Текст книги "Section 31: Rogue "

Автор книги: Andy Mangels

Соавторы: Michael Martin
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The doors parted with a pneumatic hiss, and a smiling Will Riker entered the room. Picard gestured to one of the chairs in front of the desk. “Have a seat, Number One. I’ll be finished updating my log in a moment.”

As Riker sat, Picard resumed his dictation: “I agree wholeheartedly with Starfleet’s assessment that the only way to assuage the unrest on Chiaros IV is to arrange a negotiated settlement between the government and the dissidents. However, because of my renowned lack of experience in such matters, Starfleet Command is sending us a ‘professional’ diplomat–”

Picard paused again when he saw Riker’s smile expand into an ear‑to‑ear grin. The captain responded with a wry smile of his own. “Computer, pause log entry.” To his second‑in‑command, he said, “You’re quite right, Number One. That won’t do at all.

“Computer, delete the last sentence.”

The computer acknowledged, and Picard continued: “To this end, Starfleet has given overall command of the Chiarosan mission to . . . an expert in the field of interstellar diplomacy.

“Computer, end entry.”

Picard rose from his chair and straightened his tunic. Riker got to his feet as well, his smile persisting. “We’re about to rendezvous with the Thunderchildto pick up our ‘expert diplomat,’ Captain. Has Starfleet Command said yet who they’re sending?”

“No,” Picard said, frankly annoyed at that fact. “But it isn’t the first time a starship captain has been left out of the loop.”

Then he strode toward the door, which parted and admitted him onto the bridge.

“Activate viewer, Lieutenant Hawk,” Picard said, settling into the center seat as Riker took up a position behind the duty station at his right. “Let’s have a look at her.”

Hawk’s fingers sped nimbly across the helm console, his enthusiasm for his job apparent. The dark‑haired young man reminded Picard of a decade‑younger version of his first officer.

Counselor Troi was already seated at Picard’s left. Her dark eyes were fixed on the sleek, catamaran‑like image that had just taken shape on the viewer.

“The U.S.S. Thunderchild,”Picard said. “The new Akiraclass. One of Starfleet’s latest designs.”

“Thunderchild,”Troi repeated. “What a peculiar name.”

Standing beside one of the starboard science consoles, Lieutenant Commander Data watched the approaching ship with evident appreciation. “Actually, the starship’s nomenclature is an allusion to the imaginative literature of Earth’s late nineteenth century. In The War of the Worldsby H. G. Wells, the H.M.S. Thunderchildwas one of the vessels the British navy sent to fend off an invasion by hostile Martians.”

Picard heard Hawk’s quiet chuckle. He recalled then that Hawk had grown up on Mars.

“And how did the Thunderchild’s crew fare against these . . . Martians?” Troi asked Data, her eyes brimming with restrained amusement.

“They were . . . not entirely successful. However, the literary genre in question was often prone to unfounded speculation, well into the twenty‑first century. Many of these works contain an abundance of factual inaccuracies.”

“Such as the existence of bloodthirsty, tentacled Martians,” Riker deadpanned.

Data nodded. “Precisely, Commander.”

Picard remembered The War of the Worldswell, having savored the Victorian tale of alien invasion several times during his boyhood in Labarre, France. He had reread it during his Starfleet Academy days, and again years later aboard the Stargazer.He could only hope that this latter‑day Thunderchildwould never face a crisis like the one that had beset her literary namesake.

“We are now within transporter range,” Data said.

A tall, slender Skorr female, whose golden‑feathered wings were closed unobtrusively behind her, swiveled from behind a communications console toward the bridge’s center. “They’re hailing us, Captain,” the avian said.

“Thank you, Ensign Rixa,” Picard said, rising to his feet. “Thunderchild,this is Captain Jean‑Luc Picard of the Enterprise.”

The image on the viewer shifted, displaying the Thunderchild’s bridge, where a half‑dozen Starfleet officers busied themselves at various tasks. A uniformed human female, fiftyish, occupied the captain’s chair. To her right sat a male humanoid of robust middle age, dressed in a high‑collared, gray civilian suit. Picard could not recall ever having seen him before. Sitting at the captain’s other side was a slightly built, silver‑haired human woman, wearing Starfleet regalia and an admiral’s pips.

Picard recognized her instantly. Had his heart not been artificial, it might have skipped a beat. He suddenly became aware of Troi watching him, her eyebrows slightly raised in an unspoken question.

