Enigma Tales

by Una McCormack

  “Castellan, do you have any opinion about this breaking news?”

  A little warning bell chimed in Garak’s head, and he remembered one of his first lessons: don’t surrender information. He gave his best smile and played for time. “Well, Letek,” he said to the journalist asking the question, “I have a vast number of opinions, on a wide range of topics. You should come to dinner one evening. I should warn you that you’ll probably be sick of the sound of my voice long before dessert arrives.”

  “Castellan, you must have something to say about the legate’s decision?”

  Garak smiled back blandly. That warning bell, he thought; he had been absolutely right to pay attention. Not for the first time, Garak thanked his lucky stars for his intuition. He had absolutely no idea what the journalist was talking about and absolutely no intention of revealing this fact. So, he must keep them busy until one of his advisors managed to brief him. It was a good job, he thought, as he surreptitiously slid his comm into the palm of his hand, that he liked to talk, so very, very much.

  “Ah,” Garak said, “the legate.” (Which damn legate?) “I have often found myself pondering the ways of the Cardassian military, and particularly its senior echelons, who I think we can all agree are a marvelous if occasionally opaque group—” He could see the journalists getting restless. This was soon going to look exactly like what it was: playing for time. The comm, mercifully, vibrated in his hand, and, faking a slight cough—plausible given the air quality—­Garak was able to check the message and learn, to his considerable dismay, that the three officers who had visited him—Legate Renel, Gul Telek, and Gul Feris—had made a public statement earlier that morning announcing their immediate resignations of their commissions. Garak coughed again. Time to put a stop to this sideshow, get in the skimmer, and be properly briefed. “But the answer to your question, Letek, is—no, I have nothing to say about the legate’s decision. I would suggest that you talk to him. Without the demands of his position, he no doubt has a great deal of time on his hands.” He moved toward the skimmer. “A pleasure as always.”

  He sat down inside, and the door slid closed after him with a quiet whoosh. He let his head fall back on the seat. He wasn’t entirely sure he’d gotten away with that. His private comm buzzed again. Parmak again. Really, really sorry it’s been spoiled. Garak glumly turned to the console built into the seat. One of his advisors was on the line, ready with a briefing, and he also found a ’cast showing Renel’s announcement. It was even worse than he’d realized: not just the trio had resigned, but three more guls and another legate had joined them.

  “We strongly oppose this attempt to smear the reputation of the military,” Renel said. “We are looking into legal remedies, for example, statutes of limitations, whether these were crimes under Cardassian law at the time, whether individuals can be legally tried for crimes that took place somewhere that is now under a different jurisdiction . . .”

  Garak snorted. The reputation of the military indeed. He started to feel slightly better. Even as he spoke, Renel was tacitly admitting the military’s guilt. He was looking for technicalities, rather than arguing innocence.

  One of the journalists at the press conference said, “I’ve heard reports that the Federation might seek extraditions.”

  Garak would have preferred to have kept that quiet. “Vulcans,” he muttered, and turned to the messages coming in from his advisors. By the end of the ride back to his office, they had a well-worded and entirely bland statement on the resignations to give out to the press. Garak went to his desk. Akret had a pot of ettaberry tea ready, a welcome balm for itching eyes and a sore throat, and a promise that lunch was on its way.

  She watched him anxiously as he drank the tea. “Will this make trouble for you, sir?”

  “Oh, I should think so,” said Garak.

  She gave him a sympathetic smile and left. He noticed that she had arranged for a vase full of spring flowers, bright and cheerful, to be put on the desk. He reached into his pocket and drew out the perek petal. Its color was fading, and it was beginning to shred.

  The door opened again, and Akret put her head in. She looked like she’d been surprised. That wasn’t a good sign. He shoved the petal back into his pocket.

  “Akret? Whatever is the matter?”

