Available Light, page 3
The others involved in Zife’s ousting—Jellico, Nechayev, Ross, Nakamura—would be easier to prosecute, given their role in the covert action that had followed the president’s removal from office. Ross, Nechayev, and Nakamura would face particular scrutiny, as they had delivered Zife to Section 31 agents, along with the president’s chief of staff, Koll Azernal, and his secretary of military intelligence, Nelino Quafina. While there was sufficient cause to regard Nechayev and Nakamura as accomplices in the conspiracy to assassinate Zife and his aides, William Ross was prominently named as having deep ties to those who carried out the heinous act. Owen Paris, having perished during the Borg invasion, was beyond the reach of justice.
Picard, on the other hand, presented something of a problem. Well respected within the interstellar community, even more so than the admirals with whom he had conspired against Zife, the veteran captain’s involvement in the affair, on top of all the other officers caught up in various Section 31 machinations, would be devastating to Starfleet’s public standing.
There also was the simple fact that Picard and the Enterprise were weeks away at maximum warp, continuing their exploration of the Odyssean Pass. The mission had already yielded numerous results, including the discovery of several star systems with resource-rich planets. Early studies of the data sent back showed great promise for colonization as well as expanding Starfleet’s reach into a largely uncharted section of the galaxy. Tasking another starship to take over the Enterprise’s duties would be time-consuming as well as require reassignment of other vessels to cover just this one shift in ships and crews.
Then, there was the reality that the public’s reaction to these startling revelations could not be predicted. Akaar knew that the news about Zife in particular would draw all manner of responses, both positive and negative. The simple truth was that regardless of the legal issues surrounding their actions, Picard and the others had done the Federation a favor by quietly removing the president from office, and if he had been allowed to live in exile, that likely could be justified, both to Federation citizens as well as allies and even adversaries.
Another point to consider was that compared to the other facts now coming to light, the ousting of a corrupt elected official was but one small problem Starfleet and the Federation faced. Exposing Section 31’s laundry list of crimes and the public’s haunting realization that significant aspects of their lives had always been impacted by the shadow organization’s activities would provide sufficient means for Akaar to insulate one starship captain, at least for the moment. Picard’s involvement in the Zife affair could, in theory, get lost amid the shuffle to hold to account other, more visible members of the rogue group.
“The public doesn’t need another scandal right now,” said Akaar, still glaring at Picard, “and particularly not when it involves one of the genuine darlings of Starfleet. That’s you, in case you were wondering. So, we can’t do anything to you publicly, but here’s the reality: You can forget any thoughts or dreams about making admiral. I know you said you never wanted a promotion and you wanted to stay in command of the Enterprise. Well, this is for real now. Captain is the highest rank you’ll ever obtain.”
It was a tall order, Akaar knew, but removing Picard from the Enterprise in light of all his accomplishments and sacrifices on behalf of the Federation might cause more harm than good. Akaar was banking on being able to insulate the captain from the worst of the fallout, which seemed feasible in light of the coming chaos. There would be endless questions from all quarters. It would not take long for investigators and law enforcement officials, to say nothing of President zh’Tarash herself, to all but forget about Picard—and perhaps even some of the other players if there were any mitigating circumstances that might help justify their actions. Instead, attention and energies would be focused on the heart of the matter: that Section 31 could function with such unchecked abandon for so long and with such a horrifying degree of success.
Graniv’s exposé provided the explanation and the missing piece of a centuries-old puzzle: Uraei, the artificial intelligence program at the heart of Section 31’s operation, had been active since before the Federation’s founding. Not everyone with ties to the group knew of Uraei’s existence, a fact that would only serve to heighten the feelings of deception, betrayal, and helplessness sure to grip any sensible Federation citizen. No one would feel inclined to trust anyone, about anything.
Akaar could sympathize with such feelings, even as he was gripped by similar uncertainty. The full roster of Section 31 agents, operatives, collaborators, and benefactors included the names of people he had known for years, even decades. It would take months if not longer to comprehend the scope of damage inflicted by the group, and years to recover from its effects, but Akaar did not have that kind of time. He needed to begin formulating a strategy for moving forward from this debacle, and he could not do so without the aid and support of people upon whom he could rely.
“My biggest concern, Captain, is one of trust. Can I trust you?”
“Absolutely.” Picard’s response was as firm as it was immediate. Despite the humbling nature of the dressing-down he just received, the man’s demeanor had hardened. There was determination in his eyes. It was a look Akaar knew very well and had come to believe with the same conviction rarely offered to anyone outside his close circle. His instincts told him Picard was being truthful and that despite the legal and moral quagmire in which he had willingly entered, his actions were born not of malice but rather an imperative to serve the greater good.
Akaar could work with that, but it did not mean bygones were bygones.
“You’ll have to convince me, Picard. Until that happens, and assuming I can provide cover and keep you from getting filleted by the media, you’re on a very short leash and I’m the one holding the other end.”
