And that headaches such as the Tal Shiar’s fiasco in the Geminus Gulf were merely bad dreams from which he would awaken.
Pardek had already decided that he would remain at the villa until tomorrow morning. Then, the Continuing Committee would begin its probe into the fitness of Chairman Koval to continue leading the Tal Shiar. Only then, once Pardek was forced to return to the Senate chambers to take gavel in hand before the board of inquiry, would he pause to worry about the possible consequences of Koval’s inquest.
At least, that was the plan.
Returning to the central courtyard, Pardek tried to banish all thought of Koval and the Tal Shiar by concentrating on his garden. Here were the finicky Terran roses he so valued for their sweet scent, there the fast-growing crystalline life-forms, which the Tzenkethi called nirikeh; their crystals twinkled, silver and emerald and violet in the subdued sunlight, seeming to grow before his eyes. He continued walking, passing under the fronds of the rippleberry tree the Dominion Vorta Weyoun had given him last month as part of a nonaggression-pact overture. That offer was going to require some serious thought and debate, Pardek told himself; he trusted the Vorta even less than he did the Tal Shiar.
Beyond the rippleberry tree lay the patch of ground he reserved his prized Edosian orchids. The pink-edged, yellow flowers, which now stood on knee-high stalks, required specially prepared soils and a great deal of attention. This particular variety had come into his possession many years ago, introduced to him by an unusually well-mannered and talkative Cardassian groundskeeper he had met at the Cardassian Embassy, a few weeks prior to Proconsul Merrok’s tragic demise. The orchids had provided Pardek with an agreeable diversion from that unpleasant business—Merrok had been a personal friend, despite their many political differences—and the orchids’ delicate blooms had delighted him ever since, despite the constant labor they demanded.
Perhaps, Pardek thought, kneeling beside the orchids to inspect them more closely, they serve as a metaphor for politics.
He rose and walked into the house’s sunlit central atrium, where he watched as his daughter, Talkath, practiced her martial arts exercises. So intent was the nineyearold on the slow, intricately flowing motions of her hands, elbows, and legs, that she did not seem to notice his presence. He smiled silently as he watched her executing her precisely timed movements, delivering slowmotion kicks and blows in a lethal yet exquisitely lovely ballet.
She was a beautiful girl, bright and strong, her movements well-coordinated. Since his wife’s untimely death in a shuttle accident four years prior, Talkath was all he had. She was his future, his legacy, his very life. Nothing in all of the Empire was more important to him.
Pardek walked farther into the house, got a warm cup of kali-fal from the replicator, and took a seat in the breakfast nook. The ethereal strains of one of Frenchotte’s oratorios gently wafted in from the atrium. From his vantage point in the kitchen, he could still watch his daughter without her noticing his presence.
“She’s such a lovely child,” said a voice from behind him.
Startled, Pardek splashed the pungent blue-green liquor down the front of his tunic. He stood, turning quickly toward the voice.
Tal Shiar Chairman Koval stood in the spacious kitchen, craning his head to look at Talkath.
“How did you get in here?” Pardek demanded, his heart in the grip of an icy fist. He pitched his voice low, not wishing to alarm his daughter. But a quick glance in her direction revealed that she had heard nothing.
“A Tal Shiar chairman would be most ineffective if he were unable to come and go as he pleased,” Koval said enigmatically. “Besides, your villa’s transporter scramblers appear to be last year’s model.”
“We shouldn’t even be speaking, Chairman Koval,” Pardek said, realizing that he was still holding his cup—and that his grip had grown nearly tight enough to shatter it. Pardek carefully set it down on the breakfast nook table before continuing. “The hearing about the Chiarosan debacle will be held tomorrow. Not before.”
“And that is why I am here today, Senator. I am well aware that some on the Continuing Committee have characterized my efforts in the Geminus Gulf as a failure.”
Pardek found himself stifling a sardonic laugh. “Hence my use of the word ‘debacle,’ Chairman. How else could one describe what happened in the Chiaros system?”
