Enigma Tales

by Una McCormack

  “I confess I haven’t read your work,” Pulaski said frankly. “I’m going to. But I have to say—I’m more optimistic about the nature of academic work and the context in which it happens.”

  “Spoken like a true Federation citizen,” said Parmak, with a smile.

  “Spoken like a scientist,” said Pulaski. “The ship I’m assigned to these days, that’s its mission. Create the conditions whereby the science comes first. I’m working with Cardassians, Ferengi, a particularly interesting Tzenkethi. We have our ups and downs, but at the end of the day—the work is what pulls us together.”

  “Kitty’s right,” Alden put in.

  Pulaski took a step back and mocked surprise. “Somebody call for a doctor! He’s got to be sick. He’s never said that before!”

  “Well, I mean it, Kitty. I wouldn’t have chucked in a good job if I didn’t think so.” Alden’s face shadowed slightly.

  “Wait,” said Pulaski, “here comes the kicker.”

  “A free and open society,” he said. “It’s the ideal toward which we aim, isn’t it? Even if we don’t always manage it.”

  “Hey, mister,” said Pulaski. “I think we do pretty damn well.” She looked around the room. “And you know what? I think these folks are doing pretty damn well too.”

  Parmak raised his glass and clinked it against Pulaski’s. “I’ll drink to that,” he said.

  Lang and Alden raised their glasses. “To the ideal,” said Lang. “Elusive, and perhaps ultimately unattainable. But always worth the effort.”

  * * *

  Later, when Pulaski returned to her suite, she replicated a glass of wine, kicked off her shoes, and slumped back into the deep orange sofa. She picked up her padd and found that Efheny had sent over a more detailed version of her schedule—­timed down to the minute and beautifully color-­coordinated. The next day began with a series of interviews for the ’casts, and then there were meetings, tours, a public lecture . . . a busy few days leading up to the medal ceremony itself.

  Pulaski put the padd down with a sigh. She’d worry about it all in the morning. She turned on the viewscreen, but all she could find was rolling news. She didn’t want to explode with rage just before bedtime so, instead, she went back to the padd and, hunting around the university’s library, found Lang’s works. She downloaded the shortest and began to read.

  “For Cardassia!” it began, unpromisingly, but soon Pulaski found that she was impressed with Lang’s clear and unfussy prose, and her clarity of thought. It only took a page or two before she was deeply absorbed in Lang’s analysis of a famous Cardassian novel, and her diagnosis of the ills of her own society. Pulaski checked the date of writing—years ago, back when the Obsidian Order vetted every publication, attempting to control every thought of the Union’s unlucky citizens. And Lang had dared to write and publish this. “Damn,” muttered Pulaski, with frank admiration for her courage. “Goddamn.”

  There was a tap on the door. Pulaski looked up and, checking the chrono, was surprised to see how late it was. Probably Efheny, come to go through some minute detail of the day and make sure that Pulaski was comfortable—which she would be, if people would leave her alone for five minutes. She rubbed tired eyes and yawned.

  The tap came again, rather more insistently. “Come in!” Pulaski called. The door opened, and Peter Alden came in, carrying a bottle. Pulaski peered at the contents suspiciously.

  “What the hell is that?”

  “Kanar,” he said.

  “Dammit, Peter, it’s blue.”

  “It’s incredible,” he said, plunking himself down on a chair. “You’ve got to try some.”

  She shook her head. “I’ve drunk enough tonight. I’m going to bed—”

  “Come on, Kitty,” he said. “Don’t tarnish your reputation.”

  “Reputation?”

  “Head for hard liquor.”

  “Ah. That reputation.” She accepted a glass and sniffed carefully at the thick weird liquid. Floral. Surprisingly pleasant. She knocked it back. “Sheesh!”

  “Yep,” he said, smiling. The doctor waved her glass at him, and he poured her another.

  “You were quiet tonight,” she said. “One might even say you lurked.”

  “I was interested in hearing Lang.”

