Available Light, page 5
Despite the past turmoil that characterized their previous encounters, Picard respected the chancellor of the Klingon High Council, and that admiration was only deepened by the fact that the chancellor viewed Worf as a member of his own family. To Picard, contacting Martok seemed the honorable course, but doing so would likely cause further turmoil within the halls of the Federation Council and Starfleet Command, two entities who currently wanted Picard’s head on a platter.
Worf drew himself to his full height. “If President Zife had been our chancellor and acted to so egregiously dishonor the empire, he would have been discommended, and then killed on the floor of the High Council chamber.”
Picard almost chuckled at that, but restrained himself. “So, you’re saying—”
“In removing President Zife, you righted a wrong in the eyes of the Empire. I have every confidence Chancellor Martok will view your action as justified.”
“Well, then,” replied Picard. “If only the Federation Council and Starfleet Command could be persuaded to see things as Martok does.”
“I have every confidence he will do whatever he can to see that comes to pass.”
Now Picard smiled. “I wish I could see Akaar’s face when that happens.”
6
Though the last rays of sunlight were fading as darkness moved in to cloak the city, Paris only now was coming alive. Standing at the curved, floor-to-ceiling window that formed one wall of her spacious third-floor office within the Palais de la Concorde, Phillipa Louvois took in the sight of the city’s streets and buildings, framed by strings and swirls of multicolored lights. Her gaze followed a few of the lighted paths until it fell upon the Avenue des Champs-Élysées. With one of her windows slightly ajar, she could hear the sounds of music from somewhere nearby, perhaps the Tuileries Garden. Uncounted people wandered the streets, walking paths, and footbridges connecting the different neighborhoods and parks.
Some festival, Louvois reminded herself. Starting tonight, I think. What festival? Some sort of arts and music thing. Hell, what day is it?
A heavy sigh escaped her lips. Louvois was a devotee of various performing arts and had whiled away many a Sunday afternoon wandering the numerous galleries in Paris. She should know what was happening just a short distance from her office, but all of that now seemed so far away. For the past several weeks, either here in her office or for those few hours each night she managed to find her way to her apartment, work defined her existence.
It’s not every day you get to prosecute dozens of people for criminal conspiracy.
The errant, cynical thought made Louvois cast her eyes back toward her desk, which seemed to mock her as it played host to a haphazard collection of padds, isolinear optical chips, her computer terminal, and even several reports printed on actual paper. The latter was because she had grown weary of staring at illuminated display screens for hours on end, be it her terminal, one of the padds, or the large viewscreen occupying the wall to the right of her desk. The screen was active and divided into four equal sections, each of which featured a different news feed. As was often the case, she left the sound muted, with the screen programmed to alert her if something requiring her attention was broadcast. It was the only way to maintain her sanity, given the device’s penchant for alerting her about “breaking news” on what she guessed was an average of every four or five seconds.
Drawing a deep breath, Louvois released it over a span of several seconds, closing her eyes and attempting to find within her some reserve of energy that so far had eluded her. She was tired; it was that simple. A decent night’s sleep, rather than whatever few fitful hours she managed to snatch after dragging herself home at the end of a long, draining day, was in order. A vacation would be better, but Louvois knew that would not be happening any time soon.
With resignation, she returned her attention to the window and for the first time caught her reflection in the tempered glass. The lines and bags around her blue eyes were more pronounced than she remembered them. Her red hair, which she had allowed to grow out to the point she now needed to keep it in a functional bun during workdays, was only now starting to offer hints of gray at the temples. At sixty-two years of age, she was getting a little old for these marathon sessions of grinding days. In her youth, as a young Starfleet officer and lawyer working in the Judge Advocate General’s office on Starbase 11, long hours were nothing. Later, following a temporary transition to civilian law practice before returning to Starfleet, she advanced to her own JAG billet, where that stamina continued to serve her. The hectic pace slowed only after she opted for retirement from Starfleet, but that comparably relaxed lifestyle once again proved temporary before she felt herself drawn back to the world of Federation politics and legal affairs. Ten years of working for the attorney general, beginning in a small, claustrophobic office located elsewhere on the same floor that housed her current surroundings, Louvois once more turned that relentless drive for excellence toward making a difference in the only way she had ever known: by championing the rule of law. She had, for all intents and purposes, reached the pinnacle of her chosen profession. There were few places left to go from here, and she was content with that reality.
But, that vacation still sounds pretty damned good.
“Madam Attorney General?”
The voice, breaking as it did through the otherwise utter quiet enveloping the office, almost made Louvois jump. She was at least able to catch the audible gasp before it could further embarrass her before turning from the window. Standing at the entrance to her office was her personal aide, Jason Anderson. Despite the hour, the young human male was still dressed in an impeccable gray suit tailored to exacting precision for his tall, lean physique. Close-cropped blond hair remained neat and in place, and neither could Louvois detect even the hint of beard stubble, even though she knew his workday had started even earlier than her own.
How the hell does he manage that?