Giving the Enterprise captain a final admonition to continue with his mission and to heed Akaar’s warning, the admiral severed the communication. Only after Picard’s face vanished from the screen did Akaar allow himself to relax. Leaning back in his chair, he closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
Damn it.
This business was going to end careers, and not just those of the people snared in Section 31’s web. Those in positions of elected or appointed authority, both in Starfleet and the Federation government, would be called upon to resign. Some might even face criminal charges of their own. Akaar wanted precious little to do with any of that, but duty required he be in the thick of it.
As if on cue, his intercom sounded, followed by the voice of his aide.
“Admiral Akaar, I have the Federation attorney general on an encrypted frequency. She wishes to speak with you immediately.”
Sighing, Akaar opened his eyes and shook his head.
And so it begins.
4
As was typical within the first hour or two after the conclusion of alpha shift, the Enterprise’s crew lounge was crowded. All seats at the bar were taken, and except for the odd empty chair all tables were occupied. Other crew members simply stood near the bar or in proximity to one of the tables, or near the room’s slanted, forward-facing observation ports. The windows offered the best view of the distorted field of streaking stars as the starship traveled at warp. When she came here, T’Ryssa Chen always tried to grab a table next to the windows so she could enjoy the unfettered view. It allowed her to think; it was contemplation, if not outright meditation.
“Trys?”
With a start, she remembered that she was not alone at the table, and further realized that her friend Dina Elfiki was prompting her for the third time. Sitting up straighter in her chair, Chen cleared her throat.
“Sorry, Dina. I . . .” She frowned, embarrassed by the lapse. “I suppose I was distracted for a moment.”
“Are you okay? Am I not being good company? Do you want to be left alone?” Born in Egypt, Elfiki spoke with a slight accent, and her wide, dark eyes conveyed obvious concern.
Chen waved away the suggestion. “No, of course not. I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m acting like this.”
Yes, you do, she admonished herself. You’re acting the same as pretty much everyone on this ship.
Sitting across from her at the table, Elfiki brushed aside a lock of her shoulder-length dark hair. “You’re probably just tired. I know I am.” She took a sip of her drink. “I’ve spent the last thirty-six hours working with my team and engineering to go over the entire computer core and all our backup systems, again, along with every kiloquad of data storage, again. We did the same thing with the computer systems aboard every shuttlecraft and the captain’s yacht, as well as every piece of equipment that has any form of onboard computer or data storage capability, down to the last tricorder and isolinear optical chip.”
“Again?” asked Chen. “Didn’t we just do all that?”
“Commander La Forge asked us to go back over all of it. So far as I can tell, we’ve removed every trace of the Uraei program from every system aboard the ship.”
Chen sighed. “You could’ve asked me to help, you know.”
“I know, but you were busy.”
“Recalibrating the sensor array.” Chen rolled her eyes. “Given a choice between that or throwing myself into a plasma conduit, I’d honestly have to give that some serious thought.” It was meticulous, demanding, and necessary work and it bored her to tears. Perhaps not so mundane as scrutinizing millions of lines of computer code in search of malicious software, but at least that task could be accomplished at a console rather than crawling through Jefferies tubes from access panel to access panel. “That program was pretty sneaky. An extra set of eyes couldn’t hurt.”
She had read the official report from Starfleet Command describing the Uraei program’s full operational capabilities, dating back to its initialization in the twenty-second century. Experts at Starfleet Research and Development had created a series of charts and other reports outlining the artificial intelligence entity’s operational parameters and scope, including a full listing of its core computer code. Despite her own computer training at Starfleet Academy and subsequent experience aboard the U.S.S. Rhea and later the Enterprise, Chen did not consider herself an expert in the field. It was all she could do to keep up with other, smarter officers with natural or proven aptitude in such arenas, such as her friend. During her own service aboard the Enterprise, Elfiki’s talents, initiative, and even instincts had made the difference during several close calls and saved lives along the way.
“We went over everything,” said Elfiki. “Every line of code. Every stored file. We traced every data transfer back to its point of origin, including the memory banks salvaged from the Enterprise-D. You know, the ones stored in the Aldrin City Starfleet Archives Annex on Luna. We didn’t find anything. Whatever Data, Lal, and the others did at Memory Alpha and Memory Prime, it left no survivors. There’s not a trace of Uraei anywhere. You’d think that would let me sleep better, but forget it. I’m going to be seeing code in my sleep for the next month.”
Chen let her friend talk, knowing she had to unload on someone. The task given to Elfiki by Captain Picard, to rid the ship’s computer of any possible hint of the Uraei software, was a tall order given the program’s inherent pervasiveness. The work performed by her, Commander La Forge, and their respective departments was guided by the detailed reports provided by Data in the wake of his successful defeat of Uraei. Aided by former Starfleet doctor Julian Bashir and Section 31 turncoat Sarina Douglas, Data and his android offspring, Lal, had created and deployed a cure for the disease that was the Uraei program.
“Well, we’re all alone out here,” said Chen. “We have to be doubly sure there’s no trap waiting in a computer file somewhere. We have to be able to trust the equipment we’re using and that’s keeping us alive, after all.”
