Enigma Tales

by Una McCormack

  The mood was somber, but oddly positive. There were a lot of children. She spied a few Bajoran earrings here and there. Someone handed her a white meya lily, the symbol for peace. The speeches were brief and respectful. Some people talked about their Bajoran grandmothers; others, older, spoke about their mothers. There were one or two prayers to the Prophets. This history was still very much alive.

  There was a quiet rustle all around, and suddenly the space was filled with armed men. Under the old regime, this would have been the prelude to arrests. Not now. They were here simply to keep watch and to protect their charge. People peered around, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. He came out from the shadows, wearing a plain but beautifully made black suit. On his shoulder were pinned two small flowers: scarlet perek and white meya. He stood for a while, gravely, hands clasped behind his back, looking around the assembled crowd. The word quickly passed around: The castellan is here. The castellan is here.

  One of the organizers came forward, and he and Garak exchanged a few quiet words. At first Garak shook his head, but after some quiet but impassioned pressure from the organizer, he nodded, reluctantly, and stepped forward.

  “Our friend has asked me to say a few words,” he said. “We are here to honor our dead. We lost so many of our best and brightest, our finest minds, our promise—and there were so many that sometimes I cannot bear the weight of their numbers.”

  A murmur of agreement, quiet but strong, passed around.

  “But standing here tonight, I realize how far we have come. Here is everything I hoped for from our new Cardassia. Here we stand together, peacefully and without fear. We remember our past, honor our dead, we look to the future, and we hope.” He smiled around at the crowd, sadly, fondly, like a father who knows that soon he must let go. “So much promise,” he said. “You fill Cardassia with hope.”

  He stepped back. There was no applause, that was not suitable for the occasion, but the murmuring of the crowd was approving. They liked what he had said. Garak breathed out, and let others step forward to speak. He became aware that someone had come to stand beside him, and turned to see Pulaski.

  “Doctor Pulaski,” he said. “You’ve come to honor our dead.”

  “Efheny invited me. How could I say no?” She gave him a small smile. “I know we’ve not exactly hit it off, you and I, so what you might not have gathered over the past few days is how much I admire this world and its people. I don’t think I’ve ever met people so dogged and so brave. And these youngsters . . .” She looked around and whistled softly. “What a legacy. How proud you all must be.”

  He too looked around, and he smiled. “They are everything that I could have hoped for, and more.”

  They stood in companionable silence for a while, watching as people came and laid flowers around the edge of the pool where the monument stood. Then Garak said, “And how was he, Doctor? Were you satisfied with how we are caring for him?”

  “Oh, that was never in doubt,” said Pulaski. “But, you know—I thought he looked lonely, Castellan. I thought he looked like he could do with a friend.”

  “That’s your professional diagnosis,” he said.

  She nodded. “He just needs to see a friendly face. He needs to hear a friendly voice.”

  “I understand,” said Garak. He turned to go, his security team falling into place around him. As he left, Pulaski saw Lang arrive. She wore a long white coat, with fur around the neck, and she was holding her head up high. She and the castellan saw each other, and he moved toward her. People didn’t miss it, Pulaski saw. They didn’t miss the castellan publicly greeting the professor. Looking at them she thought that they must be about the same age. They must have lived parallel lives under the old regime, but how different their paths had been. History had its own designs for them, and now they stood together.

  She watched them press their palms together. Garak said something, and Lang nodded. They moved apart. Later, that image would come back to Pulaski again and again: the man dressed in black, walking away into darkness, the woman in white moving forward to greet the people gathered.

  * * *

  After the vigil, Garak directed his driver to take him up to Coranum. He sent a message to Parmak to say that he was going back to his house to collect some books. He could, of course, have simply had an aide do this for him, but that was not the point. He wanted to be back in his home for a while, to be himself—whatever that was—and not be the castellan, if only for a little time. He knew his security team wasn’t happy, but he thought he’d earned it. The past few days had been a trial in ways he had not anticipated.