“Captain Picard,” the Thunderchild’s commander said. “I am Captain Evelyn Hoffman. Please allow me to introduce the Federation’s special envoy, Ambassador Aubin Tabor.”

The civilian beside Hoffman smiled and nodded in Picard’s direction. He projected an air of authority that was just short of arrogance. When he spoke, his words were crisp and precisely measured.

“I am looking forward to working with you and your crew, Captain Picard.”

Picard noticed the gray mottling at the man’s temples, markings that identified him as a member of the telepathic Ullian species. He could now see a good reason for putting aside his initial umbrage at not having been selected to head up the Chiarosan diplomatic mission; having a true telepath in the thick of things might be a real boon to the coming negotiations.

“Likewise, Mr. Tabor,” Picard said, bowing his head slightly.

“And this is Vice‑Admiral Marta Batanides,” Hoffman said as the silver‑haired woman smiled and rose to her feet. Picard was struck by how little she had changed during the forty‑odd years since they had exchanged their farewells at Starbase Earhart. Certainly, her hair color was different, her rank had advanced, and many small lines now framed her eyes. But those eyes and that winsome smile took him straight back to his hell‑for‑leather Academy days.

“Captain,” she said simply. Though her tone was businesslike, her smile struck him as mischievous.

Picard’s throat suddenly felt as dry as the desert on Lambda Paz. “Admiral. We’ll beam you and the ambassador aboard as soon as you’re ready.”

“We are ready now,Captain,” Tabor said, rising and taking a step toward one of the turbolifts. “The sooner we get under way the better. And I would appreciate it if you would organize a briefing so that I can bring your senior staff up to speed on some of the difficulties we’ll be facing. Say in thirty minutes?”

“Absolutely, Ambassador. In the meantime, my first officer will see that you are issued appropriate quarters.”

Apparently satisfied, Tabor dismissed Picard with a nod, then strode toward the Thunderchild’s turbolift, with the admiral in tow. Captain Hoffman signed off, and the viewer once again displayed the other vessel. “I’ll meet them in transporter room three,” Riker said, then excused himself from the bridge as several betawatch officers entered, their shifts about to begin.

Picard faced the helm. “Mr. Hawk, make best speed to Chiaros IV as soon as our guests are aboard.”

“Aye, sir. ETA in approximately twenty‑three hours.”

“Mr. Data, you have the conn,” Picard said as he walked back toward his ready room.

Marta,Picard thought. Whatever have you been up to all these years?

Even after the ready‑room doors had closed behind him, he thought he could feel Troi’s inquisitive gaze burning holes into the back of his head.

Awash in memories, Picard ran a finger along the model Stargazer’s warp nacelles when the ready‑room door chime sounded once again.

“Come,” Picard said, facing the door and straightening his uniform tunic with a quick tug. The doors hissed open and Vice‑Admiral Marta Batanides entered.

The doors closed behind her. They were alone together.

She smiled broadly. “Johnny. It’s been a long time.”

“Indeed it has, Marta,” was all he could think of to say.

The admiral took a step toward him and extended her arms. “Don’t tell me you can’t spare a hug for an old friend.”

He paused to look at her face. Even after all these years, she still had the same elfin, graceful quality he had found so endearing during their Academy days. But overlying that was a subtle toughness that only years of experience could bring. Somewhat awkwardly, he allowed himself to be drawn into a firm but chaste embrace.

They separated to arm’s length moments later, and continued regarding one another in companionable silence. Like Picard, Batanides had graduated from the Academy class of ’27, and despite the intensity of his subsequent experiences over the intervening decades, his thoughts often drifted back to those heady yet relatively carefree times, when cadets Jean‑Luc Picard, Marta Batanides, and Cortin Zweller had been an inseparable team. Picard suspected that those days had left an equally strong imprint on Batanides. And although they had never been more than close friends, Picard knew that he would always wonder what he and Marta might have shared together had they both been less caught up in the exigencies of their duties.

And less afraid,he thought wistfully. But that ship sailed long ago.

“Would you like something to drink?” Picard said finally, breaking the long silence.

She grinned. “I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

He rose, chuckling as he walked toward the replicator niche. “I’m afraid my tastes have become somewhat . . . tamer since we last saw one another. Computer, tea, Earl Grey, hot. Two cups.” The replicator hummed as the beverages materialized.

Batanides seated herself in front of his desk as he set down a pair of steaming cups. She accepted one and took a tentative sip.

Picard settled into his chair, holding his cup while its contents slowly cooled. “I couldn’t help but notice that you’ve beaten me to the rank of admiral.”

