Текст книги "Section 31: Rogue "

Автор книги: Andy Mangels

Соавторы: Michael Martin
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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

Hawk had finally returned to their quarters to further ruminate about what he’d been told. The ambassador’s words replayed in his mind almost exactly. His memory was–as always–crystal clear. An eidetic memory.That’s what Tabor had called it. But what good were Tabor’s words, laid out in his mind like a map, if he wasn’t sure whether he could trust the intent behind them?

It made sense, really, that Starfleet would have a secret intelligence branch. Every other major power in the quadrant had its own intelligence communities. Still, it felt at odds with the stated purpose of Starfleet to engage in the kind of surveillance and skulduggery that Earth’s inhabitants had left behind after making first contact.

At the same time, he knew that Starfleet wasn’t infallible. During his time as a junior officer and serving on the Enterprise– especially,perhaps, while serving on the Enterprise–he had seen many of his superior officers make decisions that ran counter to the tenets he had been taught at the Academy. Although those choices were always made with the best intentions, he saw that the rules were made to flex and bend to fit the situations. The Prime Directive was clearly notthe end‑all of solutions.

Although the music drowned out the sound of the opening doors, the sliver of light that came into the room signaled to Hawk that Keru had returned. He looked up and gave his partner a half‑smile, then resumed his downward gaze. He knew that Keru would sense that something was wrong; he just didn’t know how he could talk to him about the subject without breaking the secrecy Tabor had requested of him.

“Computer, lower music,” Keru said, as he crouched down in front of Hawk. He looked to him, his eyes showing concern. “What’s wrong, Sean?”

“Nothing I can talk about.”

“What? Did I do something?” Keru looked crestfallen for a moment, and Hawk knew that he was steeling his nerves for whatever was to come next.

Hawk quickly amended his statement. “It’s not about us,”he said, reassuringly. “It’s . . . it’s something classified.”

The Trill looked up, relief showing on his face. He moved up and sat next to Hawk, putting a hand on his shoulder. “I understand. Is it something about this Chiarosan situation?”

Hawk hated being evasive, especially with the man he loved. “Yes and no. I can’t talk about it.”

“Is the ship in danger? The Romulans?”

“I saidI can’t talk about it,” Hawk said edgily. He stood, and paced over to the wall.

“They found the wreckage of the Slaytona few hours ago,” Keru said, getting up and moving to the replicator. “No survivors. Still no sign of the Archimedes,though.” He ordered a dark ale, and it shimmered into solidity on the replicator pad.

“I hadn’t heard.” Hawk’s hand reflexively clenched. Tabor was right. Somethingdid happen to the ship. To that other agent’s mission. Commander Zweller.

Keru took a sip of his ale. “Oh. I thought thatmight be what this moodis about.”

Hawk sighed heavily. “No, it’s not, Ranul. And I’m not in a ‘mood,’ I just have some important things to think about.”

Keru sat down on the couch, spreading one hand wide as if sweeping the air. “And here I thought that after two years together I could recognize your moods. Dark room, Celtic music, avoiding the topic–”

“I toldyou it was classified,” Hawk said sharply.

“Fine, whatever.” Keru took another sip of his ale and sat in silence for a moment. “Do you want to get something to eat?”

“I already ate.”

Keru put his glass down on a table next to the couch and stood up, wiping a bit of foam from his mustache. “Well, I guess I’ll go eat alone,then. Let you continue your nonmood.” He moved toward the door and hesitated, looking over at Hawk.

“I’m sorry,” Hawk said quietly.

The door whisked open in front of Keru, and the sound of raised voices and running came from down the outside hallway.

“Something’s wrong,” Keru said, peering down the corridor. Hawk moved over swiftly to join him, in time to see the turbolift doors close in front of a very distraught‑looking Vice‑Admiral Batanides and two security officers.

Hawk looked down the corridor, and spotted another pair of security officers. He recognized one of them as Lieutenant Sallee Huber, and called out to her. “ Lieutenant Huber. What’s happening?”

The older of the two stopped and turned toward the two men. “It’s all hit the fan, Hawk. There was a massacre down on Chiaros IV. Commander Riker and Counselor Troi are missing, and Ambassador Tabor’s been badly wounded. They’ve just beamed him to sickbay!”