  He went into his sitting room. He lowered the lights, trying to make the space comfortable and comforting, but he could not settle. He prowled the room, looking for distractions. The absences seemed very strong tonight: Ziyal, Damar, Ghemor. He had found that he could not remember the sound of Ziyal’s voice. She was slipping away. Would this happen with Bashir, he wondered? Would he slip away, too, like everyone else?

  Garak shook himself and tried not to think of Bashir, sitting in his chair on the other side of the city, motionless and empty. Wearily, his mind drifted to the war crimes report, and he began to fret over what might come next. Nobody was immune, he had promised. But there had to be evidence. There had to be a case. How carefully had the person he had once been disposed of the evidence? How well had he concealed his crimes? Probably extremely carefully, Garak guessed. Still, someone was bound to go looking. What a coup it would be, to claim his head! Would they find anything? Would he be relieved if they didn’t, or would he regret it? Did he want to be punished? He had been to prison before, for his attempt to wipe out the Founders. Six months in a holding cell on DS9. Garak thought that was a rather perfunctory sentence for attempted genocide, but then, Captain Sisko did have his funny human ways.

  He wandered about the room, looking for Sayak’s book, thinking that he could take the chance at last to start reading it, but he realized with some frustration that he had left it back at the official residence. Would he ever get a chance to read it? Life was so busy these days; there was so much to do. That was one benefit of incarceration. He could catch up on his reading. And he would no longer be plagued with intelligence reports, policy documents, files documenting experiments on children.

  Garak came to rest looking out of the window. His garden lay in darkness, but he could just make out the shapes of the monuments that he had built years ago, when Cardassia was at her nadir, and his grief was unspeakably vast. After his exile he had come back here, to the ruin of his father’s house, and slowly, from the rubble, built these towers of stone. He had needed to be building something. The thugs of the Directorate, the first batch of tyrants and demagogues that Garak had fought off since the end of the war, had seen his work and tried to knock the stones down. Garak and Parmak and Alon Ghemor had defeated them and raised the monuments again. Ghemor had become castellan, and he had been murdered. Cardassia had done that to many leaders over the long years of its bloody history. Garak was still standing, bruised but unbeaten, with Parmak, the solid ground upon which Garak stood.

  Garak closed his eyes. When he opened them again and looked out, he became aware that someone was standing out among the stones. Garak was not afraid. He would prefer not to have strangers wandering around his garden, but the transparent aluminum was reinforced. His security team would soon remove them, whoever they were. He peered once again at the figure, standing motionless in the night. Then his eyes adjusted. He realized that what he was seeing was a reflection. This person was not outside. This person was in the room, behind him.

  Garak didn’t panic. He didn’t, in general, panic about assassins. For years before he took on this job, even when his kingdom had been no bigger than a shop, he had gone about his daily business assuming that assassins might be on their way. Garak had made many enemies across the years. He thought of this permanent state of watchfulness as an o
ccupational hazard—although, admittedly, that was more often the case for heads of state than for tailors. Still, he was resigned to it; he didn’t have to like it, however. In fact, he took it rather personally. Slowly, without wanting to startle, he put his left hand against the window, palm flat and fingers splayed out. His right hand he slid unobtrusively around, coming to rest out of sight upon his stomach.

  His visitor, perhaps responding to the movement, moved forward. Garak let him come. He guessed that this person, whoever it was, wanted to speak to him; otherwise he would already be dead. Let him come close, thought Garak. Let him come as close as he wants. Garak kept his body relaxed, projecting unawareness, drawing the visitor nearer and nearer. At last he could hear his breath, ragged and a little anxious. This was not, Garak thought, a professional killer. Fine. Garak would prefer to be the only professional killer in the room.

  The man came to a halt behind him. Garak tilted his head to one side. “Hello, Telek,” he said quietly.

