Section 31: Rogue (star trek: the next generation)

by Andy Mangels

  Zweller’s teeth were beginning to chatter. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Our two newest . . . guests have at last regained consciousness.” Grelun reached into his jacket and produced a Starfleet-issue tricorder, one of the devices his troops had confiscated from the crew of the Archimedes.He tossed it to Zweller, who caught it clumsily between his cold-numbed hands.

  “I wish for our guests to see what I have already shown to you,” Grelun said. “But youmust be the one to show them,if they are to be persuaded that our cause is just.”

  “I can do that,” Zweller said without hesitation. Stowing the tricorder on his belt, he fell into step beside Grelun.

  He felt he had every reason to cooperate with Grelun’s request. Despite the complications created by Falhain’s unforeseen demise at the HagratÈ peace conference—it was unfortunate that Zweller had not had a chance to confer with Tabor prior to the ambassador’s arrival on Chiaros IV, or to discuss the aftermath of the melee with him—Zweller was satisfied that he had already achieved Section 31’s desired objective: He had set the vast wheels of Chiarosan internal politics into motion, and once started they couldn’t be stopped. The outcome of the referendum on Federation membership—to be held in a mere three days—was now all but certain to go in favor of Romulus, thanks to Starfleet’s ‘catastrophic failure to maintain order’ in HagratÈ. And assuming that Koval was as good as his word, Zweller would soon return to Federation space with ample compensation for this favor—a list of the Romulan intelligence operatives working within the Federation.

  Zweller could see no serious downside to his decision to help Grelun end the genocidal war being carried out by Ruardh’s armies. This sort of meddling would almost certainly get him cashiered out of Starfleet, but he had been thinking about retiring soon anyway.

  He felt certain he would still have a home within Section 31 after the conclusion of the Chiaros affair. After all, his assisting Grelun couldn’t affect the outcome of this mission. And, even more important, it feltlike the right thing to do.

  The time had finally come to bring the horrible truth about Chiaros IV to light.

  Flanked by a pair of silent Chiarosan warriors, Zweller and Grelun made their way along a corridor adjacent to—but not directly visible from—the solitaryconfinement cells in which Commander Roget and the other Slaytoncaptives were still being held pending the referendum. After continuing for several meters, they stopped before a small, doorless chamber, where a single guard stood at attention, his back to the slightly orangetinged forcefield that rippled across the room’s entrance.

  Inside the detention cell, a man and a woman sat side by side on a low-slung cot, the room’s only piece of furniture. Both prisoners were attired in somewhat distressedlooking Starfleet dress uniforms, the man wearing red, the woman in blue. Though their combadges were missing, each officer’s collar bore a trio of shiny brass pips, indicating that both held the rank of commander.

  I guess I won’t be pulling rank on anyone here. Have to rely on the old Corey Zweller charm instead.

  The man rose to his feet first. Tall and vigorous-looking, he had rumpled brown hair that made an incongruous counterpoint to his neatly trimmed beard. His manner was calm, belying the outrage behind his blue eyes.

  “I am Grelun, who now guides the Army of Light,” the dark-haired Chiarosan said to the male prisoner before the officer could speak. Then the Chiarosan angled an impossibly limber elbow in Zweller’s direction. “I present to you your countryman, Commander Cortin Zweller.” Grelun then made a courtly, triple-jointed bow toward the prisoners. Zweller interpreted the gesture as ironic, a Chiarosan sign of contempt.

  Barely acknowledging Grelun, Riker trained his piercing gaze on Zweller. “Would you mind explaining exactly what is going on here, Commander?”

  Abruptly returning to an upright posture, Grelun overrode Zweller before he could respond. “Please accept my apologies, Commander Riker, Commander Troi. I regret that you were handled so roughly. I assure you, we were as gentle with you as the circumstances would permit.”

  Zweller noticed that the woman’s eyes were unusually dark. He decided that she probably wasn’t human after all, at least not completely. Perhaps she had some Betazoid ancestry. That could pose a problem. Zweller used the disciplines he’d learned during his training as an agent and quickly erected a barrier around his thoughts and emotions.

