“It was all of these things,” said Antok hotly, “all of them were crimes.”
“Yes, they were,” said Mhevet softly. “And we’ll be investigating all of them, and if Lang has committed a crime, then she’ll be prosecuted.”
“She’s a very high-profile public figure.”
“I know the castellan still hasn’t commented on the Carnis report, and I wouldn’t presume to know his mind, but I imagine that nobody will be immune from prosecution. Even public figures. Especially public figures.” Mhevet’s personal comm chimed. She read the message and stood. “I’m sorry, Doctor Antok, I have to go and deal with this. Please—don’t worry. We take this very seriously. And we take the threat against you and your family very seriously. If you can wait a while longer, I’ll send someone to talk to you about how we can protect you. They can take you to your family.”
She went off in a hurry. Antok waited, but nobody came for a while. She felt deeply uneasy about the interview she’d just had. It was not that she’d been disbelieved: quite the contrary. Mhevet had listened carefully to every word. And that, perhaps, was what left her uneasy. Antok lived and breathed her research, but she didn’t think other people would. Why so much attention to this? Why the chief of the constabulary? Was it simply as Mhevet said, that Lang was so feted? Why did she feel something else was going on? Why did she get the feeling that she was being watched as much for what she might do as for her own protection?
She got up and left, slipping through the busy entrance hall and out onto the street. She didn’t want to be watched or protected, she wanted to be left in peace. She wished she had never found those files. She considered her next move, saw a street vendor on the corner, and decided on lunch. As she started to walk along the street, she thought she saw someone move behind her. She turned around, quickly, and saw nobody—or, rather, saw only the usual city crush. This is silly, she told herself firmly. This is isn’t the old Cardassia . . . She bought some canka nuts and flatbread from the vendor and sat on a low wall nearby, eating quickly. When she was finished, Antok pulled out her comm and contacted Mikor, saying that she would join them.
But first there was someone she wanted to see. She sent another message to an old university friend, now working for one of the ’casts.
“Lunch?”
There was a pause, then the reply, “It would have to be second lunch.”
“I’m up for that.”
They made quick arrangements, and then Antok jumped on a public skimmer heading out toward Barvonok. She studied all the other people in her carriage carefully, but everyone who got on at the same time as her got off earlier. Soon she and her friend Pa’Kan were eating Federation-style noodles in a trendy café near Pa’Kan’s place of work.
“Are you going to tell me what’s in these files?” said Pa’Kan, rolling the data rod around in her fingers.
“I’d rather not.”
“Okay,” said Pa’Kan. “Then why do you want me involved?”
“Backup,” said Antok.
Pa’Kan stopped eating with her chopsticks halfway up to her mouth. “Elima, what’s going on?”
The good thing about the café was that it had private booths. The bad thing about the café was that you couldn’t be sure who was listening. “There might be a story here, but I don’t want it breaking yet.”
Pa’Kan nodded her understanding. She was in the position of not having to generate news for the ever-hungry ’casts. She was there to work on long-term stories. All the newscasters were obliged by law to devote a certain amount of the resources to careful, long-form journalism. The Cardassians were serious these days about the fourth estate.
“Okay,” said Pa’Kan. “But why backup?”
Quickly, Antok outlined her meeting with Mhevet. “I was left uneasy,” she said. “I knew she was interested, but I knew she wanted me to leave it entirely in her hands.”
“Might be a good idea.”
“I’m going away for a couple of days,” said Antok. “Taking the kids up to the lake.”
“Going off the sensors?”
“Mm. But I’m worried—” Suddenly she grasped her friend’s hand. “If I disappear,” she said, “if I don’t make regular contact—do something. I don’t know what, you’ll know best what to do, but do something.”
At first, Pa’Kan looked as if she was going to laugh. Then she saw how deadly serious Antok was. “Of course, Elima. But really—we’re past all that now, aren’t we?”
“I don’t know,” said Antok. “I thought we were. But perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps we’ve all been wrong.”
They pressed palms and parted. The day was wearing on. Antok left to get her skimmer. She had a long journey ahead.
* * *
I’m drunk, thought Pulaski, not unhappily, as she entered her suite. She called out for the lights and fumbled to close the door behind her. Kanar, she thought, was devilish; exactly the kind of potion you’d expect Cardassians to concoct. Sophisticated on the palate and vicious on the skull. Two nights in a row. Pulaski wondered how quickly the stuff became toxic for humans. She searched the room until she found a glass, and then she drank half a liter of water. That was a start, but what she really needed now was to be outside, taking a gulp of night air to send any potential hangover packing. She filled the glass again, pulled open the sliding doors that led onto the balcony, and went outside.
She drank some more water, then put the glass down by her feet and rested her arms on the rail, looking out. The night was warm, but not unpleasantly so; in fact there was a gentle breeze that, she learned, was the first harbinger of the summer dust clouds that would soon roll over the city, making the air thick and all but unbreathable. But tonight some of spring’s freshness remained, and she caught the scent of herbs on the breeze, sharp and pungent. She felt better outside, less claustrophobic. She liked the sounds of a city at night, liked the lights and the sleeping power, and she was starting to be able to pick out landmarks. Coranum was on her left, up on the hills; the bright lights and bold architecture of the Barvonok business district were straight ahead; and, looking down to the right into the bowl of the river and beyond, she saw the Torr district, densely lit and populated, with the shimmer of the trams as they rattled through.
