“Stop it,” he said. His gray hand on the phaser was quivering slightly. This was a person under stress. She moved, very slowly, farther in front of Antok.
“All right,” she said, in gentler tones. “I’m trying to understand what you want.”
“I want to know why you’re here on Cardassia Prime.”
“Son,” she said, “I think you’re expecting an answer I can’t give. It’s all completely straightforward. I’m here to make a few friends and to get a medal. I don’t think that’s the answer you want, but it’s the truth.”
His hand shook more. “I don’t believe you—”
“It’s true,” she said. “Nothing more, nothing less. If you think I’m here for some deep dark reason, you’re mistaken. I know you’re in a fix right now, but we need to think about how we can all get ourselves out of this. Yes? Work together? Do you understand me?”
She heard the soft chime of a personal comm. He looked down, fumbling in his pocket, and read whatever message had arrived. Pulaski saw his face change, to something ugly and angry and not entirely balanced. Hell, she thought. He’s going to lose it.
The doctor knew that what she was about to do was a risk, but watching his face, she genuinely believed she had to take that risk or face far worse consequences. He was armed, and he was dangerous. So she made her move. She sped across the room and grabbed at the arm that was holding the phaser. It unbalanced him, and for a moment she thought she had him. But his reactions were superb—training, she wondered, or just living on the streets? He twisted around, and was soon back in control. She felt the snub nose of the phaser up against her, and then he fired. As she went down, stunned, she saw him grab Antok, pull her screaming from the room, but she could do nothing. Her limbs were numb and dead. A minute later, everything went black.
* * *
Natima Lang was looking forward to a long break. She was taking the next term as writing time, in her country home in the Perok district. Second homes were surprisingly common on Cardassia Prime, and not always the prerogative of the very wealthy. The cities had suffered great destruction when the Jem’Hadar had gone on the march, but distant country houses, often standing empty, had tended to survive, and ultimately somebody had to inherit. Natima Lang had inherited from an old friend, a woman who had once been head of state. Meya Rejal had been part of the dissident movement and had later formed the first civilian government of the Cardassian Union. Her rule—and her life—had ended when Dukat seized power. Dukat had briefly installed one of his lackeys in the house, but after the war, and the Fire, after the first terrible years of privation and despair, the wheels of justice had slowly begun to turn, and Natima Lang found, to her amazement, that she was a beneficiary of Rejal’s will. The house—and what was left of its once considerable library—were now all hers.
And there she was going, in a few days’ time. The last of her lectures was now delivered, and she had only a single tutorial left to give, and she was going through her usual end-of-term ritual of clearing through old files. She was performing the task with more thoroughness than usual. She knew that her life was on the verge of a great change, although she was not sure yet what form that change would take.
Lang was not a vain woman, nor was she the kind to believe that she was entitled to a position, no matter how qualified she was. She did not assume that the post of chief academician was hers by right. But she knew that many people believed that she was the right person for the job, and she thought so too. Her years of battling for the university’s independence while they were at the mercy of Central Command; her defense of students that had saved the life of some of them; her tireless work on committee after committee, helping the U of U rebuild since the end of the war: all of this, now, was surely about to earn its reward. Pausing for a moment in sifting through her recent correspondence, Lang looked out of the window across the campus. The lawn before the building was busy: groups of students dotted here and there, working together to prepare for exams. Lang smiled. So much industry; so much hope. It was a privilege, she knew, to be part of forming the aspirations of so many young people. It was a great responsibility too: helping to furnish the minds of people that would go on to produce policy, work for the Assembly, go into the newscasts, and create the art and literature that would challenge the politicians and policymakers that their peers would become. She smiled looking out on them. She loved this place. More than anything in the world, she wanted to lead it. She had a vision for the university, as a place at the heart of a civil and democratic society. They were close, so close, but she knew she could do more . . .
And yet the castellan thought that Tret Vetrek was better suited. Lang sat back in her chair, considering this. What, she wondered, had she done to earn the castellan’s disapproval? He had read her books, she knew, and he admired them—he had told her that at a reception a year or two ago—so she had been surprised, and more than a little wounded, to discover via the grapevine that she was not his first choice to be Therok’s successor. They had met all that time ago, on Deep Space 9 . . . She pondered that meeting, but was embarrassed to realize that she hadn’t paid much attention to the lowly tailor. Had she offended him then? Had she slighted him? Quark hadn’t thought much of him, but Lang had not always taken Quark’s opinion on face value. Yet there it was. The castellan did not want her to be chief academician, and the fact was that the castellan’s opinion carried considerable weight on Cardassia these days. While he had not come out and openly stated a preference, he had allowed it to become known where his preference lay, and that might well be enough to swing the vote of the governing body against her. Vetrek was an energetic and clever man, progressive, and Lang knew he would do good things at U of U. But that would be poor consolation.
