picard exchanged glances with Crusher, but neither of them seemed inclined to speak just yet.

  La Forge cleared his throat, ending the awkward moment.

  Picard turned toward Geordi and Data, and immediately noticed the android’s satisfied smile. “Did you find something already?”

  “Yes, sir. Our scans have identified the likely source of this chip. Its technology has, however, been greatly modified.”

  “Modified from what, Data?” Crusher asked.

  “From a Cardassian cranial implant,” said La Forge.

  Picard looked stunned. “Cardassian?”

  “The chip is similar to a highly classified biotechnological implant that has been used in the past by operatives of the Obsidian Order,” Data said. “The original implants were designed to stimulate endorphins, thus allowing operatives to withstand great amounts of pain, and even torture. Starfleet Command first learned of these devices more than two years ago, thanks to a report filed by Deep Space 9’s chief medical officer, Dr. Julian Bashir.”