Garak nodded. “I thought you would,” he said. He continued sewing. Sisko studied him as he worked. After a minute or two, it became clear that Garak had nothing else to say on the matter. Sisko turned and went into the back of the runabout, to the replicator. As he sipped his raktajino, he thought about what Garak had just said. Perhaps that really was an end to it. All in the past. All that Sisko had to do now was just get on and win the war….
He took his mug back into the front of the runabout and sat down again.
“That really was a quite fascinating report which the major delivered earlier,” Garak remarked, conversationally.
“Yes it was….” Sisko rubbed the back of his neck. A cargo of latinum and a runabout stolen in his absence. “And I am looking forward to hearing the full version of events.”
Garak smiled. “A curious species, the Hamexi,” he said. “I knew one once, although I never knew his name. And this despite the fact that he saved my life.”
Sisko nodded over at his work. “Comes with the territory, does it?”
Garak bit at a piece of thread. “Tailoring has a whole assortment of occupational hazards, Captain,” he murmured. “You really can’t imagine. Now,” he went on, “in the unusual and rather fraught situation in which we found ourselves, this Hamexi regrettably turned out to be something of a liability. And then, perhaps inevitably, I was presented with an opportunity to rid myself of this…encumbrance.”
Garak stopped speaking in order to concentrate on threading his needle. Sisko watched him stonily. Garak was, presumably, about to explain how he had killed the Hamexi. Why, Sisko wondered, was he telling him this? Was it meant to be some kind of threat, now that he knew that Sisko had told his superiors about Vreenak’s murder? As if Sisko was somehow unaware of the fact that Garak was prepared to kill in cold blood…
“But then,” Garak continued blithely, “I thought…no, not every good deed has to be punished.” He looked up for a second, giving Sisko a sly look. “So I let him live. It’s always interesting,” Garak concluded, “to discover what you can’t quite bring yourself to do.”
And what the hell was that supposed to mean? Sisko stared at the tailor and tried to unravel his words. Where did you start? With the deaths, Sisko guessed, and there were two standing between them: Vreenak’s and Roeder’s. Sisko was sure, as sure as it was possible to be with Garak, that the whole matter of Vreenak had just been closed between them. So this had to be about Roeder. I let him live…. Sisko pressed his fingers against his temple. Was Garak drawing a comparison with that and the choice that Sisko had faced as to whether or not he should shoot Roeder? Was Garak saying that he had been there himself; that he understood why Sisko would choose not to shoot? But that choice could well have cost Garak his life. Sisko had known that when he put his phaser down; had been ready to take that risk with Garak’s life to keep his own conscience clear, to take back his self-respect…and that was one hell of a risk to take with someone else’s life….
“Just let me get this straight, Garak,” Sisko said, his fingers still pressed hard against his head. “Are you offering me your forgiveness?”
An expression of mild consternation passed over Garak’s face. He stopped his work and looked directly at Sisko. “Do you require it?” he said.
Sisko had a flash of memory: of Roeder’s hand holding the phaser against Garak’s head; of his own hand, spread out flat upon the concrete of the ground.
“Maybe….”
“Then maybe,” Garak answered, as he turned away, “I am offering it.”
A quiet descended over the runabout. Sisko sat listening to the soft hum of the instrumentation. “I don’t think I realized until now,” he said, after a little while. “It’s not just a game to you after all, is it?”
Garak’s hand halted, the needle suspended in midair. He sat staring at his work. “After all this time,” he murmured, “and still you fail to understand me.” He was, Sisko realized, completely serious. He started sewing again. “Of course it’s a game, Captain. The great game.”
The sky had turned vermillion by the time the second ship arrived. The other moons had set, and Santa Helena filled the horizon, solitary and barren. Brixhta watched the squat shape of the ship as it descended; a dark smudge against the vivid purity of the sky. The ship landed. There was a short breath where nothing moved. Then a hatch on the side opened. Somebody disembarked, and came toward his position.