The color drained from Hawk’s face as he turned toward Keru. Standing next to him, his partner appeared equally surprised by the news, his mouth hanging open.

First had come Commander Zweller’s disappearance, then the discovery of wreckage from the Slayton.Now Tabor had been attacked. If Hawk needed another sign that he needed to act, then perhaps this was it. Something was seriously wrong, and Hawk knew that he would do whatever it took to help find a solution. And if that meant working with Section 31, then so be it.

“I’m going up to the bridge. They might need me.” Hawk gave his partner a quick kiss on the cheek, and stalked into the hallway, tugging at the bottom of his tunic.

“Marta, please!” Picard grabbed the admiral by the shoulders, more forcefully than he had intended. Ambassador Tabor had died fifteen minutes ago on the operating table, despite Dr. Crusher’s best efforts. Since then, once the scimitar gash to his own chest had been sealed, Picard had tried to comfort Marta Batanides. At first, she had resisted being taken from sickbay, until Crusher had made it a medical order. Picard had brought her to his quarters; her own would have been a painful reminder of Tabor.

Picard had just slipped into a new tunic in the other room–he had discarded his blood‑splattered outer garments in sickbay–when he heard a crash. He emerged to find that Batanides had thrown a glass vase across the room and into a wall. Now, as he grabbed her, she moved into his open arms, sobbing.

He found himself simultaneously uneasy and comfortable as he held her. Her hair was falling down in strands from the back of the intricate braided bun she wore, tickling his hands. He felt the years melt away, recalling their friendship at the Academy, the romance that could have been but had never blossomed. And he now felt like her protector; she may have outranked him, but for the moment, she was a friend in pain, and he was doing what he could to shield her, to comfort her.

Batanides stopped crying, and sniffed. He felt her hand unclench near his clavicle and wipe at her eyes. And then, she backed away from him, turning slightly as she wiped her cheek.

“Marta, I’m so sorry.”

She straightened slightly, closing her eyes and breathing in deeply through her nose. And then she finally spoke, the tremors still evident in her voice, but the commanding presence of mind returning to her once again. “Yes, thank you, Jean‑Luc. I know you did everything you could to help him.”

“It wasn’t nearly enough,” Picard said, resignedly.

“No, I don’t blame you. From what you’ve said, nothing could have prevented what happened . . . except perhaps a little restraint on the rebels’ part.”

“We don’t know for certain who initiated the fighting. In fact, the first one I saw killed by disruptor fire was a rebel soldier.”

Batanides looked him steadily in the eye, once more the cool senior Starfleet officer. “Regardless, from what you’ve already told me, the rebels were definitely firing on your away team, the government delegation, and the Romulans as well. This Army of Light seems willing to resort to any level of violence to thwart Ruardh’s diplomatic efforts, and to bring the legitimate government down.”

“Marta, there is more to this situation than the Federation has been told. Falhain’s people have made grievous charges against the government. I saw evidence implicating Ruardh in military strikes against civilian dissidents–and even ‘ethnic cleansing.’ I’m no longer so firmly convinced that we’re supporting the right side in this matter.”

She frowned. “Are you saying that we should throw our support behind Falhain’s followers instead? Allow Chiaros IV to fall into the hands of the Romulans?”

“No. What I’m saying is that–”

“Wait.” The admiral held up her hand, her face expressing surprise. “Why didn’t we look at this before? Could the Romulanshave been behind this attack, even at the risk of their own diplomats? They’re already our prime suspects in the Slaytonaffair, whether or not we can prove it.”

Picard nodded, weighing her words. “It could be that the Romulans’ plans for the Geminus Gulf are related to the Slayton’s destruction.”

“Maybe the rebels didn’t touch off the chaos in HagratИ after all, Johnny. Maybe the real culprits were a few well‑placed Romulan agents provocateurs.”

“Unfortunately, Commander Data’s analysis doesn’t quite bear that out. None of the energy signatures he detected were Romulan in origin. But some of them actually appear to belong to Starfleet weapons.”

“So the finger of blame points back toward the rebels after all,” she said, looking satisfied.