And if she did not win this prize? What then? She looked through a set of notes from earlier in the year. Retirement, she thought, surprising herself with this sudden decision. One more year, perhaps two, then leave the university to that upcoming generation. Perhaps she would travel. She had seen very little of the Federation, and she thought she would like to see more. She would like to see a mature democracy, see how it worked and what the dangers might be, maybe of complacency and forgetfulness. Yes, she thought, consigning the files to oblivion. She would start with Bajor, and she would work deeper into the Federation and she would write another book . . .
There was a tap at the door, and her new aide, Servek, put her head around. Lang tensed up. She didn’t much like Servek, who had come from Therok’s office at the start of this term. The move had made sense once Therok announced his retirement: Lang guessed that passing on his staff to her was meant to be a nod and a wink that she was his chosen successor. But the truth was that she would rather Servek had gone somewhere else. The woman was constantly saying things like, “I’m a very open person.” Lang found her secretive. If this had been prewar Cardassia, Lang would have assumed that Servek was from the Obsidian Order. She was old enough to have been an adult before the Order collapsed, Lang knew, so perhaps there was some truth to that. Not an Order operative, but one of those all-too-many citizens who was happy to be an informer. Perhaps she had never quite lost habits acquired then. Still, Lang was stuck with her, and so she forced a smile to her face.
Servek looked quickly—surreptitiously, Lang thought—around the room. “Clear-out going well, Professor?”
“Very nicely, thank you. Can I help?”
“That was really what I came in to ask you.”
“I think this is something that needs my personal attention. But thank you.”
She turned back to her computer. Servek hung around the door.
Lang, forcing another smile, looked up. “Was there something else?”
Servek, she saw, had a pained expression on her face. “I don’t know how to put this, Professor . . .”
Lang leaned back wearily in her chair. “Please don’t feel constrained around me.”
“Well, I am a very frank person,” Servek said. “It breaks my heart to say this, but I feel like you don’t trust me, Professor.”
I don’t, thought Lang. Still, she thought she’d done a better job of concealing it.
“I worked with the chief academician for many years, you know. Before the war too. I’m very discreet . . .”
She went on in this vein for a while. Lang listened with an attentive expression on her face. The problem these days, she thought, was that people didn’t have enough genuine problems to worry about. Not that she would wish the bad times back, but some people really found grievances in the most trivial of things.
“I hear what you’re saying,” said Lang, almost, but not quite, embarrassed by the shameless manipulation of such a statement. “It’s a pity we’ve not quite managed to find a way to work together yet. I must admit that I’m not used to having assistance.” This was not quite true. The department in which Lang worked had a press officer dedicated to handling her public appearances, and Lang got along with her just fine. She saw Servek’s face: she was thinking the same thing. “What I mean is, I’m used to handling my administration myself.”
“That’s a significant burden, Professor. I can help.”
“I have very well-established practices.”
Servek looked down at the ground and gave a pained sigh.
Help, thought Lang. I’ve been pinned down by a passive-aggressive colleague. “Perhaps you could look at some of the correspondence from the start of the year,” she said, keying in some codes to give Servek access. “See if there’s anything that needs to be followed up.”
Servek smiled and left. Lang rolled her eyes and carried on with her work. She was starting to think that Therok had simply wanted to get rid of Servek. Lang made her first executive decision. If she did become chief academician, Servek was not coming with her.
* * *
Elim Garak and the Federation diplomatic corps had been in an amicable war of veiled insults for the best part of a decade. Actually, thought Garak—that was not entirely fair. He had been unfailingly polite in all his dealings with the Federation diplomatic corps. They, meanwhile, seemed to do things specifically designed to offend him. For example, when Garak had taken up the post of the Union’s ambassador to the Federation, he had been given a splendid residence in Paris, the City of Light. Garak adored Paris. He thought it was the most beautiful place he had ever seen, not least because of the thriving fashion houses. But he loved it too because its architecture was not blandly Federation-standard as was the case in so many other cities he had visited on Earth (he shuddered to remember the horrors perpetrated in Cambridge).
Garak’s official residence in Paris had been a grand old town house. Naturally, he had researched its history, and thus he had discovered—as his hosts no doubt intended—that it had, at one point in its history, been the residence of a representative of a government so brutal, so vicious, that their name had become a byword for horror in human history. Garak had considered being offended, and then decided to take it as flattering that he was considered worthy of such a carefully calculated insult. When Garak returned to Cardassia and became castellan, the Federation diplomatic service had risen to the challenge once again, and sent him a Bajoran as their ambassador. When she was recalled, he did not think they could surpass this. But they had. With the exquisite cruelty that they had shown to him on so many occasions, they had sent him a Vulcan.
Garak, at his best, could charm even Bajorans. (Not Kira Nerys. Charm had not been key to winning over Kira. Killing other Cardassians had been necessary to prove himself to Kira.) But Garak had never, to his certain knowledge, managed to charm a Vulcan. They were, he thought, entirely without charm. Cardassians, for all their faults, could be passionate. The trick had been to divert these passions away from things like murder, conquest, and national pride, and toward healthier pursuits like democracy, lifelong education, the news, and hound-racing. But Vulcans, now. Vulcans were a trial.