  “Then can I infer that you intend to return us to the Enterprise?”Troi asked.

  TheEnterprise ?Zweller struggled to conceal his surprise from the Betazoid. Johnny.He hoped his old friend wouldn’t get himself swept up in this dangerous situation. But he remembered the brashness of his old Academy classmate all too well; if Jean-Luc Picard was here, then he would soon be in the thick of things. And an already complex and dangerous situation would undoubtedly become even more so.

  “In a short time, yes, we will send you back to your ship,” Grelun told Troi.

  Riker glanced at Troi. “Deanna?”

  The Betazoid scrutinized Grelun for a long moment before speaking. “He’s not lying, Will. Though he harbors a great deal of hostility toward us, he’s sincere about his intention to release us later. But I sense there’s something important he wants to accomplish first.”

  Grelun bared the points of his teeth, evidently displeased that one of his prisoners could find him so transparent.

  Looking as though he’d just solved a puzzle, Riker addressed Grelun, ignoring Zweller for the moment. “I think I understand now. We’ll be free to go. But only afterthe Romulans have finished . . . influencing the planetary referendum.”

  “Once my people formally acknowledge the Federation’s inability to make good on its promises of security and order,” Grelun said coolly. “Only then will you be free to leave us.”

  “If your faction wins in the vote,” Riker said, “we won’t have a lot of other options.”

  “Exactly so. Your Federation’s own laws will force your withdrawal from our world. And with the Federation gone, our independence from alldegenerate outworlders will be assured.”

  “That is until the Romulans take your world from you by force,” Troi said placidly.

  Grelun’s hands twirled for a moment in a complex, eye-blurring pattern, as though he were cleansing the very air of her words. “This they could have tried to do long, long ago. Because they have not, we will speak no more of it.”

  Zweller noticed that Riker had begun looking at him appraisingly. “Commander Cortin Zweller,” Riker said, a calculating look in his eyes. “Captain Picard has told me a great deal about you. Including the fact that we might find you among the Slayton’s survivors.”

  Survivors?

  Zweller’s heart leaped into his throat. He took a deep, calming breath before speaking, pausing to make certain that his mental shields were still intact.

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that the Slaytonwas blown to pieces several days ago,” Riker said.

  “By whom?” Zweller said, swallowing hard. He had grown quite close to many members of the Slayton’s crew. For the past several days, he’d been trying hard to avoid facing the possibility that, except for the few who had accompanied him to Chiaros IV, they were all dead.

  “When we left the Enterprisefor the peace conference,” Riker said, “we were still trying to determine exactly what happened.”

  Zweller wondered if Koval might be involved. But what did the Tal Shiar chairman have to gain from the Slayton’s destruction? It made no sense; the Romulans had already all but won the Geminus Gulf. The region simply didn’t have enough value to justify the commission of an overt act of war.

  “We recovered some wreckage,” Troi said, “shortly before we escorted Ambassador Tabor to the peace conference.”

  Taking care not to let the Betazoid sense just how well he knew Aubin Tabor, Zweller said, “How is the ambassador?”

  Riker shook his head. “I don’t know for sure. The last time I saw
him, he’d just been run through with a rebel dagger. One of your friends here evidently tried to assassinate him.”

  Zweller suddenly felt as though there wasn’t enough air in the room. So many friends and colleagues gone, so quickly. It was too much to digest all at once.

  “You call us assassins?” Grelun barked, his voice tinged with murder. He made a quick hand signal to the holding-cell guard, who immediately dropped the forcefield. Then a wicked-looking dagger appeared in Grelun’s hand, as though conjured out of thin air. The rebel leader took a single menacing step toward Riker.

  Riker made no move to back away, nor did Troi.

  “Speak that lie again, human, and I will cut out your tongue! Your ‘ambassador’ was caught drawing a weapon on Falhain.”

  “That’s not how it looked from where I was standing,” Riker said. His muscles were tensed, but he didn’t budge. He neither advanced nor gave ground.