“Jason, I thought I told you to go home?” Stepping away from the window, Louvois moved toward her desk. “Is anyone else still out there?” After weeks of eighteen-hour days with no end in sight, she had finally relented earlier on this Friday afternoon, ordering her entire staff to vacate the premises and not return until Monday.
Anderson, always composed and polite, replied, “Everyone else is gone for the evening.”
“And why didn’t you go with them?”
“I leave when you leave, Madam Attorney General.”
The man was unflappable. After graduating two years earlier from the Faculty of Law, Oxford, Anderson eschewed offers from a number of prestigious law firms on Earth as well as other Federation member worlds, applying instead for a position within the Office of the Federation Attorney General. Louvois was in the midst of settling into that very role when one of her assistants pointed out the man’s application, which had impressed her enough to offer Anderson the position of serving as her personal aide. For someone just out of law school, the opportunity was on par with clerking for a justice on the Federation Judiciary Council. He was also one of the most dependable, loyal assistants with whom Louvois had ever worked. If he stayed the course, by the time Louvois left her current billet and her successor took over, Anderson would have secured a rather large, impressive feather in his lawyer’s cap.
“Well, if you’re going to insist on disobeying my orders, the least you could do is call me by my actual name when it’s just the two of us in the office.”
Without batting an eye, Anderson said, “Whatever you say, Madam Attorney General.”
It was a game they had played on more occasions than Louvois bothered to count, and he was as steadfast in his professionalism as he was unwavering in his commitment to the job. As her aide, Anderson by far spent the most time with her on a daily basis. He was her sounding board when it came to discussing any and all legal matters, and a trusted confidant with respect to sensitive issues not unlike the one that had consumed Louvois and her staff these past several weeks. In most if not all respects, Anderson was her right hand. He would make an outstanding jurist in his own right, one day in the not so distant future when he was out from under the shadow of this office.
Louvois held up her hands in mock surrender. “Fine. You win. I’m leaving.” She began sorting through some of the work on her desk, deciding what she would take with her for the weekend.
“I honestly wish you could,” said Anderson, “but Admiral Akaar is requesting to speak with you. In person.”
Halting her rearranging of the detritus littering her desk, Louvois considered the implications of such a call. The admiral would be aware of the time difference between San Francisco and Paris, and he was not in the habit of calling on anyone outside normal working hours unless the situation demanded no other course of action. She also knew that if anyone else on the planet would empathize with the pressure cooker in which she currently worked—if for no other reason than he was facing the same tests himself—it was Leonard James Akaar.
“In person? All right, authorize his transport, and then get out of here while you still have a chance.”
She thought she may have heard Anderson chuckling as he exited the office. A few moments later—long enough for her aide to transmit the authorization code allowing the use of a transporter into the palais—the familiar hum of a transporter beam echoed within her office. On one of the two pads tucked into a niche in her office’s far corner, a column of energy appeared, and Louvois watched it solidify into the form of Admiral Akaar. Though he was in excess of one hundred twenty years of age as measured on Earth, the Capellan still presented an imposing figure. His broad chest almost strained his formfitting Starfleet uniform, while his thick mane of gray hair draped across his shoulders. By the standards of his native species, Akaar was on the far side of middle age, though Louvois was certain he could best opponents who were decades younger.
“Admiral,” she said as he finished materializing.
Akaar bowed his head in greeting. “Madam Attorney General. Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”
“The work day’s over,” said Louvois, stepping around her desk and extending her hand toward him. “Call me Phillipa.”
Akaar stepped off the recessed transporter pad and took her proffered hand, his stern features warming as he did so. “Only if you call me Leonard.”
“Deal.” Louvois gestured toward the small bar in her office’s far corner, set into the wall near a sofa, coffee table, and a pair of overstuffed chairs. “Care for a drink?”
“Just one?”
“Well, we’ll start with one and see where fate takes us.”
Accepting her offer of brandy, Akaar led the way to the sitting area, waiting until she decided on one of the recliners before settling himself onto the sofa.
“So,” said Louvois after taking a sip of her brandy. “What’s the emergency that brings you to Paris on a Friday evening?”
Akaar smiled. “It’s still Friday morning at my office.”
“And you’re drinking already?”
“It promises to be one of those days.”
Raising her glass, Louvois offered a humorless smile. “So I’ve read. You’ve certainly got your hands full.”
“Admiral Ross arrived on Earth this morning.” Akaar stared at the brandy glass he rested atop his right knee. “He was found on Caldos II. Interestingly enough, he’s not the first excommunicated Starfleet officer to hide out on Caldos II.”
“There are others?” asked Louvois.
“Oh, the stories I could tell. Another time, perhaps.” He paused, taking a healthy swallow of his drink before adding, “To be honest, given what we know of Thirty-One’s methods, I was surprised to learn Ross was still alive, with his apparent level of access and knowledge about the group’s inner workings. The only thing that makes sense to me is that this computer program running the whole show must have concluded he might still be useful one day, and he’s been smart enough to keep his mouth shut.”