“No, not necessarily,” Picard said. “You said that Starfleet Intelligence had been given reports that the rebels were using stolen weapons, but that could have been deliberate disinformation intended to muddy the local politics even further. You could have been strung along, given false information. . . . It certainly seems possible, given that the alleged atrocities of Ruardh’s regime have been kept secret until now.”

For a long moment, Picard’s eyes locked with Batanides’s. Behind her intense stare, he knew that her mind was racing, trying to overcome her grief using cold, hard logic. But the situation on Chiaros IV was too complex, too unstable, to be explained by simple dialectic reasoning. Too many elements were wild, or just plain unknown.

How can we be sure of anything when every corner seems to hide someone’s secret agenda?

Picard’s combadge chirped, and Beverly Crusher’s voice dispelled the silence of the room. “Captain, I’ve found something.”

“The admiral and I will meet you in my ready room,” Picard said crisply.

“What?” Batanides looked incredulous.

Beverly Crusher stood her ground. Picard knew that as a doctor, she had become used to delivering bad news; it didn’t make it easier just because she had done it before, but it had made her emotional hide thicker, so that she didn’t take the reactions personally. Crusher placed a small vial down on the ready‑room table, slowly and deliberately.

“I’m not sure what it is, Admiral. But I found this implant in your . . . in Ambassador Tabor’s brain.”

Picard picked up the vial and studied the small item inside it. It was a microchip of some sort, with multiple hair‑thin cables extruding from its interface, looking like so many ganglia. “Do you have any idea what its purpose might be?”

Crusher sighed. “I’m not sure. It could be medical, but it’s not a piece of technology that I’m familiar with. It might also be something unique to the Ullian species.” She turned slightly toward Batanides. “Did the ambassador ever mention having suffered a brain trauma or neurological disorder in the past?”

“No. He was always in perfect health,” the admiral replied. “But I suppose it could date back to before we met.”

The doors hissed open, and Lieutenant Commanders Data and Geordi La Forge stepped into the ready room, each of them snapping to a more formal posture than normal due to Batanides’s presence.

“Good timing,” said Picard, handing his chief engineer the vial. “Geordi, Data, I want you to analyze this component and determine its purpose.”

“Yes, sir,” La Forge said, and moved to a corner of the ready room with the vial. He scrutinized its contents closely while Data began scanning it with his tricorder. They spoke to each other in low tones.

Batanides turned toward the doctor. “Did you find any other . . . abnormalities during the autopsy, Dr. Crusher?”

“No, Admiral. A full scan showed that his health was as good as you’ve said. His death was entirely the result of the internal and external trauma caused by the Chiarosan weapons.”

“Killed by a dagger and a sword. Not even a disruptor.” Batanides shook her head. “And we don’t even know who did it. Or why.”The admiral stepped over to the window, looking out at the stars. “Every calamity that’s happened on that world, every disaster that’s hit this region . . . and it’s all due to the hidden agendas of rebels and rogues.”

A heavy silence hung in the air. Picard exchanged glances with Crusher, but neither of them seemed inclined to speak just yet.

La Forge cleared his throat, ending the awkward moment.

Picard turned toward Geordi and Data, and immediately noticed the android’s satisfied smile. “Did you find something already?”

“Yes, sir. Our scans have identified the likely source of this chip. Its technology has, however, been greatly modified.”

“Modified from what, Data?” Crusher asked.

“From a Cardassian cranial implant,” said La Forge.

Picard looked stunned. “Cardassian?”

“The chip is similar to a highly classified biotechnological implant that has been used in the past by operatives of the Obsidian Order,” Data said. “The original implants were designed to stimulate endorphins, thus allowing operatives to withstand great amounts of pain, and even torture. Starfleet Command first learned of these devices more than two years ago, thanks to a report filed by Deep Space 9’s chief medical officer, Dr. Julian Bashir.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Batanides. “Why would Aubin have a Cardassianchip inside his head?”

“The chip merely appears to employ Cardassian technological principles,” Data said, addressing the admiral. “However, it was not necessarily builton Cardassia, or by Cardassians.”

Picard nodded. “What is its function, Mr. Data?”