She laughed briefly, a pleasant, liquid sound. “It’s not nearly as much fun as it looks, Jean‑Luc. My advice? Don’t be in too much of a hurry to get promoted.”

“Believe me, I’m not,” he said, tasting his tea. “I’m perfectly happy right here.”

“You have a right to be,” she said over the edge of her cup. “I’ve followed your career since we went our separate ways. You’ve made quite a mark for yourself. Rescuing that ambassador on Milika III. Your years aboard the Stargazer.And then commanding two Federation flagships after that. Pretty impressive.”

He felt a surge of embarrassment. “I’m afraid I have a confession to make, Marta. I don’t think I can encapsulate yourcareer quite so readily.”

Setting her cup down on the desk, she said, “Don’t blame yourself for that, Johnny. When you work for Starfleet Intelligence, you try to keep a low profile.”

Picard tried to hide his surprise, evidently without complete success. He could see that she noticed his reaction.

“Johnny?”

After a considered pause, he said, “Forgive me for saying so, Marta, but I’m not terribly enthusiastic about Starfleet Intelligence.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“Three years ago, I became aware that your department had covered up an illegal cloaking device test. That incident nearly cost me the best first officer I ever had.”

She nodded contritely. “The Pegasusaffair. It came to light shortly before I made admiral. ‘Ranar’s folly,’ we called it. It was a blot on the bureau’s reputation, and won’t be repeated. At least not as long as I’m wearing all these pips.”

Though he knew he was unlikely ever to forget or forgive the Pegasusincident, Picard allowed his anger to subside. But he still had unanswered questions about the bureau and its agenda.

“Marta, I’d wager that your presence is proof that Starfleet Intelligence is more than a little interested in the Chiarosan situation. I have to wonder what they know that I don’t. Perhaps the Geminus Gulf isn’t so strategically worthless as the official reports seem to indicate?”

“That would make this whole business a lot simpler, wouldn’t it?” she said, smiling ruefully. “But as far as Intelligence knows, you can take the Geminus Gulf at face value. It consists of one barely habitable inhabited planet, dozens of lifeless star systems, some fluky subspace readings that are probably just instrumentation errors, and about sixty‑six thousand cubic parsecs of otherwise extraordinarily uninteresting space.”

Picard wasn’t quite satisfied with that. “Space in which the Romulans have nevertheless shown a distinct interest.”

“For reasons which probably have more to do with Romulan misdirection than the Gulf’s intrinsic value,” she said with a shrug.

Picard mulled her words over for a moment. If she valued their mutual Academy days as much as he did– and as much as she appeared to–then he could assume that she was telling him the unvarnished truth. He decided to proceed from that assumption.

“Fair enough, Marta. You’ve eliminated the simplebut‑incorrect answer. But what’s the complicatedbutcorrect one?”

She cast a backward glance over her shoulder, as though concerned that someone might overhear, then looked him straight in the eye. “We have reason to believe that the Chiarosan rebels are using Starfleet weapons. Weapons they may have obtained from the missing starship, the Slayton.And that may mean the ship met with foul play.”

That took Picard aback for a moment. If the rebels really were using Starfleet matИriel to carry out their guerrilla campaign, then the Federation could be inadvertently responsible for starting a planetary civil war. Such a development would surely warrant the attention of the highest echelons of Starfleet Intelligence.

But why would the bureau risk such an important officer by sending her into such a volatile situation?

“Forgive me for saying so, Marta,” Picard said carefully. “But I still don’t think you’ve told me everything.”

She smiled a poker player’s smile. “You’re right. And I’m not at liberty to do that, as I’m sure you’re well aware. But I can tell you this: Corey Zweller was the Slayton’s science officer.”

Picard felt as though he’d been kicked in the stomach. He set his cup on the desk with an audible clinkand struggled for calm. After collecting his thoughts for a moment, he said, “Marta, are you entirely certain that your interest in this matter isn’t . . . personal?”

She stood slowly, her movements calm, her face impassive. But her eyes blazed with an inner fire. “You’re damned right it’s personal, Johnny. But fortunately, rank hath its privileges. That’s why Aubin and I are on yourship and not someone else’s.”

Picard was mildly surprised to discover that Batanides was on a first‑name basis with the ambassador. The man had struck him as rather aloof.

“I assure you, Marta,” he said, meeting her gaze unflinchingly, “I will do everything possible to get to the truth about what’s been happening on Chiaros IV. Andto recover Corey, if he’s still alive. He’d do no less for me.”

