STAR TREK: DEEP SPACE NINE ®

by Andrew J. Robinson

  11

  Entry:

  “According to my contact on Bajor, Mr. Garak, this woman is not just another pretty face.” Quark had that conspiratorial gleam in his eyes, and his voice was ripe with the potential drama. “I should charge you double for this information.”

  “Really? What have you found?” I tried to minimize my interest, but Quark knew better.

  “Why are you so interested in Remara?” He was going to squeeze everything he could out of this situation. I sighed and looked around.

  “Will you solemnly promise you will keep this to yourself?”

  “Absolutely. You have my word.” As children, we were taught that such a bald-faced lie was an occasion for the Mogrund to appear and punish the offender.

  “As you know, I lead a solitary existence, and I’ve been looking for a mate to share my humble existence.” Quark’s eyes had reached nova intensity; he could barely control his quivering body. “Of course,” I continued, “you can’t be too careful these days, can you?”

  “You certainly can’t.” Quark slammed his hand against the bar. “You’ve just given me an idea!” He was positively hopping up and down. “I could broker pairings, Garak. I’d have dabo girls who were looking for mates and match them with clients here on the station who agreed to pay me upon a successful pairing.” He looked around to see who could be signed up immediately. “Of course, since you helped me form the idea, this one’s on the house.”

  “That’s very generous of you, Quark. Now what about that information?”

  “Ah, yes . . . let me see.” He punched his padd. “Yes, it seems that she was an art student from Dahkur Province . . . sent to the capital to study . . . married her teacher Tir Karna. . . . They had a child—a son, Berin. . . . Ah, this is where it gets interesting: Tir and the boy were killed when Cardassians destroyed the shuttle they were in as it was taking off. . . .”

  “What shuttle was that?” I asked.

  Quark punched the padd. “The Taklan . . . it was one of their own, bound for Terok Nor. Why would the Cardassians destroy their own shuttle?” Quark asked.

  “Go on.” I took a sip of my kanar and was amazed that my hand remained steady. Is this my hand, I wondered?

  “Shortly after this, Remara joined the Resistance. You can’t hold that against her.” Quark looked up as if he’d just discovered a reason for the deal to unravel.

  “Forgive and forget,” I said, taking another sip of kanar.

  “A man after my own heart.” Quark refilled my glass.

  “Is there anything else?” I asked.

  “Not much . . . went back to school after the withdrawal . . . works as a counselor at the Mihan Settlement House in the capital . . . became a part-time dabo girl. I don’t know what it is, Garak, but the Klingons love her. And she now works for one of the great entrepreneurial minds in the Alpha Quadrant!” he concluded, with a positively radiant look on his face. I could see that he was itching to embark upon his new business. I drained my glass and declined the offer of another, as Quark’s hand snaked toward the bottle.

  “No, thank you. I appreciate the help. You’ve been most helpful.”

  “Valued customers deserve special service, Mr. Garak.” At that moment Morn rumbled through the door, and Quark’s eyes locked in. “Speaking of which. . . .”

  As I left, I could hear Quark begin his new pitch. “I have the answer for you, Morn my friend. You lead too solitary a life. As I was just saying to Mr. Garak. . . .”

  The Taklan. And she was a member of the Resistance. The colonel’s question returned: what did Remara want from me? I considered paying a visit to Kira but decided against it. I had time to think this through; Remara wouldn’t be back on the station for another week. By then I would know what to do.

  It was late, and I didn’t feel like going back to my quarters. I decided to go up to the observation lounge, where Remara and I had had our first rendezvous. My feelings about her were increasingly conflicted. Up until now I hadn’t perceived any danger, but after Quark’s information I realized that I was being naïve. As I moved up the narrow circular staircase a huge figure loomed above me. The light from behind him turned him into a giant shadow—but I knew who it was. I turned around, and as I anticipated there were two more Bajorans at the bottom. I berated myself for being so involved with my musings that I had lost my sense of space. That and too much kanar.