  Zweller knew that to show fear before a roused Chiarosan warrior was to provoke a lightning-swift, lethal attack. But he also knew he had to disperse some of the tension in the air, or else Riker was sure to be crippled or killed. Concealing his apprehension behind a stern expression, Zweller stepped between the two men and spread his hands in a placating gesture.

  “Falhain would not have wanted this, Noble Grelun,” Zweller said, struggling to back his words with the correct blend of authority and deference. “Too much blood has already been spilled. Instead, I ask you: Let me show them what you’ve shown me.”

  A long moment passed, during which time Zweller wondered if Grelun weren’t seriously considering killing them all. Then the rebel leader sheathed his blade as quickly as he had drawn it. He stared at Riker and Troi, his eyes still as cold and hard as the farthest reaches of frozen Nightside.

  Grelun’s gaze remained fixed on them even as his body swiveled toward his guards, to whom he said, “Manacle them and bring them to the vehicle pool.” He then stalked away down the corridor and was gone.

  Riker emerged from the cell, followed by Troi. The presence of the three armed guards seemed to persuade them both that any attempt at escape would be illadvised. The pair stood impassively while the guards bound their hands before them.

  “I don’t see any handcuffs on you,Commander,” Riker said to Zweller. “Am I correct in assuming that you’ve decided to cooperate with these people?”

  Zweller sought the proper words to answer Riker’s pointed question, but they refused to come. What came instead was a surge of guilt for having deprived Riker and Troi of their combadges after they’d been dragged unconscious into the catacombs beneath the HagratÈ auditorium; there, a pair of Falhain’s most vigilant guards had kept Zweller “supervised,” and out of the fray for the duration of the peace conference. Zweller knew that by taking the combadges—which the Chiarosan guardsmen had promptly confiscated—he may have prevented Riker and Troi from being beamed to the relative safety of their own shuttle.

  But he was also well aware that brief captivity could be a powerful instrument of persuasion. And it was terribly important that he persuade them.

  “I have no choice but to help Grelun and his people,” Zweller said finally. “And all I ask is that you keep an open mind.”

  Then he led Riker, Troi, and the guards down the corridor toward one of the hangars.

  The antigrav-propelled transport’s hull was painted a dull, unobtrusive black. The passenger cabin was wide, windowless, and unadorned, everything in its interior the same monotonous gunmetal blue. Zweller shifted in a vain effort to get comfortable in his too-hard, toostraight seat. Clearly, human ergonomic considerations had not been uppermost in the minds of this vehicle’s designers.

  A pair of surly-countenanced warriors, a male and a female, sat facing the still-manacled Riker and Troi, who passed the fifteen-minute trip in silence. Seated between the guards, Zweller let his thoughts wander behind the safety of his mental shields. Though he found the transport’s gentle shudders and vibrations oddly comforting, he knew he didn’t dare relax his guard in the Betazoid’s presence.

  Zweller found himself desperately hoping that Tabor had somehow managed to survive whatever injuries he’d suffered in the Chiarosan capital. Zweller had always regarded Tabor as both a friend and a mentor, the man who had given his life and career a clarity of purpose that even Starfleet Academy had not been able to do. Tabor had saved him from the consequences of his youthful impetuousness decades ago, on more than one occasion. Had Tabor not warned him away from the beautiful young woman Zweller had taken up with during a shore leave back in ’29—a woman who turned out to be a Tzenkethi saboteur—Zweller would likely have returned to the Ajaxin a body bag, to say nothing of compromising the safety of the ship and her crew. Just two years later, during his second tour of duty with Captain Narth aboard the Ajax,a female Vulcan agent had recruited Zweller into Section 31, where he had come under Tabor’s direct supervision and sponsorship. A universe of opportunities, none of which ever seemed to come fast enough for him as an ordinary Starfleet officer, had opened up for him then. And he had never looked back.

  And now Tabor might well be dead. Swept away, just like Captain Blaylock and the crew of the Slayton.

  Zweller found coincidences hard to accept. His mind returned to his earlier query: Had Koval been responsible for the attack on Tabor as well as the deaths of his shipmates? Perhaps the Romulan had never intended to surrender the spy list. Maybe he was already back on Romulus, confident that Zweller would never survive his sojourn on Chiaros IV. Regardless, it was abundantly clear to him now that Koval had another agenda besides his deal with Section 31.

