by Dayton Ward
The figure promptly vanished from the viewscreen without anything resembling a formal conclusion to his remarks, replaced by the image of Andor slowly turning beneath the Enterprise. After several moments spent in silence broken only by the cadenced litany of tones and indicators from the bridge’s various workstations, Elfiki was the first to speak.
“So, do you think anybody saw that?”
There was a chorus of mild chuckles, which Worf tolerated as he returned to the command chair. “Apprise the captain of this latest message,” he said, gripping the arms of the chair while reminding himself not to rip them from their mountings. “Continue efforts to track the transmission to its source, and to ascertain the identity of the speaker. Ensign Balidemaj, monitor the planetary newsfeeds for reactions to the message, and forward any relevant information to Lieutenant Choudhury as well as the security liaison at the Parliamentary Andoria complex.”
With orders issued and his people turning to their respective tasks, Worf was left alone at the center of it, as he had been all along.
Waiting.
24
“That’s it,” Admiral James Akaar muttered to no one, as he was alone in his office. “I’m hungry, I’m tired, and I quit.”
Rising from his chair, Akaar surveyed the landscape of padds, reports, and other administrative debris littering his desk. All of it contained matters of great import, at least to someone else. To him, they represented the chain and weights that had hung from his neck for what seemed an eternity. It was necessary work, of course, overseeing every aspect of Starfleet and the ships, stations, starbases, and personnel that ultimately answered to him. Despite a cadre of admirals and their respective staffs to which authority could be delegated—and beneath them, ship and station commanders and their staffs who in turn were empowered to act independently with broad discretionary powers—when it came to any of the thousands of decisions that could be made by those individuals during a single day, the responsibility for all of that eventually fell to him as the Starfleet commander. Knowing his staff would apprise him of anything requiring his attention, he did not trouble himself with the routine, even boring reports passed to him via the chain of command. Instead, he preferred to trust in those officers who had been granted the rank and commensurate responsibility to take the correct actions for the appropriate reasons. As for the truly vital issues demanding his immediate consideration, Akaar already had commented or acted on them as appropriate, and now felt confident that whatever remained could wait until morning.
Of course, by then, he reminded himself, the pile will have quadrupled. His staff was nothing if not efficient in that regard, seeing to it that the admiral was provided with such reports and other data in a timely manner. Curse their competent souls. Looking through the bay window that formed his office’s rear wall, Akaar surveyed the cityscape before him, highlighted by the thin band of orange on the horizon that signaled the end of another day. San Francisco was coming alive as night fell, lights from buildings as well as the Golden Gate Bridge painting the city in a vibrant array of colors and energy. The scene called to Akaar, imploring him to shrug off the mundane duties of his office and instead plunge into the vibrant atmosphere of his adopted home planet. He decided he would walk home this evening, and if he happened to come across one or two establishments catering to those who sought the pleasures to be found in fine beverages of the spirited persuasion, then so much the better.
He made it halfway to the door when it slid open to reveal his aide, Lieutenant Commander Jennifer Neeman, standing at the threshold. A slim human female with brown hair, high cheekbones, and a small yet prominent nose that gave her face an almost regal air, she held a padd in her hand, her expression one of apology as she nodded to him in greeting. “Good evening, Admiral.”
“Commander Neeman,” Akaar replied, his tone communicating that what he was about to say was intended in jest, “your talent for anticipating my desire to vacate these premises, to say nothing of your ability to initiate a timely disruption of my escape plan, is uncanny.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Neeman said, playing along with their all-too-familiar game. “Were you on your way out?”
Akaar chuckled. “Don’t you ever have the desire to flee this prison, Commander?” he asked, indicating his office’s drab gray walls with one hand. “To leave behind the shackles of duty and responsibility, and instead enjoy life the way it’s meant to be lived?”
Nodding, his aide replied, “Every day, Admiral, but then I remember that I work for you.”
This time, Akaar’s laugh echoed off the walls of his office. “I hear that a lot.” Turning from the door, he gestured for Neeman to follow him back to his desk. “What can I do for you, Commander?” he asked as he returned to his high-backed black leather chair.
Her expression and demeanor returning to something more formal, Neeman took a seat in one of the two chairs situated before the desk. “We’ve received an unusual report from our information security division. It seems that a request was submitted to the Starfleet central data banks, and when it yielded a negative result, search-query protocols were directed to the archive facility at Aldrin City.”
“What’s so unusual about that?” Akaar asked, frowning.
Neeman replied, “It’s what happened after that, sir. According to the facility’s commanding officer, Captain Randolph, the search arguments included with the request apparently contained key words and phrases that, when used in a particular context, triggered an alert in the archive center’s main computer banks. According to the report we received, the computer canceled the request, flagged the search terms, and initiated what the computer people at Aldrin City are calling a ‘containment protocol,’ which includes programmed instructions to notify the Starfleet Commander of its activation.”