  “Everybody’s favorite Cardassian,” said Londar Parva, the Bajoran I’d “bumped” into on the Promenade. “What is it about you? Nobody wants to treat you like the animal you are. But if Odo doesn’t want to deal with you, I will.”

  He started down the stairs while the other two held their position at the bottom. I had no choice. I ran down the stairs and threw myself at the two Bajorans, trying to break through them. I nearly succeeded, but Londar was quick and caught me from behind. They dragged me into an isolated alcove. Londar stood in front of me while the other two had my arms pinned.

  “You don’t belong here, spoonhead,” he growled and hit me across the face with his closed fist. The combination of the insult and the blow set off an inner explosion. I used the two men holding me as leverage and kicked both legs up and caught Londar squarely on his massive jaw. As he staggered back with a loud cry, I freed my right arm and came across and hit the man on my left in the face, then immediately came back with my right elbow and caught the man on my right in the throat. He went down, but the man on my left still held on to my arm. I hit him again, but by this time Londar had recovered and made a wild charge that sent me flying into the wall behind me. This freed my left arm, however, and I was able to square off against the two men with my back against the wall. They hesitated as I took my position. In the pause I could hear the third man still trying to make breath move through his damaged windpipe. I could also hear the three of us panting heavily, and I smelled the sour perspiration of people who exercise little and drink too much.

  “That’s enough!” Colonel Kira stood behind the two Bajorans with her phaser drawn. Londar and the other man turned. A small crowd had gathered behind the colonel.

  “You see?” Londar said to the crowd as if they’d been privy to his logic. “Even Bajorans protect the—”

  “What’s going on here?” Kira demanded.

  No one spoke. We looked at her and continued to pant.

  “Garak?”

  “Nothing serious, Colonel. We were just having a political discussion and we found little common ground.”

  “Is that why you’re bleeding?” Kira asked. Indeed, I could taste the blood in my mouth.

  “Political opinions often have consequences,” I replied. The colonel was disgusted.

  “Londar?”

  “The tailor attacked us,” he stated.

  “All three of you?” Kira asked, looking at the two other Bajorans. They weakly nodded assent.

  “Do you want to bring charges against him?” she asked.

  “What good would it do? Odo won’t do anything. Nobody will.” Londar was back to his old complaint, now doubly frustrated.

  “Just make sure that you don’t try to take the law into your own hands,” Kira warned. “Now if you’re not going to bring charges, go on about your business.” She motioned them back toward the Promenade, and they sullenly obeyed. Londar shot one last look back at me, and I smiled.

  “Pleasant talking to you,” I called. Londar was so filled with loathing, I was sure he could spit bile. I knew it wasn’t personal, but I also knew that I had to be more vigilant. The crowd dispersed, but Kira stood watching me.

  “Are you all right?” she asked. I moved my jaw around and winced.

  “I don’t think anything’s broken. A few loose teeth perhaps.”

  “Why won’t you report this?” Kira asked. “Londar’s a dangerous man, he won’t forget this.”

  “It’s best this way, I think.”

  “Suit yourself,” she said.

  “Well, I should probably return to my quarters
and get cleaned up,” I said.

  “I’m going in that direction. I’ll walk with you,” the colonel offered.

  “A pleasure.” We started off, and I knew she wanted to talk about our mutual acquaintance. “So,” I said. “I understand you and Remara were old friends.”

  Kira gave me a sharp look. “What did she tell you?”

  “Only that the two of you had once known each other.” We walked in silence for a few moments.

  “We met at the Singha refugee center,” she finally admitted. “She was the only one left in her family, and my father let her share our cramped living space.”

  “That was very kind of your father.”

  “He was a kind man. Remara was older and she helped take care of me and my brothers. But we’re not friends,” she added pointedly.

  “She told me that the two of you were close.”

  Kira nodded. “Until she showed her true colors.”

  “And what colors were those?” I asked.

  “People seem to think you’re a clever person, Garak. Perhaps you are. But Remara knows how to use her beauty—especially with clever men.” Kira stopped at in intersection of corridors. “I’m going this way.”