  “Castellan,” she said, “I have—”

  She stopped suddenly as someone pushed past. Garak’s faint hope for lunch was quickly disappointed. The human male, Pulaski’s friend, dark-haired and pale-skinned, came striding in, with Ambassador T’Rena behind him. Garak fumbled around for a name. Alden, that was it, Peter Alden. Pulaski’s silent sidekick. Not so silent now.

  “Where is she, you Order bastard?” he yelled. “What have you done with Katherine Pulaski?”

  My dear Doctor—

  We have come down from the heights, but we are entering an area that seems no less rarefied to me. I confess, Doctor, that I am rather in awe of the university. Such places have always been closed to me—my own education was rather narrowly focused and intent on producing some quite specific learning outcomes—and whenever I come to this place I feel slightly at a disadvantage. My defense is not particularly subtle, but it seems to do the trick: I wear my best clothes and I smile enigmatically, and that seems to persuade even these fine minds that I am a brilliant and sophisticated man. It was the same when I was young—all these clever young people, most of them from those rich or comfortable homes in Coranum and Paldar, all widely read, and able. They made me feel gauche and stupid.

  Perhaps I do not strike you as the kind of person to feel tongue-tied, but it’s true. And, of course, this all worked in the Order’s favor. I was not alone in my feelings, and so it was easy to get our operatives to sneer at those young people filling their days with study and ask what contribution they made. We never struggled to find people willing to go undercover to the university, although we never had much success. I blame Natima Lang.

  Does it give me some satisfaction, then, to have had a hand in the rebuilding of the university? I will not deny it. But it has not been motivated out of scorn or spite. What the university suffered at the hands of the Jem’Hadar was particularly grievous and now, when I think of that lost world, I regret those young lives that we made so difficult, and I can only applaud the courage they showed in trying to learn in the face of best efforts to keep them ignorant. Lang was committed to an idea of an institution as much as I was, I think, but she certainly chose a better one.

  Still, I do feel like an intruder upon its turf, even as I desire the way of life it offers. In some alternate timeline, where we all of us live our best lives, I am sitting quietly in a room somewhere, reading.

  Garak

  [unsent]

  Seven

  The castellan of the Cardassian Union considered his best response to this gambit. Anger would suggest he was out of control, and, besides, his throat still felt raw from the morning outside and shouting wouldn’t help. So he leaned back comfortably in his chair and visibly relaxed. Meanwhile, his heart pounded in his chest, and he tried to ignore the fact that the walls seemed to be bending inward slightly.

  “Well,” he said, “that would be a bold opening move in any conversation, never mind with the head of state of a friendly power.” Garak dismissed Alden and turned his attention to T’Rena. The ambassador, he thought, did not look entirely comfortable. There, perhaps, was the way to turn this to his advantage. “A pleasure to see you, Ambassador, as it is always a pleasure to see friends from the Federation. I hope your journey here was not too unpleasant. The air quality is markedly worse today, I believe, and it can be uncomfortable for people not familiar with the experience. Would you care for some ettaberry tea? It’s very soothing.”

  T’Rena moved forward at a stately pace, taking her time, trying to impose herself upon proceedings. “Thank you. That would be most pleasant.”

  Garak nodded to Akret, stil
l hovering, and she left, closing the door behind her. Garak stood up, his hand drifting into his pocket to touch the perek petal as he did. He gestured to T’Rena to follow him away from his desk and toward the seats near the window. He took his preferred chair, the one that put his face in shadow, and T’Rena made herself comfortable on the couch. She did not seem perturbed to find herself looking into the light. She was very focused on him. Alden, meanwhile, was still standing by Garak’s desk and quivering with rage. Garak knew how he felt. The walls were only just beginning to retreat.

  “Doctor Alden,” Garak said. “Would you care to join us, or would you prefer to stand?”

