Putting aside the lights, putting aside everything, Garak addressed himself directly to Temet. Eye to eye. Better men than Temet had broken under that gaze. “It has been my observation,” Garak said, “that people who play with fire tend to get burned. Take care, Representative. I’d hate to see you . . .” He pondered the correct word. “Combust.”
Temet produced a close facsimile of outrage. “Ambassador, was that a threat?”
Slowly, carefully, as mindful of the effect of how he moved as he had always been in these face-to-face encounters, Garak placed both hands in front of him and leaned forward.
“Young man,” he said, holding Temet’s eye and not blinking, “I am nothing more than a servant of the Union. What threat could I make that could possibly strike fear into your heart?”
A chill descended upon the studio. The specter of the old Order now loomed very large; a dark shadow over the arena of debate. Nobody spoke. From the corner of his eye, Garak saw Nemeny mouthing frantically at Mayrat: Say something! He seized the moment before it disappeared.
“Memories seem to be very short on Prime these days,” Garak said. “So let me remind you”—he swept his hand outward—“let me remind anyone who happens to be watching, of the reasoning behind the treaty that we signed at the end of the Dominion War. What happened to our Union was a tragedy, but a tragedy substantially of our own making. Dukat . . .” As he said the name, Garak realized how rarely it was said this day, and how much like a hammer blow it sounded. Still, it had to be said. People had to remember that name. Finding the holo-camera, Garak addressed the Union. “Skrain Dukat found fertile soil here for his lies. We let him loose, and now we live with the consequences of the fire he brought down upon us. Corat Damar and then Alon Ghemor tried to bring us back from that. Now Castellan Garan is doing the same. What has Representative Temet done other than encourage fire starters? I knew Corat Damar. I knew Alon Ghemor.” He turned to face his enemy. “You are no Corat Damar. You are no Alon Ghemor.”
Garak stopped and let all the implications of that statement seep through. Mayrat got there first. “Are you implying that Temet has more in common with . . . with another former leader? That’s something of a comparison to make—”
“I stand by it,” Garak said. Impatiently, he waved his hand. “I have no time for these games. Either we are serious in our attempt to remake ourselves, or we are not. But I condemn in the strongest terms this man’s attempts to make his name at the expense of our collective future. You’re playing with fire, Temet. Our Union deserves better.”
Garak stopped. I think I’ve said everything I wanted to say. At a signal from Nemeny, Mayrat began to wrap up the show. When the cameras had stopped, Temet rose from his seat and stalked out without a word.
Garak stood up more slowly. He looked around the silent studio, indisputably ruler of all he surveyed. Nobody spoke to him or met his eye. Eventually, Nemeny, after a short whispered conference with Mayrat, approached him.
“Well,” she said. “That was . . . must-see broadcasting.”
“We’ve gone through a great deal to achieve freedom of speech,” Garak said, letting his voice carry around the room. “It seems a shame to waste it on telling lies to each other.”
Unexpectedly, Nemeny smiled. “You’re not hearing any complaint from me, Ambassador.”
“Nor from me,” said Mayrat, and he leaned forward to press his hand against Garak’s. “I enjoyed that. I hope you’ll come and speak to us again, Ambassador.”
“With the greatest of respect, I’d rather be eviscerated.”
Mayrat smiled. “I don’t think that’s likely to happen. Not on this channel.”
Nemeny and Mayrat escorted him from the room like an honor guard. Outside, the castellan’s aide was standing with one hand to his forehead. Garak, stopping in front of him, said, “Was that the kind of thing you had in mind?”
The aide didn’t reply. Garak, hearing the soft buzz of the personal comm in his pocket, took it out and read a message from Parmak: Dying with your boots on, Elim?
Four
Dear Doctor,
I enclose the following holo-recording without further comment other than to note that I was press-ganged into performing this duty and did not request it.
EG
* * *
So far this new job had been easy money for Rakhat Blok. The man with the smile and the data card welcomed his call and invited him to come and meet him at the same geleta house before it opened for the evening.
