“Please, Elim,” Parmak said. “Don’t start another one. Come over here. You’ll want to see this.”
Outside, in the dark garden, they were gathering around the memorials. People had been coming here all day to vote, and Garak himself had, mid-morning, stepped outside amid the whirring of the holo-cameras to cast his own vote in the glare of the public eye. But this was something different. Garak watched, sheltered behind the tinted, transparent aluminum of the window, but they did nothing. They sat down and waited, or stood and waited, and some of them were talking, and some of them were simply waiting, standing amid the silent stones. Nervously, Garak looked around and was much comforted to see the dark figures of his security team moving silently into place.
“I wonder what they’re here for,” he said. “I wonder what they want.”
“Elim,” Parmak said patiently, “they’re here to see you. They want to be here when your name is called. They want to hear what you have to say.”
For a brief, excruciating moment, Garak panicked. The walls seemed to close in on him, and the darkness outside seemed thick and inescapable. He looked around the room for exits and, in desperation, realized that there were none. He pressed his palms against the window and then rested his forehead there too, feeling with relief the cold of the glass. What in the name of all that I hold dear do I think that I am doing?
He felt a hand upon his arm, turning him gently but firmly. Eventually, he was face-to-face with Parmak. “Take a few deep breaths,” the doctor suggested. “That’s it. Nice and steady. Deep and slow.”
Garak leaned his back against the window and did what his doctor ordered. Once he was breathing steadily again, he looked around the room. It was dimly lit, warm, and he was comforted by the sight of his books, his desk, and everything that he had salvaged from the Fire. On the comm, there were messages from friends he hadn’t even realized were friends. A huge bunch of red roses and Edosian orchids had arrived that morning with a message from the O’Briens. There was Ziyal’s picture, his compass. And, in his pocket, on a data rod, there was a letter from Julian Bashir—sent shortly after Garak had told him he was embarking on this folly, when debates and speeches and public appearances and policy statements had not yet become his daily routine—that he had read again and again throughout.
“Look,” said Parmak, pointing to the viewscreen. There was no sound, but the pictures were enough. “That’s it. Voting’s stopped. All done.”
“All only just beginning, I think.”
Parmak looked back outside at the stones and the gathering crowd. “What are you going to say to them?”
“I don’t know. I’ll extemporize.”
“You’re good at that.”
There was a knock at the door. “Ambassador,” Akret called. “The exit polls are about to come in. Time to get to work.”
“I’ll be there in a moment,” Garak called back, and then, softly, said to Parmak, “Why do I feel as if I’m about to hear a sentence passed?”
“Why do you feel as if you should?”
They stared at each other. Then Garak looked down at his hands. They were shaking. Parmak, seeing this, took them within his. “You’ll be fine. It’s all going to be fine.”
“I hope so.”
“I know so.” The doctor leaned in and—quickly, affectionately—pressed his lips against the other man’s brow. “I trust you,” he said. “I forgive you.”
“I haven’t done anything yet.”
“I know,” said Parmak. “I forgive you anyway.”
Garak let him have the last word. Later, he stepped out of the shadows and into the light, and the right words came, as they usually did.
Dear Garak,
Firstly, may I express my profound relief at learning that you are not, in fact, dead, but have merely been taking a short sabbatical on Federation soil? I don’t know the details, of course, but if it was a trick, Garak, it was not a kind one. We’re reeling from one loss. I couldn’t have stood another.
Leaving aside the fact that I believed for a brief period that you were beyond the reach of any letter that I might send, I’m conscious of having been a poor correspondent. I am sure you understand how difficult these recent days have been. Everything has changed, and, like everyone else, I’m afraid of what might happen next. I’m afraid of where this grief might take us and what we might become.
Which brings me to my real reason for writing. I wanted to wish you success in your latest venture. Running for castellan! Did you ever see that coming? I admit I didn’t, sitting opposite you in the Replimat listening to you slander Shakespeare. I didn’t see any of this coming. I suppose I should know better than to underestimate you. Never stop surprising me, Garak. It really will seem like the world has ended.
Because of our long friendship, I hope you’ll not be offended by what I have to say next. But I must say it. In your past letters to me, you have written eloquently of the isolation that has been such a condition of your life and how this was what permitted you to lead the life that you led and poison yourself on Cardassia’s account. You alone know what you have done for Cardassia, and I have never asked and never will. You wouldn’t tell me anyway, not the truth.
But you let me in, Garak. You let me in when you allowed me to help you recover from your addiction to your implant. When you let me stay and listen to what you had to say to Tain before he died. You let me in, and so I have a duty to you: to ask you to look out for yourself, to watch yourself, for any sign that you are becoming like him. When I met him in the Arawak Colony, before I knew who he really was, Tain said that he never had to order you to do anything, and that was what made you special.
From all I hear, you’re going to be the next castellan of the Cardassian Union. And I’m terrified for you. I must ask you—beg you—not to isolate yourself. Surround yourself with good people, Garak: people who will speak to you honestly and truthfully and who will tell you when you are doing wrong. Keep them close. Make sure they are never afraid to tell you the truth. Do not be your father’s son.
Perhaps I’m speaking out of turn. You’d be well within your rights to be angry with me, to destroy this letter and never speak to me again. I hope that won’t be the case. I hope you’ll forgive me. These are the words of someone sick at heart at all that has been happening this past week and who thought for a while that you really were dead this time. I’m afraid for myself and my own people as much as I’m afraid for you and for yours. But I want to believe that you—and Cardassia—are coming out of the shadows. It’s been a long, hard road for your people, and there’s a way to go yet. But perhaps at last it’s right for you to have your time in the sun. And while the sun shines on your new Cardassia, and for as long as it shines, and should the shadows ever fall upon you or your world again, I will remain—
Your friend,
Julian Bashir
Acknowledgments
Grateful thanks to my fellow Fallen—David R. George III, Dave Mack, Jim Swallow, and Dayton Ward—for discussion, debate, and all-round brilliance throughout this project. Thanks for being great colleagues and great fun.
Huge thanks to Margaret Clark for asking me to do this book, for letting me have my wicked way with Garak and Picard, and for making this project run so smoothly. Thank you also to Ed Schlesinger for support and assistance throughout writing.
Thank you to colleagues and students at Anglia Ruskin University for being genuinely enthusiastic when I show them the cover of my latest book.
And thank you, as ever, to Matthew, for everything.
About the Author
Una McCormack is the author of four previous Star Trek novels: Cardassia—The Lotus Flower (which appeared in Worlds of Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, Volume 1), Hollow Men, The Never-Ending Sacrifice, and Brinkmanship. She has also written two Doctor Who novels, The King’s Dragon and The Way Through the Woods, and numerous short stories. She lives with her partner, Matthew, in Cambridge, England, where she reads, writes, and teaches.
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Table of Contents
Cover
Copyright
Dedication
Historian’s Note
Part One: The Emotion
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Part Two: The Response
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Part Three: The Shadow
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Epilogue: Twilight Kingdoms
During the Fire
After the Fall
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Star Trek: Fall 02: The Crimson Shadow Page 24