Having next to no idea what his aide had just said, Akaar leaned forward in his chair and rested his muscled forearms atop his desk. “I certainly hope you understand at least some of that.”
“From what I can tell,” Neeman said, “a century-old computer program has been triggered, alerting us that someone has attempted to access information so restricted that it’s not even catalogued in the data banks of any Starfleet computer facility, at least not officially. According to the containment protocol, the information can only be released by authority of the Starfleet Commander and the Federation President.”
While it was not an unusual request, Akaar conceded, it still was an irregular occurrence. The computers and data-storage facilities that played home to the vast storehouses of information Starfleet had amassed in its more than two centuries of existence contained their share of closely guarded secrets. More than a few of those secrets, while not maintained even at one of Starfleet’s centralized data-management locations, could still be found at the secure archival repository located in Aldrin City on Earth’s moon. Access to that facility was limited primarily to the select crew of personnel tasked with managing and protecting its contents. Special requests to obtain information stored there normally required the approval of a flag officer, after which such inquiries still fell under the authority of the Chief of Starfleet Operations.
“So,” Akaar said, “what was being requested?”
Neeman shook her head. “I don’t know, sir. The containment protocol called for the immediate isolation of any relevant data files or other information related to the query. It’s been quarantined until it can be reviewed, by both you and President Bacco.”
Akaar decided this was the point at which things were beginning to make less sense. Frowning, he reached up to rub the bridge of his nose. “Who requested this information?”
Consulting the padd in her hand, Neeman replied, “Commander Beverly Crusher, chief medical officer—”
“Picard’s wife?” Akaar asked, interrupting his aide. He had just spent the last hour reviewing Jean-Luc Picard’s latest reports about the situation on Andor and the escalating incidents of civil unrest, including attacks on Starfleet and
Enterprise personnel.
“That’s right, Admiral,” Neeman replied. “On the Enterprise.”
Scowling, Akaar said, “I’m aware of her current posting, Commander.” This bit of information did nothing to alleviate his increasingly foul mood at having his evening’s agenda delayed or—worse—possibly scuttled. While he certainly wished nothing but happiness to Picard and Beverly Crusher, the admiral had never warmed to the idea of married officers serving together on the same starship. For a time, Akaar had suspected Crusher had been behind Picard’s outlandish kidnapping of Governor George Barrile last year. He was certain that she had spurred her husband to show Alpha Centauri’s planetary leader the scope of the suffering and relief efforts under way on Pacifica and—by extension—worlds across the Federation. Even though Picard had vociferously denied that allegation, taking full responsibility for his actions, the admiral still had wondered just how much influence the Enterprise’s chief medical officer might have over the decisions made by the starship’s captain. Akaar eventually had relented, realizing that Picard’s noteworthy career was defined by the orders and regulations he had flouted as much as it was by the standards and principles he had sworn and acted to uphold. Likewise, he knew that Beverly Crusher was an officer of similar character, and that Jean-Luc Picard of all people would never allow anyone of lesser moral fiber to serve as a member of his crew, let alone stand beside him as his wife.
“What was the nature of the records search she was performing?” he asked.
Now it was Commander Neeman’s turn to frown. “That’s the part I don’t get, sir. On the face of it, Dr. Crusher’s request seems rather benign. It deals primarily with genetic research. Specifically, she was looking for any information relating to complex, artificially created DNA structures and genome engineering. With the Enterprise at Andor and Dr. Crusher assisting Professor zh’Thiin, it at least sounds like information she’d be looking at as part of the ongoing research effort.” Pausing once more to look down again at her padd, she added, “There’s some medical or scientific formulae here, which I assume are related to words I actually do understand, but I’m not making sense of any of it.”
“But the Archives’ computer obviously knows what it is,” Akaar replied, shaking his head. “And that’s what triggered a lockdown? That’s ridiculous. Does Dr. Crusher know what’s happened?”
Neeman replied, “No, sir. According to Archives, her request resulted in the transmittal of some data to her, but obviously not whatever’s been quarantined. That seems to also be a part of this containment protocol.”
That seemed logical, Akaar mused, at least from an operational security point of view. “This can’t be the first time something like this has happened. Surely someone has made a similar kind of innocent request from Archives and been denied. Is there a record of this kind of reaction happening before?”
“Already ahead of you on that one, sir,” Neeman replied. “Obviously, search queries are inspected and some are flagged for security reasons, and requests similar to the one made by Dr. Crusher have been approved without incident. Something about this is different, and I’m guessing it has to do with the science gibberish she included as part of her search criteria.”
Indicating the computer terminal on his desk with a wave of his hand, Akaar asked, “So, how do I access these mysterious data files that I need to either approve or deny Dr. Crusher’s ability to review?”
“You can’t, Admiral,” Neeman replied, shifting in her seat as though she suddenly felt uncomfortable. “The files in question aren’t even stored in any of the Starfleet Archives’ data banks. According to Captain Randolph, they’re sealed in a series of three archival containers, where they’ve been for more than a century.”
