Star Trek: Fall 02: The Crimson Shadow

by Una McCormack

  He didn’t strike back. “Have you heard of the True Way?”

  “Of course I have,” she said impatiently. “You may recall that I have an entire Intelligence Bureau at my service—”

  “Who are, no doubt, keeping you spectacularly well-informed. Yes, I can imagine how Crell is here every morning, sipping ettaberry tea and sharing a joke—”

  “If you’re done, Garak, you can leave.”

  “Rakena, this is serious. The True Way is an extremist organization of the most unpleasant kind. I . . . I know them of old. I know the kind of people that they were and the methods they used. And if they’re even remotely similar to that old organization, I have no doubt that they’ll be using Cardassia First to infiltrate and undermine our institutions. The police, the government, who knows where their people are—”

  “Yet again,” she said firmly, cutting him off, “I find myself having to remind you of the limits of your authority. These are internal affairs. Do you think I’m not kept informed about such things? Do you think my intelligence service is not telling me what I need to know about threats to the state—?”

  “No,” he said. “I think they might not.”

  Slowly, she leaned back. “What makes you say that?”

  “Because I’ve just learned that someone whom I suspect is a member of the True Way has been boasting about the murder of a prominent human.” Garak lowered his voice. “Rakena, I think they mean Nan Bacco.”

  The castellan didn’t reply. She lifted her hand to her face and pinched her nose between her forefingers.

  “Do you understand what I’m saying?” Garak asked. “Bacco wasn’t murdered by a Bajoran. She was murdered by a Cardassian.”

  “There’s no evidence,” she said.

  “That’s only a matter of time. Do you think the Federation is going to leave any stone unturned in their hunt for the killer? With a Bajoran in charge? Rakena, we can’t conceal this! Trust me, I know about cover-ups, and this one is too big. Someone on the streets of Torr is already boasting about the murder, and that’s going to get back to Starfleet Intelligence at some point. They’ll look into it, because they will look into everything. We can’t delay. We have to tell them. Captain Picard will listen with an open mind—”

  “Garak, of all the strategies that you have used to grab my attention, this has to be the most ludicrous—”

  Garak slammed his hand against her desk. “Why won’t you listen to me?”

  She stood up. “If you don’t leave now,” she said, “I’m going to ask security to escort you from the building—”

  “Rakena, please. We can’t run the risk of Starfleet hearing this from anyone else. Who knows—maybe they’ve heard already.” Pieces began to fall into place. “Maybe that’s why the withdrawal has been postponed. Maybe that’s why their personnel have been brought back into their installations. . . .” Garak rubbed at his forehead. He could feel his chest tightening, as if something was closing in on him, and he struggled to compose himself. “I know internal affairs are no longer my business, and I accept that. But the Federation has been my business for a long time now, and I know that they are able to distinguish between friends who are friends and friends who are enemies. If you delay in telling them this and they find out by themselves—that will finish this alliance! We’ll be on our own again; the pariahs of the quadrant, again. Please, get Captain Picard here, right now. We can speak to him together, right now, we can sort this out, right now—”

  “No—”

  “Rakena, please—listen to me!”

  “Ambassador, you’re out of control!”

  That came like a splash of cold water across his face, or a punch. Garak subsided. Perhaps I am, he thought, listening as if from a distance to his own breathing. Perhaps he was out of control.

  The castellan pressed both hands firmly against her desk. “Consider how sensitive this is,” she said. “You said it yourself. This could finish the alliance you’ve worked so hard to maintain. There’s a great deal of grief and anger amongst the Federation right now—and who can blame them? How do you think they’ll react to this news?”

  Garak felt himself trembling. He heard Parmak’s voice in his head. Deep breaths, Elim. That’s it, deep, slow breaths.

  “All I’m asking for is a little time.” She sat down again in her chair. “Do you need some water?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Then . . . thank you for your concern, Ambassador. Now I must get back to work.”

  Garak stood up. Pieces were still shifting around in his mind. Slowly, he said, “I’m not bringing you news, am I?”

  The castellan lifted her chin and looked him directly in the eye. “What makes you say that?”

  “When I told you just now,” he said, “your first reaction wasn’t shock, or horror, or anything remotely like that. You said, ‘There’s no evidence.’ When did you know?”

  She didn’t reply.

  “Did you know when we met Picard?” Garak’s eyes widened. “You did, didn’t you? Oh Rakena, you fool!” He put his hands to his head. “This has gone far enough. I won’t be part of this—”

  He headed for the exit. He heard her quick footsteps behind him.

  “Garak,” she said, “I’m warning you—”

  He swung around to face her. “Warning me? What do you mean by that?”

  “If you inform Starfleet or the Federation of your suspicions I’ll . . . I’ll consider it treason and I’ll act accordingly.”

  “Treason?” Garak burst out laughing. “Oh, please!”

  “If this leaks, I’ll know where it’s come from. I’ll know it’s you. I’ll have you arrested.”

  “That’s the second time today somebody has threatened me with arrest,” Garak said. “I wasn’t particularly frightened the first time either.”