Her expression softened, and her smile returned. “Thank you, Jean‑Luc. I knew I could count on you. I’ll see you at the mission briefing.” Then she turned and left the room.

What are friends for?he thought, his gaze drifting to the viewing port and the changeless stars beyond.

As Commander Will Riker exited his quarters, carrying with him a padd, he spied Data turning the corner down the hall. Data called out to him. “Commander, may I walk with you to the briefing?”

Riker turned and grinned good‑naturedly. “Sure, Data.” He waited for the android to catch up to him before resuming on his way. “How are things going?”

By now, Data seemed so at ease with the nonspecific ways in which his human counterparts questioned him, that he barely raised an eyebrow. “By ‘things,’ I assume you mean how the elements of my day are fitting together, rather than the status of the ship or its crew? Things are going well. Prior to going on duty this morning, I reread the first half of the complete works of twentieth‑century horror writer Stephen King, in an attempt to better understand the concept of fear. While I was sitting in my chair, I was suddenly surprised by Spot, who chose a particularly odd moment to decide that my hair needed to be rearranged. I was, for a moment, more frightened by the cat’s actions than I was by the passage I had been reading.”

Riker chuckled, picturing Data wrestling with the feline furball atop his head. “Yes, well, animals have a strange way of behaving sometimes. It’s hard to tell why they do the things they do.”

Data looked befuddled for a moment. “I am sure that animals have a motivation for their actions, just as do all sentient creatures. Whether they are aware of that motive or not is a question perhaps worthy of further study.”

As they walked, Riker spied two men coming toward them in the corridor. The shorter one was Lieutenant Sean Hawk, whom Riker had grown fond of during the short time he had been on the Enterprise.Hawk had amazingly fast reflexes, making him perhaps the best conn officer–other than Data–with whom Riker had ever worked. He also had an astonishing memory, and was a good conversationalist as well.

The man with him was Lieutenant Commander Ranul Keru, the head of the ship’s stellar cartography department. He was a giant of a man, broad‑shouldered and goodhumored. He was bearded, like Riker, but sported an oldfashioned bushy mustache. Keru’s distinctive Trill facial markings were very visible due to his receding hairline. Riker hadn’t spent much time with the man, though he had played against him a few times in games of velocity.

“Good afternoon, Commander. Lieutenant,” Data greeted them warmly.

“Commander Data, Commander Riker, good to see you,” said Keru.

“Hello, sir,” Hawk nodded to Riker, then added, “Hello, Commander Data.”

“Where are you two off to?” Riker said.

“Well, we finally got our shift schedules pretty compatible, so we’re going for a drink in the crew lounge, and then thought we’d take in a holodeck adventure,” Hawk said, grinning a little sheepishly.

“Something with pirates?” said Riker. When Hawk looked surprised, the Commander gestured toward Keru, smiling. “Ranul told me about your Captain Bloodscenarios during one of our velocity matches. They sound like a lot of fun.”

Keru looked down at Riker, a twinkle in his eye. “I understand that you and the captain sometimes run a holographic program involving an old sailing vessel known as the Enterprise? Someone once mentioned to me that Lieutenant Commander Worf received his last promotion there.”

Riker laughed, remembering the double‑dunking of Worf and Dr. Crusher that had occurred shortly before the Enterprise‑Dhad been dispatched on its final mission. “We’ll have to revive that program if– when– Sean gets lieutenant commander’s pips of his own.”

Data spoke up then. “I believe the two of you have a different kind of celebration coming up soon. Your second anniversary is next week, as I recall?”

Riker shot the pair a questioning look. Keru grinned under his mustache, and put his arm around the shoulders of the shorter Hawk, pulling him in just a bit. “That’s right. Two years since that fateful day on Risa.”

“I was spelunking in the crystal caves and lost my footing,” said Hawk. “I fell over the side of an outcropping, and landed wrong. Luckily, Ranul was exploring the same caves, and he rappelled down to help me.”

“He had broken his leg,” said Keru. “So, I hoisted him over my shoulder like a sack of Andorian curm’esh,and climbed up to safety and a medic.”

“He waited for me to get out of the medic lounge, took me to dinner, and we’ve been together ever since,” said Hawk. “We were even both able to arrange transfers onto the Enterprise‑Ebefore its launch.”

“And we’re all the better for it,” said Riker. He clapped a hand on top of Keru’s–which was still on Hawk’s shoulder–and nodded past them. “We have to get to a briefing. But if you’re up for it, I’ll buy you a celebratory drink next week for your anniversary.”

