“Someone else should be doing this! Everything’s heating up in Torr, and you’re wasting me on this! Fereny is desperate for his first murder case.”
“I don’t want Fereny on this! I want you on this! Ari, I didn’t think I’d ever have to say this to you, but you will take me step-by-step through all that you’ve done on the Aleyni case.”
As she ran through it, Mhevet could see how it was embarrassingly little. She’d tracked his movements, but still there was the gap between entering North Torr and turning up dead in Munda’ar. She showed Kalanis the messages he and Zeya had received, but she had to confess that she had gotten no further tracing them back to their source. Mhevet explained that she believed his job would be worth exploring more for any hint that he might have been involved in intelligence work, but that she was unlikely to get close to anyone at Starfleet Intelligence right now.
“This is hardly anything, Ari,” Kalanis said, when she finished.
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“What about the kids?”
“What kids? Cam didn’t have any kids—”
“Ari! The kids who found the body! You’ve not spoken to them?” Kalanis shook her head. “Will you see to that as soon as possible? And please, Ari! Understand how important this is. I’m relying on you, more than ever.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Mhevet stood up. “I really am sorry, Reta.”
Kalanis relented slightly. “All right. Get on with it. Thanks for the tea.”
“You’re welcome.”
“But for the love of the Union, will you find a source of coffee in this city?”
“I’ll do my best.”
Fereny was hovering outside. “Trouble?”
“Nothing I can’t cope with,” Mhevet said.
“Anything I can do to help?”
Mhevet headed for the door. “Don’t let her get her hands on any coffee.”
Seven
Julian,
Have you ever wondered how you will be remembered? I’ve told you how, as a boy, I helped my father-uncle Tolan tend the memorial grounds to our great and good. How I longed that one day a great statue would be built in my memory, to honor me, and to be a physical symbol of all that I had achieved on Cardassia’s account. Latterly, I believed that the alliance might be that. In many ways, I’m still that same boy at heart.
But my reason tells me that none of us are remembered in the end. All our labors are ultimately fruitless. In the end, we’re all ashes and dust.
Garak
—not sent—
* * *
A warm wind, blowing up from the coast and through the city, had cleared away some of the haze, and the sky, bright yellow and startling, could now be seen. But anyone who had spent some time living in the Cardassian capital could have told you what this meant. From Elim Garak to Arati Mhevet, from Commander Margaret Fry up to the castellan herself—they all knew what the last warm wind of the year foretold. Later today the thunder would start: low, dry rumbles without rain. The night would be stifling, horribly hot, and so would most of the day after. Then the rain would come: relentless and red.
But for the moment, you could loosen your mask, and breathe, and be outside. It was a timely respite, allowing the people of the city to make their way toward the place where, once, the old memorial grounds had stood at the heart of the Tarlak sector. Nothing remained of these old triumphal markers that Elim Garak had tended as a boy: great towering monoliths commemorating the long line of guls and legates whose ambitions had brought Cardassia to her knees. Now there was only a single tall stone there, black as obsidian, pointing upward toward the sky like a finger lifted in censure or warning.
“Is this a monument to the particular memory of anyone?” Picard asked Fry, in a low voice.
They were sitting together on a small dais that had been raised near the stone. On Picard’s left side sat Garak and, beyond him, was the castellan. Various other dignitaries sat in the rows behind them: senior Federation figures from HARF and the embassy; other Starfleet personnel; not to mention members of the Cardassian Assembly and numerous other local officials. Picard had not failed to spot Evek Temet, sitting near the back. Altogether, about fifty people were seated here, but in the open ground beyond the black stone, many more thousands had gathered to pay their respects to the dead president of another civilization.
“No,” said Fry. “There’s a separate monument to Corat Damar over by what was once the Veteran’s Bridge, and there’s a stone garden to remember Alon Ghemor over by the new Assembly. But I don’t think that this obelisk was dedicated to a particular figure.”
“It is intended as a cenotaph in the truest sense, Captain,” Garak said. “An empty tomb remembering the dead who are buried elsewhere or who could not be found to be buried. Eight hundred million, give or take. Our reminder to ourselves of where we brought Cardassia.” The ambassador studied the gathering crowd. “I saw another in a city on Earth that I visited with Benjamin Sisko. I’ve seen others too. . . .” He sighed. “Do all civilizations create memorials like this? Empty tombs for the uncounted dead? If I thought about that too much, it could depress me.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Picard softly.
“We are not, on the whole, a religious people, Captain,” Garak said. “But we remember very well. And we understand this particular grief all too well.”
The memorial had a restraint that Picard had not expected from Cardassians who were presented with the opportunity to make speeches. There were a few speeches early on from city spokespeople who had been due to meet Bacco on her arrival: community organizers from Torr; a teacher from a free school; the director of an inoculation program in a rural district to the north. But these speeches were short and heartfelt. Perhaps Cardassians had come to feel that funerals were not to be lingered over. Perhaps they had become too experienced at conveying their grief succinctly.
