“Not on as grand a scale, I’ll freely admit, but still some very lovely pieces…very lovely….” He hit the panel, and the lid of the crate bounced open. He delved inside, throwing packaging carelessly about him, and then lifted out a smaller box, balancing it on the edge of the crate.
“This was apparently used by some early Earth cultures to select the leaders of their clans,” he said. “I have to confess that I have not been entirely able to understand the philosophy behind it. There seems to be a high degree of chance involved.” He hefted it back into the crate. “None of the cards it used exist anymore, of course,” he said, rather sadly. “They would be very collectible.” He started rummaging around in the crate again. “I have seen a number of fakes, however.”
“What, I wonder, are you going to show me next?” Odo said, dryly. “Toys for children?”
“I do in fact have several things on those lines….” Brixhta shifted toward another crate and began delving around inside it. He pulled out a polished gold metal case, popped open the lid, and lifted out the contents, standing it reverently on the edge of the crate. Odo peered at it curiously. Three Ferengi figures, standing in a line. One was holding a tiny round token, and there was a little key in the back of another of them. Brixhta wound it up, setting the whole device in motion. The figure holding the token dropped it in a box in front of him, it came out of the bottom and rolled along, and the second figure picked it up. He turned and passed it along to the third figure, who twisted round in the middle until he was back-to-front, and dropped the token. It rolled along the back of the other Ferengi, and then the first one collected it, dropped it in the box, and the whole thing started again.
“A first lesson in the Great Material Continuum,” Brixhta said, as the token moved round and round. “How all the individual pieces of the universe are part of a larger scheme. Tributaries of a great river that we must learn to navigate.” He enveloped one of the figures in a caress. “Ferengi are a most unexpectedly profound species, when one comes to think about it.”
“Should this explain your sudden and very fast friendship with Quark?”
Brixhta did not answer. “The design is perhaps rather garish, even for my taste.” He wrapped the figures up, and put them away. “Perhaps this would be more to your liking,” he said. From the same crate, he took out a little wooden box and offered it to Odo. Odo took it, and turned it over in his hands, examining it closely. There were old-style Bajoran letters painted on the lid; Odo’s ancient Bajoran was not exactly fluent, but he thought he could recognize a familiar word here and there, and it seemed to him as if the words made up some kind of rhyme. Nerys would almost certainly know, he imagined, or the captain.
Odo balanced the box on the edge of the crate. The lid was kept shut by a little metal hook that slipped into a tiny, rounded piece of metal. Very carefully, half-expecting something to jump out on him, Odo unfastened the hook and lifted the lid. Nothing happened. He looked inside. Nestling within, securely wrapped in velvet packing material, was a small, colorfully painted figure. Odo touched it, gently. Like the box, it too was made of wood, and it was oddly shaped: smoothed all around so that it curved in and out in the shape of a body, but did not have arms and legs.
“Take it out,” Brixhta said softly. “I’m sure you’ll find it interesting.”
Odo lifted out the figure and looked more closely. It was painted bright yellow, and a little Bajoran face—earring and all—peeked out from under a yellow hat. “It looks like the kai,” he said.
“Hold it in both hands,” Brixhta instructed him, “top and bottom—and then twist.”
Odo did as he was told. To his horror, the doll came apart: its top half, the head, came away from the round body. He turned anxiously to Brixhta. “Have I broken it?”
“No, no, not at all! Have a look inside!”
Odo lifted off the head—and there, inside, was another little figure.
“Go on, Odo—take it out!”
Putting down the kai’s head, Odo lifted out the new doll. This one was very cleverly painted: still the same rounded shape, but the headpiece somehow was unmistakably a vedek’s. Odo gave a bark of laughter. He twisted the vedek apart; sure enough, there was a prylar inside. When he twisted that open, there was a little acolyte; and, when he twisted that open, there was one last tiny doll. This figurine was no bigger than a thumbnail, but still beautifully painted. Odo could see a tiny spot of yellow paint for the earring. Unable to resist seeing how they looked, he put the halves of the individual pieces together, and set all five of the hollow figures in a row.
