Worlds of Star Trek Deep Space Nine

by Heather Jarman

  “We don’t want your help!”

  “Are you quite sure of that?” Yevir’s voice had clouded, like the sudden change of light on a cool spring day that signals thunder, when the sky becomes heavy, and darkens. “Can you be so certain that you speak for everyone on Cardassia, Nyra? Do you speak for all of the people in the cities fighting off the fever they caught from the water? All those who lost everything and everyone they loved and yet still struggle on to live another terrible day, for the sake of what they’ve lost? All the people in this room who are only here at Andak because they wish to make life on Cardassia better—”

  “What I’m doing will make things better—”

  “How? By killing more people? By leaving another part of this planet stripped of anything except dust? There’s enough of that already, Nyra. Is that really all you have to offer Cardassia?”

  “There’s nothing else left!” Nyra shouted back.

  “No,” he answered. “You’re wrong.”

  And then, very slowly—very purposefully—Yevir Linjarin stood up.

  Ghemor jerked forward in his seat. Jartek blinked and hissed. Macet cursed. Standing at the back of the security office, Jack Emmett invoked the gods of three different worlds and swore he would give up gambling.

  “What the hell’s he doing?” Miles whispered.

  Garak shifted some padds to one side and found what he was looking for—a bottle and a couple of glasses.

  Someone—Garak didn’t care to remember who—had once told him that fear of death would always overmaster the desire to serve the state. Which was something of a heresy, actually, now he came to think about it. At any rate—Garak, who had an instinct for the perfect comeback so unerring that many people suspected (or hoped) it would one day get him into serious trouble, had retorted, Maybe, but there’s no reason why the two can’t be aligned.

  Garak poured the kanar and set one glass down just within Korven’s grasp. He settled in the chair opposite, swished his own glass round, and then breathed in the scent. It was hardly vintage—Korven’s predilection for preservation obviously didn’t stretch as far as his kanar—but it was sufficient for the task at hand. He took a sip.

  Korven spoke, his voice husky and hesitant. “What do you w-want, Garak?”

  Garak could recall exactly when Korven had acquired that stammer. He observed Korven carefully, watched his face become a little clammier, and looked down into the swirling depths of his drink.

  “Well—what do you have for me?”

  “I c-can’t…can’t think why you’re here. Not after all this t-time. After all that’s h-happened—”

  “Stop talking.”

  Korven obeyed. He reached out to take his drink, and downed most of the contents of the glass. Garak measured every detail—the attempt at precision marred by the slight fumbling, the shake of the hand as it set the glass back down.

  “This,” Garak gestured at the pictures on the screen, “bears the unmistakable imprint of the True Way. You were the True Way, Korven. It wouldn’t have existed without you then, and I don’t believe it could exist without you now. So don’t try to tell me you’re not involved.” He stared at the other man. “You can start talking again now,” he added.

  Korven picked up his drink once more, and peered down at it. “Ever since G-Ghemor took power, the True Way has been reforming,” he said, and raised his eyes to look at Garak. “This d-democratic project’s going nowhere—you must realize that. It’s holding back the relief work, slowing up the process of g-governing the planet—You know as w-well as I do that what C-Cardassia needs is f-firm leadership—”

  Garak held up his hand to stop him. “I’m not interested in your justifications. I can make them up for myself—justifications do tend to have a tedious uniformity. In your wisdom you have decreed that there is no place for democracy on Cardassia and also, no doubt, that you and your kind are best qualified to replace it. See? I can make all that up for myself. So skip it—and give me some facts.”

  “Andak,” said Korven, after taking another drink, “was a n-natural target, at least it was once Ghemor had s-staked so much on it. And when we h-heard that Yevir was going there…” He shrugged.

  “Yes, that must have been very exciting for you,” Garak murmured. “Two problems tidily disposed of, all at once. The peace mission finished, and Ghemor’s government destabilized and discredited.” He tapped his finger on the arm of the chair, and waited until Korven had the glass up against his lips before he spoke again.