Brixhta revealed himself, and took a good look at the other. Quite a small man, sandy-haired. Not, he had to say, quite what he had been expecting. He stretched to claim ownership of the crate of latinum. This was when he became aware that the other man was holding a phaser.
“You’re not Roeder,” Brixhta said, in resignation.
“I’m not,” confirmed Luther Sloan.
In the wardroom, Sisko eyed his senior staff one by one. Odo was uncomfortable. O’Brien was wincing. Bashir looked disarmingly shamefaced; Kira looked frankly embarrassed. Dax had an unrepentant gleam in her eye, while Worf had the expression of someone vindicated in a deeply felt belief that it was best to do everything yourself.
“You know,” Sisko said, keeping his voice low and controlled, “when I left the station, I’m sure we had another runabout.” He looked at each one of them again. “Who wants to start?”
Kira squared her shoulders, took a deep breath, and opened her mouth. Before she could say a word, Odo began to speak.
“The whole affair, Captain,” he said, assuming a stern expression, “is—I believe—the fault of a single man. Brixhta.”
“Brixhta.”
“The Hamexi, Captain.”
“Ah yes. The Hamexi.”
“Yes, Captain. He deals in antiques.”
Sisko’s eyes went very narrow. “Antiques?” he said.
“Open the crate,” Sloan instructed.
The Hamexi obeyed, slowly. “You’re Federation,” he said. “What could you want with latinum?”
Sloan observed him without passion or pity. “It’s not the latinum,” he said. “Of course it’s not the latinum.” Keeping the phaser trained on the Hamexi, he reached with his other hand inside his jacket and drew out a padd. “Catch,” he said, and threw it over.
The Hamexi did as instructed.
“I’m going to read out some numbers,” Sloan said. “Key them into that padd. You’ll understand soon enough.”
Sloan picked out one of the vials, and read out the number engraved on it. Then he opened up the vial, and poured the latinum onto the ground. It pooled on the surface for a moment, before the thin soil accepted it and it slid into the earth forever. The Hamexi made a slight sound, as if he were in pain.
“I didn’t see you key in the number,” Sloan remarked. “Do you need me to read it out to you again?”
“No, no. I heard it.” The Hamexi busied himself with the padd.
“Good.” Sloan dropped the empty vial on the ground. He reached for another and read the number out. The Hamexi entered it obediently into the padd. Sloan opened the vial, and poured the latinum away. They followed this ritual for all of the vials. The sun grew heavy in the sky, the list of numbers on the padd grew longer, and the ground took the latinum.
When it was done, the numbers began to give up their secrets. Sloan himself had no need to look. He could picture the files that were appearing well enough. He already knew the details intimately: of changeling morphology, of the damage being done to it, of the designers and the perpetrators. Sloan knew all about the kind of knowledge that could make a man turn on the institutions that had nurtured him—or make a man believe those institutions had turned on him. Sloan knew about the wrongful weapons of a rightful war.
While the Hamexi examined the files, Sloan stared up at the fabulous sky. “I suppose Tomas intended to cross the border here,” he said, looking at Cardassian space.
“You do seem oddly familiar with the affairs of Tomas Roeder,” the Hamexi said.
“At one time,” Sloan co
nfessed, “I thought that he might be one of us.”
“And who, exactly, are you?”
Sloan felt a little pained by that question. “Don’t you know?”
“I believe I may have met your kind before.” The Hamexi held up the padd. “Why have you shown me this?”
“Perhaps I’m sentimental,” Sloan said. It was not intended to convince. “Perhaps I think a man should know what it is he’s going to die for.”
The Hamexi laughed; a full, melodic sound. “But now you’ve enlightened me about all your schemes. So surely,” he said, extending to touch the brim of his hat, “this is the point where I make an unlikely but dramatic escape?”
Sloan did not answer. Brixhta realized that he was not even looking at him, but absently gazing past into the unknowable space behind. The sun was setting. Santa Helena flared, and then was plunged into darkness. Its moment in history would have to wait a while yet.
