Rogue

by Michael A. Martin

  The guard studied the padd’s screen for a moment, then gestured toward one of the recessed detention cells across the room. “He’s over there. Are you going to be long? You want a chair?”

  “No. Actually, I’d prefer to talk to Zweller inside, if you don’t mind.”

  The guard raised an eyebrow, glanced down at the padd again, and nodded. “Okay. If that’s what you want. I’ll keep an eye out for trouble.”

  Hawk approached the detention cell and saw Zweller sitting against one wall, his face blank, his eyes closed, and his posture relaxed, as if he were meditating. The forcefield at the front of the cell sparked for a moment, and Hawk stepped through it. The slight crackle behind him meant that the field was back in place.

  “Commander?” he asked quietly.

  Without opening his eyes, Zweller responded, gesturing beside him on the bench. “Mr. Hawk. Won’t you sit down? The view from here is astonishing.” His lips moved into a slight smile.

  Hawk sat. He was edgy enough because of the discussion he sought, and the spartan accommodations made him even more uncomfortable. “I needed to talk with you a bit more before making my decision,” he said, his voice low.

  “I trust you’ve already talked to some of my erstwhile shipmates about me,” Zweller said.

  Hawk nodded. Unfortunately, those conversations—none of which involved questions about Section 31—had told him little more than he already knew. To hear Roget and Dr. Gomp tell it, Zweller was clearly a traitor who ought to be clapped into irons and sent straight off to the Federation Penal Settlement in New Zealand. Other former Slayton officers, like Kurlan and Tuohy, tended toward maverick stances in their professions, and thus seemed more willing to give Zweller the benefit of the doubt.

  Hawk knew that only Zweller could tell him what he really needed to know. After a moment’s hesitation, he said, “Why did you . . . how . . .”

  “How did I come to be involved with this group?” Zweller opened his eyes and stared calmly at Hawk. His gaze seemed almost fatherly, but Hawk didn’t sense much warmth behind it. “It’s a personal story which I do not care to share in detail. Suffice it to say that I was a part of a mission in which I was forced to question a decision made by my friend and commander. We had received two distress calls—from a Starfleet vessel and an alien craft—with only the time to answer one. If we aided the Starfleet ship, we would save the lives of less than a dozen fellow officers. If we aided the alien ship, we would not only save hundreds of lives, but we would also keep a set of experimental weapons from falling into the clutches of the Breen.

  “The decision my commander was compelled to make—because of Starfleet rules and regulations—meant that we were to save the other Starfleet vessel,” Zweller continued. “I disagreed. In the process of disabling some of the warp systems to force us to the aid of the aliens, I was caught by a senior engineer. Luckily, the woman who caught me was there to perform the same bit of ‘mutiny’ that I was engaged in. And she was the person who recruited me for the bureau.”

  “Did you succeed?”

  Zweller nodded. “Oh, yes. The sentients survived because of our actions, and the weapons were kept from the Breen. And the Starfleet officers on the other vessel managed to escape before their ship was destroyed. No lives were lost. To date, there have been no negative repercussions from our operation.”

  At least none that you’re aware of, Hawk thought. Or seem to give a damn about.

  Hawk considered Zweller’s story for another moment, his mind awhirl with unasked questions. “Don’t you think that your actions in this bureau are a form of anarchy? You decide which Starfleet regulations you’ll follow, and which ones you won’t. What makes you any more legitimate than, say . . . the Maquis?”

  Zweller allowed himself another small smile. “Many of the Maquis weren’t even born when I became an agent. But when I was a whole lot younger, I asked myself similar questions. About law and virtue. I concluded that they aren’t always the same thing. Earth’s history is replete with secret government organizations, and there have always been anarchists who fear those organizations. Both essentially want what’s best for themselves and their families—a lawful, orderly society, in which everyone can reach his potential, free of tyranny and oppression.