  “So,” he said, “what else, precisely, has the True Way got planned?”

  “When the Occupation ended, Nyra,” Yevir said, as he went toward her, “Bajor celebrated. Everyone around me was jubilant, everyone was happy. Because we were free at last—as we had always hoped, had always dreamed. But I…I was not happy. When I looked around the world, it seemed to me that everything was drab. That there was no purpose to it, no point. I didn’t feel free at all, Nyra, I felt lost.”

  He stepped a little closer. “And then I found what was missing, Nyra.”

  She stared at him, mesmerized, as he moved toward her.

  “What did you find…?”

  He took a deep breath, and then his face, which until now had been so serene, so tranquil, was transfigured. It lit up as he spoke.

  “Purpose, Nyra! Meaning! And then…” He had to stop for a moment to collect himself. “And then the whole world was transformed, before my eyes. It was as if I could see colors again, all the colors around me. All that drabness, all that grayness—suddenly I could see what was truly there! And I understood my place in it all, Nyra. I understood that I was part of it, and that I had a purpose in it.” He smiled at her, lovingly. “You understand all of this too, Nyra, don’t you? You understand how it feels to believe in something. You understand what purpose is. Do you not want to live to see it fulfilled?”

  He was very close now, perhaps an arm’s length away. Slowly, he opened out his hand, unfurling the fingers like the petals on a flower, and offered it to her.

  But she did not seem to notice. She was looking up into his eyes, and she was crying.

  “It’s not the same,” she whispered to him, shaking her head. “It’s not the same. I saw it.”

  “What did you see, Nyra…?” he urged her.

  “Where she taught,” she said, and nodded at her mother. “The Academy. It was everything she stood for, everything she loved. I was going there too, I was going to study there and be like her. It was what the women in our family did. Our tradition. And now it’s ruins. It’s all gone,” she said. “There’s nothing left. There’s no future. No future left, for any of us.”

  Her hand began to move again.

  Just for an instant, at the very core of his being, Yevir Linjarin understood what it was like to feel doubt. And then he prayed to his Prophets to guide him and to use him and to deliver him. Behind him, on the stage, Keiko O’Brien was smiling at her little girl and marveling at how beautiful she was. Feric Lakhat was thinking of the mountains, and of his son, and was mouthing the words of a prayer. And Tela Maleren had covered her eyes and was shedding silent, bitter tears that ran down her hand and onto the silver bracelet about her wrist.

  “There’s never a right decision, Castellan,” Macet told him quietly. “Only the best one in the circumstances. You just have to act in good faith. Let me send them in.”

  Garak absorbed all of this new information. He sifted through it, assessed it, started to make connections, started to see patterns where before there had only been chaos and confusion. He drank the last of his kanar. And then he stood up.

  “It’s time I went,” he murmured, setting down his empty glass. He took a single step toward where the screen flickered on, and watched the broadcast for a moment or two, confirming that there was as yet no more news. From the outside, Andak was still there. Who knew what was going on inside?

  He picked up the painting by Tarinas. As he had guessed, it was the original. He studied i
t for a few moments, considered the composition and the brushwork, the overall effect of the piece. He still didn’t like it. She had been too glib, he decided; she had lacked the subtlety of a true Cardassian.

  “It was good to see you,” he said to Korven, and was surprised to discover that it wasn’t a lie. “It’s good to know that you survived. Not enough of us made it.” He put the picture back, facedown, and turned to look at his host. “I’m sure we’ll meet again.”

  Korven nodded his acquiescence.

  Garak walked past him, across the room, and over to the way out. He felt a little tired, and told himself it was probably the kanar. Whatever it was, he felt a sudden need to leave this tiny room, overfull with the fragments that Korven had taken from the ruins. He was anxious to get out of here, even if only to taste the bitter rain outside. Recent events—recent realizations—had persuaded Garak to set a lot of the past behind him.

  Still, there were some trade secrets that you learnt and never forgot. It was just the same in tailoring.

  Measure twice, cut once.