Staring at her drink, Elfiki released a long sigh. “Yeah. All we’ve got is the ship, and each other.”
Here we go, Chen thought. Now we’re getting to it.
“We haven’t really talked about this,” Elfiki said after a moment. “I mean, we’ve all been busy, or maybe we’ve just been burying our heads in our work to avoid confronting it.” She glanced around the room. “Look at this place. It’s a tomb in here.”
Her friend was right. The general mood was more subdued than what usually characterized the lounge. People seemed to be doing their best to act as though everything was normal, but Chen could feel the pretense. There likely was no one aboard the Enterprise who by now had not heard or read the revelations about Section 31, the Uraei program, and their actions going back more than two centuries. That information was readily available thanks to the efforts of journalist Ozla Graniv. What her report did not offer were the answers to questions plaguing the Enterprise crew.
“It’s not every day you find out your captain helped unseat a Federation president, who was later murdered by a shadow agency answerable to no one,” said Elfiki. “That sort of thing tends to make a lasting impression.”
“We all know he had nothing to do with Zife being assassinated,” said Chen.
Elfiki nodded. “Of course. But until that report dropped, we all just assumed Zife resigned of his own volition and for his own reasons. You have to admit it’s a bit troubling to hear the captain was involved with unseating him. Sure, if you look at it from the larger perspective, it makes sense. I certainly wouldn’t have wanted to make a decision like that, and if I was asked to help I don’t know that I could go through with it. I’d like to think I’d make the right choice, for the right reasons.” She shrugged. “Sorry, Trys. I’m not doing very well with this.”
“It’s okay.”
The revelations about Picard’s involvement in Min Zife’s removal had coursed at warp speed through the ship. There was the expected initial shock and disbelief, followed by anger and a sense of supreme betrayal, and uncertainty as to what the future held. Chen had heard more than a few hushed conversations in crew common areas, laced with doubt that the man to whom they looked for leadership and guidance might not be worthy of that respect. On the other hand, that worry appeared offset by a larger portion of the ship’s complement who continued to voice support for their captain, reminding newer crew members of Picard’s numerous accomplishments and decades of faithful service. She had no idea if the captain was aware of these different perspectives, or if he would be comforted by the knowledge that there were those among the crew trying to put the entire sordid matter into some kind of perspective.
To his credit, Picard had made himself available to anyone who wished to discuss the matter in private. During Chen’s own conversation with him, he reiterated that he was not proud of his role in the affair, but that the choices made at that time seemed the least objectionable of several bad options. Any other course would likely have inflamed tensions with the Klingon Empire, at a time when the Federation could scarcely afford such controversy. There was no legal justification for removing the president without due process, and certainly no moral reasoning to excuse what happened after that.
“You should’ve seen him, Dina,” said Chen as she described the meeting. “He was ashamed. It’s as vulnerable as I’ve ever seen him. He said he’s spent every day since then trying to live with the idea that it was necessary if distasteful, and removing Zife from office saved countless lives, and living every day working to atone for what he did.”
“Do you think he ever told anyone?” asked Elfiki. “I mean, I know he’s a private person, but he has close trusted friends like anyone else. You think he told Doctor Crusher, or Admiral Riker? Someone?”
Chen shook her head. “He says he didn’t. That’s not really the sort of thing you want to share.” According to the captain, until Graniv’s report went public, the only people who knew the truth about what happened were those who participated, and then only with respect to their role. Of course, now that Section 31’s involvement was known, it was obvious to her that the circle of conspirators was larger than Picard realized at the time.
“Let’s face it,” said Chen. “As bad as what happened to Zife might be, the more I think about everything Section Thirty-One’s supposedly done, it’s hard not to feel sorry for the guy.”
“You’ve got a point,” replied Elfiki. “The lives we all thought we were living, controlled to one extent or another by a computer program.” Before Chen could respond, she held up a hand. “I know. Simplistic, but think about it. How much of what we’ve been doing—what we’ve been doing for centuries—is because we were all nothing more than puppets carrying out that thing’s wishes?”
“I don’t buy it.” Chen punctuated her reply by downing half her drink. While there could be no denying Uraei’s presence and impacts on so many aspects of life for all Federation citizens, she refused to believe it was all encompassing and all controlling.
She acknowledged the artificial intelligence operated using a sophisticated system of predictive algorithms based on statistics and probability and pattern recognition. It even manipulated situations and circumstances based on those predictions in order to reach desired goals. Despite all of that, Chen could not believe every accomplishment made and every success enjoyed for more than two hundred years was a predetermined outcome. Uraei’s actions did not render irrelevant the thoughts, feelings, ethics, and morality of countless flesh-and-blood living beings. To accept otherwise was to reject everything any Federation citizen might believe or represent.
Leaning across the table, she said, “We make our own choices and take action based on what we believe is the correct course, using logic and reason but also emotion and even a moral code of some sort.” Chen tapped her chest. “It comes from here, Dina. I have to believe that, or else . . . what the hell are we doing out here?”