The house was empty, with that musty air that lingers around all drinking holes when the clientele are not there to provide life and color. Two big men stood at the door, barring entrance. Seeing Blok, they let him in and without a word one of them took him to a small booth at the back of the house. Blok’s new friend, who went by the name of Dekreny, was sitting there.
Dekreny was wearing an expensive suit and displaying on the table in front of him several state-of-the-art communication devices. Blok, instructed by the wave of a hand, sat down opposite. Two small glasses of kanar materialized, and then Blok was intensively grilled about his childhood on that remote client world (dull); his time as a foot soldier (dull with occasional moments of terror); his opinions on the Romulans (unkind), the Klingons (unspeakable), Starfleet (unprintable); and his hopes for the future (ill-defined).
Eventually, Dekreny stopped asking questions. He drained his glass and clicked his fingers. One of the big men appeared. “This is Leng,” Dekreny said. “He’ll show you around.”
Blok stood up. Uncertainly, he said, “Does that mean I have a job?”
Dekreny smiled. “Of course you do, son. Just do what Leng tells you, and you won’t be short of money again.”
That had been slightly over a week ago. Since then, Blok hadn’t done very much. With some money Leng gave him, and following specific instructions, he went and bought himself some smarter clothes. Then all he had to do, it seemed, was turn up at the geleta house at the same time every night and look big. The locals, the company he’d talked to that first night, jeered when they saw him in his new clothes, then cheered and bought him drinks. Now he was like a piece of the furniture, comfortable and familiar.
One night, just as Blok was about to head over to the house, Leng contacted him and instructed him to wait on the street corner instead. Blok waited for a while, worrying he’d got the wrong place, and then a big skimmer pulled up. Leng hopped out and told Blok to drive. He directed him out to the very southeast of Torr, a desolate area where ruined tenements backed onto the shells of unreconstructed industrial units. They stopped outside one of these, in better condition than the rest. Blok, at Leng’s instruction, stayed in the skimmer, at the controls. Looking in the mirror, he saw two other men, both wearing dust masks, come out of the shadows to talk to Leng. He watched as they opened up the big sealed door on the nearest unit. Then he watched a group of females—maybe seven or eight of them; small, most of them, petite—shuffle out and into the back of the skimmer. Some were crying; some were simply shocked. He stopped looking before they were all inside.
Leng got back into the passenger seat, and they set off. They drove in silence for a while, along the empty nighttime perimeter route that looped around the south of the city. Eventually Leng said, “You all right with this?” and Blok said, “None of my business.” They dropped their cargo off on the western edge of the city at a big building with a high wall around it and lots of security lights that came on suddenly and flooded the place with a harsh glare. Blok stayed in the skimmer throughout and this time put on music. Afterward, Leng dropped him off at his corner, and Blok went home and slept until mid-afternoon. Then he went to the geleta house, which he did the day after, and the day after that.
This evening, Dekreny sat at the back as usual. Blok and Leng stood around and did whatever he asked, which was mostly bring him drinks and clients. The mood of the company, however, was more fractious than on most nights. The big screen on the wall kept showing pieces of
a debate that had happened earlier in the day between a politician called Temet and a man called Garak who wasn’t a politician but who had obviously outclassed the other man. The company—who seemed to be big fans of Temet—was furious about the whole thing.
“Who does this Garak think he is anyway?” one of them asked. “Has anyone ever cast a vote for him? Evek Temet is a member of the Assembly—”
“I heard he’s hardly been on Cardassia Prime the last twenty years,” someone said. “He’s been living with Bajorans and humans. What does he know about Cardassia?”
“To be fair,” someone else pointed out, “he’s got a good war record, or so they say. Didn’t they say that at the start?”
“He said Temet was like Dukat as if it was a bad thing,” someone at the back muttered. “It was Damar that got us into trouble with the Dominion.”