After these speeches, there was a short procession. Ten of the people sitting on the dais, Picard included, carried scarlet flowers to put at the base of the black pillar. Garak had explained the significance of the particular flowers to him earlier; they were perek flowers, traditional for funeral services. As they performed the task, a chant rose up: Nanietta Bacco’s name, said nine times nine. It started at the dais, but spread quickly around the whole gathering, her name picked up and lifted by thousands of people to fill the hard yellow sky. When the chanting finished, silence fell and it seemed to Picard that Bacco’s name echoed for some time after. When all was quiet again, the castellan stepped forward to make her own speech.
Then it happened. Picard didn’t notice at first. He had been deeply moved by the chant, and his head was down. The castellan, in a clear and dignified voice, began to address the gathering. “Friends,” she said. And then Picard heard Fry gasp, and Garak hissed under his breath and whispered, “I’ll destroy you for this!”
Turning his head to see what was happening, Picard saw Evek Temet and two young men on either side of him covering their mouths with black cloth. At first, Picard thought that they were putting on dust masks. And then he grasped what the gesture was supposed to symbolize: We have been silenced. We have not been permitted to speak.
* * *
“Did you hear what happened over at the black pillar?” Fereny could hardly contain himself. No, Mhevet thought. Because I try not to listen to the ’casts. Because our boss told us to obey Directive 964. “Why don’t you bring me up to speed?”
“During the speeches, the representatives from Cardassia First took out gags and put them on. You know, because the castellan wouldn’t let them speak.”
“I think I get the symbolism.”
“Preposterous behavior,” said Istek, whose instincts always led him toward any potential fight. “There were people there from Starfleet and the Federation. People who’ve been here for years, helping out. It’s a national disgrace—”
Patrak, coming over, was more than willing to give Istek what he was looking for. They’re we
lcome to tear each other apart, Mhevet thought, only I wish they wouldn’t do it on top of my desk.
“Temet was only trying to say what many people are thinking,” Patrak said. “The terms of the withdrawal are unfair! So much for free speech when the castellan won’t let you speak—”
“A commemoration ceremony for somebody who’s been murdered is hardly the place to make a political point—”
“Where else can he make it? The castellan won’t debate with him. She didn’t even send anyone from her administration to debate with him. She sent that ambassador. . . . What’s his name again?”
“Garak,” said Fereny.
Istek smiled happily. “And didn’t he wipe the floor with your precious leader? Cardassia First!” He laughed. “I’d pay good leks to see Elim Garak take on Evek Temet again.”
Mhevet stood up and picked up her bag. “I suggest you all get back to work, gentlemen,” she said. “Kalanis wouldn’t like this.” They wandered off and settled down, but she knew that once she was out of the door it would start again. Fereny, watching her get ready to leave, said, “Anything I can do, Ari?”
“No, all fine.”
Which it most certainly wasn’t, Mhevet thought, as she drove out to Torr. A low roll of thunder accompanied her as she turned onto the road that led into the east part of the district. Temet’s latest gesture was sure to rouse passions beyond the offices of the city constabulary, and Mhevet was starting to get a bad feeling about how this day might end. It was getting hotter, not cooler, and heat had always been part of what triggered violence on Cardassia Prime. People who couldn’t sleep went outside and got angry with one another.
Mhevet took the skimmer along a wide street of busy shops, passing an open-air food market and pulling up outside one of the apartment blocks that made up the district. She stopped briefly at the market to pick out some leya fruit to take as a gift. Heading back over to the tenement, she rang the buzzer for a loft on the top floor. While Mhevet waited, she looked down the street. She had lived near here for a while after quitting the constabulary, and she had become immersed in the district’s busy life. Eventually she’d moved on. The area was a shadow of its old, vibrant self, but the people who had survived, and those who had returned, were doing their best to put something of that old spirit back into the place.
The buzzer sounded to let her inside the building. Entering, Mhevet strode up the stairs to the loft. She hammered on the door and a Cardassian female opened up.
“Ari,” she said, in surprise. “What brings you here?”
“Just passing. How are you doing, Irian?”
The woman glanced back worriedly over her shoulder. “I’m fine. How are you?”
“The usual.” Mhevet looked past Irian into the loft. “Is she about?”
“Yes, but I don’t think she’ll be pleased to see you.”
“I only want a quick word.”
With a sigh, Irian opened the door wider and let Mhevet enter. The loft was small, but it was overflowing with books and pamphlets and some gorgeous artwork: weavings from the north continent; Federation-style batik; an Oralian Way mask. Gifts from friends; part of the informal economy that had always operated in this part of town. There was a comforting smell of homemade aytlik soup. Mhevet felt a pang of nostalgia for the time she had spent here. But those days were gone, and she’d chosen to leave them behind and would have to live with the consequences of that decision.
At the kitchen table, another Cardassian female was sitting hunched over a battered old personal comm, bashing away at what Mhevet assumed was her latest article. Probably about what had just happened at the black pillar.
The woman looked up from her writing. Her face darkened at the sight of Mhevet. “What are you doing here?”
Mhevet held her hand. “Hi, Coranis.”
“You’ve got a nerve coming here—”
“Sit down, Ari,” said Irian. “I’ll get you some ettaberry tea. Iced?”
