Rogue

by Michael A. Martin

  Curince glared at him. “Perhaps,” she said, then paused. “Speaking of Falhain’s rebel successor, we have also been informed that he is now aboard your vessel.”

  Information which also no doubt came from T’Alik, Picard thought. He was convinced that the Romulan ambassador knew far more about her own government’s covert activities on Chiaros IV than she was willing to admit.

  Picard decided there was nothing to be gained by dissembling about the Chiarosan leader. “Grelun was seriously injured shortly before his base was destroyed,” he said. “He’s presently in our sickbay.”

  “I trust that his wounds were not mortal,” Curince said, her voice flat.

  “No, Senator. In fact, Dr. Crusher expects him to make a full recovery.”

  Ruardh looked disappointed to hear that. “Captain, you will turn him over to my military guard,” she said in a low growl.

  “I understand, Madame Protector. But first, I would like to know what will become of him.”

  Ruardh’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “He will be dealt with as an enemy of the state according to Chiarosan law.” She didn’t need to tell them that meant a death sentence. “My government tried once already to reach out to Falhain and Grelun in friendship. You witnessed the results yourself.”

  Picard had been afraid she might say something like this, but he wasn’t surprised. “I’m very sorry to hear that, Madame Protector,” he said.

  Curince tipped her head with evident curiosity. “Are you refusing our lawful request, Captain? Surely, that would not be consistent with the vaunted neutrality of your Federation.”

  “Let me assure you both, I have no intention of flouting your laws. However, my chief medical officer has yet to certify Grelun as ready to travel.”

  Ruardh nodded, a disconcerting smile on her face. “Your physician is wise, Captain. No one should be consigned to the flames while infirm. Death must be faced with strength.”

  “But please make no mistake, Captain,” Curince said. “The vote will go badly for you. And if you try to take Grelun with you when you withdraw from our world, a great deal more will go badly for you.”

  At a gesture from Ruardh, the two Chiarosans vanished from the screen. An orbital vista of their stormtossed homeworld replaced their images.

  Batanides broke the silence that had fallen over the bridge. “You know I can’t let you keep Grelun aboard the Enterprise in defiance of the Chiarosan government.”

  “The referendum is still two days away, Admiral. I have at least that long before it comes to that. But in the meantime, I can’t simply hand him over to someone who feels entitled to summarily execute him.”

  “And what about after the referendum? If the Chiarosans throw us out, you won’t have the legal authority to make that decision.”

  Picard was bitterly aware of that fact. But it changed nothing in his mind.

  “You have the conn, Mr. Data,” he said, and then stalked back into the turbolift, Batanides following close behind.

  Standing beside Grelun’s biobed, Crusher was methodically applying a dermal regenerator to wounds on the Chiarosan’s forearms; the burns began to vanish almost immediately. Picard glanced at the biobed readouts. To his untrained eye, the Chiarosan’s vital signs appeared strong.

  A quartet of alert security personnel stood behind Crusher, watching vigilantly as she worked. Ensign Lynch, the head of the security detail, stared wide-eyed at the Chiarosan, obviously impressed.

  “He must mass a quarter of a ton,” Lynch said incredulously. “What I wouldn’t give to see him in action.”

  Batanides scowled. “Ensign, you’d better pray that you never have to tangle with anything that big or mean outside of your daydreams.”

  Lynch reddened slightly, as though chastised. But he did not avert his gaze from the slumbering Chiarosan.

  Picard glanced to the other side of the sickbay, where Dr. Anthony, Dr. Gomp, Nurse Ogawa, and a pair of orderlies were tending to the various bumps and bruises suffered by Counselor Troi, Lieutenant Hawk, and several members of the Slayton crew, none of whom appeared to be grievously injured. Liz Kurlan, the Slayton’s xenoanthropologist, still had a livid bruise across her forehead. Chief Engineer Hearn took a tentative step on a newly repaired knee.

  Picard noticed that Zweller was conspicuously absent, as was Riker.

  Picard tapped his combadge. “Computer, locate Commander Cortin Zweller.”