  He watched in the window as the gul started at his voice. “How did you know it was me?”

  “I saw you in the window,” Garak said. He lifted his left hand and rapped his knuckles against the glass. It distracted Telek, just for a moment, but long enough. As Telek looked over at the window, Garak drew a small type-1 phaser from his pocket, twisted around, and shoved the gun forcefully into Telek’s gut. Telek looked down and recoiled. A simple enough trick, but effective.

  Garak sighed. “How many times to I have to tell people that they shouldn’t play a player?”

  Telek closed his eyes. “Go on, then,” he said. “Get it done.”

  “Get what done?”

  “Kill me.”

  Garak felt irritated more than anything else. Too many people these days watched bad holo-dramas. Garak was by no means averse to popular culture, quite the contrary, but he did wish that people were a little more selective in what they took away from it. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. “I’ve no interest in killing you. I am, however, quite keen to talk to you, and you seem to have gone to some lengths to come to talk to me. So let’s talk. I’d like you to move over to that chair—slowly, please—sit down, and put your hands on your knees where I can see them.”

  Telek obeyed to the letter. Garak sat down opposite, stretching out his legs in front of him and crossing them at the ankles. He looked ready for a pleasant fireside chat, apart from the phaser, propped up in front of him, pointing directly at Telek’s chest.

  “Does Legate Renel know you’re here?” said Garak.

  Telek stared at him, so Garak reciprocated. After a moment, Telek looked away. “No.”

  “Good. At least one of you is showing some sense. I’ll assume this isn’t an official visit on behalf of your colleagues in the military, so perhaps you could tell me why you’re here. It’s very late, and I was intending to go to bed soon.”

  Telek glared at him.

  “You know, this is a fairly extravagant way of getting an appointment with me,” Garak said. “One liable to leave you open to prosecution. There are much easier ways to come and see me. You could quite easily have contacted my secretary. I’m sensitive to your worries, and I thought you knew that my door is open. All of this means I have to assume that the reason you’re here tonight is not something you want to address with me in an official setting—”

  “What right do you have to rake all this up?” burst out Telek.

  Good, thought Garak, all that mindless chatter has had the desired effect and driven Telek to talk.

  “Everyone suffered on Bajor, you know!” Telek said. “We did too! Children of officers murdered, wives and mothers! The Resistance didn’t just target our soldiers, you know—they came after our families!”

  Nor had the Cardassian military targeted only their counterparts. It had seen every single Bajoran as an enemy, or an enemy in the making. No wonder the Bajorans had not discriminated.

  “I know what it was like on Bajor,” Garak said. “Some suffered a great deal more than others.”

  “You know nothing about it!” Telek shot back.

  Well, thought Garak, there was something here, something he had not yet quite understood. Garak’s mind, as sharp as it had ever been, full and busy, began to shift around data, seeking patterns, seeking meaning. Garak had a vast bank of information stored in his head, and he trusted his intuition completely. He found himself thinking of Bashir, his secrets, he found himself thinking of recent reading, and he pondered what secrets a Cardassian might want to keep.

  “Did it hurt?” Garak said suddenly.

  Telek looked at him in shock.

  “There must have been injections, drugs,” Garak went on. “Nausea. Very frightening for a child. I had water fever once as a child. Quite a bad case. I thought I was going to die. I’ll never forget how that felt. Did you think that you were going to die?”

  Telek was trembling. Good. He pressed on.

  “Did they tell you that you were sick? That you needed treatment? You weren’t sick, were you? They were the sick ones. Trying to cleanse that part of you. But you can’t wipe away history like that. Something always breaks through.”

  Garak leaned forward, putting himself within the other man’s personal space. His expression was kindly, a little sorrowful. I am your friend, he signaled, not entirely truthfully. You can confide in me. He kept his hand tight on the phaser.

  “Who did it to you, Telek?” he said softly. “Was it family? Was it your father?”

