Star Trek: Fall 02: The Crimson Shadow

by Una McCormack

  Mhevet closed the file and switched off the padd. “If you did know me,” she said, and stood up, “you’d know I never discuss politics at work. Directive 964. None of us should.” Harsh, perhaps, since the directive was increasingly honored more in the breach than in the observance, but she wasn’t going to break it herself.

  The young man looked mortified. “Ari, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you. I just wanted to hear what you thought—”

  “Don’t worry. Thanks for the tea, Tret,” she said, and left.

  She drove around aimlessly for a while, through the dusty evening, pondering what Fereny had said, and wondering too whether friendship between the Federation and the Union was indeed an impossible dream. Mhevet did not like to think that this might be the case. She had worked well with many Starfleet personnel over the years. Was that all over now? Was that friendship coming to an end? Had it only ever been temporary? Why did so many of her compatriots hate these people who had only come to help, and who had not, on the whole, blamed ordinary Cardassians for the calamity that they had brought upon themselves?

  At the next junction, Mhevet swung the skimmer around and headed toward the north end of Torr. She passed through the once-familiar streets, remembering old times here when her family had been intact, and she stopped at last outside a small geleta house. She sat for a while in the skimmer, contemplating her next move, and watching a few familiar faces go in. At last, she got out of the skimmer and went inside.

  Conversation stopped immediately. The company glared at her, united in their hatred. “Well, well, well,” someone said from the back, “look who’s come to visit.”

  “You’ve got some nerve coming here, Arati Mhevet.”

  “It’s a long time since you’ve dared to show your face here, Ari. What’s brought you here tonight?”

  “What are you after, Ari? Dinner? Dancing? Treachery?”

  Mhevet ignored them all. She said to the house owner, “Is he in the back?”

  The house owner nodded. Mhevet strode through. Sure enough, there was Dekreny, with his usual posse. A new one Mhevet hadn’t seen before. She filed that away for later.

  “Hello, Ari,” Dekreny said. “How’s the family?”

  She ignored the jibe. “I have a dead Bajoran on my hands.”

  Dekreny smiled. “Good.”

  “I wonder why this made me think of you.”

  “I bet I’m never far from your thoughts.”

  His gang laughed. Mhevet leaned forward. “I know what you are, Dekreny. Known for years. You’re like a tumor. Not even the Jem’Hadar could destroy you. But I know all about you. You won’t win this city.”

  “The city?” Dekreny burst out laughing. “Oh, Ari, you’re way behind the times!”

  “Nobody gets away with murder,” she said. “Not on my watch.” Mhevat turned and strode back through the house, his laughter still ringing in her ears. I should be watching these people, she thought, furiously, not stuck with a murder case. Fereny could handle that: wanted to handle it. She should be here. This was where she belonged. This was what she worked for.

  “Reta,” she muttered, as she fired up the skimmer, “I hope you know what you’re doing. I hope you’ve got this all under control.”

  * * *

  “Cardassians,” said Margaret Fry, “never fail to surprise.”

  Šmrhová watched Worf refrain from commenting. But would it be any surprise if the Cardassian people decided, in the very last days of Federation presence on their world, to send them off with a demonstration complaining about the evils the Federation had wrought upon their world? “They’re certainly contradictory,” she offered.

  “Contradictory or not,” said Picard, speaking from his ready room on the Enterprise, “we now have to take these threats seriously. What happened in Cemet last week could easily translate to the capital, could it not? In which case the HARF compound could find itself a focus for violence. Any thoughts on how to proceed?”

  “Would a show of strength be in order?” Šmrhová suggested. “Anyone approaching a HARF installation with the intent to commit acts of vandalism or violence should be clear in their minds that these compounds are defended not only by the current personnel, but by the presence of the Enterprise.”