Sloan nodded a command.
“No,” replied Enderby, right into Brixhta’s ear. “It isn’t.”
Odo stood for a moment outside the tailor’s shop, and then he went inside. The lights were dim, and he walked on to the back where, he assumed, Garak would be. Sure enough, the tailor was there, busy at his table. He looked up as Odo approached, and put down his work.
Odo tilted his head almost imperceptibly. “Welcome back,” he said, quickly.
Garak gave him a slow but courteous smile. “Thank you.”
Odo began to wander round the shop. He was conscious of Garak’s eyes upon him, following his every move. He waited for the tailor to speak first.
“I heard about the theft,” Garak said.
Odo nodded. “It’s been a frustrating few days,” he said. He came to a halt in front of one of the mannequins, and considered it.
“Was there something you thought I could do to help?” Garak prompted.
“As a matter of fact there was,” Odo said. He put out a finger to touch the mannequin. It was solid. “Do you recall the device that you used in our conversation on Tain’s flagship?”
Odo turned round. Garak was frozen to the spot, as motionless as one of his own mannequins. After a moment or two, Garak swallowed and seemed to collect himself. “I am hardly likely to forget it,” Garak said quietly. “And you’ll forgive my impertinence, but I was under the distinct impression that we were of the same mind when it came to remembering that whole regrettable incident—”
“We most certainly are,” Odo said firmly. “However, what appears to be a similar technology came to my attention while you were away from the station.” Odo knew that he was a master of understatement, but he also knew that Garak excelled at reading between the lines.
“I am very sorry to hear that, Odo,” Garak replied, and Odo suspected him of a rare piece of honesty when he said it.
“It kept me detained during the robbery,” Odo explained. “And I wondered whether you might have any thoughts on the matter. For example, how such a technology might have become more widely available?”
“Constable,” Garak said, in alarm, “I must assure you that I would not have—”
Odo gestured with his hand to stop him speaking. “I most certainly hope you wouldn’t,” he said dryly. “What I am asking is whether you would care to conjecture how else it might have become available?”
Garak wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “There are any number of ways,” he said, after a moment or two. “Not through the Obsidian Order.” He glanced at Odo again and held up his empty hands. “Of course.”
“The Tal Shiar?”
“Perhaps…Although it could as easily be Starfleet Intelligence,” Garak pointed out. “We shared all our information with them on our return, if you recall.”
“Did either of us have enough information to allow the development of such a device?”
“Probably not,” Garak conceded. “But we had enough to start them thinking about developing such a device.”
“Hmm.” Odo turned his attention briefly back to the mannequin. “Does that not concern you, Garak?” he said at last. “That it might have been acquired from Starfleet?”
“Information gets loose all the time, Odo,” Garak replied. “Any intelligence officer could tell you that; it is their greatest success and their deepest sorrow. Or are you thinking it was intentionally leaked?” Garak frowned, and Odo watched the tailor’s face as he ran through several options. “You’re not saying that Starfleet was behind this robbery?” Garak said.
Odo grunted. “No, I was thinking less in specifics and more in the general case. That Starfleet might choose to develop a technology of that kind.”
“I see,” Garak said. “Then, in answer to your question as to whether it concerns me, I would say that I believe that there are occasions when one has to use every weapon at hand.”
Odo tapped the dummy lightly. “That was what I thought you might say.”
“I’m horrified to discover myself so predictable,” Garak replied, “but I hope it helps. Not, I imagine, that it’s an answer you particularly care for.”
Another piece of honesty? Two in one evening? Odo felt honored. “Not particularly,” he said, paying Garak in the same coin. “But it helps to hear it articulated.” He nodded, and turned to leave. “Thank you, Garak. Good night.”