  “I’m not surprised. She’s impressive. Certainly more impressive than Therok.”

  “Oh yes?” He looked at her with interest.

  “Well, he’s a type, isn’t he? The type that gets senior appointments.”

  Alden looked around the room, as if not entirely interested in the subject. “He seems to have done a good job. Can’t have been easy keeping U of U going in the bad old days of the Order. He certainly gave Lang space to say whatever she wanted.”

  “I guess that was all at her own risk. Let her speak; keep his distance. Therok had everything to gain by association and nothing to lose. He’ll have kept himself alive by being something to everyone.” She pondered that. “I’d like to know how he made it through the end of the Dominion War.”

  “The Fire,” said Alden. “That’s what they call it here. The Fire.”

  “Damn,” she said, shaking her head in wonder. “This place . . . But Therok—powerful friends, I guess.”

  “Probably,” said Alden. “Hey, what about Lang? I know you were impressed, but I found her rather closed.”

  “Well, if she’s hoping to succeed Therok, she’s probably being wise. One wrong word right now might put the kibosh on the promotion.”

  “Yes, yes, I understand that,” Alden said. “Still . . .”

  Pulaski shrugged. “Maybe there’s more to this appointment than meets the eye.”

  “It is Cardassia,” Alden agreed. “There’s always subtext.”

  They drank for a while companionably. “I wish I’d gotten more from the castellan,” Pulaski complained at last. “You know, Peter, if I was a more thin-skinned woman—”

  Alden snorted.

  “Watch your step, mister,” Pulaski said. “But if I was more thin-skinned, I might have been insulted by the way the castellan spoke to me.”

  Alden put his hand upon his chest theatrically. “ ‘Don’t you know who I am?’ ”

  “Lay off,” she said. “Efheny keeps telling me that I’m a very honored guest. Yet the castellan treated me like . . . Well. Like an annoyance.”

  “Can’t imagine that has ever happened to you before.”

  “Not on first meeting. Second meeting, yes, but not on first meeting. Well, not more than a couple of times.”

  “Perhaps he’s read your file.” Alden laughed. “Why ‘perhaps’? Of course he’s read your file. He probably created your file.”

  “It’s more than that.”

  “Well, trying to make the conversation about Julian Bashir didn’t endear you, dear Kitty.” Alden shook his head. “It really wasn’t the time or the place.”

  “I only want to see him!” Pulaski exclaimed. “What’s so unreasonable about that? He was a colleague—­and not just in Starfleet! A fellow doctor. We worked together. I put my career at risk for him—”

  “There are ways and means, Kitty. Cornering the castellan at a public reception in your honor probably isn’t the best way of going about getting what you want.”

  Pulaski threw her hands up. “What else am I supposed to do? I put the request into his office weeks before coming here. He’s here all alone, Peter!”

  “I bet he’s getting some of the best medical care in the quadrant.”

  “You know what I mean. Not among his own people. Among strangers.”

  Alden stared down into his glass. “Perhaps the Federation isn’t the best place for him.”

  Pulaski shot him a sharp look. “What do you mean by that?”

  Alden’s face was shadowed, and Pulaski was reminded, suddenly, of his
prior career. “Come on, Peter. What do you mean?”

  Alden shifted in his seat. “I’m not entirely fond of someone who sells out their government.”

  “If you mean the Andorian affair, mister, you’d do well to remember that I sold out our government too.”

  Alden sparkled a smile at her. “And I am, of course, ludicrously fond of you, Kitty.”

  “Don’t try and change the subject.”

  Alden stood up. “It’s late. Let’s leave it. I agree that Julian Bashir did incredible things. I spoke out of turn.” He stretched. “Indeed, he was a veritable superhero.”

  Pulaski leaned forward to continue the argument, but Alden was already halfway to the door. “Good night.” He stopped. “Hey, what’s on your agenda tomorrow?”

  “What isn’t on my agenda? I’m doing some interviews first. Want to tag along?”

  “Interviews?”

  “Some early morning program.”

