HollowMen

by Una McCormack

  The door slid open, and Leyton stopped speaking. The guard came back in. Sisko looked over at him, and nodded.

  “Right on time,” Leyton noted. “They’re good like that.” He glanced at Sisko. “I’m sorry, Ben,” he said, frankly. “I know you came looking for a reprimand. But you’re not going to get it from me. Still, I’m glad you came,” he said, as he stood up. “I’m glad the war is in your hands. And as for the rest of it…” He looked around the little room, and then gave Sisko a rueful smile. “Well, we all make mistakes. And then we have to pay the price. Whatever that turns out to be.”

  Leyton offered his hand across the table. As Sisko stood up and shook it, Leyton added, “Don’t torture yourself over this. You did the right thing. And you had the sense to do it at the right moment.” He smiled. “I wish I’d had some of your judgment,” he said. “Or, at least,” he added, “more of your sense of timing.”

  He left, and Sisko went back out into a bright and indifferent world.

  Garak predicted they would only need to talk for a short while longer. He was right, but still it was long enough for the wind to lift and send clouds scudding quickly over the sky. The sunlight sharpened in intensity, and the shadows grew longer beneath the trees. By the time they had finished their conversation, there was a definite threat of rain.

  “We all done?” Jedburgh said. “Enderby? You got anything you want to add?”

  Enderby slipped the padds into his inside pocket, and stood up. He looked at the heavy sky, pursed his lips in disdain, and fastened a button on his jacket. “I believe that’s everything, Jedburgh,” he said. He was still blurring that last sound, Garak noticed.

  Jedburgh heaved himself up. Garak made himself relax against the bench. He stretched out his legs and crossed them in front of him. “By the way,” he said, addressing Enderby. “It’s three years.”

  Enderby looked down at him. “I beg your pardon?”

  “It’s been three years, since I last set foot on Cardassia Prime. Not two.”

  Enderby blinked at him, and it occurred to Garak that it might be in distress. Enderby reached up to touch his face, and tapped a fingertip against his cheekbone a couple of times. “Are you sure?” The finger stopped tapping, but it stayed in place, Garak saw.

  “Mister Enderby,” he replied, “my ability to visit Cardassia Prime has been severely curtailed over the last few years. You can rest assured that I know exactly when I was last there.” He arranged himself a little more comfortably on the bench. “You might want to consider updating your files.”

  There was a noise like a lightly wounded rhino. Garak had never heard, nor even heard of a rhino, but it still took him a few moments to realize that Jedburgh was laughing.

  Jedburgh had still not quite controlled himself when he stuck out his hand, offering it to his guest. Garak looked at it, and then pointedly folded his arms. Jedburgh did not take the slightest offense. He just raised his hand and gave Garak a mock salute. “You know,” he drawled, “it’s been a real pleasure meeting you.”

  “Oh yes,” Garak replied, “it’s certainly been a lot of fun.”

  Jedburgh grinned at him. “You won’t need our help to get back inside HQ,” he said. “And I’m guessing you might stay out here for a while and get a breath of fresh air. Collect your thoughts. But I’d be obliged to you if you could remember that I told that young lieutenant we’d only keep you for an hour at the outside. I guess he might start worrying if you don’t turn up. And you’re not really going to want to draw more attention to yourself right now than is strictly necessary.” He nodded in farewell. “Good luck, Garak,” he said. “Be seeing you.”

  I certainly hope not.

  They walked off back along the path. Garak stayed on the bench and watched them for a little while, until the curve of the path put them out of sight. Then he leaned forward again and stared at the ground. After a moment or two, he reached down and picked up a handful of gravel. He went to stand in front of the railings, where Enderby had just been, under the shadow of the tree. He picked out one of the pebbles, tested its weight and its shape, and then flipped it into the water. It landed with a gentle splash, and the ripples spread outward. Garak gave them serious thought.