When Odo left, and the door closed after him, Garak took up his sewing again, worked for a while—then tutted, and began undoing the stitches. The constable’s questions had shaken him and not least, Garak knew, because if the chance ever came his way, he would do the same again. He would torture with impunity; he would rain fire down on the Great Link itself; he would do whatever it took, if it meant that the Dominion was destroyed and Cardassia saved. He suspected Odo knew it too. Carefully, patiently, Garak unpicked his work. When at last he had returned it to its earlier state, he put it back down onto the desktop, stood up, and looked around the shop.
It was hardly, Garak thought with a sigh, as if such chances presented themselves with great regularity. He thought of the patient and methodical questions posed to him by Chaplin and Marlow; thought of the slow but systematic way in which he had turned over the minutiae of his old life: security protocols, encryption codes…Such trifling betrayals. Garak chafed at these limits on his field of action but at least, he consoled himself, he was back at work.
Garak walked slowly over to the nearest mannequin and began to straighten the scarf it wore. It stood there, mute and patient, as he twisted the fabric slowly and thoughtfully through his fingers. There were other forces at work in Starfleet too, he thought. Forces unwilling to allow opposition to this war to become too powerful. Forces willing to blackmail men into murder. Forces that were indeed ready to use the weapons at hand. What else, Garak wondered, were they prepared to do? And who were these people? They were not the competent if circumspect Chaplins and Marlows of this universe; nor were they the stolid officers before whom he had sat on Starbase 375. They were not even the Benjamin Siskos of the universe: passionate about their principles, but just corruptible enough…Garak knew he had never really credited Starfleet Intelligence with, well, intelligence, but such ruthlessness from them was something else entirely. Something new.
For a moment, the idea amused him. Garak felt his lips curve into a slow smile. He tugged at both ends of the scarf. Perhaps, he thought, Starfleet even had its own Obsidian Order…. Had it always been there? Or had itcome about as a consequence of war? Was it Starfleet’s dark heart, he wondered—or was it on the fringes, a law entirely unto itself? Whatever it was, it did seem that at last some people—whether in Starfleet or without—were becoming serious about winning this war. And that, surely, had to be all to the good?
Garak went over to his worktable, grabbed the jacket folded over the back of the chair and, absently, began to smooth the creases out of it. All to the good? Whose good? The Federation’s, perhaps. But surely these serious and ruthless people would be seeking to have influence beyond that sphere; and, besides,
the Federation was not—and never had been—Garak’s chief concern. He shrugged his jacket on and looked uncertainly at the shadows crowding around the shop.
“So,” he said to the mannequin. “That’s that.”
Garak decided to head over to Quark’s. Because he couldn’t stay here, and stare at the walls, and think about Cardassia, falling into hands less constant than his own.
“Can I come in, Benjamin, or will you bite my head off?”
Sisko looked up to see Dax standing at the door of his office; still unrepentant, he noticed. “That depends, old man,” he murmured. “Are you coming to tell me someone’s stolen the wormhole from under your nose?”
Her smile widened. “Not that I’ve noticed.”
He waved her in. She took the seat opposite, watched him for a while with that smile still quirking at her lips, and then she became more somber. “I heard about Tomas Roeder.”
Sisko reached for the baseball. “A damn mess. Admiral Ross thinks he cracked under the pressure.”
“Is that what you think?”
“It’s the only thing that makes sense….” He shook his head. “A real tragedy. He was a clever man.”
“Curzon didn’t like him much,” Dax mused. “He thought he was cold.”
“That’s not fair,” Sisko murmured. “There was passion there….” He shifted the baseball from hand to hand. “What do you think went wrong, Dax?”
“With Roeder?”
“No, not just him. With all of us!” he said. “Our generation. James Leyton, Cal Hudson—hell, even Michael Eddington! What was it that drove them all away?” He clutched the ball within one hand.
“You’re still here,” Dax pointed out.
“Yes, I am.”
But it had been damn close.
“I know we use it as a shorthand,” Dax said, “but it’s the war, Benjamin. It changes everything.”
“Leyton told me he saw it coming, that he thought his mistake was moving too soon. But Cal? Michael Eddington?”
HollowMen Page 30