  “Before I go,” he said, mildly, unambiguously, and resting his back against the door, “tell me about Entor.”

  In the capital, Ghemor ordered Macet to proceed into the lecture hall.

  At Andak, Macet relayed that order to his troops.

  Inside the hall, Nyra—hearing the sound of the doors breaking down—committed her hand…

  …And found it held by Yevir.

  “Have faith,” he said to her. “Have hope.”

  Teris leans her head on Anjen’s shoulder. “Did you get that?” she whispers.

  He puts his arm around her.

  “Of course I did, Juze.”

  20

  The lecture hall was the biggest space under cover at Andak, but you could hardly blame people for not wanting to remain in there. As a result, the square outside became frantically busy as the hostages piled out of the hall, and looked around anxiously for their friends, and for their loved ones, or just for someone to tell them what they should do next. The medical crews that had been waiting moved into action rapidly, to steer them into blankets and to give them something to eat and drink, to make sure that the stress of the day had not taken a critical toll upon anyone.

  The first thing that Keiko did, when it was clear that their ordeal was truly over, was to run down from the stage and embrace Molly, swinging her up into her arms and kissing her. They sat for a while together on a seat at the end of a row, holding each other tight, waiting for the hall to empty, so that they could leave. When mother and daughter finally emerged into the square, the bright lights set up outside blinded them both for a moment, and they felt, rather than saw, Miles grab them into a bear hug.

  “Where’s Yoshi?” Keiko whispered, as Miles took Molly from her. The little girl hooked her arms around her father’s neck, and her legs around his waist, and then laid her head upon his shoulder.

  “Safe and sound. That Jack Emmett’s a good lad, he made sure all the little ones were okay.” Twisting round so that Molly was not between them, Miles leaned in and kissed Keiko on the cheek. His eyes had gone oddly bright.

  “God, love,” he murmured, chewing at his lip, “I’m glad you’re all right.”

  She smiled at him and held on to his arm, then reached up and stroked the face of their daughter. “I’m going to be stuck here for a while,” she said to him, tiredly, and he nodded his understanding.

  “Yeah, I know…Macet—he’s in charge of the operation—he said he’d need to talk to you as soon as you could. There he is,” he nodded over at a distinctively tall and uniformed figure standing only a few yards away, and talking earnestly to some of the troops that had just come out of the hall. “I’ll take the kids back home and put them both to bed,” Miles said. “Come home as soon as you can get away.”

  Keiko watched regretfully as her husband and daughter went off across the square toward their quarters, and then she began to walk toward Macet. On her way over, she heard someone’s voice rise above the mêlée, calling out her name. She turned round—it was Feric. She did not hesitate to hurry over to him, and they embraced each other. No words were necessary at first—they were two good friends who were very glad to see the other safe and alive.

  “How are you?” she said at last, pulling back a little, but still keeping her hands upon his arms.

  “The same as you, I should imagine—absolutely exhausted.” He gave her his small smile.

  “Are you going to go home? Go to bed?” she suggested, worried at how tired he looked.

  “No…” he answered, and gave a deep sigh. “I think I’ll stick around awhile. Some of the kids are still pretty upset and their parents aren’t quite in a state to cope with them yet…I’ll see if there’s anything I can do there.”

  She hugged him again. “Just don’t overdo it,” she said softly. “I’ll need you. Tomorrow—and all the days afterward.”

  “Don’t worry,” he said; and then, just before he pulled away, he added, “They won’t beat us, Keiko. We won’t let them. We’re here to stay.”

  Whether he meant the project or the Oralian Way Keiko wasn’t sure, and she didn’t care. Right now, either sounded fine to her. She patted his arm, and nodded—and then he went on his way. Keiko carried on toward Macet. As she got nearer, she called out to him. He stopped talking to his men and turned to look at her.

  He had a padd in one hand and a mug in the other, and the resemblance to Dukat was thoroughly disconcerting. She suspected that she was so tired that she hadn’t managed to cover her surprise quickly enough, but he did not react to her lapse. That’s very polite of him, she thought. He must be fed up with it—but I’m starting to fall asleep on my feet, and this day has been too surreal already….