“One could say it is just a child’s toy,” Brixhta said, “and yet she would learn her religion from it. A lesson in infinity too, perhaps. Or that appearances are deceptive.” He snaked a finger out to touch the very smallest of the dolls. “So magnificently carved and crafted,” he said. “But I suppose it’s no real surprise that even the toys on Bajor are works of art.”
Odo started hiding the dolls back inside each other, carefully twisting the figures so that the designs on the top aligned perfectly with the bottom. I wonder what Nerys would think of this, he thought.
Brixhta’s voice sounded silkily in his ear. “If you’re interested in making a purchase, Odo, I’m sure that we can come to some arrangement—”
Odo put the kai’s head back in place. “No, thank you,” he said, firmly. It’s a toy, he told himself, irritated that Brixhta had almost coaxed him into buying. Nerys would probably be insulted. Odo set the doll firmly back into its box. He cast a baleful eye over the remaining crates. “I imagine the rest of your stock is like that?” He gestured back to the food machine.
“Well, that is a particularly fine piece, Odo—”
“What I mean is, do people actually give you money for this junk?”
Air was sucked in. Brixhta shrunk back. Beneath the brim of his hat, something seemed to sharpen.
“Junk?”
“They’re not exactly what I think of when I hear the word antiques. Bits of old machinery, toys—” Odo tapped the top of the box containing the Bajoran figurines.
“Windows onto the past, Odo. Fragments from which we can piece together how people used to live—”
“All right, Brixhta,” Odo cut in impatiently, “I get the picture.” He looked down the line of crates. They were each as big as the first two. He sighed.
“It’s all much the same,” Brixhta said smoothly. “Are you sure you want to look inside the rest?”
Odo glared at him. “Very sure,” he said. “And make no mistake,” he added, as they went on together to the third case, “I’ll be watching you all the time you’re here, Brixhta—you and your toys.”
Brixhta seemed quite unruffled by this. “I have to hope you do, Odo,” he said. “You never know—something else might just catch your eye.”
Perception, Sisko reflected, was a damned strange thing. Not everyone in this room was Romulan. And not all the Romulans were looking at him.
The conference room was already busy, and was rapidly filling. At the center of the room was a large circular table, with places around it for twelve people: three from each delegation, grouped together, with space between each grouping. Fanning out from behind these sets of three places was seating for aides and support staff, with narrow aisles between the rows where the various delegations were to sit.
Sisko looked around the room. He saw Fleet Admiral Shanthi, who was heading the Starfleet delegation and chairing these sessions, in quiet but intense conference with some of her aides; Sisko thought he could make a good guess as to what the subject matter was. She saw him and nodded an efficient greeting. Standing with her was Vice-Admiral Batanides, in charge of security for this whole occasion. She came over to speak to him, and they greeted each other warmly.
“I didn’t know you were taking part in any of the discussions, Marta,” Sisko said.
“Just sitting in on a few sessions,” she replied. “But I’m staying near the back,” she added, lowering her voice.
“Waiting for news.”
Of the fleet. Sisko nodded. Batanides went on her way, and Sisko went back to looking around the room. Over on the left-hand side, staying on the perimeter, he saw three Cardassians—civilians—standing bunched together. That must be the government-in-exile. They looked uncomfortable, and more than a little suspicious. Was that a cultural trait, Sisko wondered, with a grim flippancy, or did they have good reason?
His eye fell on the Klingons; he recognized one or two of them as numbering among Gowron’s seniormost generals. He watched as Ross worked across the room, smiling at those functionaries he passed by, touching their arms or nodding his head as their culture demanded. He greeted the members of the Klingon delegation formally, but talked to them cheerfully and with easy bonhomie. Sisko joined them, made some conversation of his own, and admired Bill’s nerve. No one would think for a moment that he was waiting to hear whether or not one of the fleets was still intact. Quite a few people around here, Sisko thought, keeping quite a few secrets. He glanced across at the Romulan contingent, stiff and silent and watchful. Now that he was prepared for them, he could see that there were ten of them in total. Far fewer than there were Starfleet personnel in the room. He thought of making an approach, but his usually steady nerve failed him.
