“Fal . . . Falhain . . . is . . . dead.”

What had seemed a heated debate less than ten minutes ago had just ended more horribly than Picard could ever have imagined. Falhain, the leader of the rebels, was now a martyr. Ambassador Tabor lay dying in his arms. Riker and Troi were missing, and possibly killed as well. The Chiarosan government–however corrupt– might soon fall to the Romulan Empire. And there was still no sign of survivors from the Slayton.

These are the times that try men’s souls,he thought ruefully as the shuttle sped into orbit.

Chapter Five

Hawk sat in the darkened quarters, the soothing voices of a Celtic choir washing over him from the computer speakers. Sometimes it felt odd to him, hearing the ancient songs and melodies of his pre‑Martian forebears–the bohdran and the oud and the harps–reverberating in the pristine starship environment. He did feel, however, that the juxtaposition of his life now, traveling the stars with the lives of his ancestors, the nomadic Celts who explored ancient Europe, created a comfortable overlap. Exploration was in his blood.

But is espionage?

Following his meeting with Ambassador Tabor in the arboretum, Hawk had eaten a meal–alone in a storage bay–and then wandered the corridors of the ship. He purposely avoided walking anywhere near work stations of crewmembers he was friendly with; he didn’t really want to talk to anyone. Ranul hadn’t contacted him on his combadge, but he knew that eventually, he would.

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.