Ambassador T’Rena lifted her cup of red leaf tea and gently breathed in the vapor. “An unusual combination of flavors and scents.”
“Wait till you taste it,” said Garak. The problem was, he knew, that Vulcans tempted Garak into flippancy. And really one could not be flippant about war crimes. Particularly not when one represented the perpetrators.
T’Rena tasted the tea. “Not unpleasant.”
“Mostly harmless,” said Garak.
She looked up at him calmly. “I beg your pardon?”
“It’s a quotation from a human classic,” said Garak. Rather a flippant one. He tried to get a grip on himself.
T’Rena studied him until he felt rather like a specimen splayed out and awaiting dissection. “Of course,” she said. “You have made a special study of human literature.”
She made him sound like a professor. The truth was that there had been many long, lonely hours to fill on Deep Space 9, and Garak had wanted things to talk about with Bashir. Still, he thought, should he ever find himself in need of a new job, he could probably write novel reviews for a living. He pondered that possible future. He discovered he was rather taken with it.
T’Rena took another sip of tea and nodded. They would get by, he supposed, if she liked red leaf tea. He wondered what kanar would do to her.
“We welcome the news that you are accepting the report in full,” she said. “I do not believe I am speaking out of turn when I say that the Bajoran people also welcome this news.”
“I’ve spoken privately to the chief minister,” said Garak. “There was some discussion of a ceremony of reconciliation. There are complications, of course, surrounding inviting a Cardassian leader on a state visit to Bajor. Many people think it’s too soon. Many people think that I am not the right head of state.”
“There’s a long road ahead, Castellan,” she said. “And while symbolic meetings certainly have their place, I believe the Federation is interested in the legal ramifications of this policy.” She studied him thoughtfully. “In my preparation for this role, I spoke to many victims of the Occupation. They all spoke of the desire for justice, and their need to see their tormentors punished—”
“I share that desire,” Garak said softly.
“Many also told me that they did not trust Cardassian justice.” She picked up her cup again and drank. “They have experienced it. They do not want anyone prosecuted under Cardassian law. They want extraditions to Bajor.”
Garak bit his lip. Carnis, in her report, had anticipated this, but had dodged making any recommendation. Sensible woman. Pursuing war criminals was one thing. Trying them under Cardassian law was another thing. Extraditing them to face trial on Bajor—which now, of course, meant to face trial in the Federation—was yet another. Why, Garak thought peevishly, is doing the right thing always so complicated? His eyes drifted over to the wall, to the space where Ziyal’s painting customarily hung. He reached into his pocket and found the perek petal there, soft and soothing to the touch. T’Rena, he saw, was observing him carefully. “An issue for another day,” she said.
He got the impression that she was being kind to him, which left him rather off guard. He was not used to people being kind to him. He was rather touched. He was also not entirely prepared for her next question, which she asked when his cup was up to his lips.
“Are you concerned that you might face trial?”
Garak, with significant self-restraint, did not spit out his tea. Instead he swirled the liquid around in his mouth, swallowed, and then looked up at her. “Commendably direct, Ambassador.” The chime on his desktop comm sounded. “Saved by the bell,” he said. “Do you mind if I take this?”
She nodded, almost imperceptibly. As a rule, and as a matter of courtesy, he didn’t generally take calls when speaking to the representatives of foreign powers, particularly of allies. But he also didn’t want to carry on the conversation. A
s he read the message from Mhevet, however, he began to think that he might have been better off ignoring it and facing that gentle, passionless interrogation instead.
“Ambassador,” he said, “I have some most concerning news.”
One delicate eyebrow was sharply raised. She would know that he would have chosen his words carefully and she would parse them correctly: “most concerning” being some considerable distance from “very bad.” She would know that war, at least, was not imminent, but that life was perhaps in danger. “The young man assigned to Doctor Pulaski went to her suite this morning, but it seems that she cannot be found.”
T’Rena went still. “Was there any sign of force?”
“None that we can see—but there are traces that a transporter was used, twice, during the night.”
T’Rena nodded.
“Let me assure you that everything is being done to find her,” Garak said. “This is obviously not acceptable, and my best people are on it.” He closed his eyes and pressed his fingertips against them.
“Castellan, is there something else the matter?” T’Rena said.
“There’s nothing else,” he lied. She did not need to know Mhevet’s other piece of news: that they had lost track of Elima Antok. He would prefer not to look like things were spinning out of control. To lose one doctor could be regarded as a misfortune; to lose two looked like carelessness. Losing three was nothing short of a tragedy.
“Nothing at all.”
My dear Doctor—
Now we come to the heart of the empire. We have come to the hills of Coranum. Here the powers of the Union once lived in their mansions, as your Greek gods once sat upon Mount Olympus, and the Union was their playground. Money begets money, and power begets power, and by the end, the people who lived in Coranum might as well have been living on the moon, like the Autarch of Tzenketh, who, you may or may not know, really does live on a moon, high above his subjects, who gaze up adoringly at him while he looks back down and presumably thinks what a bunch of gullible idiots they all are.
Enigma Tales Page 12