She put her elbows on the wall and looked out, contemplating this city, thinking about how much she liked it and how surprised she was by that. She found herself humming some of the music that had been playing that evening, and then she laughed. Cardassia Prime, of all places! Who would’ve guessed that she would take to it this way? She closed her eyes, and yawned. So perhaps it was the kanar, or the lack of sleep, or her reverie, or a combination of all three. Whatever it was, she didn’t hear anyone come up behind her, and she was unaware she was in trouble until she felt a hand go over her mouth and nose, and caught the queasy, unmistakable whiff of a sedative. Hell, she thought, as she blacked out, more annoyed at her own carelessness than anything else.
* * *
Pulaski woke with a start. The pale pink of early morning was painting the ceiling above. She lifted her arms, and was slightly surprised to find that she had free movement; for some reason, she had assumed there would be restraints. Slowly, carefully, she sat up, swung to sit on the edge of the bed, and looked around.
She was not in her suite on the campus. She was in what seemed to be the bedroom of a fairly ordinary apartment block, albeit very sparsely decorated. A rental, perhaps? Pulaski had no idea. She had no idea where she was, how she’d gotten here, who’d brought her here, and what the hell was going on. The only thing she was sure about was that she had by some miracle dodged the hangover. “Count your blessings, Kate,” she muttered.
She walked across to the window and looked out. Up high, maybe the fourth or fifth floor. Other buildings of a similar height were across the way, obscuring any view of the city that might give her a clue to where she
was. She looked down at herself. Dress uniform still on, if rather disheveled, and combadge gone, obviously. Comm on the table disconnected. She went over to the door, and, to her surprise, it opened at her approach. She poked her head out, carefully, but there was nobody there. She tiptoed out. She was at one end of a straight, bland corridor, without pictures or decoration, and with a couple of shut doors on either side. She inched her way forward. The first door she passed opened with a gentle whoosh, and she winced, waiting for someone to come dashing out. Nobody came. She peered into another plain bedroom and caught her breath. Someone was lying on the bed.
Her captor? Not a very accomplished one, Pulaski thought, leaving doors unlocked and falling asleep on the job. She slipped quietly into the room and approached the bed softly. The figure remained still, curled up in the middle of the bed. As Pulaski got closer, the figure suddenly sat up. She was a Cardassian female, fairly young, clearly very frightened, and holding her palms out. “Keep back!”
“Okay,” said Pulaski.
“Who are you?” the Cardassian said. “What’s going on? Why am I here?”
“Hey, you’re stealing my lines!”
The young woman stared at her. “You’re human.”
“You’re very observant.”
“Are you Katherine Pulaski?”
Pulaski stared at her. “I know I have a reputation, but that’s ridiculous.”
“You’re human, and you’re wearing a Starfleet dress uniform. There aren’t that many Starfleet officers here in the capital these days. Three years ago, yes. Not now. And you were all over the ’casts.”
“Huh,” said Pulaski. “Don’t mention that to our ambassador, if you ever meet her.” She looked around the room. “Do you mind if I sit down?”
The woman moved over to let her sit.
“You’re right,” she said. “I’m Katherine Pulaski. And I’m pretty fed up.”
“You and me both,” said the woman. “Actually, strike that. I’m not fed up. I’m terrified.”
“Prisoner too, huh? Kidnapped?”
The woman nodded.
“And I’m guessing we are prisoners,” said Pulaski. “I won’t insult your intelligence by assuming you haven’t tried the doors and the comm and banging on the floors and ceiling and whatever the hell else came to mind?”
“Banged hard,” said the woman ruefully. “I don’t think there’s anyone above or below. I think it must be one of those new blocks that are going up everywhere.”
“Let’s hope people are keen to snap them up and the morning brings a steady stream of visitors,” said Pulaski. She glanced at the woman and saw how anxious she looked. “Hey, don’t worry. Someone will come looking for us soon. You know, you’ve got the advantage. How about you tell me your name?”
The young woman lifted her palm in greeting. “I’m Elima Antok. And I hope someone is going to come looking for us soon. Because I really am terrified.” She lowered her voice. “I think someone powerful is trying to kill me.”
My dear Doctor—
We are heading north now, and a little east. We are leaving behind the public buildings, and coming to the place where people make their homes. This district is called Paldar, and, once upon a time, if you had come this way, you would have been impressed by the leafy streets and the tall townhouses. It was a fine district, civilized, inhabited by what you would probably call in your culture the professional classes—civil servants, academics, and the army of administrators who kept our Union going. Doctors too. Kelas had his home here, once upon a time, but that is long gone. If ever he harbored a desire to return here, he has never mentioned it.
