“I understand you’re giving a speech at U of U later in the week,” Mayrat said. “Could you give us some idea of the topic?”
“Well, I don’t want to give away all my secrets, and this is heavy-duty stuff for a morning show, but without spoiling either my speech or your viewers’ breakfasts, I’m going to be discussing ethics in the practice of medicine and in medical research. What our responsibilities are, not just to patients, but to society as a whole.”
“A topic bound to interest many,” he said. “I don’t know if you’re aware, Doctor, but we are, as ever, in the midst of a debate over our past at the moment. You may have seen something on this very channel.”
Pulaski, dimly sensing that perhaps the conversation might be moving onto trickier ground, briefly regretted all the time spent watching the hound-racing. “I’ve not heard, no.”
“To sum up a very long and complex situation,” he explained, “a report has just been published by a senior assemblyperson into war crimes on Bajor.”
About damn time, thought Pulaski, but even she guessed that probably wasn’t the best thing to say on a live broadcast to the whole nation. “And what has this report concluded?”
“It’s advised that there should be further and more specific investigations leading, if necessary, to prosecutions.”
He paused. There was some dead air. Eventually, Pulaski said, “Is there something you want me to say?”
“Well, it’s what everyone’s talking about. The Federation is a good friend and our closest ally. We’d like to hear your take on it.”
“You should talk to our ambassador,” she said.
“I will. But you’re here speaking about ethics. You must have an opinion—”
“An opinion? What—you mean, do I think war crimes should be prosecuted? That’s something of a leading question, isn’t it? On the lines of ‘so when did you stop beating your wife’?”
Mayrat looked confused.
“I mean,” Pulaski went on, “what do you expect me to say? That war crimes shouldn’t be prosecuted? Of course they should, to the fullest extent of the law.”
“So, as a representative of Starfleet, you would say that—”
Pulaski gave a short laugh. “I doubt Starfleet wants to claim me as their representative within the Cardassian Union. Like I say, we have a great ambassador who surely knows more about this than I do. But speaking as a private citizen—speaking as a doctor—of course I think war crimes on Bajor should be investigated. People should be prosecuted, and if they’re found guilty, they should be imprisoned—you don’t have the death penalty anymore, do you? No? Good. Then investigate these crimes, prosecute where there’s evidence, and imprison the guilty.”
Mayrat, she saw, was deeply interested. Why? She was only speaking common sense. “So you don’t see any exceptions to this—”
“Look, I’m not an expert,” Pulaski said. “I’m telling you how it seems to me. There’s a lot of talk about Cardassia coming to terms with its past, and that’s clearly important work that needs to be done. But really, this has nothing to do with Cardassia. This is about the people who suffered at the hands of mass murderers and torturers—”
She saw Mayrat’s alarm at this.
“All right,” she said, “alleged mass murderers and torturers. But the focus needs to be on the victims. These people deserve their hearing. They deserve justice, they deserve restitution. Dammit, they deserve closure.”
There was a slight pause. Mayrat seemed to be pondering his next question. “Do you think that anybody should be immune from prosecution?”
“Why?” said Pulaski.
Mayrat blinked at her. “That’s a very good question.”
“Come back to me when you have an answer,” said Pulaski. She was vaguely aware, out of the corner of her eye, of Ista Nemeny shaking with silent laughter.
“I’ll try to think of one,” said Mayrat with a smile. “One last question, Doctor Pulaski. Who’s your choice for chief academician?”
“My choice for chief academician? I can give you a tip for the 10:52 hound-race at Orlehny, if you like?”
“I’d love that.”
“Riddle Runner’s in great form.”
“Thanks. And chief academician?”
“I met Natima Lang last night,” said Pulaski. “I think she’d be great.”
“I think everyone in the Union would agree,” Mayrat said with a smile. “Well, almost everyone.” And with that, the interview wound up. Nemeny came over and thanked her profusely. She was looking extremely cheerful. Not so Peter Alden, who, when Pulaski joined him, had his head in his hands.
“Are you okay?” Pulaski said.
“Oh, I’m great,” Alden said. “I’ve just lost a bet.”
“A bet?” She frowned. “Hey, where’s Efheny?”
“He’s trying to alter your schedule.”
“Don’t tell me a racing team has been in touch.”
“Yes, several in fact, but right now that poor lad is trying to fit in a short meeting with the Federation ambassador for you before the end of today.”
“The Federation ambassador?”
“Yes, the Federation ambassador.” Alden shook his head. “What were you thinking?”
She looked at him in bewilderment. “What? What have I done now?”
“What have you done?” He looked up at the heavens. “Kitty, you’re unbelievable!”
“Was it the racing tip? Was that too flippant?”
“It wasn’t the bloody racing tip!” Alden put his hand to his brow. “You can’t visit somewhere, then go around saying you think their head of state should be imprisoned!”
“When did I say that? I didn’t say that!”
Alden lowered his voice. “He’s ex–Obsidian Order. Everyone knows that.”