  So Sisko had indeed decided to come clean, as he had suspected he would; and now Garak found himself attracting the full attention of Starfleet Intelligence—and not in any way he had been hoping for when he had agreed to come along on this little jaunt to Earth. Assassination certainly lay within his field of expertise—as Vreenak’s case well demonstrated—but Garak took a certain pride in his work. Bespoke, rather than off-the-rack. He did not simply murder on demand.

  Why come to me? he wondered. Why not just use one of their own men? If Roeder really had gone over to the Dominion—and Garak had no intention of taking on face value everything those two misfits had just told him—then there must have been some kind of plan to remove him before Garak’s trip to Earth had been arranged. But all Garak knew for certain was that now two officers from Starfleet Intelligence had decided that Garak was the man for the job. He had no idea what else had been planned. He had no real idea why; there were many reasons that Starfleet Intelligence might decide that Roeder was now surplus to requirements. Gone over to the Dominion? Garak snorted. It was just as likely that Roeder was exactly what he seemed—yet another disillusioned idealist, but one vocal enough and influential enough to be an unwelcome complication in the midst of a difficult and expensive war. Garak simply had no idea. And that, really, was the problem: There were far too many unknowns for his taste. Far too many. He took aim, and threw another pebble into the water. It landed dead in the center of a clump of rocks. Assassination was a precision instrument. You didn’t just wander in off the street and shoot someone…. Well, you could, but there tended to be ramifications to murder, and Garak did have a somewhat fastidious attitude toward preparation. Particularly when he was this easily identifiable. The holoreconstruction of the assailant the witness saw fleeing from the scene—it would not need to be all that accurate, would it?

  He rolled another stone around in his hand. Supposing he did kill Roeder, he thought, and further supposing that it all went to plan and nobody saw a Cardassian anywhere near the scene of the crime? Garak was by no means naïve enough to assume that would be the end of it. Starfleet Intelligence would have yet another hold over him and—as Vreenak’s case well demonstrated once again—they would not be averse to using it. Garak took that personally. He took it seriously, too. He had experienced extortion at the hands of a Starfleet officer in the past, and he hadn’t enjoyed it much that time either. This stone hit the water with greater force than the ones that had gone before.

  Of course, he always had the option not to kill Roeder. Now, there was a bold move, he thought, laughing to himself as he picked out another stone, and it was probably not one that his new associates would expect. There were risks to it, of course—a hastily arranged and not remotely welcome return to Cardassia Prime being one of them…. He clutched hard at the stone and took a deep breath. It was not a risk he could take without having allies—but who could he get on his side? These men were part of Starfleet Intelligence, and they were obviously a significant part. Chaplin and Marlow would be of no use: Jedburgh and Enderby certainly outranked them. And here, Garak thought, was another problem of the unknown; he had no idea just how far their influence ran. Were there limits to it? Was there anyone he could approach safely? It was a distinct possibility that even a whole glittering constellation of admirals would be unable to help. He clenched and unclenched his fist, staring down at the pebble lying on his palm.

  There was always Sisko…Sisko, whose tussle with his conscience was what had put Garak into this predicament. Sisko, who thought he didn’t owe Garak a thing. Who had once blackmailed him to go back to Cardassia Prime…Garak found himself fondly imagining the conversation he could have with Sisko. I have a favor to ask you, Captain. Just a very small matter. Could you possibly introduce
me to the man your intelligence service has asked me to assassinate for them? You know which man I mean—the peace campaigner. It seems that your government wants him dead. If the captain had been experiencing a crisis of conscience before, it really would be nothing to the effect that piece of information would have on him. Unfortunately, Garak was fairly certain that, not long after, the conversation would take its usual downward plunge into recrimination—and Sisko did hit very hard…. Even worse, if you took into account the captain’s current flirtation with sanctimony, Sisko would probably tell Garak do the right thing and accept the prison sentence as his due. And Garak had a number of very cogent objections to raise against those who wanted to put him into a confined space.