  He smiled wickedly. “Kitty,” he said, “I wouldn’t miss that for the world.”

  * * *

  Usually in the evenings, Garak and Parmak worked in companionable silence for an hour or two and then finished the day with kotra, conversation, and kanar. Even at his busiest, Garak tried to honor this commitment. Recently, however, the games of kotra had become more sporadic, and Garak’s conversation had a tendency to lapse. This evening, the silence was strained. At length, Garak, who had been plodding resentfully through the day’s intelligence briefing, put down his padd.

  “Come on,” Garak said. “Spit it out.”

  Parmak looked up. “Spit what out?”

  “You’re angry with me. Tell me why and then we can get back to being friends.”

  Parmak put his book down. It was the collection of enigma tales by Sayak, Garak noticed, with some bitterness. He hadn’t yet had a chance to do more than flick through it. Parmak didn’t even like enigma tales.

  “I’m not angry,” said Parmak. “I’m confused.”

  Garak gave him a winning smile. “I thought my inscrutability was one of my most appealing features.”

  It didn’t work. Parmak was still unhappy. “You know what I mean. Pulaski—”

  “Oh, Pulaski.” Garak picked up his padd again. “She was exactly what I had been led to expect. Do you know what Picard said about her?”

  “I don’t think I want to know.”

  “I wouldn’t have believed a man like that had such words within his arsenal. The universe is full of surprises. But—Pulaski. How marvelous she is. She is going to make a magnificent speech, and the visit will be a tremendous success. The medal is indeed a great honor but hugely deserved for her remarkable contribution.”

  That was a précis of what he’d said at a press conference a few days ago. There was a brief and icy pause. After a moment or two, Parmak said, “If I didn’t know better, I would say that you were trying to handle me.”

  Hearing the hurt in the other man’s voice, Garak looked guiltily down at his padd. That was exactly what he had been trying to do. “I’m sorry,” he said, genuinely. “I have no problem with Pulaski, although I suppose I find her rather brusque.” He held up the padd. “I should get on with this.”

  “Yesterday, I couldn’t make you read,” Parmak said. “Tonight you’re engrossed.”

  “If I could only tell you the contents of this file you’d know why.” Garak held his hands up in mock horror. “Such scandals as you could not believe possible—”

  “Stop handling me, Elim!”

  Garak bit his lip. “I’m sorry.”

  “Is there a problem with her seeing Bashir?”

  Garak stared down at the padd. Silence, then, “I really do need to read this.”

  Parmak persisted. “She was a colleague of his. Risked her own career and reputation to save the Andorians. I know you’re concerned about reprisals, but he must have trusted her.”

  Garak gave a quiet tut and started the current section again.

  “You’re never going to get over this, are you? You’re not even going to start.”

  Garak stared at the padd, and then gave up, setting the briefing aside. He looked directly at the other man. “What can I say, Kelas? I remember Julian Bashir when I first saw him on Deep Space 9.” He smiled in fond memory. “You would’ve laughed! He was hopelessly out of his depth. So young. So awkward. Always said the wrong thing. But so full of hope. And some of that . . . some of that transferred itself to me. I would not have survived my exile with­out Julian Bashir. I mean that. I would’ve died ­without Julian Bashir.”

  “I know how much he helped you,” Parmak said.

  “It was more than being an attentive doctor.”

  “I know that too.”

  And Garak knew, too, that on some level, that hurt. He struggled to explain further. “It was everything he represented. His capacity to see good—even in me—his capacity to strive, to seek to find and not to yield . . .” He could hear his voice catching. I am delivering a eulogy, he thought, for a man who is not yet dead. Abruptly, he got up from his chair and walked over to the window. Outside, the lights of the capital shone against the night sky, but tonight they seemed hazy. Was the dust coming in already? Garak wiped a hand across his eyes. After a moment, he became aware that Parmak was standing beside him.

  “It’s a beautiful night,” said Parmak. “I know you miss the house in Coranum, but I like it here. I love this view.”