  “No,” Fry said, shaking her head. “That would send entirely the wrong message. We have to let the city constabularies come to the fore here. Anything else will undermine years of work reestablishing the legitimacy of the police across Cardassia Prime. I know that this is not how we hoped this withdrawal would happen, but for the Federation, in its last days on Cardassia Prime, to signal that the democrats are only in power because of our support will be disastrous. The Cardassians have to police this wave of unrest themselves.”

  “Commander, what if they cannot?”

  “I believe they can.”

  “But if they cannot?”

  There was a silence.

  “Then the will is not there,” said Fry. “And all our work has been for nothing.”

  “Captain,” Worf said, “I think for the moment we should stay calm. When we looked outside earlier, there were no more than twenty or thirty people gathered there. That is hardly the makings of a riot.”

  That was fair enough, Šmrhová admitted to herself. And everyone she had seen looked pretty young—there’d even been a few kids. A lot of banners were being waved—and there was some shouting when they’d shown their faces—but certainly no attacks.

  “I take your point, Number One. But my understanding is that the opponents of these people intend to make their presence felt, and that is what is likely to mean an escalation toward violence.”

  “Yes, sir, that’s possible. However, it is their hard-won right to come and say what they think, and Commander Fry is correct when she says that the constabulary should be left to handle all this.”

  Šmrhová slowly nodded her agreement. “I take back what I said about a show of strength. Right now it would be provocative. We’re leaving. The Cardassians are saying good-bye to us by shouting at each other, making a few speeches, perhaps throwing a few stones. We should let them get on with it, and leave as and when we said we would.”

  The security officer saw that the captain was nodding. “Let’s hope that stones and speeches are all we get, Lieutenant.”

  “It’s true that this could go either way,” Worf admitted. “But it is not our business, sir, and the Cardassians should be the ones to handle it. Anything else will add fuel to the fire that Cardassia First is stoking.”

  “What matters is that the Cardassian people don’t start to become afraid,” Fry urged softly. “This kind of violence depends on people feeling that the world around them is becoming unstable. What ordinary people on this world fear most is a return to chaos. The best thing that we can do is signal our absolute trust in the Cardassian constabularies to handle this situation.”

  “Do they have the resources to do so?” asked Worf. “Not to mention the will?”

  “I can only hope so,” said Fry. “Soon we’re not going to be here. The withdrawal is happening, Commander. Soon it will be out of our hands.”

  “Very well,” said Picard. “Put everyone here and on HARF installations across Cardassia Prime on alert. Take all sensible precautions. But under no circumstances is any Starfleet officer or Federation citizen to get involved. This is Cardassian business, and the Cardassians must deal with it themselves.”

  * * *

  Despite his speechifying in the geleta house, Colak once in the skimmer was a model of taciturnity. Even Leng was more talkative. Colak sat in the back, one finger running lightly along his scar, and he didn’t say a word until the skimmer turned off the main throughway and into a scruffy district well inside North Torr. The street lamps were low and sporadic and didn’t do much against the dust anyway. Blok saw shadows hurrying along the walkways and in and out of dark doorways. They reached a small square surrounded by low, squat buildings made from emergency plasticrete.
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br />   “Stop here,” said Colak, “on that corner.”

  Blok did what he was told and the three of them got out of the skimmer. The building they were outside was some kind of shop. A harsh bright rectangle of artificial light marked the entrance; the windows were barred and covered in cheaply printed posters offering cheaply produced goods. Blok looked around. Music was thumping out of an open window across the square. Nearby, two sickly tiatha trees were struggling to stay alive, black branches clawing upward. A few figures, flitting past, saw the men and hurried on.

  “Put your masks on,” said Colak, and Leng and Blok obeyed. Colak, reaching into the skimmer, brought out two large bats for playing kitik. He handed one to Leng and the other to Blok. “Go on,” said Colak. “Get it done. We don’t want to be hanging around here all night.”

  Leng didn’t need to be told twice. He squared his shoulders and went inside. Blok, hesitating, glanced past Colak. A few people had gathered. Not too close; but close enough to watch. From inside the shop, there was a scream, suddenly cut off, and the sound of something smashing.