  “But it’s their methods that differ,” Zweller continued. “In a democratic coalition—which is, after all, what the Federation is—the people elect representatives, who then decide on rules to govern the populace. That’s a difficult enough task for humans to achieve on their own, Mr. Hawk, much less humans and Vulcans and Andorians and all the other species that coexist in the UFP. What’s good for one world might not be good for another.

  “Which is one of the justifications for the Prime Directive. At its base, our noninterference credo should conceivably allow every civilization to control its own destiny. But do we really follow that? Ever?”

  Hawk looked at him, his eyebrows scrunched together quizzically. “What do you mean?”

  “Every time one of our away teams beams down to the surface of a planet, we are interacting with the people there. We are changing their destiny. We are breaking the Prime Directive simply by being among them.”

  “I don’t see what that has to do with anything,” said Hawk.

  “You asked me if we represented anarchy, and in one way, I would have to say, ‘Yes.’ Our very presence in other cultures introduces unpredictable elements that would not normally be there. But once we have made that intrusion, we have an obligation to be the best visitors we can be. Sometimes, that means that we must interfere, for the greater good. And here’s the paradox: Those same Starfleet rules that allow us to interject ourselves into alien cultures also forbid us from deliberately helping or hurting them. They keep us from fixing mistakes that can boomerang on us later.”

  Hawk looked down at his hands, which were clasped in his lap. Zweller made sense, more so than he had during their earlier too-brief exchanges. He was more persuasive than even Tabor had been.

  “You asked what made us different from the Maquis,” said Zweller. “If you’re speaking of pure idealism, there isn’t much that’s different. The passion and the drive for freedom are the same. And sometimes in the particulars of technique, we don’t differ that greatly either.Sometimes, you do what you have to do, even if it gets ugly.

  “But the major difference between them and us is that Section 31 exists within Starfleet. It knows the rules and follows them whenever possible, and when circumstances compel us to break those rules, we do it with the greater good of the entire Federation in mind.”

  “So you wouldn’t fight for the same aims as the Maquis?” Hawk asked. “The Federation citizens that the Federation–Cardassian Treaty uprooted were no less important after the treaty than before.”

  “Those people chose to stay behind, knowing the likely consequences,” said Zweller.

  Hawk tried not to flinch, but he did nevertheless. Zweller saw it, and put his hand on Hawk’s shoulder as he spoke again, more soothingly this time. “I’m not saying that those citizens deserved to be brutalized by the Cardassians. But the Maquis represent an instability in the power struggle, a violent and confrontational wild card. Instead of fighting head-on, and losing lives needlessly, Section 31 has worked to undermine Cardassia’s hold on the disputed worlds from within the Cardassian government. You’d be amazed how much change you can effect simply by replacing a few strategically important guls and legates.”

  “You and Tabor were working to undermine the referendum so that the Chiarosans would vote against Federation membership on Chiaros IV. And ever since the escape on the scoutship, you’ve avoided telling me the truth as to why.”

  Zweller sighed. “It was concluded privately by many Starfleet higher-ups that Chiaros IV wasn’t valuable enough—or politically stable enough—to fight over. Especially not when you consider what the Romulans offered us in exchange for our withdrawal from the system.”

  “Which was?”

>   “Extremely important information. Data about most of the Romulan spies working within the Federation and Starfleet.”

  Hawk was suddenly extremely uncomfortable with what he was hearing. “You came here to trade an entire star system—and its people—for some ephemeral information? You lost a ship, risked all of our lives—”

  Zweller rose as he spoke, his tone more strident. “None of that was part of the plan! The Slayton was destroyed, apparently, because she stumbled onto the secret the Romulans were hiding.” His voice softened. “I told you what my initial mission was. My own secondary objective was to help Falhain and his Army of Light in their struggle against Ruardh. Her regime is brutal by any society’s standards. In my judgment, my aiding her opponents was compatible with Section 31’s plan for Chiaros IV and the Geminus Gulf.”

  “But in doing so, you were helping the Romulans!”