  “Commander Cortin Zweller is in the main shuttlebay,” the computer responded.

  During the flight back to the Enterprise, Riker had mentioned Zweller’s propensity for cloak-and-dagger behavior. For a split second, he feared that Corey might be trying to flee the ship.

  “Computer, is anyone with Commander Zweller?”

  “Commander Zweller is with Commander Riker and Lieutenant Commander La Forge.”

  Batanides approached Picard and spoke quietly. “At least we know he’s staying put. I think we ought to go to the shuttlebay and ask him for some details about what he saw down on Chiaros IV.”

  “I quite agree,” Picard said quietly. “Then we can return to the problem of whether we can repatriate a guest whose government wants to murder him.” He nodded toward Grelun.

  Suddenly, the Chiarosan began to move, as though roused by the captain’s words. His crystalline eyes fluttered open, darted quickly about the room, and locked with Picard’s. One of his large, bronzed hands reached upward toward Crusher, who backed away as Lynch and the other security officers drew their phasers. The forcefield restraints crackled against Grelun’s biceps and thighs, forcing him back against the table. He struggled again, this time throwing his body into the forcefield.

  Through it all, his gaze never wavered from Picard’s.

  “He’s going to kill himself if he keeps that up,” Crusher said. Moving with a dancer’s quickness, she emptied a hypospray into one of the Chiarosan’s treelike calves.

  As he began slipping back into unconsciousness, Grelun whispered three clearly-articulated syllables. From the shocked expressions on the other faces in the room, Picard knew instantly that he had heard the Chiarosan correctly, and that Batanides and Crusher had as well. No one else spoke for a long moment.

  Finally, Batanides broke the silence. “Well, that certainly complicates things, Jean-Luc.”

  Picard nodded gently. “It changes everything.” But at least I’m no longer bound by law to hand this man over to his executioners, regardless of how the vote turns out.

  “News travels fast on Chiaros IV,” Batanides said. “How do you think those people will react when they learn that a Starfleet captain has decided to harbor a known terrorist on the Federation’s flagship?”

  Picard’s voice turned to sandpaper. “It won’t be pretty. But my duty under both interstellar law and Starfleet regulations is clear. Grelun will receive Federation protection pending a full investigation of Falhain’s allegations against Ruardh’s government. Referendum or no referendum.”

  His options were sharply limited the moment the rebel leader had uttered a single word, the first he had spoken since coming aboard:

  Asylum.

  Chapter Eleven

  Picard and Batanides entered the main shuttlebay, which currently held a pair of type-9 personnel shuttlecraft in the flight deck, though neither was powered up at the moment. No other officers were present on the deck, which was as Picard had expected; at Batanides’s request, he had ordered the shuttlebay cleared. Apart from the two shuttles, the cavernous hangar was seemingly empty. Their footfalls reverberated loudly across the deck.

  The Romulan scout ship was nowhere to be seen, which was also as Picard expected; it was cloaked, also at the admiral’s request.

  Picard deplored having to take these sorts of precautions, but he understood their occasional necessity. During the trip back to the Enterprise, Batanides had made it clear to Commander Roget that his officers weren’t to speak to anyone about the scoutship. Given the fragile complexities of Chiarosan geopo
litics, Picard thought her mandate for discretion was probably the wisest course. And despite his reticence about illegally operating a cloaking device, Picard nevertheless thought it prudent to give the Romulan vessel as low a profile as possible while it was aboard the Enterprise.

  Picard tapped his combadge. “Number One, two to beam aboard the scoutship.”

  “Acknowledged, Captain,” came the reply.

  A moment later, Picard and Batanides stood in the small Romulan engine room, where Data, La Forge, and Zweller labored over a partially disassembled computer core. The three officers noted the presence of Picard and Batanides, but went back to their work after the captain made a subtle “as you were” gesture.

  Riker, who was standing nearby, approached Picard and Batanides.

  “Progress report, Number One,” Picard said.

  “First, we’ve managed to stop the flow of tetryons from the warp core.”