  “You waiting for something?” Colak said.

  “No—”

  “Then get on with it. Or do you have a problem? Something I need to take back to the boss?”

  So this was a test, Blok realized, to see how far he’d go. To see how loyal he was. “I don’t have a problem,” he said, and went inside.

  Leng had been hard at work. The place was a shambles: glass and food and drink all mixed up. As Blok walked in, Leng took another swing at a couple of densely packed shelves, and their contents came tumbling down. The shelving followed. The shop’s proprietor, a small man, cried out, begging Leng to stop.

  “Shut up!” Leng yelled. He nodded at Blok. “Get him outside. Our man wants a word with him.”

  Blok strode over to him, his footsteps crunching. He hauled the man up and dragged him outside. Behind him, he heard Leng yell as he took another swing.

  There were a lot more people outside now. They were wearing masks too, but flimsier, little bits and pieces of cloth. One or two simply had a hand over their mouths. Some of them were whispering and muttering, but this all stopped when Blok and the shopkeeper came out. Colak, standing to one side with his arms folded, said, “Well, look what we’ve got here. Tried to go independent, did we?”

  “I didn’t!”

  “We don’t like that.”

  “I swear I didn’t!”

  “We particularly don’t like it when it’s the Federation you go into business with.”

  There was a pause. “I swear I didn’t,” the man said.

  “Shut up,” said Colak and then, to Blok, “Hit him.”

  “What?”

  “Are you stupid? Hit him!”

  Blok stepped forward. But before he could do anything, someone pushed his way through the crowd. “You lay one finger on him and you won’t be the only one hurt here tonight!” a young man, hair aggressively short, fists clenched by his sides, said. “You leave him alone!”

  Colak turned his attention on him. “Who are you?”

  “I live here,” he said. “And you can’t come here and attack people like this. We’re sick of it! We’re sick of you! You won’t get away with this!”

  “You reckon?” asked Colak. He turned to Blok. “Go on,” he said.

  “What?” asked Blok.

  “He’s said his piece. And he’s free to do so. So show him the consequences of free speech.”

  Blok did what he was told. He took a deep breath and half closed his eyes, lifted his bat, and hit and hit and hit over and over. When he opened his eyes again, the young man was lying on the ground at Blok’s feet.

  “Nice job,” said Leng. “Very nice.”

  Colak stepped forward and addressed their audience. He had a gleam in his eye. He loves this, thought Blok. He loves all this.

  “People like this,” said Colak. “They’re not right. They love humans. They love Bajorans. They think we can all be friends. But we can’t. Starfleet wants us under its thumb. And when we’re down on our knees again, the Bajorans will come to Cardassia and they’ll do what they always do. They’ll murder our children. And people like this”—he tapped the toe of his boot against the young man on the ground—“that’s what they want for you. But we won’t let that happen.”

  Colak’s voice was getting louder. Nobody around here would miss this, Blok thought, whether they were standing right here, or sitting at home with the windows shut and the sound up on the screen.

  “You know who we are!” Colak yelled. “And you need to understand—all of you—that it’s not Starfleet that runs things around here any longer, and it’s not those traitors at the constabulary. There’s only one power around here, there’s only one law—and that’s us. Remember that. You can lead happy lives and you can lead safe lives—but only if you understand who lets you do that. And that’s us. You get that?” He reached down and pulled the young man’s head up by his hair to show his bloodied face. “There’s no place in North Torr for people like this. And soon there’ll be no place on Prime for people like this. So each of you, go on home and decide—whose side are you on? Ours? Or his?” And with that, he let the man’s head fall back against the ground.

  There was silence. The music across the square had long since stopped. “Get in the skimmer,” Colak ordered, and Blok and Leng did what they were told.

  They drove off. In the distance, Blok could hear a siren, but he couldn’t tell whether it was coming closer or going away. His sight went fuzzy. He shook his head and tried to concentrate, but it was no good. He pulled over to the side of the road, got out of the skimmer, and threw up, violently.