Instead he went to find his own seat. At the front, next to Ross, on his right-hand side. He sat down and took out the padd that Chaplin had prepared for him, and began reading again her summary of the morning’s agenda. Then he skipped on, to the list of the Romulan delegation, and tried to put names to faces. They were headed by a senator named Cretak. As Sisko studied the information in the file, he heard someone take a seat just behind him, and to one side.
He glanced over his shoulder. It was Garak. He was leaning on the back of the chair next to Sisko. He nodded toward the Romulans, still standing apart at the far end of the room. “So, Captain,” he said, his voice low and amused, “which of them do you think is Tal Shiar?”
“What makes you think they aren’t all Tal Shiar?”
Garak laughed very quietly. “That’s a very good point,” he said. “After all, this conference is of such significance that the whole of the Obsidian Order is in attendance.”
Sisko gave a slight smile, and then he looked over at the three Cardassians. They had already taken their seats. “Have you spoken to your government-in-exile yet?”
Garak drummed impatient fingers against the back of the chair. “They are not my government, Captain—and, no, I haven’t. Nor do I intend to, if I can possibly help it.”
“You’re absolutely sure they’re not worth cultivating?”
“Oh, I’m quite sure they’ll soon show themselves for what they are.”
“Which is?”
“Charlatans. And not particularly accomplished ones.”
Sisko grunted. Shanthi had gone over to speak to Cretak, and one of the Romulans had taken the opportunity to detach herself from the group, and begin walking around the table, on the inside. As Sisko watched her progress, he became sure that she was less interested in the name settings, and more interested in him.
“That one seems to be paying us a great deal of attention,” Garak remarked.
“And I thought I was just being paranoid,” Sisko murmured. “Do you know her?”
Garak considered her. “I don’t think we’ve met,” he said, thoughtfully. “Although I did have a lot on my mind while I was on Romulus.” He gave Sisko a sly look. “Successful gardening does require a great deal of concentration.”
“I bet it does.” Sisko eyed him back. “So, how was your meeting with the bright young lieutenants?”
“Very correct,” Garak said, still watching the Romulan as she came closer, “and a complete waste of time.”
“I find that hard to believe,” Sisko said. From first impressions, Chaplin had been too efficient, and Marlow too smart.
“We spoke only in very general terms.” Garak sighed. “I sincerely hope I haven’t wasted my time coming all this way to Earth, Captain.”
“I’m sure they know what they’re doing. They struck me as very competent.”
“I can only hope so,” Garak said. “They want to talk at greater length this afternoon, but I insisted on attending this first session—” He stopped, suddenly. Sisko looked up. The Romulan that had been watching them had taken her place, in the seat a little further along from Sisko. She acknowledged Sisko with a slight nod of the head, and a half-smile. Garak she ignored completely.
“Maybe you do know her,” Sisko murmured.
“I dread to think,” Garak muttered, and stood up to go to his seat near the back of the room. Shanthi had taken the chair, and was calling the conference to order.
Tomas Roeder, poised and melancholy, put the cap back on his fountain pen, and set it down upon his desk alongside the pages that lay before him. As he waited for the ink to dry, he smoothed the remaining blank sheets of paper.
Roeder had always preferred to write by hand. He liked to feel the weight and the metal of a stylus; he liked to watch dark ink stain plain paper. It suited the way his mind worked: nonlinear, wide-ranging. Serving on star-ships had made this idiosyncracy impossible—swiftness in communication had been essential—and he had used the machinery available as any other officer would, leaving all the trails that Starfleet’s bureaucracy demanded of him. These days it was different. These days, Roeder worked by hand, taking pains, crafting the message in the medium.
He glanced over at the uppermost page. The ink was now dry. He reached out and set it at the back of the pile. It was the last one. Then he called through the open door. “Michel,” he said, “could I see you?”
“Of course, Tomas.” His secretary’s voice, from the other room. “Just a moment, please.”