  “Good,” Picard said. “Those emissions might have defeated the purpose of activating the cloaking device.”

  Batanides looked thoughtful. “This ship makes me wonder about something Ruardh said about the referendum.”

  “What do you mean?” Picard said.

  “I mean that if the outcome really could hinge on our producing proof that the Romulans are really the ones who are up to no good here . . .” Batanides made a broad gesture encompassing the entire room, then said, “. . . well, what more proof do we need than this ship?”

  Zweller approached, shaking his head. “If we try to use this ship to prove that the Romulans have been backing the rebels, I think it’ll strike most Chiarosans as a bit too convenient.”

  “How so?” Batanides said.

  “I took a moment to review the electoral poll data,” Zweller said. “The Chiarosan electorate is a skeptical lot. Most of the voting populace thinks we’re so desperate, that we’d say or do just about anything in order to win them over now.”

  “I’m inclined to agree,” Picard said.

  Batanides shook her head. “Very well. But I think you may be punting too early in the game.”

  “Admiral, I think we have to look at the big picture here very carefully,” Picard said. “We mustn’t forget that the election is only a small part of the Romulans’ real agenda. I suspect that what they’re really after remains hidden elsewhere in the Chiaros system.”

  “You mean behind the energy field,” Riker said, as La Forge and Data set aside their task and approached.

  “Exactly, Number One. We may have to accept that the referendum is already lost. Therefore that ship will provide a tactical advantage rather than a political one.”

  “You want to keep it in reserve,” La Forge said, smiling. “A ‘hole card.’ ”

  “That’s right,” Picard said to the engineer. “And I want you and Data to find a way to play that card to our best advantage. We can use this ship to see what the Romulans are up to behind that energy barrier. And perhaps, if necessary, to put a stop to it.”

  Batanides didn’t look entirely convinced. “If the referendum is already lost, then two days is all we have. That’s pretty slim timing.”

  “We’ve done more with a great deal less,” Picard said.

  “I must point out,” Data said, “that if we take the scoutship into the region the Romulans are concealing, we will not have the advantage of surprise. The Romulans are no doubt well aware that we have taken this craft. They are certain to be ready for us.”

  Picard smiled. “Well, I didn’t say it would be easy, Mr. Data. Consider it a challenge.”

  “I do indeed, sir.”

  “We’ll get right on it, Captain,” La Forge said. “We can also modify another probe to look inside the energy screen, to get a better handle on what the scoutship’s got in store for it.”

  Picard nodded his approval. “Make it so.” Geordi and Data excused themselves and returned to their work.

  Zweller remained behind, looking intrigued. “I’d like to know more about this energy field you keep referring to, Johnny,” he said to Picard.

  Picard studied his old Academy friend’s eager expression. Ordinarily, his impulse would have been to tell him everything he knew. But during the flight back to the Enterprise, he had seen how Zweller’s own colleagues had distrusted him. Riker, Troi, and Dr. Gomp had made him aware of their suspicions that Zweller had illegally aided the Chiarosan rebels; Gomp had even gone so far as to suggest that Zweller had prearranged their capture by the Army of Light.

  Batanides was evidently having the same misgivings. “You’ll be briefed in due course, Commander,” she said coolly. “In the meantime, there are a few questions we need to ask you.”

  Picard couldn’t have agreed more.

  Turning back toward Riker, he said, “Please ask Counselor Troi to come to my ready room, Number One. Immediately.”

  “What the hell kind of reunion is this anyway, Johnny?” Zweller said, looking surprised. “What exactly is going on here?”

  “That’s something I’d like to know as well.” Picard spread his hands across the ready-room desk and settled back in his chair. Batanides and Troi sat on the sofa on the other side of the small room. Both women were looking intently at Zweller, who stood with his arms at his sides, fists clenched.

  “Your shipmates have leveled some very serious charges at you, Corey,” Batanides said.

  “Is this an interrogation, Marta?” Zweller said angrily.

  Picard sighed. He would have thought that forty-plus years of starship duty might have mellowed his old friend’s youthful hotheadedness.