  Garak closed his eyes. “I can’t bear to see it,” he said softly. “To see him. All that intelligence, that quality, extinguished . . .” He shuddered. “And for what? A spy game, of all things! Of all the stupid, ridiculous things he could have done! After all I said, ‘Don’t play the game, Julian, the game eats you.’ ” He shook his head. “He should have stuck to the holodeck. Tuxedos and champagne. There are too many spies in this world already. Too many spies, and all of them wasting their time and squandering their lives.”

  “You couldn’t command him, Elim. And I don’t think he could have done anything different and remained himself. Remained the man that you loved.”

  And that, Garak thought, was the bitter truth. He made a move to go back to his chair and the intelligence briefing, but Parmak’s hand was on his shoulder, holding him there. Garak didn’t resist but he did turn to look out of the window. He wished he could see his garden. He would feel better, he thought, to be in his garden.

  “What do you see?” said Parmak, eventually.

  “Are you planning a new career for me as tour guide?”

  Parmak smiled. “Just tell me what you see.”

  “I see what I always see. The river. The Assembly building. The lamps around Alon Ghemor’s stone garden.” Funny how the eye drifted there. “Damar’s memorial.”

  “Don’t be morbid,” said Parmak. “Look for life.”

  “I see the tenements down in Torr. Skimmers passing through. There goes a tram. Busy. Lit up.”

  “I can almost smell the gelat brewing,” said Parmak with a smile.

  “The university campus. There’s a black spot, to one side, where the land is still ruined. But you told me not to be morbid.”

  “Look at the lights,” said Parmak. “Who could they be?”

  “Students. Working, maybe. Living, loving, laughing, hoping. I hope . . .”

  “You were wasted in the Obsidian Order.”

  Garak carried on staring at the city. “I see . . . shadows of the past, of course. They’re part of us, aren’t they? It will be a long time before we can banish them completely. But you’re right, as ever. I see lights too. I see how far we’ve come. Ten years ago this was a wasteland. And now . . .”

  “Look on your works, Elim Garak, and hope,” Parmak said softly. “Julian Bashir saved your life, you say. Saved your life for you to come back here. Which means that none of this would exist without him
. An incredible tribute, don’t you think?”

  Perhaps, Garak thought. He was grateful to Kelas for this attempt to help him. But what use were tributes to Julian Bashir? He sat each day upstairs, looking out at this very view, but Garak knew he couldn’t see it. He couldn’t see anything. Nothing that had made the man was there any longer. Garak thought he would swap the whole Union if it would restore Bashir. But it wouldn’t. No grand gesture, no great sacrifice, could restore that vital spark. All that one could do was hope, and Garak feared that that was little more than self-delusion.

  But that was not Parmak’s fault. Garak turned his back to the window. He reached out and rested his hand, lightly, upon his friend’s shoulder. “More than I ever imagined possible.”

  He smiled, too brightly. Parmak frowned. Garak went back to his seat and picked up the padd. The last thing he had seen was his father’s house; his house now. “Do your chores, Elim,” he murmured to himself, in a passable impression of the old monster. “I told you to do your chores.” Garak often alluded to the words of others, but this reference, he suspected, would bypass even Kelas, who surely knew him better than anyone else alive. Garak still kept a few secrets, which was, perhaps, good.

  My dear Doctor—

  Let us leave the official residence behind. It is very grand, in its own, way, but these buildings tend to be similar whatever the civilization. A complex of rooms, mostly for official purposes, and therefore no matter how grand the furnishings, no matter how they have been designed to impress the visitor, they are, in effect, glorified offices. Even my private quarters, despite my efforts, have a rather impersonal air, as if my presence there is temporary—a kind of exile, one might say, from my real life. Sometimes I feel about these rooms much as I did my quarters on Deep Space 9. And yet the time that I spent there, in your company, and the company of the others, has done more to define me than any other chapter in my life. I wonder if this chapter currently unfolding will count for as much. I hope so.