  Ahead, the water was rippling now without any intervention on Garak’s part. The wind had been picking up steadily, and the sky emptying of its color, turning from blue to gray. Garak pressed his hands together, rubbing the remaining pebbles around within his palms. There was another option he had yet to consider. What if I did it, he thought, but I got caught? He felt himself go cold, colder than the wind was making him. There were not that many Cardassians on Earth, and fewer still with a known predilection toward political killings. If he was seen at all…murdering a man of peace…if there was the slightest thing to connect him to Roeder’s death…Would it break up the conference? Would it break up the alliance…? Garak carefully selected another stone. That would be something of a shame, given the lengths to which he had gone in order to stitch the whole thing together in the first place…. Or was that why Jedburgh and Enderby had come to him? He rolled the stone between his thumb and forefinger. It would all be so much easier to blame Roeder’s death on a Cardassian, after all. Much easier to keep the alliance together after the event. Treachery, disloyalty, murder…what else could anyone expect from a Cardassian? Would it turn out that Garak too had been “working for the Dominion” all along? Garak flung the stone into the water. That, he thought, would be one irony too many.

  Although it did bring him to one more option. One so obvious it was almost ridiculous. One he was certain his new acquaintances would not have considered or—if they had—would have dismissed as incredible. He could talk to Roeder himself.

  Once Brixhta was safely ensconced in a holding cell, with a pair of security officers stationed at the door, Odo checked the time. Dealing with the Hamexi had taken up almost all of his morning and, consequently, he was very late making his second round of the Promenade. Nevertheless, Odo had to admit, as he walked along a little more briskly than usual, it was a weight off his mind. He could now concentrate all his energies on the arrival of the Ariadne…almost all his energies, that was. He still was not entirely satisfied yet that he had got to the bottom of the business arrangement that had been put in place between Quark and Brixhta….

  When he reached the entrance to the infirmary, Odo hesitated. He was still behind schedule. He glanced inside. It looked quiet. He decided he might as well keep Bashir informed about what was happening with Brixhta.

  Nurse Jabara nodded him through to the back of the infirmary. Bashir was in there; so was O’Brien, who was sitting on the edge of a biobed. Bashir was standing next to him, running a medical tricorder over O’Brien’s left hand. Odo observed with fascination, recognizing someone else who followed their own very precise rituals.

  As he watched, the cut on O’Brien’s hand began to heal. “Is that serious?” he asked the doctor.

  “It will be as good as ever in just a moment…” Bashir murmured.

  “Good,” said Odo. “We can hardly afford to have the chief out of action at the present time.”

  “All will be well….” Bashir glanced up at Odo from his work. “Well, Constable,” he said. “I hear you’ve been very busy this morning.”

  Odo frowned. Had Bashir heard about Brixhta already?

  “Have I?” he said.

  Bashir grinned up at him again. “Jadzia tells me you bought something for Kira at the auction.”

  “Oh, really?” O’Brien said, looking up at Odo with great interest.

  “Does anything remain private on this station?” Odo said.

  “I shouldn’t think so for a moment,” Bashir laughed.

  “We have to have something to talk about,” O’Brien added. “So—what did you get her?”

  Odo scowled at him.

  “Dolls, Jadzia said,” Bashir offered, with just the faintest glimmer of a smile.

  “Dolls?” O’Brien frowned. “Doesn’t sound much like Kira’s sort of thing.”

  “I believe that they have religious significance,” Odo said quickly.

  “Now, that sounds much more like her…. Hey, careful with that, Julian!” O’Brien glowered up at him. “That hurt!”

  Julian shot him a warning look. “Behave yourself, Miles,” he murmured. “And do try to sit still.”

  Odo watched for a moment or two, then said, as casually as he could manage, “I thought you might be interested in hearing how matters are progressing with Brixhta.”

  “Of course you did,” Bashir murmured. “Well?” he said, with a slight sigh, looking down at the tricorder.

  “I arrested him.”

  It was very interesting, Odo thought, watching Bashir freeze, how the human response to surprise fell into two main categories.

  “You arrested him?” Bashir repeated.