It was such a pleasant place to live, Paldar, and exactly where one would want to bring up a large family. We tended to large families. In fact, as I know from a recent report on the birth rate, we are tending that way again—good news for the Union, as a baby boom always heralds growth and social dynamism, in its infancy at least. These days, our birth rate speaks of our new confidence, our sense that we have a future. In the past, we had many children because we did not think they would all survive. Not in Paldar, of course, which was, after all, such a civilized place, but the old pressure to reproduce remained. Mind you, in the dying days of the old civilian regime, before the Dominion arrived, I believe you could see lines in the streets for water even here.
But until then, this was a comfortable place, with its tall and roomy homes, the shady walks beneath the tall ithian trees, the small shops and pleasant cafes. I would sometimes walk this way as a young man, and look through the windows into other people’s lives, and watch the families together, and wonder what that must be like.
There is sadness walking around the place now. The houses are all gone, of course, and so are the families. I gather that when the Jem’Hadar arrived in Paldar on their death march, many of the people here didn’t realize what was happening. They didn’t realize that it applied to them. Death was for soldiers, or Bajorans, or the poor. They died in great numbers here. Of all the districts of my city, I think this is the most changed. Some came back, despite their losses, and I have seen a few of the old houses carefully restored, with window boxes, and their iron railings, and their fine mosaic work around the doors and windows. One day, I think, this district will thrive again, and fill with families. But it will take a while. And it can never be what it once was.
Garak
[unsent]
Five
The painting was half one thing, half another, but the sum transcended its parts. It was an abstract incorporating floral designs from two worlds, and it rewarded close study. Garak had studied it closely almost every day for some years now. His eye naturally fell on the Edosian orchids, which had, after all, been put there for him, and also for Cardassia there were meya lilies, and mekla, and long elegant ithian leaves, and a scarlet dash of perek flowers for the dead. The Bajoran flora he knew less well, but there were lilies for Kira, and basil, and moba leaves. He had spent time on Bajor, of course; all Cardassians of his generation and profession had, but he was ashamed at how little he still understood the symbolism. True, their ancient culture was complex, but he should have learned more, even as a conqueror. The artist would have educated him, had she only had the chance. Her painting was the work of someone on the verge of a major flowering, and its creator, half-Cardassian and half-Bajoran herself, had epitomized the best of all possible worlds. She had died pointlessly, but Garak was making it his life’s work to ensure that she was not forgotten.
Very gently, he touched the signature, a swiftly done and confident Z. “Deep breaths, Elim,” he murmured to himself. “Deep breaths.” Slowly, and with infinite care, he lifted the painting down from its hangings and carried it over to the packing case. He felt a strange sense of foreboding as he did so. The painting always hung in his place of work, wherever that was. It had hung for a while at the back of the tailor’s shop, and then it had traveled with him all the way to Earth. Now it was here, facing him when he sat at his desk in the official residence of the castellan of the Cardassian Union. He carried it with him wherever he went because it kept him conscious of what was at stake. It was there to remind him not to falter, to ensure he did his best—for her, for all Cardassia. Removing it left him anxious. But Garak was not a superstitious man—he was a realist, with many pressing tasks at hand, and he had no time or patience for fancies. The painting was going on loan to an exhibition for a few weeks, where it would hang and be greatly admired, and would make Ziyal’s brief and brilliant career better known. And when that was done, it would come back to him. Somehow, in the meantime, he would endeavor not to return to his old murderous ways.
Still, he would not trust anyone else to the task of putting the painting away, so he packed it lovingly and closed the lid of the case, making sure it was secure and sealed. Then he called for it to be taken away. Akret, coming to retrieve it, took the rare liberty of touching him gently on
the shoulder. Once Garak was alone again, he lifted the vase of perek flowers that always stood before the painting over to his desk, and, with a sigh, he sat back down. One of the scarlet petals was detaching, and he removed it gently and placed it upon his palm. Perek for the dead, he thought; the flowers formed the central part of the rite for the dead. He always had them here for her, fresh and real, because he would not replicate them when he had sat by her body on DS9. There had not been perek for so very many.
He laid the petal reverently down upon the desk and then picked up a padd, scanning once again the notes his advisors had prepared. An unnecessary ritual—almost, one might say, superstitious: he was on top of his brief, as he always was, but it filled a few moments before proceedings began. He checked the time. Not long. He did some more breathing. He was starting to feel calmer when the comm on the desktop chimed. A private channel, direct to him, bypassing even Akret, known only to a very few, and this caller in particular had never abused the privilege.
“Arati,” he said gently, seeing her worried expression, as one might to a beloved child. “Are you quite well? Whatever is the matter?”
“Sorry, boss. I know the press conference is coming. I’ve just come out of an interview with Elima Antok.”
Garak placed the name immediately: he had, after all, been reading some of her work very recently. “The historian? The one who gave evidence to the war crimes committee?”
“That’s the one.”
Garak, cursed with a fertile imagination, ran through a hundred nightmare scenarios. Was she retracting evidence? Had something emerged to make her change her mind? “What did she want? Is this a problem for the report?”
“Your team can tell you that—I don’t know. She’s found something in the archive. Something from before the war. If it’s true, it’s bad news for Natima Lang.”
Enigma Tales Page 10