Akaar knew that off-line storage was but one of several effective means of preventing easy access to classified materials, even considering the formidable security protocols engineered into the complex software that was the heart of Starfleet information technology. “That’s a common enough practice,” he said.
Holding up her hand, Neeman replied, “There’s more, sir. Captain Randolph says that unlike normal archival procedures, these containers possess no instructions for when their contents are to be released and made available for public access. So far as the data banks are concerned, these files are never to be opened, and even that gets better. She also says that the inventory codes as listed in the Archives’ main computer don’t match the codes on the containers themselves. In all three cases, two sets of numbers—the first and last pairs—were transposed.”
“If the codes don’t match,” Akaar said, “then how did the computer know where to find the files and issue a quarantine order?”
Neeman shook her head. “According to Captain Randolph, the containment protocol knew about the error. She doesn’t understand how that’s even possible and is speculating that it’s not an error at all, but instead a deliberate mislabeling, perhaps to keep someone from stumbling across them during a routine archives search.”
Releasing a sigh of exasperation, Akaar leaned back in his chair. “You’re telling me all of this is because someone tried to access a set of computer records from more than a hundred years ago, which somebody apparently stuck in a box with the wrong label? On purpose? What could possibly be so important that it requires this level of secrecy?”
“I have no idea, Admiral,” Neeman replied, shaking her head. “But you’re about to find out. The archival containers are on a Starfleet shuttle on its way from the moon right now. It’ll be here within the hour.”
Akaar rose from his chair, stepping around his desk so he could pace the carpet in the center of his office. As he began the slow circuit toward the front wall, he interlocked his fingers above his head and lifted his elbows toward the ceiling, stretching the muscles in his back and welcoming the respite from sitting. He had anticipated a nice walk in the mild evening air to reenergize himself after spending far too long trapped behind his desk, but it now was looking as though his habitual circuit back and forth across his office floor was all the exercise he would get this evening.
“Has the president been informed of this?” he asked as he reached the front wall and turned, retracing his steps across the carpet toward Neeman.
The commander shook her head. “Given that it’s only coming up on four in the morning in Paris, I held off on sending any messages to her aide.”
“There’s no sense waking her at this hour,” Akaar said, “not until we’ve had a chance to see what this is all about. Still, make sure to get me on her morning schedule.” He sighed, resigning himself to the evening’s forthcoming activities as he made his way back toward the window at the rear of his office. “I imagine I’ll be doing a lot of reading before tomorrow, so kindly inform the steward to keep the coffee hot.”
“I don’t suppose I’m allowed to help review whatever it is that’s coming?” Neeman asked.
Akaar replied, “You probably don’t possess the necessary security clearance. For all I know, I don’t have the proper clearance, considering I have absolutely no idea what this is about.”
Stopping before the picturesque view of San Francisco before him, the admiral considered the beautiful cityscape, wondering about the sealed files currently on their way to him. What did they contain, and of what value might they be after being locked away for more than a century?
“Maybe we’re all better off with nobody knowing what’s in those containers,” Neeman said from behind him.
Though he did not turn from the window, Akaar shifted his gaze until he could see his aide’s reflection in the transparasteel. “Perhaps you’re right,” he replied, though he admitted to himself that he now was motivated to uncover this odd little mystery as much by his own curiosity as by his official responsibilities. “Somebody wanted that information hidden away, perhaps forever. I just hope that when we crack the seals on those files, we’re not opening Pandora’s box.”
25
Standing before
the large windows at the rear of Presider sh’Thalis’s office, Picard watched the crowd that had gathered before the main entrance to the Parliament Andoria complex. A police barricade cordoned off an area leading up to the gate itself, should a ground vehicle require access. Picard counted at least a dozen police officers on the street before the main gate, with others in vehicles scattered among the crowd.
“That’s a lot of people,” said T’Ryssa Chen, from where she stood next to the captain.
Picard nodded. “Quite.” Even from this distance, it was easy to see that the gatherers had separated into two distinct groups, with members from each party holding signs displaying a broad spectrum of slogans, questions, and demands. Most of the signage was written in different Andorii dialects, though a few also had been printed in Federation Standard or decent approximations. As with the assemblage itself, the signs depicted variations on two basic themes: support and disdain for a continued Federation—and Starfleet—presence on Andor.
“At least they’re remaining peaceful,” said Presider sh’Thalis from behind her desk, her chair turned so that she could look out into the courtyard and the throng of citizens milling on the streets.
Standing on the other side of the wide desk, her hands clasped behind her back, Lieutenant Choudhury said, “I don’t expect that will last for very long, Presider. From what we’ve learned so far, everything that’s happened to this point is just prelude.”
Sh’Thalis swiveled her chair until she faced the Enterprise’s security chief. “I’ve reviewed the reports submitted by Captain ch’Zandi and Commander th’Hadik, Lieutenant. They spared no detail.”