  “Thank you for your company . . . and your assistance,” I said in parting.

  “The fact that she’s a thief and a traitor probably doesn’t bother you,” she said, looking at me with a pitying half smile. “But trust me, Garak—she’s using you for something. Goodnight.” Abruptly, Kira turned and moved down the corridor with her martial stride. No doubt going to Odo’s quarters.

  Of course Remara is using me, I thought. For what, I had no idea. Traitor and thief. The mystery only sharpened my appetite.

  12

  Entry:

  Tzenketh. Each assignment was farther away from Cardassia Prime, and of longer duration. Loval, Celtris III, Lamenda Prime, Kora II, Orias III. If I made a chart of my assignments from the beginning, each vector would penetrate progressively deeper into space. I wondered if this was a sign of advancement in the Order.

  I had done what Tain asked, and in the following years no one was as dedicated a night person as I was. I went everywhere they asked me to go and stayed as long as it took to complete the mission, but Tain never said a word that would indicate whether he was pleased or displeased. In fact, I saw very little of him, and even less of Mila. This distance from them, and the fact that I was rarely home, actually made my work easier. My primary contact at the Order was Limor Prang, who became even less expressive, if that were possible, as he grew older. I knew, however, that my dedication, and the absence of any kind of life outside of the Order, concerned him. On those occasions he’d tersely suggest that I visit Morfan Province or some such popular vacation area. I’d tell him I’d consider it, and accept another assignment . . . or tend to my orchids . . . or walk.

  The walking started when I knew I had to find a place to live where I could grow the orchids. Such a place is rare in the city, and when it appears the cost is prohibitive. I explored every sector, inquiring, following up possibilities, sometimes making a nuisance of myself. It was during this process that three things happened: I found a place, I learned to talk to all kinds of people, and I fell in love with the city and its various sectors.

  The house was owned by a retired chief archon, Rokan Du’Lam, a man I later discovered was notorious for the sternness of his courts and sentences. He had a back apartment that opened out onto a modest plot of ground. I explained that I had limited means, but that I traveled a great deal and would gladly improve the fallow ground with plantings.

  “What kind of plantings?” he hoarsely demanded. I was grateful that I’d never been dragged into his court.

  “I am fond of Edosian orchids, sir.” He laughed in my face.

  “Can’t grow those here!” he barked.

  “I beg to differ with you, sir. I’m sure that under my care they would thrive.” He laughed again.

  “I’ll tell you what, boy. If you can grow orchids here, I’ll let you have the apartment for the cost of the energy and resources. If you can’t, then you pay what I tell you.” It was clear that this was a man who did not suffer fools or braggarts.

  I took a deep breath and agreed. I happily moved out of my basement, and every spare moment was spent preparing the soil for planting. On the day that I put in the sprouted tubers, the archon had invited a friend who lived nearby to witness the event. She was an older woman I had seen with him before, and she tended a small plot in the back of her home with simple, well-integrated plantings. They both carefully watched me plant with pitiless expressions that expected failure. Neither of them said a word to me, but occasionally they would whisper to each other. At one point I heard the woman distinctly say, “I think he knows what he’s doing, Rokan.” After the last tuber was planted, they just looked at me and went into the house without a word. There was nothing to do now but wait; but I was certain that my new home was now well within my means.

  During the waiting period, I often visited the Tarlak Grounds and Tolan’s orchids for inspiration. It was still one of my favorite places. I would sit in the same shaded spot where he’d told me about the first Hebitians, contemplating the elegant beauty of the orchids and listening to the children’s voices floating to me across the greensward. The magic of these flowers has fascinated me from the moment I first saw them. The mysterious way they reveal themselves, layer by layer. . . . Just when you think they can’t get any more beautiful, that you can’t learn anything more, another layer of bloom surpasses the previous one and the orchid changes personality. Recently I have developed a new indulgence—clothing—and I know it’s because of the influence of the Edosian orchid. Each time I put on another well-designed and well-tailored suit in a fabric with depth and an aesthetic pattern, I feel like another person. One of my favorite duties is to choose what I will wear for each assignment. As I smell the soft pungency emanating from somewhere deep in the soil, and observe the shaded pastels blend and reblend in a continuous flow, I realize that the Edosian orchid defies description and aspires to the condition of high art.