“The Praetor now controls three new sectors of previously nonaligned space,” Koval said, apparently unfazed by Pardek’s comment. “That, in itself, should be cause for celebration.”
Pardek wasn’t convinced. The cost had been too high. “Three sectors of nothingness, Chairman. And the information you traded to acquire them—”
“Consisted,” Koval said, interrupting, “of the identities of Romulan operatives who were already scheduled for termination. In addition, the so-called ‘spy-list’ I sold to the Federation includes the names of several Starfleet officers who have not engaged in espionage on our behalf, but whose continued existence our Praetor regards as dangerous. These individuals will therefore, in the eyes of Federation authorities, be strongly suspected of treason. And new double agents are even now planting evidence against these individuals, while getting in line to occupy their soon-to-be-vacant positions.”
While Koval spoke, Pardek studied his face. Was Koval’s right eyelid drooping slightly? Lately there had been whispers in the Senate chambers that the Tal Shiar chairman was showing incipient signs of Tuvan syndrome. Pardek could only hope that this was so; the man had thus far proved immune to all other threats.
Whether ill or hale, however, Koval still both impressed and unnerved Pardek. The Tal Shiar leader seemed to have a contingency plan for every eventuality, a talent for survival not seen in the Empire since the halcyon days of the bird-of-prey commanders of two centuries past.
“So, some benefit may accrue to the Empire after all,” Pardek said noncommittally.
Koval nodded. “I would regard your public recognition of those benefits as a boon to the Praetor, to the Empire . . . and to the Tal Shiar.”
“The disappearance of a strategically invaluable subspace phenomenon notwithstanding,” Pardek said coolly.
“That is a minor thing, in the overall tapestry of history,” Koval said with a slight shrug. “Not nearly so important, really, as what is to come.”
“And just what is to come, Mr. Chairman?”
Koval looked thoughtful. He paused for a protracted moment, as though deciding just how much it was safe to reveal. “War,” he said finally. “War on such a scale that I doubt you can imagine. And with that war will no doubt come efforts on the part of some to make . . . questionable alliances.”
“Efforts by whom?” Pardek said, frowning.
Koval brushed the question aside. “The Empire will need the guidance of a firm hand if it is to survive its immediate future. Therefore the Tal Shiar must not be compromised. None of us, Senator, can afford to relax our vigilance.”
Smiling beneficently, Koval gestured toward Talkath. The girl was now sitting on the atrium floor and engaging in some stretching exercises. “She really is a lovely child, Senator. You would do well to do everything in your power to protect her from harm.”
With that, Koval touched his right wrist with his left hand, and an almost-inaudible chiming sound gently suffused the room. As a shimmering curtain of energy enveloped the spymaster, Pardek surmised that he had activated a site-to-site transporter unit. In the span of a few heartbeats, the dreaded Tal Shiar Chairman was gone.
Alone in the breakfast nook, Pardek sank back into his chair and looked into the atrium at his daughter, who was still intent on her workout. She was so young and innocent, so blissfully unaware of the evil that men did so casually. Koval’s meaning could not have been plainer: He wanted Pardek to understand that he could spirit her away as easily as he had broken the villa’s security protocols. Pardek realized only then that his hands were shaking like the spindly legs of a newborn set’leth.
For Talkath truly was all he had. She represented the future, a future he was determined to safeguard, regardless of the cost. A future that meant far more to him than any cause, any law, any principle.
EPILOGUE
Mars, Stardate 50915.5
Jean-Luc Picard hadn’t been to Mars for quite some time; usually, it was to visit the Utopia Planitia Fleet Yards, where his current starship’s predecessor, the Enterprise- D, had been built. During his departures from the shipyards’ orbiting drydocks and hangars, he had often glimpsed Cydonia, a region located in the windswept northern lowlands, the site of a pair of human settlements—as well as the alleged location of the infamous “Martian face” formation, according to the myths of centuries past.
