Enigma Tales

by Una McCormack

  She sank back in her chair. “She was in there like some kind of amateur sleuth! Like some aristocratic idiot prancing around an enigma tale. She said she had ‘gotten impatient.’ I’ll give her impatient—”

  Garak stifled his laughter. “But to give the good doctor her due, because of her efforts—”

  The look Mhevet gave him was murderous.

  “Or, perhaps, despite her efforts,” Garak hastily amended, “we now have the murderer in custody. At least, that’s what I have gleaned from your tirade.”

  Mhevet ran her hands through her hair. She looked tired. He wanted to press food on her. He wanted to tell her to go to bed and sleep. He wanted to tell her to take the day off and go home and take it easy. He would do none of these things, but the urge to protect her, to nurture her, was very strong. It was strange, this attachment. He had not thought that there was anything paternal about him. He had hardly had a good model, when it came to being fatherly. He felt timid and uncertain. He did not want to harm her in any way, and that, he supposed, what was counted. Tain could not have said the same.

  “Yes,” she said, “we have him.”

  “You don’t sound very happy about that,” Garak said. “I assume he is the murderer? Are we in fact able to prove that he killed Servek?”

  “Well, yes,” said Mhevet. “He confessed immediately.”

  “How extremely obliging of him,” Garak said.

  “He’s been altogether very obliging. He told us that he added Lang’s name to the files on Project Enigma, and that he sent the files to Antok to discover. He also threatened Antok in order to spur her into action—”

  “Wait,” said Garak, holding up a hand. “Do we know whether or not Project Enigma actually existed? Was the whole thing a fabrication by this man?”

  “Now, that crossed my mind. I asked, but he’s not telling.”

  Garak hissed softly to himself. That would, of course, have cleared Lang’s name completely. But it seemed this man wanted that question mark to remain. “So not completely obliging, then?”

  “No, but enough for us to put him away. He instructed Servek to tamper with Lang’s archive so that it contained communications about Enigma. Paid her. Servek then tried to blackmail him, so he killed her.”

  “What a charming pair,” said Garak. “And has he at any point offered an explanation as to why he embarked upon this sequence of extremely questionable life choices?”

  “No,” said Mhevet, “he hasn’t.”

  “How vexing,” Garak said.

  “Vexing isn’t the word I’d use, sir, but it will do. He just won’t be drawn. He admits to the kidnappings, but he won’t say why.”

  “So you have means and opportunity, but no motive?”

  Mhevet leaned back in the chair. “Why does anyone commit murder?”

  Garak tilted his head. “Was that a rhetorical question, or do you want an answer?”

  “That,” said Mhevet, “depends on whether or not you want me to arrest you.”

  Garak smiled demurely. “I was, of course, only going to attempt an explanation based on what I’ve read.”

  “Well,” said Mhevet, “I don’t claim to be as, er, well-read as you, boss, so if you do come up with anything, let me know. In the meantime, we’re checking out everything—connections to ultranationalists, possible personal grudges against Lang, history of anti-Bajoran activity, connections to the military on Bajor. The problem is that his records are rather scant.”

  “That’s not unusual,” Garak pointed out. “Not much came through the Fire.”

  “I know that,” Mhevet said. “But there should be more, surely? We were all stamped and filed and registered a thousand times over by Starfleet. Admission to a refugee camp, ration cards, evidence of inoculations, burial details. We’ve all got files as long as our arms, haven’t we? Everyone who survived has all of that. What about employment history? Has he been living hand to mouth all these years?” She shook her head. “It’s not right. He should have left some mark on the world.”

  “Some people,” said Garak, “are good at concealing their histories.”

  They looked directly at each other. “Something will turn up,” said Mhevet.

  “I’m sure you’ll tell me,” Garak said. “If you find something.”

  “I will, sir,” she promised.

  They were still looking at each other, but Garak was glad to realize that there was no fear on either side, only honesty, a shared conception of the past, and a desire for a better future. “Good,” Garak said softly. “I’m glad about that. I’m glad you’re watching, Arati.”

  “I won’t give up, sir,” she said. “It matters too much.”

  “And if I was at any point not clear,” Garak said, “I would rather that you erred on the side of caution.”

  She smiled at him fondly, like a daughter to a father. “I’ll remember that, sir.”

  “In the meantime,” Garak said, “perhaps you could let poor Natima Lang go? It seems that she is guilty of nothing more than taking bad advice.” He pondered this. “Of course,” he murmured, “that can be fatal, in some cases. She’ll need to keep an eye on that.”

  “Already in hand, sir,” Mhevet said.

  Garak got up from his seat and wandered over to his desk to admire the vase of spring flowers there. Akret had done a beautiful job with the arrangement. There really was no end to her talents. “I wonder,” said Garak, “if I might speak to the young man you’re holding in custody?”

  Mhevet burst out laughing. “Are you kidding me?”

  Garak was offended. “I am most certainly not!”

  “Why do you think I’d let you near him? On what grounds are you authorized to speak to him?”

  “I am—”

  “Yes, I know, you’re the castellan of the Cardassian Union. You’re not a police investigator, and you have no business being in an interview room with a murder suspect. Honestly, sir, do you want a clever nestor to get him acquitted on a technicality?”