“The original version stimulated the pleasure centers of the brain to make agents of the Obsidian Order resistant to torture. It appears that this new implant has been greatly modified to act as some kind of emotion‑amplification device. As we know, Ambassador Tabor had Ullian telepathic abilities. Our theory is that this device enabled the ambassador to amplify his innate abilities–in effect, to broadcast his own emotions simultaneously to entire groups of people rather than to specific individuals.”

“Which would certainly be a help with his diplomatic missions,” said La Forge.

Batanides raised an eyebrow, her gaze intent on La Forge. “Are you suggesting that the ambassador was using implanted thoughts to force negotiating parties to act against their will?”

“No, sir. Even if he had wanted to do something like that, this device just doesn’t have enough bandwidth for that. But if you wanted to convey general emotional states to another mind, rather than specific thoughts, I think this chip could do it.” La Forge hesitated for a moment. “You probably couldn’t change another person’s thoughts radically, but I think you could ‘nudge’ somebody farther in the direction they were already heading. If you were negotiating with somebody who was calm, you could soothe that person even more during a delicate negotiation. Like having quiet music in the background.”

Picard stared pointedly at La Forge and Data. “Are you both sure about this?”

“It is only a theory at present, sir,” Data said. “We will have to study the chip further to ascertain if this is indeed the case. Nevertheless, I should note that at the time of the ambassador’s death, the chip’s active isolinear circuitry recorded not a state of calm, but rather one of intense rage.”

“That’s not surprising in the least, Commander,” Batanides spoke quietly, her manner stiff, her eyes betraying nothing. “A Chiarosan rebel had just stuck a dagger into him.”

Rage?Picard thought. Shouldn’t there have been fear of imminent death there as well?

But there was no time to dwell on the thought. Picard knew he had to diffuse the tension created by Data’s last statement. “Thank you, Mr. Data. I want you and Mr. La Forge to continue your study of this chip, and give me a full report.”

“That is not all I had to report, sir,” Data said.

“Go ahead.”

“We have identified trace protein residues on Commander Riker’s and Counselor Troi’s combadges. It appears that Commander Cortin Zweller was the last person to handle them.”

The silence in the room was palpable. Data couldn’t have shocked his superiors more if he had suddenly broken out into a soft‑shoe song‑and‑dance routine.

“Are you telling me that Zweller is alive?”asked Picard.

“I cannot confirm that, Captain. But his DNA was found on both the front and rear surfaces of both combadges. It would seem likely that it was he who removed them.”

Batanides’s hand dropped to her side heavily. “ Incredible!”

“Have any of the crew been able to track life signs from Zweller or any of the other Slaytoncrewmembers?” asked Picard.

“No, sir,” Data responded. “The atmospheric disturbances are continuing to block all orbital scans.”

“We haveto find him. Keep trying, Data. Geordi, do whatever you can to penetrate the Chiarosan storms with our sensors. If we can find Zweller, we may find Riker and Troi as well. And the rebels.”

Data and La Forge exited the ready room, leaving Picard standing alone with Crusher and Batanides.

“I don’t know what to think about this, Jean‑Luc,” said Crusher. “This is getting more Byzantine by the minute. The loss of the Slayton,the death of the ambassador, the Romulans, the rebels, this chip, and now Commander Zweller’s involvement . . . Can either of you make any sense out of this?”

Picard looked over at Batanides, who shook her head. He was sure that these new revelations about Tabor and Zweller had added to his old friend’s pain–they had certainly rocked him–but he also knew that she was more than strong enough to soldier on.

“Marta, I know this is difficult for you on a personal level, but it appears that there are a number of hidden agendas at work here. Ambassador Tabor didn’t strike me as enraged when we beamed him aboard the shuttle. I’d characterize him more as . . . frightened and griefstricken–”

“I think that shows that your android got things wrong,” Batanides said coolly, interrupting. “If the implant has been modified as much as he says, how can he be certain whatits purpose was? Or what emotion Aubin was feeling? And how do we know that Corey isn’t being framed as a rebel collaborator?”

“You’re right, Marta,” Picard said calmly, lowering his voice. “We don’t have all the facts. And I’m not accusing either Corey or Ambassador Tabor of anything.”