Now, he was on his way to Bradbury City with Lieutenant Commander Ranul Keru, in a shuttlecraft. It had been three days since the Enterprise-E had returned to McKinley Station, following its excursion into Earth’s past, where the crew had fought the Borg and helped Zefram Cochrane make humanity’s first warp-powered flight. During his time on McKinley, Picard had met with engineers, dealt with the well-being of his surviving crewmembers, and spent an interminable amount of time being debriefed by Starfleet’s higher echelons—both from Starfleet Command and Starfleet Intelligence. He had even had to endure a protracted grilling by a pair of officers from the Federation Department of Temporal Investigations. Picard understood that Agent Dulmer and his junior partner, Lucsly, had genuine concerns about the inadvertent creation of temporal anomalies; after all, such effects could be every bit as dangerous to history’s fragile tapestry as an incursion by the Borg. Still, their painstaking, exacting lines of questioning had sometimes tempted him to lose his temper.
But for all of his frustrations and problems, Picard knew that his own agonies did not cut as deeply as those carried by Keru.
The shuttle flight had been awkward and uncomfortable, and though both men tried to discuss topics unrelated to the grim reality of Hawk’s death, the lapses into silence came often. It was during one of those interludes when Keru spoke, his eyes on the red-and-ocher world before them on the viewscreen.
“I don’t blame you, Captain.” He hesitated, and added more softly, “Well, I’m trying not to.”
“I can see where you might, Ranul,” Picard said quietly. “I was responsible for the specific mission that cost Sean his life.”
“He volunteered, though. It was his own choice. His last great adventure.” Keru shifted in his seat, as if uncomfortable. “I’m not sure I want to face Commander Worf any time soon, however.”
Picard had expected this. “You know that Worf only did what he had to do. If there had been any way—”
“But there was a way,” Keru said, interrupting. “You’re proof of that. They were able to recover you after you were assimilated. And that was after quite some time. Hawk had just been . . . infected. He could have . . . he might have been saved.”
Picard kept quiet. Any response he could give would only deepen the pain. He concentrated instead on the consoles, his fingers tapping in coordinates as Mars loomed larger in front of them.
“I’ve thought a lot about it the last few days . . . about leaving the Enterprise,” Keru said. “On the one hand, I think it holds too many bad memories. I wonder how I’d respond to you. How I’d feel if Worf came back aboard. How I’ll feel when I’m walking those corridors, entering the mess hall or holodecks, even our quarters. All those things will remind me of him. Of losing him.”
“I’m sure that if Deanna were here, she’d probably counsel you that the pain will grow less every day,” Picard said.
“Yeah, she said something similar to that, along with quite a bit of other . . . crap.” Keru turned to look at Picard, his eyes wet with tears. “You know, when you’ve lost the person you love most in life, the pain doesn’t ever feel like it’s going to go away. It’s not going to be okay. You’re never going to hold them in your arms again, never going to laugh at their stupid jokes, never going to quarrel over something trivial . . . they’re never . . . just never there again.”
Picard felt his own eyes well up with tears as he regarded his officer, and found himself again unable to respond.
Keru sniffed, and wiped his eyes. “I know you’ve lost family, and officers who’ve served under you. We’ve all lost people in our lives. Death is inevitable. We’re supposed to realize that, we’re supposed to celebrate the lives of those we’ve lost, we’re supposed to take comfort in some place beyond death—Heaven, Sto-Vo-Kor, Valhalla, whatever. But there’s no comfort for those still alive other than their own continued existence. And I’d give up years of my life to have more time with Sean.
“I always dreamed I would find someone I could love as much as Sean. I’ve forgotten so many of my dreams in life, but he . . . he was real. And he was mine. And I was his.”
Keru turned away from Picard, wiping at his cheek again. Picard closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again and began procedures for entry into the Martian atmosphere.