  But what is it?

  The vehicle ceased its shuddering, touching down with a light thump. A moment later, the guards perfunctorily removed Riker’s and Troi’s manacles and handed them thermal blankets, which the captives wrapped about their shoulders on their way to the vehicle’s rear hatchway. Still wearing his jacket, Zweller declined a blanket of his own. Then, his tricorder at the ready, he led the way outside the transport.

  Because this near-Nightside region did not have the benefit of the mountains and canyons that shielded much of Chiaros IV’s habitable meridian, the howling wind struck them brutally. They had to lean into it as they walked in order to make any forward progress at all. The charcoal sky scattered the wan almost-twilight, revealing the tumble of indistinct shapes that lay ahead. As they trudged closer, those shapes resolved themselves into ruined stone walls, the remnants of dwellings, and the fossil-dry pieces of a shattered water-extraction machine. Chunks of burned, shattered masonry lay about in random heaps, like toys discarded by some colossal, tantrumprone child. The exposed bedrock, wind-scoured for countless ages, bore scorches and craters of obviously much more recent origin. Jagged flashes of ionospheric brilliance leaped across the sky, casting fleeting, irregular shadows in every direction across the detritus of unnumbered destroyed and uprooted lives.

  As they walked, Riker shouted to be heard over the keening of the wind. “Is this the same village from the hologram Falhain showed us in HagratÈ?”

  Zweller hadn’t seen Falhain’s presentation at the peace conference. But the rebels had made him wellacquainted with those particular—and extremely persuasive—holographic images.

  “I’m not sure, Commander,” Zweller shouted back. “But does it really matter when there are hundreds more just like it?”

  They came to a stop before a partially demolished wall, which appeared once to have been part of a village well. The squat ruin offered them some small respite from the raging winds. Zweller watched as Riker’s boyish face changed, settling into hard planes and angles. Troi looked physically ill. An aurora crackled far overhead, like an electrical arc jumping between the uprights of an old-fashioned Jacob’s ladder.

  Zweller handed the tricorder to Riker, who immediately began scanning the wall and the surrounding terrain. The dour-eyed guards stood by quietly while Riker pored over the readouts.

  The wall bore
a small humanoid silhouette. A child’s shadow, rendered in a micrometer-thin layer of carbon atoms. Several other nearby structures bore similar marks.

  Ashes, ashes, we all fall down,Zweller thought without a scintilla of humor.

  Riker’s mouth was moving. Lip-reading, Zweller thought he made out a “My God.”

  Zweller shouted into the wind. “Chiarosan weaponry isn’t all ceremonial flatware, Commander. Especially among Ruardh’s people.”

  Zweller paused, smiling mirthlessly before continuing. “Sometimes those folks use disruptors.”

  Zweller could still feel the bone-deep chill even as the antigrav vehicle returned them to the rebel compound nearly an hour later. Nobody spoke until after the guards had escorted Riker and Troi back to their holding cell.

  Standing beside the guard outside the cell’s forcefield, Zweller was the first to break the grim silence. “Nowdo you understand why I’ve decided to assist Grelun’s movement?”

  Nodding, Riker said, “I understand that you see them as the local underdog. I probably would myself, in your place. But how do we know you showed us the whole story?”

  “Commander, I hope you’re not implying,” Zweller said with a scowl, “that there’s any way to justify the slaughter you just saw.”

  Riker shook his head. “Of course not. But how do you know the rebels aren’t the ones actually responsible for the killing? They could have staged the massacre themselves simply to discredit Ruardh’s government.”

  Outside the cell, one of the guards growled and spat on the floor. “I don’t believe that, Commander,” Zweller said. “And I don’t think you do either.”

  “I sense no such duplicity among these people, Will,” Troi said. “They follow such a strict code of warrior ethics that I don’t think they have the capacity to mount and maintain a deception of that sort.” She paused to look at one of the guards who stood in the corridor, and a look of surprise lit up her face before she spoke again. “In fact, Grelun’s warriors seem every bit as bound by honor as Klingons.”