“I know that. What are you saying? If he’s guilty of a crime, he should be punished. It’s not rocket science, is it?
“No,” said Alden. “Neither is it diplomacy.”
“I’m a doctor,” said Pulaski with a shrug, “not a diplomat.”
“We know, Kitty,” said Alden. “We know.”
* * *
Arati Mhevet, the chief of the city constabulary in the Cardassian capital, had first met Elim Garak a few years ago. This was under circumstances that both, should they ever come to write their memoirs, would describe as “difficult,” and then would pass over without offering any more detail. Mhevet, at the time a senior investigator, had found herself in possession of evidence relating to the murder of the Federation president Nan Bacco. Garak was the Union’s ambassador to the Federation; he announced his candidacy not long after the terrifying events of those few days, when he was riding high on a popularity bounce received after an attempt on his life. The whole affair had brought about a swift change at the top in many Cardassian institutions. The head of the Intelligence Bureau had resigned publically over failing to prevent an attempt on Garak’s life; in actuality because he had taken sides in the forthcoming election for the castellanship. The castellan at the time, Rakena Garan, who misguidedly attempted to conceal the information that Bacco’s assassin was a Cardassian, had been left in an untenable position. Her decision not to run again had left the way clear for Elim Garak to sail safely into the position, defeating a rather nasty demagogue on the way. And Arati Mhevet had taken charge of the city constabulary, one of the most important policing jobs in the Union.
She and the castellan had a professional relationship, naturally, but Mhevet knew that Garak saw himself as her mentor, and she welcomed his interest. Not that they drew attention to any of this: it was vital that the police were apolitical. They didn’t talk shop . . . They talked . . . Well, they talked abstractly. Mostly they talked about what Garak was reading, now Mhevet came to think of it, and, by implication, they talked about what it meant to do their r
espective jobs ethically. For swiftness of action, decisiveness, and sheer bloody nerve, Mhevet knew she could get more from watching Garak for a morning than from years spent working alongside other people. She had brought much of this to her new role, although she did not have Garak’s addiction to risk, and was more cautious. But there was more that tied them together. Mhevet and Garak shared a vision of their world, a common understanding of how it worked—one might even call it a belief in a certain kind of . . . Order. They both understood that left unwatched, Cardassia corrupted—not by conscious will, but because that was the way their world drifted. They both shared a burning desire to never let this corruption happen again. They watched for it and, most of all, they watched each other for it. Garak, Mhevet suspected, took as much from their quiet relationship as she did. They tried to meet, if only for a little while, once a week. The castellan kept a supply of coffee in store for her—she’d gotten addicted to the stuff working alongside Starfleet personnel during the reconstruction period.
“Filthy muck,” he said, whenever he saw her drinking it. “Of all the Federation habits to pick up. You might at least have acquired a taste for wine.”
She had, over the past week, been diligently reading reviews of an anthology of new enigma tales that she suspected might pop up in conversation with him (she had no intention of reading the actual book). In between all the briefings, policy documents, and everything else, Garak somehow managed to keep up with his reading. However, they’d not yet had a chance to speak. Right now the castellan was involved in a delicate conversation over the comm with Assemblyperson Chenet, one of the chief authors of the war crimes report that was currently the lead story on all the ’casts. Mhevet had a great deal of respect for Chenet, who represented a province that had once contained Lakarian City, before the Jem’Hadar destroyed it. Regions such as his were often less likely to be persuaded of the need to make reparation for past, when such obvious harm had been done to them. But Chenet had been steadfast in his belief that whatever their suffering, Cardassians could not ignore the harm they had caused others. Given he had also managed to pull more Federation resources into his province than any other member of the Assembly, he had a great deal of capital with his electors to be able to get away with this.
Chenet was also, Mhevet noticed, not trying to browbeat the castellan. Wise move.
“I do sympathize with your dilemma,” Chenet said. “I’m not here to tell you your job. I’m sure your sources can tell you much more about public opinion than I can. But I’m concerned by the delay in you making a public statement. You really can’t put this off much longer.”
“There’s a press conference scheduled for the end of the week.”
Chenet looked unhappy. “That’s several days. Do you think that’s a good idea?”
“I’d like the public to get the impression that I’ve thought about this carefully.”
“They might also think you’re vacillating, which could undermine the report. Worse than that—I’ve heard some people muttering that the military has gotten to you.”
Mhevet’s eye ridges shot up. She glanced at Garak. She didn’t need to see what he thought of that. “The military,” said Garak softly, “wouldn’t dare.”
Perhaps not, thought Mhevet, but she’d bet her stash of coffee beans that they’d tried.
“I think they might try, Castellan, if they haven’t already.” Chenet smiled. “I suspect you’d give them short shrift.”
Garak blinked once, very slowly. Yes, Mhevet thought, they’d tried, and like the blunt instrument that they were, they’d made a mess of it. Garak, she guessed, had run rings around them and then sent them packing.