  “He . . . There was a Bajoran woman.”

  You mean your mother, Garak thought, but he kept that one in reserve for when he needed it, even as he pitied this man.

  “A Bajoran woman,” Telek said again. “A child . . . A half-Bajoran child would have ruined him. But there were no other children. It was . . . It was difficult for him.”

  “And then a child did come along,” Garak said. “But wasn’t quite what was needed.”

  “It didn’t hurt very much,” Telek said. “I was only sick for a year, maybe a little more. My father would say, all the time, how much I was wanted. How much he had wanted me.”

  Well, he had wanted something, Garak thought. Telek’s father had not wanted the child he got. And that hurt, as Garak had cause to know; yes, that hurt very badly.

  “When I got better, I came home,” Telek said. “I came back here to Cardassia.”

  But the memories were still there. Of a Bajoran woman. Of being sick. Of being treated and tweaked, and given therapy, until he matched the fantasy of a son that his father held. Poor Telek, Garak thought. Had he known, or had recent events helped him put the pieces together? Telek’s father must have learned about the gene therapy and given permission for it to be tried on his son.

  “We all suffered on Bajor!” Telek said, and choked back a sob. “You have no right to do this!”

  Calmly, Garak rested his hand upon the other man’s knee. “Ssh,” he soothed as the weeping began, untrammeled. “Everything will be fine.”

  He glanced briefly behind the other man’s shoulder, to where two of his bodyguards, alert and guilty-faced, were now standing, ready to move in. He consoled the other man for a while, and then carefully withdrew, allowing his guards to take Telek away. “Be gentle,” he murmured. “Be gentle.”

  When Telek was removed, Garak stood and walked back to his window. He heard a discreet but firm cough behind him and turned to see the head of his security team.

  “We’ve called a skimmer to take him—well, where should we take him, sir?”

  “He’s not well,” said Garak, “but he’s not safe. Get a doctor. Get a diagnosis.” He was trembling a little, he realized. Get him away from me.

  The other man was watching him closely. “Perhaps, sir,” he said, not without compassion, “you might remember why it was that we moved you to the official residence.”

  “I rem
ember,” Garak said. “I promise I’ll be good in future.”

  “Thank you, sir,” he said, and left.

  Garak realized that he was still holding the phaser. He slipped it back into his pocket, for he would no doubt need it again one day, and then he rested his head against the cool of the window. My poor Julian, he thought. He let himself tremble for a while, allowing his body to process the shock. He might have allowed himself some tears then, too, in the dark while nobody could see, for all that had been lost, for all that he had done; for everyone that he had harmed.

  Everyone that he had been unable to save.

  My dear Kelas—

  I’m coming home.

  Elim

  [sent]

  Eleven

  On arriving home from the vigil, Natima Lang did not, as had been her custom in recent years, immediately turn on the rolling news. She picked up a book, went to her own bed, in her own home, and was soon fast asleep. The following morning, she rose early and was ready for the big official skimmer when it arrived. She sat down comfortably in the back. She could get used to this.

  The castellan, who looked extremely bright for someone who, she suspected, had already been hard at work for some hours, welcomed her cheerfully. They ate breakfast together in a beautifully appointed private dining room. The spring sunshine glowed off the white walls and the yellow, white, and pale green furnishings.

  “How lovely!” she said.

  “I would prefer to have you come back to my home,” he said. “Sadly, after a rather unfortunate incident, I am forbidden from going home. Another exile! Maybe one day. Maybe not. Former castellans are targets as much as current ones.” He studied her. “I mention this in the spirit of complete openness.”

  That final remark confused her, but she left it. Castellan Garak often said odd things, as if one got sudden glimpses of the multiple schemes running through his mind. They ate well and drank numerous cups of hot gelat. Their conversation ranged widely: the vigil the previous day; her current work on enigma tales. As she had expected, he was both widely read in the form and remarkably conversant with current scholarship.