Still, whatever their opinion, he’d certainly pummeled Temet in that debate. So much so that the representative had arranged for another interview, this one on the steps of the New Assembly, with the new big building behind him. He looked very serious and businesslike.
“What the ambassador doesn’t understand,” Temet was saying, “is these constraints on our military spending are a double betrayal. Not only is there the implication—offensive, of course—that we can’t be trusted simply to defend ourselves responsibly, but this has practical consequences for people’s lives. The research, the development, the manufacturing—all of this could bring jobs to Prime and to other parts of the Union and help our economic reconstruction. It’s as if the Federation—and the other Khitomer powers—don’t want us strong and equal again. And these are supposed to be our allies! The ambassador seems to think that these people are our friends—and they might be his friends. But I say, with friends like this—”
“Allies,” someone said, and spat on the floor.
“I wonder how it got out about that spending limit,” Blok said. A couple of people sitting next to him looked up. Blok didn’t talk much; he stood there mostly. “You’d think they’d want to keep a lid on it.”
“So let me remind the people of the city that Cardassia First will be holding a rally, in two days’ time, outside the Headquarters of the Allied Reconstruction Force. And I say to everyone who’s concerned about this agreement, everyone who’s concerned what it means for their lives and jobs, and who doesn’t want to see Cardassians as second-class partners in this or any alliance, that you’re right to be concerned, and you should come out and let yourself be heard.”
“What I mean is,” Blok said, “you’d think they’d want to be extra careful. So I wonder how it got out.”
One of the people next to him, the man with the white scar, gave him a cold smile. “Don’t you know? Because we’re everywhere. People like us—we’re everywhere. The constabularies, the civil service, the CIB.” He laughed. “A hundred people could have leaked that document. A thousand.” He looked at Temet, looked at him hungrily. “They can’t stop us. We’ll be in charge soon. Rakena Garan’s a dead woman walking.”
Blok turned back to the screen. A woman was speaking now, a woman with flashing eyes and a fierce way of talking.
“If Evek Temet wants people to show how they feel, then we’ll show him. We showed him and his thugs in Cemet, and we’ll show him in the capital. He can claim he talks for the people, but the people will show him what they really think. We won’t be lied to by men like Evek Temet ever again, and we won’t let men like Evek Temet take charge again.”
“Bring it on, gorgeous,” said the man with the white scar. “We’re ready for you.”
A rumble of agreement passed around the room. Blok, looking around, suddenly realized how much they loved this. How much they reveled in it. How they were spoiling for a fight.
From behind him, he heard the snap of Dekreny’s fingers. Obediently, he went back. Dekreny smiled at his prompt arrival.
“Blok,” he said. “I’ve got a job for you tonight. Let’s see if you’re up to it. Leng will go with you, show you the ropes.” He looked past Blok’s shoulder. “And because it’s such an important job, I’m sending Colak with you too.”
Blok looked behind him. Colak, it turned out, was the man with the white scar, the one who thought the castellan was a dead woman walking.
“Just to make sure that everything goes smoothly,” said Dekreny. “Do you understand, Blok?”
And Rakhat Blok thought that he was indeed beginning to understand, very well.
* * *
Arati Mhevet sat at her desk in the darkening office. A file of statements from HARF personnel about their last sightings of Aleyni Cam lingered unread on the padd before her, and she had not followed up the analysis into the images Aleyni Zeya had given her. She was breaking her own rules and listening to a newscast. A woman who called herself “a representative of an East Torr residents’ organizing committee” was being interviewed about her opinions of the rally promised by Cardassia First.
“It’s a disgrace,” she said. “Starfleet has done more to put the Union back on its feet than most of the representatives in the Assembly combined. Where was Evek Temet during the first days of the reconstruction? Nobody has ever answered that question. But Starfleet was here. They had no reason to help us but they did, and they kept helping even during the Borg crisis when they surely could have made better use of their resources—”
As Mhevet listened, her heart sank lower and lower. She agreed with everything the woman was saying, but the tone of it—angry, hostile—increasingly disturbed her. As she brooded over this, a shadow fell across her desk. She looked up to see Tret Fereny, bearing two cups of red leaf tea.