  Slowly, Alden walked over. Garak kept his eyes on him and Alden, to his credit, didn’t blink. Garak had to applaud both his nerve and his training. He had read Alden’s file, of course, as soon as he had seen the man’s name on the list of visitors. The Obsidian Order had gone for the kind of person that was good at disassociation, but Starfleet Intelligence seemed to like a different type: clever and introverted, rather cool and self-contained. Bashir had become like this; no, Bashir had always been like this, from the start, hadn’t he? Despite all the gaucheness, he had been concealing the not so small matter of his genetic enhancements. Alden reminded Garak strongly of Bashir; his accent made the resemblance stronger. It was distressing and disturbing, particularly given Alden’s palpable anger. Garak had to make a conscious effort to push thoughts of the doctor away.

  As Akret poured the tea, Garak smiled pleasantly at T’Rena and Alden in turn, reviewing what he knew from Alden’s file. He had gone undercover on Ab-Tzenketh. Resigned from Starfleet Intelligence after a near breakdown not long after a tense mission involving the Tzenkethi in which he had been implicated in planting a bomb on a base. Alden’s link to the bomb had not been proven, and there was a strong possibility that the Tzenkethi had done it themselves. Garak recognized the trick, and thought Alden was most likely guilty. The man was highly strung and had, as the years went by, developed a tendency to lose self-control. Garak sympathized. Ab-Tzenketh had nearly driven him mad too: all that bowing and scraping, not to mention nearly being buried alive. At least he hadn’t been in deep cover. Ab-­Tzenketh was the most claustrophobic and airless society Garak had ever visited. Deep cover there would have finished him off.

  Garak sipped his tea. So Alden had a tendency to go off the rails. That could come in useful.

  “The tea is very pleasant,” said T’Rena.

  “Yes, it is,” said Garak.

  “I can see how it will be of great assistance when the dust arrives in earnest.”

  “I’d advise a mask too,” said Garak. He looked at Alden. “Cover the mouth.”

  There was a short pause. Alden picked up his teacup. His hands, Garak saw, were a little shaky.

  “My apologies for this interruption,” said T’Rena.

  Garak inclined his head. “I am of course at your disposal. But my schedule is rather tight.”

  “We’ll go as soon as we have answers,” said Alden. “Where is she?”

  “I’m afraid that you have me at a disadvantage,” purred Garak. “Where is who?”

  “Katherine Pulaski, of course!”

  “I have no idea,” Garak said. “The city constabulary are investigating Pulaski’s disappearance. They have no information as yet—”

  “You’re not fooling us, you know!”

  T’Rena held up her hand. “Please, Doctor Alden!”

  “Drink some tea,” Garak advised him. “You’ll find it very soothing.” Certainly Garak was enjoying its more pacifying effects right now. There were pieces missing from this kotra board, he thought; he couldn’t see everything, and he wasn’t sure he knew yet who all the players were. Was this some kind of bluff? Was T’Rena trying to trick him into admitting some culpability in Pulaski’s disappearance? If she was, she had sorely overplayed their hand and made a tragic mistake bringing along Alden. The man looked frantic. Garak did not like this, he did not like it at all. What did Alden know that was making him so anxious? Was it simply concern over Pulaski’s whereabouts? They were good friends, by all accounts, despite the surface sniping. But that wouldn’t explain these physical symptoms of distress, surely? This was a man who believed that things were out of control. Surely it wasn’t fear of Garak? Garak was the first to admit that he could have some fairly unpleasant effects on people, but he hadn’t, so far as he knew, done anything to Alden to earn this response.

  There is something going on here that I don’t know anything about, Garak thought. He didn’t like that. He never liked that. And he was getting sick of all these accusatory stares. They were wearying.

  “Now,” Garak said, “let me see if I’ve got this straight. You have come here because you believe that I know the whereabouts of Doctor Pulaski.”

  “And Elima Antok,” said Alden.

  “Elima Antok,” said Garak. “I see. May I ask to what purpose I would spirit away an honored guest visiting from our closest ally, not to mention an esteemed academic with a significant public profile whose evidence is key to a report upon which I have recently staked significant political capital? I’m curious, you see, to understand my own reasoning—or my reasoning as you understand it.”