She nodded, stone‑faced. “I’m delighted to hear that. Treason is a serious charge to lob at a senior ambassador of the Federation. Or at one of your two oldest friends, for that matter.”

“I never said anything about treason, Admiral,” Picard said crisply.

“So what areyou saying?”

Picard paused for a moment to gather his thoughts before speaking. “It certainly seems likely that Cortin Zweller is alive. And we can’t dismiss the possibility that he may be involved with Falhain’s Army of Light, willingly or otherwise. Especially given the apparent presence of illicit Federation weapons down th–”

Picard didn’t have time to finish the thought. The Enterpriselurched suddenly to one side, throwing him against a bulkhead, shoulder‑first. Batanides and Crusher stumbled as well, catching themselves on the desk.

“What the hell?” Picard spat out as the ship stabilized itself. He quickly made his way to the ready‑room door that connected to the bridge, Crusher and Batanides following.

“Status, Mr. Hawk?” Picard asked, heading for the captain’s chair.

Hawk spoke without taking his eyes off the conn panel. “Captain, we appear to have been caught in a massive subspace interstitial slippage. It came out of nowhere. Our instruments haven’t been able to track its source.”

Picard turned to his second officer, who stood at one of the science stations. “Data, could this phenomenon be related to the Slayton’s destruction?”

“It is possible, sir. If the slippage had been 3.47827 percent stronger, it would have caused severe damage to our warp core, as well as possible structural collapse of our nacelle struts.”

“Captain, sensors also showed an anomalous subspace distortion just south of Chiaros IV’s orbital plane,” said Hawk.

“Can you track it?”

“Not precisely, sir. It was intermittent, and now appears to be gone. Should I set a course to investigate?”

Picard’s eyes narrowed as he looked at the viewscreen, which displayed a portion of Chiaros IV’s eastern Dayside limb in its lower corner. “No, Mr. Hawk. Hold position. At the moment, we have a few too many mysteries, and not enough sleuths.”

He turned to the tall blond officer standing behind one of the ops stations on the upper bridge and spoke: “Mr. Daniels, I want all scientific and engineering personnel on duty. I want to know what’s out there in Chiarosan space. I want this ship fortified against any more subspace slippages. And I want a way to get our sensors through that atmosphere.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll be in the observation lounge, with Admiral Batanides,” Picard said. He noticed that Lieutenant Hawk was watching him, his eyes narrowed slightly, as if deeply troubled. The younger man seemed to have the weight of the world on his shoulders.

“Was there something you wanted to say, Mr. Hawk?”

The helmsman blushed slightly and turned back to the control panels. “No, sir.”

Picard nodded curtly, then spun on his heel and headed toward the exit, with Batanides and Crusher following him.

Chapter Six

Bundling up in the special thermal clothing Grelun’s quartermaster had issued him, Zweller ventured a short distance outside the Army of Light’s compound–and into the permanent night of Chiaros IV’s dark side. To ensure that Ruardh’s forces couldn’t find them, Grelun’s troops had relieved him of his combadge, though Zweller knew it probably wasn’t detectable through the planet’s heavily ionized atmosphere anyway. But he knew also that outlaws could ill afford to scrimp on caution.

Zweller felt the thin rime of hoarfrost crunching beneath his boots as he walked across a featureless, rockstrewn plain. The air smelled of ozone, giving it a burned quality that belied its bitter chill. Despite the layers of clothing separating him from the elements, the wind bit into his flesh with innumerable small razor teeth, numbing his nose and ears. The cold seemed to aggravate the lassitude caused by the planet’s intense gravity. He jammed his gloved hands deeply into his jacket pockets in a vain effort to warm them.

About fifty meters before him sat a squat, frostencrusted structure, about the size of a Starfleet photon torpedo tube. The apparatus gave off a faint blue glow, which Zweller assumed wasn’t visible from the air; he recognized it as a Romulan cloaking device, probably merely one of many. Doubtless the machine was here courtesy of Koval, and its presence helped explain how the rebels had evaded capture for so long. Though Grelun evidently hadn’t seen fit to conceal the cloaking device from him, Zweller was certain that the blue light surrounding it was a protective forcefield of some kind. He probably wouldn’t be able to damage it even if he wanted to.