Roeder waited patiently and, a minute or two later, Michel came in. He came to a halt standing before the desk, putting a piece of paper down tidily. “Next month’s schedule,” he explained, and then he glanced pointedly at the pile on the desk. “All done?”
Roeder smiled up at him. “I think so.” He picked up the pages and offered them. Michel took them from him and sighed when he saw they were covered in line after line of script.
“Tomas, I do wish you would overcome this irrational dislike of machines—”
“It’s not irrational.”
“This paranoia, then—”
“Again, something of an overstatement, don’t you think, Michel?” His tone was sharper this time. They both fell silent. Michel flicked fretfully at the pages.
“Well, whatever it is,” Roeder said quietly, firmly, but trying to make peace, “I might just grant you that it’s something of an affectation.”
It had the necessary effect. Michel smiled back at him, and then tapped the top page. “Are you satisfied with it, at least?”
Roeder permitted himself a sigh. “Oh, I suppose so.” He stretched up his arms, bringing them behind his head, clasping his hands together. “It’s the usual over simplification and flattery of the audience, of course.”
“Whom I’m sure will greatly appreciate your efforts on their behalf.”
“Well, I certainly hope so.”
Michel waved the pages. “I’ll get copies prepared and sent out to the press. And have you decided yet when you want to leave for Vulcan?”
“Yes…” Roeder said. “The day after that embassy reception—”
“You’ve changed your mind about that?”
“Know thine enemy…” Roeder murmured. “And the Councillor does serve up good wine.”
Michel laughed. “I’ll arrange the shuttle for the morning after, then,” he said. “And reply to the invitation.”
“Thank you, Michel.” Roeder unfolded from his seat and stretched again.
“Anything else you need at all, Tomas?”
“I don’t think so.”
Michel nodded, and turned to go. Roeder watched him covertly and, when he reached the doorway, Roeder spoke again.
�
�Oh,” he said, perhaps too casually, “there is one other thing.”
The younger man stopped and looked back. “Yes?”
“Could you put all incoming communications through to me directly? No need to screen them. Just for the next hour or so.”
Michel looked at him oddly. “Are you sure, Tomas?” He pointed at the desk. “You would have to handle the com yourself—”
“Just for the next hour,” Roeder said, in a distant tone of voice, “I’d like to find out what it feels like to be neither irrational nor paranoid.”
Michel stared down at the desk. “Then of course,” he said, collecting himself. “Whatever you wish, Tomas.”
“Thank you.”
“Let me know if you think I’ve missed anything in your diary,” Michel said, then went out, and the door closed after him.
Roeder watched him go. He picked up the schedule, but did not read it. It had no interest for him. Slowly, he balled it up, then he took aim, and threw it toward the re-cycler. It went in, first time. If he enjoyed this minor victory, he did not show it.
He came out from behind his desk, and began to pace, restlessly, looking around the room. His taste ran to dark colors, reds and browns. In the evenings it was elegant, and the prints on the walls would glimmer dimly. Now, in the afternoon sunlight, the room seemed muted. He went over to the shelves, traced his fingers on the lines of books, but could not choose. He stood and stared out across the room, and decided that the chair was not aligned with the couch. He went over and moved it a little to the left—and then decided he had been wrong, and moved it back. He crossed to the window and looked out, at the wide view out across the city and the bay. He stared along the streets that ran down to the harbor.
“Computer,” he said, “some music.”
The opening chords shocked the room. “Skip forward,” he said, sharply, and the piano softened almost to a breath. The adagio began, opening with serenity, opening out with patience. It began to fill the empty room.
It was not, in fact, a bad speech. It was well constructed, and well argued. Some of it was even quite stirring. Roeder laughed to himself at this little piece of self-delusion. He had no doubts that he would be doing anything other than preaching to those who were already converted. Nobody in the audience tonight would be persuaded to follow a path other than the one they were already following. Nobody would need the example of Tomas Roeder, formerly of Starfleet, to set them straight. They had all seen through the fictions of this war to the truth long before Roeder had himself.
HollowMen Page 9