  Garak hissed in frustration.

  “Checks and balances, sir. You signed up for it.”

  Garak shook his head. “But why Lang?” he said, burning with frustration. “I still don’t understand about Lang. Why target Natima Lang?”

  “I don’t understand that either,” said Mhevet. “I know you’re not telling me everything, sir.”

  “You’re right,” Garak muttered, “I’m not.”

  “And I’m not going to press you. I’m going to trust you.”

  “I’m glad about that. But I still have many questions of my own.” His eyes gleamed. “Please can I speak to him? Just for a minute or two?”

  Mhevet stood up and stretched. “No.”

  “Please?”

  “No.”

  * * *

  Natima Lang stood in the street, blinking. It must be the dust, she told herself. The dust was getting in her eyes. She rubbed at them, trying to clear her vision, and then slipped on the mask that she had been given, tightening the straps and pushing up the visor. She was glad for the mask in a way that she had never thought she would be: it gave her some cover, hiding her away from prying eyes and holo-cameras. The officers, appreciating her worries, had taken her to a side door, where it was quiet, and one of them was waiting with her as protection while the skimmer came around for her.

  Everything had resolved itself very suddenly. One minute she had been a murder suspect, subjected to questioning from the most senior police offer in the city. Then Mhevet had suddenly been called away, and the interview had terminated. Lang had been asked to wait. She knew that she did not have to remain—she had not been arrested—but she couldn’t face going outside again with all this hanging over her. She had waited several hours. There had been a sudden bustle of activity, then deep quiet, and then more activity. Eventually, Mhevet returned.


  “I’m glad to say that we’ve made an arrest, Professor Lang. The man concerned has confessed to the kidnap of Doctor Antok and Doctor Pulaski, and the murder of your aide. He’s also admitted tampering with your files.”

  Lang bowed her head. At length, she said, “Does this mean I’m free to go?”

  “You were always free to go,” Mhevet said. “Although we appreciated your patience in waiting all this time. I’ve arranged for a skimmer to take you back to Paldar.”

  “Thank you.” Lang felt awkward, uncertain, as if there was some formality yet to be completed, but of which she was unaware. “Is that really everything?”

  “Not quite,” said Mhevet. “Would you be willing to look at some images?”

  “Of course,” said Lang faintly.

  Mhevet pulled out a padd and pushed it across to her. “This is the man we’ve arrested. Do you recognize him?”

  Lang studied the face closely. “I’m sorry, no.”

  “It might have been years ago, before you defected.”

  She stared at the face, trying to find something there that was familiar. She shook her head. “I have never met this man,” she said.

  Mhevet put the padd away. “Ah well,” she said. “There might have been something. If you do remember anything, please, let me know.” She pulled out her contact info and passed it over. “He’s gone to some lengths to frame you, Professor Lang. I’d like to know why. I imagine you’d like to know too.”

  Lang took her details and stood up. Mhevet held the door open for her, and, as Lang passed through, Mhevet said, “The castellan sends his regards. He wonders whether you could make an appointment to see him at your earliest availability.”

  “Do you usually help the castellan with his diary?” Lang said.

  “I’m here to serve,” Mhevet replied. She offered her palm for Lang to press, and then surrendered her to the care of her officers and strode off briskly down the corridor.

  And now Lang stood outside, in the dust, waiting to go home. She felt a tap on her arm, and she jumped. Her hand shot up to cover her face, to prevent anyone taking images of her; ridiculous with the mask in place. She wondered how long it would take before she no longer felt she had to hide herself away. She took a deep breath and turned to find herself looking at a young woman, slight and finely boned, with her mask pushed up on top of her head and a rather distracted expression.

  “I’m so sorry to disturb you,” the young woman said. “You’re Professor Lang, aren’t you? Natima Lang?” She suddenly sobbed. “Oh! Oh, I’m so sorry!”

  Lang, startled by the young woman’s distress, pushed her own mask away. “My dear, are you all right?” she said. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m fine, I’m fine. I just wanted to apologize.”

  Suddenly, Lang recognized her. She had seen her speak on the ’casts, and she had seen her give evidence to the war crimes committee. This was Elima Antok. This was the person who had nearly destroyed her reputation. She went very still. She was not entirely sure what to say to her.

  However, Antok had plenty to say. “I doubted you. I shouldn’t have done that. I am so, so sorry.”

  Lang, turning, had a quick word with the officer waiting nearby, and then she grasped the young woman’s arm and led her over to a nearby geleta stop. It was small, only a pit stop for officers at constabulary HQ on their way to work, but there were a few seats inside. Lang settled Antok in one of these and went to get two small cups of gelat. “Now,” she said, making the young woman take a sip or two of the hot, bitter, life-giving drink. “Tell me everything.”

  “It’s my fault,” Antok said. “I found the files. I gave them to a journalist friend. I should have known better. I should have known that you wouldn’t do anything like that! Natima Lang, of all people!”

  Lang sighed. How she wished she could be angry—but she couldn’t. Antok’s distress was so plain, and her remorse palpable. “My dear young woman, as I understand it, a threat was made against you!”