Chenet sighed. “You’re an old hand at this game, and I doubt I need to tell you that what matters most is perception. We’ve done exceptional work on this report. If we’re going to push this through, we need to be brisk and forceful. The will for this is there, I’m sure, but we don’t want to give the opposition time and space to marshal their argument. This could be caught up in litigation for a generation. And that serves nobody.”
“You’re right, of course.” Garak started tapping at his comm. “I’ll clear some space. I want a little time to think more carefully about what I’m going to say, but it will be said by midday of the day after tomorrow. Is that soon enough for you?”
“Of course. I hope you know how much I appreciate the care you’re bringing to this.”
“You don’t know what I’m going to say yet,” Garak pointed out.
Chenet smiled. “I think I do.”
Garak frowned, as if to say, Don’t take anything for granted, but there was no real threat behind it. “Good-bye,” he said. “Give my regards to Carnis. And my assurances. This report will not suffer death by litigation.”
The communication ended. The seal of the Office of the Castellan—green, white, and purple—flashed up on the screen. Garak tapped a button, and the rolling news came up. He kept one eye on this and one on Mhevet, sitting opposite.
“Nobody’s expecting that you’re going to say anything other than that you’re giving full support to the report’s recommendations,” Mhevet said. “That is what you’re going to say, isn’t it?”
Garak shrugged.
“Who came to see you?” Mhevet mentally ran through some names. “Renel, I bet.”
“Good guess.”
“Well, he’s been the loudest voice raised in defense of the military.”
“And, I daresay, one of the most articulate.” Garak pondered this. “They do make some good points, you know. Not least the hypocrisy of my position. How can I support prosecutions, given what I have—”
Mhevet lifted a warning hand. “Careful. Remember you’re talking to the police.”
“—what I may or may not have done in the past.”
Mhevet rubbed at a jagged fingernail. “Better.”
“Careless talk costs lives.”
“I appreciate you’re worried, but you’re not being asked to prosecute yourself, are you?” Mhevet said. “You’re not even being asked to investigate yourself. You’re being asked to open investigations into a series of specific people, at specific times, in specific places, and see whether prosecutions should be brought.”
“With a view to setting a precedent for similar investigations in the future,” Garak pointed out.
“Well, who knows what might turn up?” Mhevet said. “Who knows even whether there are decent records?”
“The Bajorans have done good work in this respect since their liberation. Almost as if they were hoping this day might come. Not that I mind record keeping per se,” Garak said. “My colleagues and I also kept good records. Most of those, however, no longer exist.”
“But it’s what those records might contain that worries you.”
“Everything worries me . . .” Garak murmured. His attention was more than half on the rolling news now, Mhevet saw. She got up from her seat and came around to his side of desk, in time to see the last part of Katherine Pulaski’s interview on Mayrat’s Today show. When she heard the part that implied that the castellan should be prosecuted for war crimes, she knew they would not be discussing enigma tales today. “Oh dear,” she said. “That’s not exactly helpful.”
Garak turned on his comm. “Akret,” he said, with commendable restraint.
“I have the Federation ambassador’s aide on the line, sir, and it looks like she’ll be free later this morning. We can delay the start of the meeting with the representatives from the education forum for a little while.”
“I should go,” said Mhevet. “I know how much you look forward to speaking to ambassadors.”
Garak fell back in his seat. “Will someone preserve me from these meddlesome Federation doctors?”
* * *
The official residence of the Federation ambassador to the Cardassian Union was high up in the hi
lls of Coranum. The buildings, just after the Dominion War, had been constructed as part of the Headquarters Allied Reconstruction Forces, and had, until recently, housed some of the Starfleet personnel tasked to assist the Cardassian people with the postwar rebuilding. When the HARF mission had ended, nearly three years ago, many of the buildings had been taken down, and the land turned to other purposes, but some were refitted for the use of the embassy. The view was great. Pulaski only wished she could enjoy it more. She was very conscious of Efheny, sitting beside her in a pleasant but bland waiting room, sighing over the turmoil into which she had thrown his meticulous schedule. She felt bad about causing him trouble.
Eventually the doors to the ambassador’s office opened, and a smart young Trill aide led Pulaski into a rather funereal room. The new ambassador from the Federation to the Cardassian Union, T’Rena, had re-created a little part of Vulcan here in the Cardassian capital. She rose from her desk as Pulaski entered, greeted her with formality, and then gestured to her to sit down. Pulaski sat and waited while T’Rena studied her thoughtfully.
“I must say,” T’Rena said at last, “that in fifteen years in the Federation diplomatic corps, I have never seen a single interview cause so much furor and delight.”
Vulcans, thought Pulaski. You never knew if you were being praised, patronized, or both.
“I’m not sure what to make of that,” she said frankly. “So I’ll just say ‘thank you.’ ”
“Certainly the ’casts are abuzz with your intervention. The Cardassian people enjoy current affairs as much as their hound-racing. Do you know that you have been a great hit with the Cardassian people?”
“That’s good, isn’t it?” Pulaski said.
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