  She came to stand in front of him. She was so small. But she was still the castellan of the Cardassian Union. “I mean it,” she said. “You spent a long time in exile. It would be a shame to end your life there.”

  “Exile me? From Cardassia?” Garak turned his back on her and continued toward the door. “You’ll have to kill me first.”

  “I mean it,” she said. “I’ll ruin you.”

  “It won’t be the first time I’ve been ruined,” Garak replied. “Yet somehow I’m still here.”

  He strode out of her office and made his way outside. He stood for a moment in the hot afternoon, breathing deeply to steady himself.

  We are our own worst enemy.

  His skimmer pulled up. He got inside and fell back into his seat, grief-stricken and afraid. His hands were shaking. Garak clutched the arms of his seat and took the slow, deep breaths his doctor prescribed, and then he committed himself fully to whatever was going to happen next.

  “Computer, open a secure channel to the Enterprise. I have an urgent message for Captain Jean-Luc Picard.”

  The message was sent. About fifteen heartbeats later, Garak’s skimmer exploded. That afternoon the rains came, violent and red as blood.

  * * *

  Julian, I’m frightened. All careening out of control. No, worse: all moving according to a plan. Somebody intends this. Somebody has their eye upon us.

  Has their eye upon me?

  —later—

  Is this paranoia?

  Can you make a diagnosis from that distance?

  Or would that break some ethical code or other of yours?

  Is it paranoia if they’re really trying to kill you?

  Any medical reason it can’t be both paranoia and happening?

  I cannot send this

  why am I writing this

  why am I even thinking this

  Get a grip, Garak

  Deep breaths

  Deep, slow breaths

  I think I am in a hole

  —not sent—

  —deleted—

  Part Three

  The Shadow

  “Cardassia is everything. Hers is the hand that guide
s and punishes. Hers is the hand that will absolve.”

  —Preloc,

  Meditations on a Crimson Shadow,

  Vol. I (Cardassia), 1, ii

  Nine

  My dearest Kelas,

  This is it, I’m afraid. This is the letter that comes in the event of . . .

  For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. First of all, for whatever it was I was doing at the time. It was probably excessive, unwise, and unkind. These have, sadly, been characteristics of most of my actions throughout the course of my life. I’m sorry about that. Most of all, I’m sorry that I’ve not had the chance to prove that I could become a better man. Despite everything, I believe that could still have happened. I suppose it’s too late now.

  Your friendship, in these last few years, has been not only a source of great pleasure to me, but has also been a source of moral strength. Kelas, as I have tried to become a better man, you have been the necessary counterweight to my tendency toward excess. More than that, you have been my conscience.

  Once, at my very lowest ebb, I asked a man to forgive me. He had, at the time, no real idea of all I had done. But he forgave me nonetheless—for whatever it was I’d done.

  You, Kelas, in contrast, have much to forgive me. And now, despite all your gifts of loyalty and trust, I believe I may have added something else to the tally.

  So—for all that I’ve done, and for whatever it was that I was doing now:

  I’m sorry. Forgive me.

  Please look after the garden.

  Elim

  * * *

  Word spread around his city like fire. Suddenly, his story was everywhere: his time in the Obsidian Order, his exile, his return to fight the Dominion with Corat Damar, his friendship with Alon Ghemor, his service to Cardassia on Earth. As his life became public knowledge, people began to realize that with his death, something uniquely Cardassian had been lost. The city and the Union of which it was the heart realized that it was in mourning.

  Grief, however, is often masked by anger. Questions started to be asked: How could this happen? Here, in the capital, how could this be permitted? Where was his security? Where was his protection? Are the old days coming back again? Is anybody safe? As these questions coalesced, one man became their mouthpiece: Evek Temet, speaking on as many ’casts that could be fitted into a single day:

  “Of course I had some robust public exchanges with the ambassador; everyone knows that. But that was a sign of my respect for him. Look how this remarkable man served us: a dedicated defender of the principles of the Union as a young man, later a hero during our war of liberation from the Dominion, most recently a fine ambassador for our people to the Federation. And, I understand, a close personal friend of our two lost great leaders, Corat Damar and Alon Ghemor. It’s a tragedy that a man like this could not move safely around our capital. More than a tragedy—an outrage. What was being done to protect him? How could his death be allowed to happen? The city constabularies, and perhaps the castellan herself, have some questions to answer. . . .”

  Later, on another ’cast, Temet’s target became much clearer: “It’s a sign of how far the current administration has lost its grip. Were there no warnings? The castellan keeps saying that Cardassia is safe in her hands—but, honestly, ask yourselves—what evidence do you see of that? An alliance with a fragile and wounded power. Riots on the streets of the capital. And now the death of a much-loved public figure. Is this a Union under control? It seems to me that we’re sliding backward, back into the chaos we suffered after the Dominion occupation. And the people of Cardassia should be asking themselves—is this what we deserve?”