“Thank you, Commander. That would be nice,” said Keru.

“Good‑bye, gentlemen,” said Data.

As the two men headed for the crew lounge, Riker and Data went to catch the turbolift to their meeting.

Dr. Beverly Crusher had come to the ready room to deliver the crew medical evaluation report, and minutes later Picard found himself sharing the quick turbolift ride to deck three with her and Counselor Troi.

“Have either of you met the ambassador yet?” Picard said.

“Very briefly,” Troi said. “After Commander Riker had shown him and the admiral to their quarters.”

“And what was your impression of him?”

She shook her head. “Ullian minds are opaque even to full‑blooded Betazoid telepaths, so my vantage point is no better than yours, Captain. But I did sense that Admiral Batanides was trying to conceal something.”

Intelligence operatives,Picard thought. He couldn’t help but wonder what secrets she might still be withholding from him, despite the nostalgic bond between them.

“What do you suppose it is that she’s hiding?” Crusher said.

A thoughtful look crossed Troi’s countenance. “For one thing, she doesn’t seem to want anyone to discover that she and Ambassador Tabor are romantically involved.”

“What?” Picard said. He realized too late that he had spoken much more loudly than he had intended.

A sly smile blossomed across Crusher’s face. “Isn’t the admiral an old friend of yours, Jean‑Luc?”

“Yes, Doctor. But that’s allwe were. And that was a very, very long time ago.”

The chief medical officer spread her hands in an exaggerated gesture of peace. “Sorry, Captain.” Stagewhispering to Troi, she said, “Deanna, I think you’d better schedule a counseling session.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Picard said, trying not to smile. Troi’s face flushed with barely bridled mirth.

At least now I know why Marta calls the ambassador by his first name,Picard thought. He assumed that she never mentioned the relationship for professional reasons.

The turbolift stopped. The three entered an empty corridor and headed toward the fore part of the deck. Just before they entered the main forward observation lounge, Picard overheard Crusher tell Troi that shehad figured out that the admiral and the ambassador were an item when she noticed that Will had assigned them both to the same VIP stateroom.

Inside the lounge, Picard saw that all the rest of the ship’s senior officers were already taking their seats around the conference table. Aubin Tabor looked professorial, his hands behind his back as he stood before the star‑flecked observation windows. Picard was impressed that Tabor was greeting everyone by name, without even once consulting a padd.

Or is he simply plucking whatever information he needs from each person’s mind?

As soon as everyone was settled, Tabor called the briefing to order.

“To understand the people we seek to bring into the Federation,” Tabor said, “we must understand the world that produced them.”

Raising a small remote‑control device before him, he summoned a holographic representation of a planet, which began slowly turning above the conference table. Half of the planet was engulfed in inky, impenetrable darkness. The other hemisphere was brightly lit, colored with a pallet of inhospitable rust reds and sulfuric yellows. It reminded Picard of something out of Milton.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Chiaros IV,” Tabor continued. “Because its rotational period precisely matches its sidereal year, this planet presents the same face to its sun at all times. In other words, half the planet exists in perpetual, broiling daylight. The opposite side is consigned to an endless night. This leaves only a narrow swath of habitable area–the so‑called ‘twilight meridian’–girdling the planet from pole to pole and back again. As you can see, Chiaros IV is a place of remarkable contrasts.”

“Remarkable indeed,” Troi said. “The very existence of this planet seems to defy all the odds.”

“Actually,” Data said, “such orbital configurations are not uncommon. For example, Earth has a single natural satellite that orbits in exactly the same fashion.”

Smiling indulgently at the android, Tabor said, “ Actually, Mr. Data, I believe the counselor’s words were quite well‑chosen.” He then resumed addressing the rest of the room: “Besides the ferocious weather systems caused by the planet’s tide‑locked orbit, one must consider the Chiarosan star’s prodigious output of hard radiation. Without the protection of the planet’s immense magnetic field, no life of any sort could exist here. The solar bombardment long ago boiled away most of Dayside’s surface water, leaving the Chiarosans with the unenviable options of either pumping it out from dozens of kilometers beneath the nutrient‑poor ground, or collecting Nightside ice–the latter alternative being extraordinarily difficult and risky, given the permanently frozen conditions there. On Chiaros IV, life itself is very much against the odds, let alone the Chiarosans’ warp‑capable civilization. But the Chiarosans are inveterate survivors; they are a people long accustomed to ‘beating the odds.’ ”

“It’s hard to understand,” Crusher said with a slight shake of her head, “how a warp‑capable society can have so much trouble just keeping its people fed.”