Finishing her drink, Louvois rose from her chair and crossed to the bar. She poured herself another glass of the brandy before bringing the bottle with her and placing it on the table.
“Ross can tell us all about it.” She dropped back into the chair, mindful not to spill her drink. “I can’t wait to have that conversation.”
Akaar replied, “As we speak, he’s being prepared for questioning by the Starfleet judge advocate general. I wanted to extend the same courtesy you’ve been given with Admirals Jellico, Nakamura, and Nechayev, and observe this interview, as well. I know we’ve already discussed this and your office is still preparing to question all Starfleet personnel we’ve taken into custody, and I want our process to be as transparent as possible.”
Louvois nodded. “I appreciate that, Leonard.” The Federation Council had determined that the Office of the Federation Attorney General would oversee the criminal prosecution of Section 31 operatives, including all Starfleet officers. Given the severity of the alleged crimes and their potential impact upon the entire Federation, its allies, and even its enemies, Louvois and her staff were best suited to leading all criminal proceedings against the accused, civilian and Starfleet alike. Every suspect would face a public trial, and she was adamant that everything be pursued by the book, with nothing left to chance or technicality. There simply was no other option; not with something on this scale. Nothing that might be viewed as an attempt at obfuscation or a cover-up could be tolerated, from anyone and for any reason.
For his part, Akaar had been forthcoming and eager to cooperate from their first conversation, held the very night Ozla Graniv’s revelations were coming to light. Like her, he wanted a thorough, open investigation that could not be accused of bias or malice, or any attempt to cover up what Graniv had exposed.
“The Federation Security Agency and other law enforcement agencies throughout the Alpha and Beta Quadrants are still rounding up people, but we’ve already got a lengthy and impressive list of people to interview,” she said before taking a sip of her fresh drink. “Some actual, honest-to-goodness heroes. Maybe even a legend or two. The list of accomplishments and acts of courage in the name of protecting Federation and Starfleet values is staggering, but none of it can shield them from what’s coming.” She made no effort to hide her disdain. “What a damned waste.”
Akaar rested his left arm along the top of the sofa’s backrest. “Not everyone will have been involved with Thirty-One to the same degree, but we won’t know that until the investigations are complete.” The admiral shook his head. “Doesn’t mean anyone will escape unscathed, either.”
“A lot of them are still out there.” Louvois paused, staring at the brandy she swirled in her glass. “How many have false identities or some other means of avoiding us? Alynna Nechayev had four different safe houses just on Earth. Hell, there may be other operatives who weren’t even listed but are still out there.” She shook her head. “Doesn’t matter. We’ll find every last one of them. No one will escape.” Pausing just before taking another sip of her drink, she eyed Akaar. “No one.”
His expression clouding, as though he had been expecting this turn in the conversation, Akaar stared at her. “Picard.”
“Picard.” With one long swallow she drained her glass before placing it on the table between them. “You need to order him back to Earth.”
“He’s eight weeks away, Phillipa.”
“Then he should get started now.”
Frowning at the remark, Akaar held up a hand. “Believe me, I understand the need for Picard to answer for what he did, but he wasn’t a Thirty-One operative. He had no knowledge of what they did to Zife and the others.”
“We’ll know that for sure once all this is over.”
Akaar set his unfinished drink on the table before shifting his seat on the sofa so that he now faced her directly. “You can’t for a moment think he was involved with those people. Working behind the scenes, influencing Federation and Starfleet policy while being responsible to no one but those other thugs and criminals? We’re talking about Jean-Luc Picard. You know better than that. How much has he sacrificed—how much has he lost—upholding Federation values while others paid lip service or actively worked to undermine them? This is the man who stood up to Starfleet Command and came within a hairsbreadth of sacrificing his career over the Ba’ku affair. And let’s not even talk about what he went through with the Borg.”
“Believe me,” said Louvois, “I understand and appreciate all of that.”
The very idea that Picard could be a willing participant in something like Section 31 was laughable. Of this, Louvois was certain, but she could not allow personal feelings to obstruct the duty with which she was now charged. She also knew that Akaar would likewise not permit himself to be so swayed, but that did not mean that he—or she—was immune to such feelings.
“Tell me you weren’t as shocked as I was when you saw his name listed with the others,” she said. “I’ve known that man for more than thirty years and even before I met him, his reputation was already formidable.”
Leaning closer to her so that his elbows rested on his knees, Akaar said, “Then you know he’s a man of principle.”
“And yet you still chewed him out when you learned of his involvement with Zife’s ousting,” Louvois countered.
“Of course I did.” The response was curt, with Akaar biting on every word. “He was implicated in helping to remove at gunpoint the duly elected Federation president. Duty required I address that, just as it requires you and I both to haul him onto the carpet and do everything in our power to get to the truth of what happened, and make sure that justice is done. But, if I truly believed Picard was someone who couldn’t be trusted, who couldn’t be counted on when we need him most, I’d have had his first officer relieve him on the spot, take command, and bring the Enterprise home.”