  “No one is interrogating you, Corey,” Batanides said, leaving an unspoken but obvious yet hanging in the air.

  “Nevertheless,” Picard said, “these charges are serious, and must be answered. And there’s also the matter of your DNA having been found on the combadges we recovered after the fight in Hagraté. The circumstantial evidence would suggest that it was you who removed those combadges from Commander Riker and Counselor Troi after they were struck unconscious in the melee.”

  “I noticed that Chiarosan disruptors can lock onto subspace signals,” Zweller said, nodding. To Troi, he added, “Don’t bother to thank me for saving your lives.”

  Picard considered that for a moment. “If that’s so, then you certainly have earned my thanks. But Counselor Troi and Commander Riker have both told me that Grelun granted you privileges that he denied to his other prisoners. So I still must ask you: Did you supply arms or assistance to the Army of Light?”

  Zweller pointed at Troi. “Why don’t you get the answer from your Betazoid? You obviously don’t have any faith that I’m going to tell you the truth, or else you wouldn’t have sicced a telepath on me.”

  “I’m only half-Betazoid, Mr. Zweller,” Troi said calmly. “I can only pick up emotions, not specific thoughts.”

  “And what is it you’re ‘picking up’ from me?”

  “I sense mainly that you are a master of evasion. As well as a skilled manipulator of people. And of the truth.”

  “Come now, Counselor,” Zweller said, his lips turning upward in an asymmetrical half-smile. “In my experience, that description could fit just about any front-line Starfleet officer who’s managed to stay alive as long as I have. Present company excepted, of course.”

  Picard bridled at Zweller’s verbal jab, but said nothing. There was no point in allowing his old friend to provoke him into losing control of the conversation. Batanides also allowed the comment to pass unanswered.

  “Commander,” Troi said, unflappably patient, “I’ve known ever since we were confined together that you’ve been concealing something significant. All I’ve ever sensed from you is a superficial emotional veneer, almost as though you were able to consciously block my empathic abilities.”

  Zweller adopted a sincere expression that belied his words. “Now that would be a remarkable talent. On the other hand, I may just be an extremely shallow person. Maybe there’s nothing underneath that ‘emotional vene
er,’ as you call it.”

  Or perhaps it conceals hidden compartments, Picard thought. Like a smuggler’s cargo hold.

  Turning toward Picard, Troi said, “I don’t think I’m going to be of any help to you here, Captain. Perhaps it would be better if I started interviewing the other Slayton survivors instead.”

  “Very well,” Picard said. “Make it so.”

  As Troi got up to leave the ready room, Zweller spoke to her back. “Good idea, Counselor. I knew you’d get around to helping those traumatized people eventually.”

  Troi paused in the open doorway for a moment as though contemplating a rejoinder. Then, apparently realizing the futility of the gesture, she departed.

  Picard was alone with his two oldest friends for the first time in more than four decades. It struck him then just how profoundly time could change a man. Yes, this Corey Zweller was still a hothead, as he had been at Starfleet Academy; but the loyal, to-Hell-and-back Cortin Zweller, the comrade-at-arms who had fought the Nausicaans at Bonestell so long ago, that Cortin Zweller had never made such blatant stabs at a colleague’s emotional buttons.

  “Corey . . . did you give the rebels weapons?” Batanides said, beginning to lose her patience.

  Zweller answered with exasperating serenity. “Don’t you think Grelun would have shown me a little more gratitude if I had?”

  “Not if he thought you were selling him out to Ruardh,” Picard said.

  Zweller sat down in one of the seats between the sofa and Picard’s desk. Focusing his gaze on the viewport, he said, “Grelun suffers from a freedom fighter’s paranoia. When he caught me hacking into the rebel base’s command systems, he naturally assumed the worst.”

  “And why were you doing that?” Batanides said.

  “I was a prisoner, just like my crewmates. And a prisoner’s first duty is to escape.”

  Batanides studied him with obvious skepticism. “Some of your crewmates don’t seem to believe that, Corey. Dr. Gomp told me that you’d received special treatment from your jailers all along.”