“You’re looking glum,” he said. “Trouble?”
“Cardassia First can send as many people as it likes to harass our friends in the Federation. But we’ll be there to show our support. They won’t win. Never again—”
Mhevet reached out and switched off the ’cast. “Not yet. But there might be.”
Fereny eased himself into the chair opposite. “There’s always trouble in Torr, or about to be trouble. That’s the nature of the place.”
“Mmm.” It hadn’t always been like that though. Once upon a time it had been a proud place, full of hardworking people who helped each other. But they’d gotten into a habit of mistrust, letting what kept them apart from the rest of Cardassia run so deep that they expressed themselves in violence. “There are some deep divisions in Torr, I agree. But people there have more in common than they like to admit. I wish they’d realize that.”
“I don’t see that the people of North Torr and East Torr have much in common, Ari. Different aspirations, different politics—”
“They all suffered the same at the hands of the Jem’Hadar.”
“I’m sure you know the place better than I do.” Fereny’s eye fell on the padds. “How’s the Aleyni case going?”
“Oh, you know . . .”
“Do you need me to handle anything for you?”
“I’ll cope,” she said. “It’s routine.”
“I wouldn’t know,” he said, and sighed. “Still not been let loose on a murder case. Still, I suppose it makes sense to have you handle it, given your links with HARF. The whole case must be even more sensitive now. Sounds like things are more strained than ever between the government and the Federation.”
Mhevet idly examined the first file. “I think it will take more than the death of a lieutenant to destroy an alliance.”
“You think so? You sure it’s not a sign that there’s a deeper problem?”
Mhevet scrolled the file up and down. Words whizzed past, empty of meaning. “What do you mean, Tret?”
“Come on, Ari. I know you. Nothing gets past you. You must know which way the wind is blowing around here.”
“I’m still not with you.”
“Ari, they’ve stopped serving human coffee in the canteen. There was a directive about it from on high. A directive. About the coffee. The human coffee.”
She blinked at him. Go on.
“It just seems to me that people who are considered friendly with the Federation might find themselves suddenly on the outside once they’ve gone.” He nodded back down the corridor. Toward Kalanis’s office. “Nobody wants to find themselves out in the cold,” he said, and gave her a meaningful look.
Mhevet closed the file and switched off the padd. “If you did know me,” she said, and stood up, “you’d know I never discuss politics at work. Directive 964. None of us should.” Harsh, perhaps, since the directive was increasingly honored more in the breach than in the observance, but she wasn’t going to break it herself.
The young man looked mortified. “Ari, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you. I just wanted to hear what you thought—”
“Don’t worry. Thanks for the tea, Tret,” she said, and left.
She drove around aimlessly for a while, through the dusty evening, pondering what Fereny had said, and wondering too whether friendship between the Federation and the Union was indeed an impossible dream. Mhevet did not like to think that this might be the case. She had worked well with many Starfleet personnel over the years. Was that all over now? Was that friendship coming to an end? Had it only ever been temporary? Why did so many of her compatriots hate these people who had only come to help, and who had not, on the whole, blamed ordinary Cardassians for the calamity that they had brought upon themselves?
At the next junction, Mhevet swung the skimmer around and headed toward the north end of Torr. She passed through the once-familiar streets, remembering old times here when her family had been intact, and she stopped at last outside a small geleta house. She sat for a while in the skimmer, contemplating her next move, and watching a few familiar faces go in. At last, she got out of the skimmer and went inside.
Conversation stopped immediately. The company glared at her, united in their hatred. “Well, well, well,” someone said from the back, “look who’s come to visit.”
Star Trek: Typhon Pact - 10 - The Fall: The Crimson Shadow Page 8