  When he was done, he felt Leng’s hand upon his back. “Don’t worry,” Leng said quietly. “You’ll get used to it.”

  They got back into the skimmer and drove on. After a little while, Colak spoke. “Dekreny will be pleased with you,” he said. Blok, glancing up into the mirror, saw that the man’s eyes were shining. “You’ve not seen anything yet, Blok,” he said. “Wait for the rally. That’s going to be a good night out, believe me. We’re going to have some fun.”

  The skimmer was now heading straight into the heart of North Torr.

  “It’s all going our way,” said Colak. “There’s nothing we can’t do. There’s nobody we can’t touch.”

  * * *

  If you walked out of the city that night, out north beyond the ruined mansions of Coranum, past the home and the garden that Elim Garak had raised over his father’s ruined house, and on out into the hills, you would come in time to a point where you could stop and look back and see the whole city below you. Watching the lights, and distanced from the clamor, you might persuade yourself that this was a city at peace. Cities don’t sleep, but in their night hours they can convey a sense of ease, of a place running on automatic until morning arrives.

  But this is not a city at ease, and our players do not have the luxury of rising above the city tonight. They are embedded in it: embedded in its passions, its hopes and histories, its rivalries, its long-held grievances. Arati Mhevet lies unsleeping in bed, listening to sirens, and pondering her case. Pondering who might murder a man whose work in life was to bring greater understanding between enemies so that they might be friends. Pondering what that work might be, who might take an interest in it, and why it might take him into North Torr late one evening. And when she finally admits to herself that nobody is that simple, and that Aleyni Cam must be something other than he appeared, she gets out of bed, because she knows that sleep is impossible, but there is nothing to be done until the morning.

  Aneta Šmrhová is not sleeping tonight either. She has taken herself up to the third story of HARF’s central administrative block, the highest building on the compound, and she is watching lights gathering outside. She is reminded of those ancient movies, where the villagers come with torches and pitchforks. No wonder she is not sleeping. In the early hours of the morning, she is joined by her super
ior officer, a grim-faced Worf, who says nothing, but hands her a padd and informs her that these gatherings are happening across Cardassia Prime. As night falls, groups of people are coming out under cover of darkness and dust masks to stand outside the Federation compounds and signal their disapproval. Oddly, this information comforts Šmrhová. It tells her that she is not alone. It tells her that nobody at HARF will be sleeping tonight.

  Elim Garak is awake too, but then one might hope that a man such as Elim Garak does not sleep easily. Indeed, one might consider the punishment light, when weighed against the crimes he has committed: murder, torture, aiding and abetting tyrants. Those deeds are, of course, all in the past—but still one might consider it suitable penance that tonight Elim Garak cannot sleep for fear that murderers and torturers and those who would aid and abet tyrants are coming ever closer to taking control of his beloved home. He in turn might take consolation from the knowledge that his castellan has not slept either. He is not alone in his fears, although the night is very dark, and the shadows of his blood-soaked past are very close.

  But some people are sleeping tonight. In North Torr, a little girl has nodded off in front of the holo-screen in her tenement flat, and she will sleep until her father gets home in the early hours, fresh from some trouble with his friends. Kelas Parmak is sleeping too, with a clear conscience. And Jean-Luc Picard is sleeping well tonight, high above this world in his quarters on the Enterprise. Picard knows that on the hard, bare world below, good people have matters in hand, and that a man in his position with any sense sleeps when he can, storing up reserves for unforeseen crises. Picard is a wise man. Because far in the distance, sirens are wailing, as if not only Cardassia Prime but a whole quadrant is suddenly on high alert. And in the very early hours of the morning, ship-time, Jean-Luc Picard will be woken by the insistent chime of a communicator, and he will be confronted by a shocked and ashen Leonard Akaar, bringing the news that Nanietta Bacco, the president of the United Federation of Planets, is dead.