Leaving the shuttle docked beside one of the peripheral pressure domes, Picard shouldered a small duffel bag, and he and Keru entered Bradbury City through a tube-shaped extrusion of the municipal forcefield. Mindful of their awkwardness in the low Martian gravity, the two men made their way through a series of airlocks and settlement streets before entering an area of the city that seemed older and more antiquated than anything else they had seen here thus far. Picard noticed several people using archaic technology, and the modern, redundant interplexed forcefields—through which the salmon-tinged sky could be seen—gave way to older atmospheric domes composed of semi-opaque nanoplastic membranes; Picard noted that these antique pressure domes were of the same design as those used by the first Martian settlers more than two centuries earlier.
Picard followed Keru, who knew his way quite well, no doubt from past visits. They eventually found themselves walking along a broad, pebbled walkway. As they moved forward, surrounding them from the sides and above was a trellis, entwined with brilliant blue and red vines and creepers. Multiple forms of flowering plants, their forms elongated by the light Martian gravity, peeked through in strategic places, purple and white and green splashes amongst the bright primary colors of the vines. The scent of growing things reminded Picard of his family’s vineyards in Labarre, France, which his late brother Robert had tended for so many years.
Passing the trellis, Keru and Picard continued on the walkway as it wended through a lush green lawn, similar to those the captain was used to seeing on Earth. Ahead of them was a multilevel house with transparent-walled hothouses and attached arboretums. Picard saw more examples of lush plant life through the walls.
A stocky man with reddish, gray-streaked hair emerged from the greenhouse to their left, carrying a three-pronged digging device in one hand, and a well-worn leather bag in the other. He puttered for a little bit, adjusting something in the bag, then noticed the two men standing there.
“Ranul!” he said, dropping his bag to the ground. He trotted over and heartily shook the Trill’s hand, then gathered him in for a hug. Breaking away, he turned to look at Picard.
“Rhyst, this is Captain Jean-Luc Picard,” Keru said, gesturing toward his superior officer. “Captain Picard, this is Rhyst Hawk.”
Picard noticed that the elder man’s smile dimmed considerably, but the handshake was firm and polite. Rhyst had a strong grip, and Picard imagined him to be only a few years his senior. “Welcome to Mars, Captain Picard,” he said.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir. I only wish I could visit under different circumstances.”
“Yes, well, uh, come on up to the house,” Rhyst said, looking distracted. “It can get a wee bit hot out here around the nurseries. I think we’ve got some cool juice of some sort to offer you.”
Picard and Keru followed Rhyst inside. The interior of the house was decorated eclectically, with knickknacks sharing wall space with shelves full of old books. While Rhyst went off to get the
drinks, Picard perused one of the shelves. He was pleased to find volumes dating back to the 20th and 21st centuries—he saw works by Hesterman, TormÈ, and Zabel. A leather-bound copy of The Martian Chronicles by Ray Bradbury—the colony’s namesake—was displayed proudly beside a dog-eared biography of Lieutenant John Mark Kelly, the leader of an early ill-fated Mars mission. It was rare to find books this old now; the few paper products to survive the Third World War had long since deteriorated, and today’s books were almost exclusively produced on padds.
“Here you are. Some fresh tangerine-moova juice,” said Rhyst, appearing in the entryway and holding out two glasses of cool, pink liquid. A woman appeared in the doorway behind Rhyst, and—upon seeing Keru—let out a slight yelp and rushed to hug him.
Picard sipped the drink the older man had offered him, as Keru smoothed the hair of the woman who was now clutching him. Eventually, they broke away from each other, and Keru introduced Picard to Camille Hawk. She gestured toward the bookshelf.
“One of my weaknesses,” she said, her eyes moist. “Old books.”
“I was marveling at the collection,” Picard said. “I have a few ancient books of my own, but I doubt I could even fill one of your shelves.”
“Well, I’d always been told that you were quite the archaeologist,” she responded, smiling slightly. “Each to their own form of preserving the past, eh?”
“Yes,” he agreed, returning her smile.
Camille moved over to one bookshelf and opened a leather-bound volume she found there. She held it out to Picard. He saw that it was a 1911 copy of Peter and Wendy by James M. Barrie, and remembered his own mother reading the story of Peter Pan to him when he was a child.
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