  Sometimes they reacted on instinct and fought back.

  “Yes,” Odo confirmed.

  And sometimes they seemed to take a long time to process news. Even when their brains were genetically enhanced. Bashir seemed to be weighing the tricorder.

  “You know, Odo,” O’Brien said, “When Quark said that, he was only trying to get a reaction from you.”

  “I know,” Odo said. “And he got a reaction. I did exactly what he suggested. Brixhta is in a holding cell right now.”

  “Are you actually allowed to do that, Odo?” O’Brien said. “I mean, I would have thought there were laws about that kind of thing?”

  “I’m well within my rights,” Odo said firmly.

  Bashir put down the tricorder with an unusual amount of force. “I find that very hard to believe,” he said, folding his arms and looking directly at Odo.

  Odo gestured to a padd that was lying nearby. “May I?” he said.

  “Be my guest,” Bashir replied, enunciating each word very carefully.

  Odo punched up the details of the Starfleet Special Order. Then, without another word, he handed the padd back to Bashir. The doctor started to read.

  O’Brien leaned over to see. “ ‘…neutralize security threats to the station by whatever means necessary,’ ” he read out. He whistled softly. “That’s a bit vague. Do you not think you might be stretching it a bit, Odo? Is it meant to include theft, do you think?”

  Bashir, meanwhile, had gone very still. Odo noted this immobility with fascination. He was sure that what Bashir was exhibiting was fury. At last, the doctor opened his mouth to say something, but Odo spoke first. “I know what you are going to say, Doctor,” he said. “But I do consider Brixhta to pose a serious threat to the security of this station—”

  “To your pride, you mean!” Bashir shot back.

  Odo retreated, a little hurt. “I think that’s unfair.”

  Bashir looked at back him. “I’m sorry, that was uncalled-for.” He stared down at the padd again, embarrassed, Odo thought, by his outburst. After a moment or two, he put the padd down and turned his attention back to treating O’Brien’s hand.

  “Well,” O’Brien said at last, into the silence, “I suppose if it sets your mind at ease…” He frowned. “I don’t know though. I don’t think I like the idea of locking someone up like that. It all seems a bit like Cardassian justice to me.”

  “It’s not,” Odo said, curtly. “It’s not like Cardassian justice at all.” He picked up the padd, and made sure the text of the special order was no longer visible. Then he put it back down. “Thank you for your time, Doctor,” he sai
d. “Chief, I hope the hand gets better soon.” Then he retreated from the infirmary, back to the routines of the Promenade.

  Garak had always flattered himself that he could spot a liar within seconds of a man opening his mouth. He had seen only a very little of Roeder—and he accepted he only had himself to blame for that—but from what he had seen, Garak was ready to believe that Roeder was the real thing. It was the passion. There was something about it you just couldn’t fake. If Roeder was working for the Dominion, then they all were.

  Garak contemplated the ground.

  Why do they really want him dead? And what would Roeder himself say if I asked him? That would certainly make for another fascinating conversation—and Cardassians did excel at conversation…. Of course, Garak thought, with a certain gruesome cheer, he could well have got the whole thing completely wrong. It was not beyond the realms of possibility that Roeder was exactly as corrupted as everyone else. In which case, he would deserve everything he got—and it might as well be Garak as anyone else to deliver the coup de grâce. But in this woeful web in which he was now thoroughly woven, there was one thing Garak was sure about. If Roeder died at his hands, it would be on his own terms. Not Starfleet’s.

  Garak felt a spot of water against his face. It had finally started raining. He peered up again at the sky. It was all gray now, and some of the clouds had begun to look threatening. The evening was drawing on. He dropped the last few pebbles on the ground, got back onto the path, and hurried to get inside before the downpour.

  Transporters?

  “There are, in total, twenty-five personnel and cargo transporters throughout the station. Personnel transporters are located all around the station; cargo transporters operate within the docking ring. The system itself is of Cardassian design.”

  Very good. Turbolifts?