“Not really, Doctor,” Batanides said. “These people don’t have any trading partners within ten parsecs in any direction. On top of that, they only discovered fasterthan‑light travel about a generation ago. Zefram Cochrane’s first warp experiments didn’t bring us asteroid mines and food replicators overnight. Until the start of the twenty‑second century, after the first Oort cloud resource‑extraction operations had gotten under way, Earth was still in pretty rough shape economically.”

Tabor nodded toward the admiral before continuing. “As I’m sure you’re all aware by now, the Chiarosans are about to make a choice that could be as critical as their discovery of superluminal travel. In a little less than five days, they will decide whether to become a provisional member of the Federation, or yet another vassal of the Romulan Star Empire.”

“And if the Chiarosans enter a pact with the Romulans,” Batanides said, “then they also gain effective control of the entire Geminus Gulf.”

Picard looked at the impassive faces of each of his senior officers, none of whom looked overly impressed by the point Batanides had just made. Lieutenant Commander Geordi La Forge, the Enterprise’s chief engineer, was the first to give voice to what they all must have been thinking.

“I’ve seen the reports about what’s in the Gulf. Or rather about what’s notthere, at least in terms of resources. To put it delicately . . . why are we so concerned about whether or not the Romulans annex the place?”

“Other than simple altruism,” Riker said, “the best reason I can think of is because the Romulans seem to be very concerned about whether or not weannex the place.”

Tabor nodded. “And because First Protector Ruardh’s planetary government has officially invited the Federation in, pending ratification of its decision by a popular vote.”

“There’s also the matter of the Slaytonto consider,” Batanides said. “The Chiarosan government claims that the Slaytonlaunched a diplomatic shuttle toward the planet shortly before the starship mysteriously disappeared. But the Slayton’s diplomatic team never made it to the Chiarosan capital. We need access to the planet and the surrounding space to mount a proper search for the crew. But if the Romulans force the Federation out of the Geminus Gulf, then we can forget about ever getting at the truth.”

Or finding Corey,Picard thought. Aloud, he said, “ Admiral, are you saying that you believe the Romulans had something to do with the Slayton’s disappearance?”

“I can’t prove it,” she said. “But I wouldn’t put it past them.”

Picard was skeptical. He tried to word his objection as diplomatically as possible. “Admiral, to risk war with the Federation over three sectors of essentially empty space would not appear to make a great deal of sense.”

“Granted,” Batanides said. “But it’s hard to evaluate the Romulans’ logic when we have so little hard intelligence about their agenda here.”

Crusher spoke up then, her brow creased in thought. “Putting aside the Romulans for the moment, how difficult can our mission to Chiaros be? The planet’s government was duly elected by the Chiarosan people, wasn’t it?”

“Of course,” Tabor said, raising an eyebrow. “We would not be considering them for Federation membership were it otherwise.”

“Exactly,” Crusher said. “So if the duly‑constituted Powers That Be on Chiaros IV want us in and the Romulans out, then it seems to me that we’d have to work pretty hard to fail.”

Tabor smiled his indulgent smile once again. “I’m afraid it isn’t quite as simple as that, Doctor. Despite their proven ability to unite themselves behind a single government, the Chiarosan social order remains a patchwork of clans and families, some of whom harbor ancient rivalries. It is a fragile coalition, and it can be broken by resource disputes . . . or by outside alliances made by Chiarosan clan leaders.

“A pro‑Romulan dissident faction–run by a man named Falhain–has been launching guerrilla attacks on government infrastructure. It is the opinion of Ruardh’s government that the rebels are using Federation weapons seized from the Slaytonto carry out these raids. Needless to say, the citizenry is talking. Whether or not these charges are true, the prospect of Federation weapons getting into rebel hands has made even Ruardh’s supporters question the wisdom of siding with us.”

“Making the Romulans look more and more like the better alternative,” Picard said grimly, his eyes on the slowly turning holographic globe.

“And making us responsible for cleaning up the mess our own weapons may have created,” Riker added.

“Precisely, Commander. Captain, my mission–and therefore yourmission–is to help Ruardh and Falhain put their ancient enmities aside and reach an accord, so that Chiaros IV will at least have a chance of taking its place alongside the other members of the Federation.” With that, he lifted the remote and the holographic image of Chiaros IV winked into oblivion. No one else spoke for several long seconds afterward, as the import of his words sank in.