  * * *

  The rain was lashing down: huge drops of rain red with dust. Already the streets were flooding. Arati Mhevet was doing her best not to get washed away. From the cover of her desk, she watched as numerous high-ranking officials swept along the corridor toward Kalanis’s office, and for the first time since she had been handed the Aleyni case, she was glad to be able to hide herself in its minutiae. Everyone in the room kept their heads down all morning. Mhevet was trying to think of a way of contacting Dygan, to see if he had any idea what they should do now that the ambassador was dead, but he had not given her a means of getting in touch with him. She set up her personal comm to allow calls from him only. She hoped that he was safe and had not been already targeted. In the meantime, she sat and sweated and tried not to think that her turn must be coming.

  In the early afternoon, Reta Kalanis was escorted out of the building. Tret Fereny was over at Mhevet’s desk almost straightaway. “She’s been suspended,” he said, in a low voice. “Over security failures in the city over the past few days.”

  What failures? We held the line. Are they really going to try to pin the ambassador’s murder on her?

  “Ari,” he said, “I don’t think she’s coming back.”

  Mhevet said nothing. She was conscious of people watching her and aware that she did not know who was friendly and who was hostile. She pushed the secret that the late ambassador had shared with her into the very farthest corner of her mind. Calmly, she closed down her companel and stood up. All her colleagues were watching her.

  “Ari,” Fereny said, “what are you going to do?”

  “Right now? I’m going to get some lunch.”

  “Everyone knows you were her protégée—”

  “Fortunately for me,” Mhevet said in a carrying voice, “I was ordered off operations in Torr and put on a murder case. And whatever else is happening, I still need lunch.”

  Fereny stepped aside to let her pass. Mhevet knew that he was bewildered by her reply, but what else was she supposed to say? Now was the time to keep quiet. At some point, Kalanis’s enemies—who were, therefore, her enemies—would make their move, and their people would start to shift into position at the constabulary. No doubt then she would be called for an interview and asked to account for herself and all her decisions in the past few months. Mhevet knew the drill. Only a few years ago she had been the one asking those kinds of questions. In the meantime, there was nothing she could do, and the murderer of Aleyni Cam was still walking freely around the capital.

  She went down into the garage where the skimmers were parked and sat with her head down and her hands on the controls. Yes, she would eat lunch, and she would focus on her case. And if she could only be sure that nobody around her could see how very frightened she was, she might get through the next few weeks, and she might be able to get out of here and take Fhret up on her offer. Easing the skimmer up and out into the deluge, she thanked Kalanis for putting her on this case, and she cursed the late ambassador for the terrible burden of knowledge.

  * * *

  “So now two architects of the alliance between Cardassia and the Federation are dead,” said Akaar. “This is surely a concerted attack on us. You’ve heard the latest from DS9?”

  “They’ve let the Bajoran go,” said Picard.

  “It looks like a Tzenkethi may have been behind this.” The admiral shook his head. “So now we are looking at the Typhon Pact. Presumably the CIB will be looking that way to find the ambassador’s assassin. I can’t help remembering that the assassination of the Romulan Senator Vreenak ended in the Romulan Empire going to war. Where’s this all going to end?”

  Picard rested his hand gently upon the book that Garak had given him. “I wouldn’t dare to conjecture, sir.”

  “What’s the situation like there?”

  “Tense. We’re seeing ramifications already—one of the city’s most senior police officers has been suspended pending an investigation into security failings in the city. She was an associate of the castellan—appointed by Garan, in fact, and a significant figure in the postwar reconstruction. Cardassia First is making a great deal of it, of course. More evidence, they’re saying, that the castellan’s judgment is flawed.”

  “Poor Garan. The noose does seem to be tightening around her neck. . . .”

  “It seems that way,” Picard said, his hand s
till upon the book. “But I wouldn’t lose hope yet. Certainly this is a volatile time. But I still have reason to be hopeful. It’s important that we keep calm and continue to send friendly signals to the Cardassians.”

  “In which case, you’re not going to like what I have to say next. Orders direct from the president’s office. I think you’ll have a hard time making this signal seem friendly.”

  * * *

  Captain Picard plainly did not want to have to pass on whatever Admiral Akaar’s message was, Šmrhová thought.

  “I’m delighted to be able to welcome you here, Captain,” Commander Fry said. “I hope this means everything is in order. Any progress with the withdrawal agreement?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Picard replied. “You’re not going to like what I have to say next.”

  Šmrhová went on alert. Fry, who had been about to sit down at her desk, stopped and rested one hand on a pile of books that were getting ready to be packed away. “Go on, sir,” she said, with a sigh.

  “The president,” Picard said, “has issued instructions that HARF installations are now to be open only to Federation citizens.”

  “That . . . is a strong signal to be sending the Cardassians,” said Worf.

  “I’m aware of that, Number One.”

  “Perhaps too strong, sir?” Šmrhová suggested.

  The commander was struggling to remain calm. “Given the trouble we experienced the other night,” she said, “I’m prepared to accept that the decision to withdraw all Federation citizens and Starfleet personnel within the compound was a prescient one. But to require all Cardassian citizens to leave? Captain, not even when Ghemor was killed and this world was the closest it had been to civil war did we do that—”