  Zweller smiled slightly. “Not exactly. Falhain’s rebels were anti-Federation already, and weren’t terribly open to persuasion. Most of them saw us as friends of their enemies, after all. At least until I aided them in their struggle for freedom. Given some time, though, more of them might have come around. Even the Chiarosan electorate might be friendlier to the Federation later on—especially once they’ve experienced a few years of Romulan oppression firsthand.”

  “That’s an awfully big ‘might be,’ ” Hawk said.

  “Yes. More than likely they’ll first begin to fight against the Romulans,” Zweller said, sighing. “A long shot? Maybe. But they’ve been beating the odds just by evolving on that gods-forsaken planet. And perhaps having to face an enemy like the Romulans will do more to unite the squabbling Chiarosan tribes than their world’s harsh environment ever did.”

  Hawk gathered his thoughts for a moment. “You know that if you and Tabor had succeeded in your mission without all these complications, the Romulans would have gained control of the Geminus Gulf and the singularity. So who would have been guilty of making a mistake then?”

  “And if there hadn’t been a singularity, I’d be getting pats on the back for the benefits my mission brought to the Federation.” Zweller gave a slight smile, but ultimately looked uncomfortable.

  “Nothing in the universe ever travels in a straight line, Mr. Hawk. Even planets move in ellipses. You can’t predict exactly what’s going to happen when you’re on a mission. Any mission. All you can do is make the best decision you can with the facts you have on hand. It’s always easy to criticize others’ decisions after all the information has come to light . . . once you’ve learned what they didn’t know at the time.”

  Hawk stood and looked at Zweller, considering the motives of the man who stood before him. Though he felt that the commander was telling him the truth, the situation still unsettled him greatly. He wasn’t reassured by Zweller’s circuitous thinking.

  Hawk’s eidetic memory brought Ranul’s words flooding back to him: I guess if I were in your situation, I’d ask myself where this organization stands on situations of ethics and morality and honor. And if what you feel about Starfleet and its ideals is compatible with that answer.

  His ancestors had put their lives—and they believed, their souls—on the line to fight for their homes, their world, and their freedom. The Maquis were doing the same.

  But it seemed to Hawk that Section 31’s only apparent guiding principle—to defend the Federation using any means the bureau’s unaccountable minions deemed necessary—was flawed. Zweller had just talked about learning from what other decision-makers had done in the past. But without accountability, without laws, what could one really learn?

  Hawk signaled for the guard to lower the forcefield, then turned toward Zweller. Hawk did not extend his hand. “You’ve given me a lot more to consider, Commander.”

  Zweller proffered his own hand, his expression friendly. “I hope you will consider all that I’ve said. You seem . . . unnerved by what I’ve told you.”

  Hawk shook Zweller’s hand quickly and awkwardly, then turned to step out of the cell. “I’ll consider everything before I make up my mind about joining the bureau.”

  But as the forcefield shimmered into place behind him, Hawk realized that he had already made his decision.

  Anarchy was not the equal to ethics and morality and honor. No matter what its ultimate goals. Section 31 was asking too high a price.

  After taking off his uniform jacket and tossing it on a chair, Picard was retrieving a fresh cup of Earl Grey tea from the replicator when the door chime to his quarters sounded. “Come,” he said to the air, and the door opened. In the hallway stood an uncomfortable-looking Lieutenant Hawk.

  “Come in, Lieutenant,” Picard said, gesturing with his arm.

  Hawk walked in, an awkward expression on his face. “I’m sorry to bother you in your quarters, sir.”

  “Nonsense,” Picard said, sitting down on a nearby couch. Smiling, he gestured toward a chair. “If it weren’t for you, I might not even be here. I think that entitles you to at least one interruption.” He paused to blow on his tea to cool it as the younger man sat down. “What can I do for you, Sean?”

  Hawk looked surprised that the captain had used his first name, but he still seemed to be preoccupied by something else. “Sir, I have something important to tell you. I’m not sure you’ll like it. In fact, I’m sure you won’t like it.”

  Picard leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. “What is it, Lieutenant?”