  “Kel. Kel! Don’t wander off too far. We have to start home.”

  The voice cut through me like an icy wind. I didn’t want to look. The same sweetness, piping and strong. If an Edosian orchid could speak. . . . I looked across the greensward, and there she was, the blue-black hair and the long, dark gray skirt flowing behind her as she chased a little girl who was giggling, trying to escape from her mother but knowing that the beauty of the game was that she wouldn’t. Half of me wanted to run after them, the other half wanted to be buried deep in the ground. Why her? Why now? With sudden clarity I saw my entire life as a defense against this very moment. I didn’t want to feel what I was feeling; I didn’t want this immense burden of desire. I had learned to be satisfied with the occasional brusque sexual contact that quenched desire the way food or water did, and to live without any expectation of that touch that transforms routine into adventure. Watching Palandine and her daughter defy gravity with their dance of love destroyed all my definitions, and my carefully maintained boundaries began to give way, for the first time since Bamarren, to the magic of limitless possibility. I knew at that moment that I’d never be satisfied again. Even my beloved orchids looked like weeds.

  I watched like someone unable to avert his eyes from impending horror, as the mother ran down the daughter and gathered her up in her strong arms. They were both giggling, absolutely fulfilled in each other’s company, lighting up the grounds with their radiance.

  Palandine and Kel. And the other. Not present at this moment, but of course always there. Oh yes, I had kept track. How could I not? Especially when we have the resources to keep track of any Cardassian. Barkan Lokar was now an important administrator with the Bajoran Occupational Government. As much as my own work remained covertly placed in institutional shadows (and Tain made sure that I was publicly identified as a bureaucrat at the Hall of Records), Lokar’s was ver
y much in the full light of the sun. Oh, I knew a great deal about him. Bajor, a planet rich in resources, was being skillfully stripped by his efficient programs. With the help of forced labor, the moribund Terok Nor outpost was being revitalized into a fabulously productive mining enterprise.

  Lokar was the favorite of such powerful Cardassians as his father, Draban Lokar, and Procal Dukat, key members of the Civilian Assembly and Central Command respectively. In fact, his prefect on Terok Nor, the ore processing station, was Procal’s son, Skrain Dukat. Lokar’s ambition and his prospects had no limit. Nor, it seems, did his appetite for using and disposing of people . . . especially women. His tyrannical excesses, visited upon friend and foe alike, were well documented; but as long as his stewardship produced such successful results no one cared. Lokar has quickly become an integral part of the easy corruption I see and smell more and more at the highest levels of our system, and which gives the lie to our stern and moralistic façade. Perhaps, I thought, when I leave for Tzenketh tomorrow I’ll erase all memory of the way back.

  Palandine’s husband and Kel’s father.

  I watched them leave the Grounds, but I stayed rooted to my spot waiting for a great hole to open up and swallow me. It didn’t. Darkness came, and the chill finally drove me to my feet. I started to walk.

  Cardassia City is designed as a round wheel with the Tarlak Sector functioning as the administrative hub. This is where the public areas—the Grounds and the monuments, the government buildings—are located. Radiating out from the hub, like unequal slices of pie, are six sectors. I wandered first into the Paldar Sector, the residential area where Tain’s house was located, as well as the archon’s where I was lodging. It was one of the earliest settlements, and most families had lived there for generations. Government bureaucrats and civil servants who worked in the Tarlak Sector usually lived in Paldar. I walked past Tain’s house, stopping momentarily to wonder if other people felt so completely estranged from the home of their youth. There were few pedestrians, since this was the time of the evening when families gathered after a long day of work and school: The good Cardassians. The sector reeked of rectitude and self-importance.