“Great, yes,” Mhevet said, wiping her brow and sitting at the table. Irian kept up a steady stream of calm small talk about the heat, the inevitable forthcoming storm, and the astonishing fact of ice for the tea. When the tea arrived, Mhevet brought out her own token of friendship, the bag of fruit from the market. Irian took one of the leya fruit and bit into it with evident pleasure. Coranis had been glowering the whole time.
“So,” Mhevet said. “Plans this evening?”
The two women glanced at each other. “Are you here on official business?” asked Irian.
Technically, of course, Mhevet was no longer overseeing operations monitoring extremist and radical activity across Torr, so she couldn’t be here on official business even if she wanted. But these two didn’t need to know that. “I’m here as a friend.”
“A friend?” Coranis gave a bitter laugh. “Nobody who wears the badge you do is a friend of ours.”
“Nonsense,” said Mhevet, firmly. She’d heard this many times before. “But anyone who intends, for example, to take advantage of a hot night and go and make the streets of Torr a little less safe will be pushing at the limits of my patience.”
“Make Torr less safe?” Coranis was openmouthed. “How can you come here and say that to us? Do you know what’s going on in the north end—?”
“Of course I know—”
“People are being attacked. Their businesses are being destroyed. Where are you and your people when that’s happening, Ari? Why are you turning a blind eye? Are your friends in the constabulary earning a little on the side from all that?”
Mhevet took a long, slow sip of cooling tea. “That’s a serious accusation, Coranis. If you have any evidence of connections between organized crime in North Torr and the city constabulary, I suggest you tell me—”
“Evidence?”
“Don’t scoff. You’ve no idea the amount of hard work and effort that goes into what we do. If I tried to lock someone up without proof, you’d be the first one screaming abuse of power—”
“If you want evidence, you just have to spend an evening in North Torr with your eyes open,” Coranis shot back. “But I guess that’s too dangerous for you and your brave colleagues over at the department. You leave the place to gangsters, and then you have the nerve to come around here and tell us not to cause trouble. The trouble’s already happening. Why aren’t you stopping it?”
“Why do you think confronting these people is the best way to stop the trouble from escalating?”
“Somebody’s got to make it clear to these bastards that they can’t get away with what they’re doing. These people are dirt, Ari. They’re trying to rule by force. Somebody’s got to do something about it—”
“That’s what the constabulary is for—”
“But will you stop them?”
“Of course we will.”
“Are you sure? Are you sure which side your people are on? I remember when the constabularies shot people in East Torr for walking down the street together and saying what they thought—”
“Not this constabulary,” Mhevet said firmly. “That was years ago, Coranis. We’re different people now.”
“You’re still there.”
“I quit because of what happened then!”
“But how do we know who else has survived from those days?” Irian said softly. “We might be able to trust you, but who else is still there?”
Mhevet ran her finger around the rim of her glass. “We wouldn’t have let anyone back in who was involved with that. Nobody who took an order that originated from Skrain Dukat serves in the constabulary—”
“Skrain Dukat’s long dead,” said Coranis. “That battle’s over. It’s the people listening to Evek Temet who we’re worried about.”
Irian picked up the jug of tea and refilled Mhevet’s glass. Quietly, she said, “Can you really tell us that you don’t have colleagues who think Evek Temet is the best thing to happen to Cardassia in a decade? I bet they’re all younger too. I bet they don’t remember much before the Do
minion. Life’s always been a struggle for them, and they’re sick of it. They’re sick of hearing about atoning for crimes that they didn’t commit, and they want to feel good about themselves.”
Mhevet rubbed her cheek.
“See what we mean?” asked Coranis. “You can’t expect us to rely on the constabularies. We made that mistake once, and we’ll never make it again. Yes, yes—perhaps we do trust you to do the right thing, and perhaps even some of your colleagues, but we’re not going to fool ourselves that people like you will always be in charge. There are others there—there are always others there—waiting to crawl out from under their stones. They stole our Union from us once before, and they brought us to the Fire. That’s not going to happen again. We won’t let it happen again.”
Mhevet put down her glass. “You know I have some sympathy with what you’re saying,” she said. “But all this . . .” She gestured around the room, taking in the posters, the books, the pamphlets, Coranis’s latest half-written call to arms. “You’re keeping the Fire burning. This won’t bring stability.”
“Cardassia was stable for a long time under the Obsidian Order, Ari,” Irian pointed out quietly. “But at what price?”
“You should have stuck with us,” said Coranis. “You shouldn’t have gone back to the other side. Have you ever considered maybe that’s why we don’t trust you? We thought you were one of us, and then you crossed over to the other side.”
“I’m not the other side! Why can’t you understand that? We’re not the same constabulary that existed under the Dominion, and we’re not the same one that was let loose in East Torr! Don’t you understand that’s why I went back? To make sure that the constabularies would never fail like that again? I’ve worked very hard to make sure of that. It’s not made me popular, but it was the right thing to do.”
“And are you? Sure of it?”
Obscurely, Mhevet found herself thinking about coffee. “Of course I am! How could I be part of it otherwise? We’re here to serve and protect you.”
Star Trek: Typhon Pact - 10 - The Fall: The Crimson Shadow Page 13