  As Hawk spoke, Picard sipped his tea. “A few days ago, I was approached by Ambassador Tabor to join a secret organization within Starfleet. Commander Zweller is a part of it as well. It’s called Section 31.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Half an hour had passed since Hawk had interrupted Picard’s relaxation so completely. The young officer had been telling his captain as much as he could about the conversations he had shared with Tabor and Zweller, with Picard interrupting only to ask pointed questions.

  Through his astonishment, Picard was again impressed by Hawk’s memory, which allowed him to remember details about the meetings that others might have forgotten. But that admiration was pushed into the background as Picard learned whatever scraps and pieces that Hawk knew about the heretofore secret organization known as Section 31.

  Of course, Hawk had no way of knowing that Batanides had already come to him first with her knowledge of the organization and her suspicions. But Hawk’s account of his discussions with Tabor and Zweller forced Picard to wonder what more Batanides knew about the group than she had told him; she was in Starfleet Intelligence, after all. And yet, she had seemed so sincere in her surprise over Tabor’s and Zweller’s actions. And unlike the two men, Batanides had never tipped her emotional hand to Counselor Troi, nor had she roused the suspicion that she might somehow be blocking her thoughts, as Zweller had done.

  The captain paced back and forth. Hawk had quit speaking a few minutes ago, and had the presence of mind to stay silent while Picard considered his options. Still, the young man looked at him expectantly, like a child anticipating a scolding.

  “Why didn’t you come to me with this sooner, Lieutenant?” Picard asked.

  Hawk looked down at his feet. “I’m sorry, sir. The ambassador made such a point about this being a topsecret organization. I didn’t want to betray that confidence. And I wasn’t sure that you didn’t already know about it. At first, anyhow. And things got so complicated so quickly. I didn’t know who to talk to about it and—”

  “Lieutenant, despite Ambassador Tabor’s assertion that he was working for the Federation’s greater good, did it ever occur to you that he might simply have been a traitor? And that Zweller might be one as well?” Picard was staring down at the junior officer. “What proof did you have that either of them was working in the best interests of the Federation or Starfleet? Especially given all the conflicts their actions have dragged us into?”

  “I didn’t have any proof,” Hawk admitted quietly. “Except that nothing they said seemed wrong, exactly. They
had a good answer for everything.”

  “Most traitors do. But rules exist for a reason, Lieutenant, as do chains of command. That’s why—”

  “At the risk of getting myself into further trouble, sir,” Hawk said, interrupting, “one of the things they pointed out to me repeatedly was how often you and Commander Riker have both broken the rules in pursuit of the greater good.” He gulped, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

  Picard raised an eyebrow and regarded the lieutenant in silence. He considered lecturing Hawk about the unique decision-making skills of senior officers, or discoursing on the sorts of extenuating circumstances that might motivate one to . . . bend a regulation now and then, when particularly hazardous situations demanded it. But he couldn’t.

  Because he realized that the lieutenant was absolutely right.

  I do sometimes take risks or bend the rules, and damn the admirals. Surely, he always had good reasons to make those decisions. But one man’s sound justification was another’s bad excuse.

  “Sir?” Hawk stood, looking directly into Picard’s eyes. “For what it’s worth, I did come forward, even if not right away. I suppose I hesitated because Ambassador Tabor had me nearly convinced that the ends can justify a Starfleet officer’s means . . . sometimes. But after talking things over with Commander Zweller, it seemed to me that for Section 31, the ends always justify the means. And I decided then that certain lines should never be crossed.”

  Picard sighed, smiled slightly, and then clapped one hand on Hawk’s shoulder. “That’s an important lesson to learn, Lieutenant. And I appreciate your honesty about this matter . . . and your forthrightness about the example I set for you and the rest of the crew.”

  “What happens now?” Hawk asked, looking apprehensive.

  “To Zweller and Section 31? That remains to be seen. You may have blown the lid off of a conspiracy that will rock Starfleet to its core.”

  Picard noticed then that Hawk’s chin was trembling slightly. “You’re concerned about how your own conduct in this matter will look in your service record. Is that it, Lieutenant?”