  “I’ve no idea what passes through your mind,” Alden said. “It’s something to do with Natima Lang, I bet. These files that have mysteriously turned up, just when she’s about to become chief academician—”

  “Let me assure you,” Garak said quietly, “that I am in no way served by seeing Professor Lang’s reputation in ruins.”

  “As for Katherine—you couldn’t have shown your dislike more clearly. From the first second you met her you took against her—”

  “In fact, my reaction to Doctor Pulaski was framed by her decision to wade in with her opinions about the report. I know that for some members of Starfleet, the Prime Directive has become less of a rule and more of a guideline, but there are ways to deport yourself when visiting an allied power. Doctor Pulaski fell rather short of this.” He saw Alden open his mouth, probably to tell Garak that he deserved it, and he turned to T’Rena. “Ambassador, don’t you agree?”

  T’Rena inclined her head. “I asked Doctor Pulaski to be a little more circumspect in her pronouncements in future,” she said. “But I am deeply concerned about her disappearance—”

  Garak, however, had turned back to Alden. He’d achieved his first goal, of detaching him from T’Rena. Now he could finish this off. “Even your ambassador agrees that I should approach Doctor Pulaski with caution.”

  “You brushed her off at your first meeting! You won’t let her see Julian Bashir!”

  Garak slowly drained his tea and placed the cup down upon the saucer. He was by now the angriest he had been in some years, and he needed a moment to compose himself. He stood up. “This meeting is over.” He turned to T’Rena, now standing, and addressed her directly. “We’re at the very early stages of our relationship, Ambassador, and you represent our closest ally and a civilization to which Cardassia owes a great deal. I’m going to overlook this incident. I don’t know why you were persuaded to do this, and I’m prepared to assume you, at least, were acting in good faith. But I trust nothing like this will ever happen again.”

  He saw her shoot a quick glance at Alden, and her lips tighten. Yes, she was annoyed, in her passionless Vulcan way. Not as much as Garak, but this was certainly not how she had intended this meeting to play out. “I do have many questions about Doctor Pulaski’s disappearance, Castellan—”

  “As do I,” said Garak. “And while I wait for those questions to be answered by the high-ranking officers whom I’ve asked to investigate, I do not throw around baseless accusations. Particularly accusations that imply that I am spearheading a resurgence of the Obsidian Order—”

  “That’s not what I meant,” said Alden quickly.

  “No?” Garak felt his chest
tightening. He breathed in deeply. “What did you mean, exactly? You know I was in the Obsidian Order; I know I was in the Obsidian Order. The Cardassian people know it; Starfleet, your ambassador, and your president know it. But the Order is dead—long dead and buried. I am the castellan of the Cardassian Union, and when a burned-out junior intelligence officer barges into my office and accuses me of kidnapping, he had better be presenting better evidence than supposition, history, and prejudice. Do you have any such evidence, Doctor Alden?”

  There was a short silence.

  “No, sir,” said Alden. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have mentioned the Order.”

  Garak felt himself become calmer or, perhaps, cooler. “No,” he said. “You shouldn’t.” He turned back to T’Rena. “I’m going to pretend this didn’t happen,” he said. “I suggest you do the same. As for your associate—” He nodded at Alden. “You should probably get him examined. I’m sure there are plenty of counselors available to him. He should take advantage of their services at the earliest opportunity.”

  He knew he could have stopped there, but something pushed him onward. Later, Garak would understand that it was because he was still angry, that all his effort for all of these years was not enough to persuade people that he was not a liar. Still, he regretted what he did next.

  Slowly, he approached Alden.

  “It’s hard, isn’t it,” Garak said, in a very soft voice, “when the nerve goes. When you start to second-guess every move that you make. When the anger becomes so all-consuming that you feel you might well burn alive. When things don’t turn out as planned, and you know in your heart that it’s because you are at fault and are making bad decisions.” He studied Alden with gentle cruelty. “I’m sorry you took such harm on Ab-Tzenketh. I’m sorry the Tzenkethi did this to you. They’re a cruel people, aren’t they?” He held up one hand and squeezed it shut, like a vise. “They can press the life out of you.”