Zweller looked upward. The sky was utterly dark, except where small gaps in the omnipresent Nightside haze revealed momentary, random patterns of multicolored light every few seconds. It was an atmospheric conflagration that would have put Earth’s Northern Lights to shame. Zweller tried to guess the rebel base’s exact position–information that Grelun, the Army of Light’s new leader, had yet to divulge to him–but quickly gave up the effort. The atmospheric pyrotechnics gave him no clue; the highly energetic interactions between the solar wind and the planet’s magnetic field made such auroral displays visible from any point on the globe, and would be visible even in the brilliance of Dayside. The rebel compound could be anywhere from just nightward of Chiaros IV’s habitable twilight meridian to one of the poles to the frigid, windswept reaches of the Nightside equator.

A flash of illumination unlike any of the others drew his attention; it resolved quickly into a small point of light that moved almost directly overhead. At first he thought he’d sighted one of the outer Chiarosan planets until he realized that the luminous speck was moving far too rapidly. He followed the light with his eyes for several minutes, until it vanished into the haze on the horizon.

A government patrol ship,Zweller thought. It was right on top of us, but it couldn’t pierce the cloak.

The crackle of a footfall directly behind Zweller interrupted his ruminations. He instantly turned to face the sound, backing away to give himself room to maneuver. A colorful flash from the sky allowed Zweller to recognize Grelun’s dark visage, just a few meters away. For such huge people, these Chiarosans are remarkably stealthy,he thought.

Apparently contemptuous of the elements, Grelun wore only a light jacket over his gray duty uniform. Zweller tried to suppress a shiver and failed.

“You really shouldn’t sneak up on a trained Starfleet officer like that,” Zweller said, pitching his voice only a little louder than the chill winds.

“Do not worry, human,” Grelun said with an inscrutable smile. “You could not have hurt me.”

Anger flared within Zweller’s chest, momentarily banishing the cold. “Let’s hope we never have a reason to test that hypothesis.” For reasons Zweller still couldn’t fathom, Grelun was even more distrustful and xenophobic than his late predecessor, Falhain.

The Chiarosan chuckled dismissively, then glanced skyward. “I see that you are still brooding about your silent ship.”

It was useless to deny it. But it was just as useless to give up hope entirely. “Maybe your subspace receiver isn’t functioning properly,” Zweller said, trying to sound upbeat. “It can’t possibly work as well as the government’s orbital comm system. Maybe Captain Blaylock has been trying to raise me for the past week but can’t cut through all the atmospheric static.”

Grelun nodded soberly. “This may be so,” he said, and took a single long stride back toward the compound. “Nevertheless, my communications sentinels will continue listening to the sky.”

Grelun’s tone held little hope. The rebels did possess a fairly sensitive subspace radio transceiver, after all. Despite its being located at the bottom of Chiaros IV’s turbulent atmosphere, it should have picked up sometrace of the Slaytonby now. But the starship apparently had been silent ever since Koval had arranged for the shuttle Archimedesto be diverted here more than a week ago. And the security‑minded Grelun had given strict orders that no subspace signals be transmitted until after the planetary referendum. Zweller could make no attempt to contact his crewmates until Grelun had finished carrying out Falhain’s plan to evict the Federation from Chiaros IV.

But Zweller had another, even more fundamental reason to worry about the Slayton’s fate. He knew it was useless to dwell on it, but he found the matter impossible to ignore completely. He still couldn’t resolve one simple, nagging question to his satisfaction: If the Slaytonand her crew were safe, then why had the Federation dispatched a second starship to the ill‑fated conference in HagratИ? Grelun hadn’t seen fit to divulge which starship the two captured Starfleet officers had come from– if he even knew or cared about that piece of information–but Zweller was certain that he had never seen either of the unconscious captives before the rebels had made their escape from the battle in the Chiarosan capital.

Grelun interrupted his gloomy reverie. Taking a single long stride back toward the compound, he said, “Freezing to death will not make your silent comrades speak to you. And I have need of your services.”

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 HagratИ 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 HagratИ. 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.