  “Director,” he said, calmly. “Thank you for your time—I appreciate that you must be anxious to get back to your family.” He took a sip from the mug, and nodded a dismissal to the men standing nearby, and they withdrew—solid, reassuring figures that stood out even as they dispersed among the crowd.

  “Well, that is what I’m here for,” she said. She watched the steam rise from his mug and caught the aroma of rokassa tea. Her stomach lurched a little. Feric insisted on drinking that noxious potion every morning, when they met for their daily meeting. She swallowed, and remembered her own manners. “Thank you for all that you’ve done today,” she said, fervently.

  “Well, that’s what I’m here for,” he said, with a dry smile. He lifted up the padd. “I won’t force this on you yet, but I thought you might like at least a preliminary report on all that’s been happening here. It seems—according to some of our sources back in the capital—that the base was targeted by a radical terrorist organization called the True Way. Nyra Maleren—and, again, you have to bear in mind that this is only after a very preliminary discussion with her—appears to have been recruited by them in some way. I’m not sure of the details of how that happened yet, and that will be the priority for the investigations I intend to conduct over the next few days.” He took a little more of his drink.

  “Where is Nyra now?” Keiko said, a little faintly, her mind reeling at all this news. Recruited? Here? How?

  “We’re using one of the base offices to hold her, and we’ve been asking her some questions there. I hope that’s acceptable, Director.”

  “Of course…whatever you need…”

  What’s the protocol for dealing with minors in a situation like this? Keiko wondered. It was not as if it was something she had ever had to think about before.

  “Is her mother with her?” she asked.

  Macet shook his head. “Nyra refuses to have her in there.”

  “Is there anyone with her?” Despite all that Nyra had done, Keiko couldn’t bear to think of the girl by herself right now. Who knew what kind of state she was in?

  Macet raised an eye ridge and gave Keiko an odd look. “Yes, in fact, there is…Vedek Yevir, of all people. Nyra seems to have acquired a great deal
of trust in him. When I was last in there, Nyra hadn’t even let go of his hand yet.”

  That piece of information did not surprise Keiko at all. When she had heard the doors crashing in, and thought that it was all over, she had glanced across at Nyra and had seen the look of sheer despair that she had given Yevir, a look that had been begging him to help her. Keiko could well imagine how Yevir might now seem the only certainty in Nyra’s collapsing world.

  Keiko gazed around, searching for Tela, but the square was chaotic, and the Cardassian woman was nowhere to be seen. As she looked round, however, she did catch sight of Naithe—and before she could look away their eyes met. The Bolian waved, and began to hurry toward her.

  Oh no…not now…

  Tomorrow, Keiko decided grimly, she and Naithe were going to have a long talk to find out just what he had thought he had been doing when he had approached Nyra. Right now, though, she really didn’t have the strength for it—and there were other, much more pressing questions on her mind. She turned back to Macet.

  “ ‘Recruited,’ you said. What did you mean by that?”

  By now, Naithe had come to stand by her elbow, and he was listening in on the exchange, his head bobbing about between them both like some kind of little bird chasing after seed.

  Macet looked down at him impassively. He tapped his fingers against his mug, and the sound came out hollow.

  I suspect Macet would like a word or two with Naithe as well….

  “These kinds of organizations prey upon people’s vulnerabilities, Director,” Macet said. “They prey upon people—the young, usually—who are afraid, and afraid above all for their future. Hearing what she had to say earlier, it’s not hard to see how they might have settled on Nyra as being particularly susceptible to their tactics. The impression I’ve got from what Nyra has told us so far—although, unsurprisingly, she’s not really very coherent at the moment—is that once Andak was picked out as a target by the True Way, someone was placed here. This person has been recruiting one or two of the teenagers to their cause. Oh,” he concluded, with a curl of his lips, “and, at the same time, teaching Nyra how to make a bomb and plan a siege.”