  “But you! Natima Lang! Our finest, most consistent dissident voice! Our conscience!”

  Lang felt naturally gratified, but she also felt considerably embarrassed. “There were many people involved in the dissident movement, Elima. I was lucky to have platforms outside of Cardassia that protected me from the Order. Many other people took risks far greater than I did, and very few of them lived to enjoy the freedom we have now.”

  “But you!”

  “You found compelling evidence. You did what was right when confronted with that evidence. And look! Everything has turned out for the best! The culprit has been found, and the files, it transpires, have been tampered with.”

  Antok nodded and drank some more of the hot gelat. She was starting to look less distressed. “I remember exactly where I was when I first read your writing.”

  Lang smiled. People often told her the story of their first encounter with her works.

  “I was a student,” Antok said, “just after Meya Rejal came to power, and all your books became available again. I shared an attic with four other students from U of U. We had a reading group. Every week, ten of us crowded into our attic and pored over your books. None of them made it through the Fire. Only me . . .” She held back a sob. “We thought we were on the verge of something, back then. We thought we were going to be able to be a democracy at last. We all said, you know, that if you hadn’t had to flee, if you’d been here when Rejal took power, then maybe she would have held course. Our whole history would have been completely different, if you’d been there. No Dukat, no Dominion. No Fire—”

  Lang gave a rueful smile. “Doctor Antok, you attribute too much to me. I should have returned when the civilian government took power, you’re right. But the truth was, I was afraid. It’s one of my greatest regrets. I should have been here.” She shook her head. “But you are too good a historian to suggest that one person can change events. Collectively, we change events. I could not have held back the Jem’Hadar.”

  “I’m so ashamed that I doubted you. That I’ve thrown your reputation into question.”

  “I think . . .” said Lang slowly, “that that’s why you were chosen to find the files, you know. Because of your voice.”

  “What do you mean?” said Antok.

  “I’ve read your work. You’re fearless. Honest. Brave.”

  Antok shook her head. “Oh, if only you knew! I’m not brave! Not really!”

  Lang clasped her hand. “You’re braver than you know.” They sat for a while together, not talking, but comforting each other nonetheless. At last Lang said, “I have a skimmer coming,” she said. “Can I take you somewhere?”

  “I want to go home,” said Antok. “I want to see my children.” She fumbled in her pocket and drew out an earring, which she clipped on. Suddenly, her fine bones came into focus, showed exactly who she was, showed the history that had brought her into being, that had brought her here.

  “See,” said Lang, placing her hand upon the other woman’s face. “Fearless.” She smiled. “The future is in good hands.”

  My dear Doctor—

  I have saved the best till last. We are now crossing the river, and soon we will be in Torr, the real heart of the city. Yes, there were once fine homes in Coranum, and flashy towers in Barvonok, and everyone in Tarlak is busy, but Torr is where most of us live.

  The people here are not rich, and the homes are not magnificent. Often they were cramped, dirty, and overcrowded. There was real poverty here before the war, a lack of water, and sickness too. Cardassia was not kind, at that time, to the weak. I do not mean to romanticize this area, and indeed we did our best not to re-create the problems of the past when we rebuilt. But it seems to me that every stone of Torr has been made to count, and every space within harbors life. Children play, and people smile. Here, more than anywhere else, I see how and why we managed to survive.

 
; I don’t get to visit this part of town as much as I once did. When I was younger, I used to wander around here all the time, whenever I had some rare free time. I felt at ease here, at home, and most of all I felt that I had been able, blessedly, to lose myself entirely in the crowd. Immersing myself in the whole, disappearing myself, I got what I most craved. Anonymity. Freedom.

  Now . . . Well, my face is too familiar. I wouldn’t get more than two steps.

  I still love this place.

  I wish I could persuade you to come and see.

  Garak

  [unsent]

  Ten

  The clatter of teacups signaled that yet another decorous meeting between a head of state and the ambassador of his chief ally was under way. Pulaski glanced at the Vulcan and the Cardassian covertly under her eyelids. Did they like all this decorum? Did it help? She personally loathed it and all its ceremony: the careful positioning of the crockery, the turning of the scones counterclockwise. Or had she made that one up? Whatever, the whole damn thing set her teeth on edge. There was no honesty to it, no openness. She looked at the castellan, who smiled at her brightly. Would he sit here drinking tea while deciding whether or not to go to war? Had he sat and drunk tea just before starting an interrogation, or just after? Why couldn’t they just get on with things?

  The castellan’s smile had become less bright and more contemplative. He turned away from her, and to Ambassador T’Rena. “I’m hoping,” Garak said, “that we can put the events of the past few days behind us, and reestablish a relationship based on amity and trust. I sincerely hope”—here he gave Pulaski a somewhat steely look, which she shot right back, thank you very much, mister—“that neither of you believes, any longer, that I had a hand in your kidnapping, Doctor Pulaski, nor in the kidnap of our esteemed Doctor Antok. Neither have I been attempting to discredit Professor Lang.”

  T’Rena nodded her agreement. “For my part, Castellan, I’d like to assure you that there will be no further commentary upon Cardassian affairs—”