Star Trek: Typhon Pact - 10 - The Fall: The Crimson Shadow

by Una McCormack

  The president reflected upon this. “I’m not convinced that Garak is the best choice for us,” he said at last.

  “It’s not our concern who the Cardassian people choose to be their castellan, but I believe the ambassador is the best choice for the Federation.”

  “Over Evek Temet?”

  “Garak is a good friend to the Federation, sir,” Picard said, with conviction. “And I would go so far as to say that a Temet-led Cardassian Union is a disaster in the making for us.”

  Ishan looked at him sharply. “How so?”

  “He’s isolationist—I would say a borderline xenophobic. My sense is that with Temet leading the Union, its rearmament would quickly accelerate, and the Union might even slip into civil war. There are people here who will not accept Temet as their leader if he pushes certain policies forward. Do we genuinely want an unstable but heavily armed Cardassia on our doorstep? How well has that suited us in the past?”

  “But Garak?” said Ishan. “You can’t seriously prefer Garak?”

  “I do,” said Picard. “I think Elim Garak is probably the best friend the Federation has on Cardassia.” Damn, thought Picard, hearing himself. I genuinely mean that. And, yes, he is a good friend.

  If complicated.

  President Ishan sat in quiet thought. “Much as it pains me to say anything in favor of a former Order man,” he said eventually, “I suspect you’re right. I certainly don’t want to see one of our closest neighbors destabilized, and I suspect Ambassador Garak is probably the best choice to prevent that from happening.”

  “In which case, might I offer a suggestion, sir?”

  “Go ahead, Captain.”

  “As a signal of support toward the ambassador, we should indicate that we are prepared to discuss a timetable for the removal of our personnel from Cardassia Prime.” Quietly, he said, “They’re not Starfleet, sir, not in the main. They are doctors, health workers, educationalists, specialists in social policy. We can make good use of them elsewhere. And, if the worst happens, and the Cardassian Union does elect Evek Temet and moves closer to civil war, we will be putting good people in danger leaving them here.”

  Ishan pondered this. “Very well,” he said at last. “We’ll start moving forward on this again.”

  Picard breathed out. Starfleet would be gone, he thought, by the end of the year, before the new castellan was installed. Rakena Garan would still have the honor of being the castellan who oversaw the liberation of Cardassia. “Thank you, sir. Both Ambassador Garak and Commander Fry will be very pleased to hear that.”

  * * *

  Garak saw the final cut of his interview with Mayrat at home, in the company of Parmak. He watched his friend covertly throughout. It was, he thought, rather like watching a dust storm gather. When they reached the part where Garak announced his candidacy for the castellanship, Parmak made a soft hissing noise, which he swiftly cut off, and listened to the rest of the interview in stony silence. Mayrat finished with a long summary of Garak’s impeccable credentials for the post:

  “With long experience in security matters, an unimpeachable war record, and a lifetime of public service—”

  “ ‘Public service’?” Parmak muttered. “That’s one way of putting it.”

  “I liked ‘unimpeachable,’ ” Garak said.

  “—not to mention his prior role as adviser—and personal friend—to Alon Ghemor and well-established relations with our major allies, the ambassador is surely an impressive candidate for the role. Other pretenders to the position”—Mayrat looked knowingly at his audience—“might struggle to present themselves as equally qualified. And the ambassador’s campaign, although new, has been met with positive responses from some significant quarters. The president pro tem of the Federation has already signaled that the delayed withdrawal of Starfleet personnel from Prime is now once again moving forward. . . .”

  The piece ended. Garak waited.

  “Well,” said Parmak, putting down his glass with a clatter. “I think I can guess whose side he’s going to be on throughout the upcoming cavalcade of speeches and meetings.”

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Garak said. “I want to assure you that this is not a decision I came to lightly.”

  Parmak stood up and walked toward the window. The memorials were just about visible in the dusk. “You know your own mind best, of course. I doubt there’s anything I could say to stop you doing this. Besides, it all seems well under way already.”

  Garak put down his glass and stood up. He walked over to join Parmak. Slowly, hesitantly, he put his hand on the other man’s arm. “Don’t be angry with me. I don’t think I could bear that.”

  “Why would I be angry with you?”

  “Why would you not?”

  “I’m not angry . . . !” Parmak shook his head. “No, I’m not. I’m truly not. But I am worried about you. What I want to know is—are you sure about this, Elim? Are you sure that this is the best choice for you?”

  Garak didn’t reply for a while. He turned to look out of the window at the battered city that lay before them. Eventually, he said, in a low voice, “I’m less sure of this than I have been of anything in my life, Kelas. You know the kind of man my father was. You know what power did to him. He was monstrous. As monstrous as Dukat—no, more so, because of how long he was able to indulge his excesses. And for years I molded myself in his image. I tried to make myself like him. You know that better than anyone. . . .” He took a deep breath. “Nobody died this time, Kelas. At least, not by my hand. I played the game, yes—but I did not initiate it, and I did not . . . I did not do all that I might once have done.”

  Parmak turned and put his hand upon Garak’s shoulder. “You’re not like him now,” he said. “You haven’t been for a long time.”

  “I hope that’s true. I’m terrified it might not be true.”

  “I know it’s true,” said Parmak, patting his friend’s shoulder. “Do you think you can win?”

  Garak gave him a crooked smile.

  “Do you want to win?”

  “I certainly don’t want to lose.”

  “You mean to Temet?”

  “I mean at all.”

  “Will you feel safe out there, out in the public eye?”

  “With all that security surrounding me? I’ll be the safest I’ve been since I joined the Obsidian Order. And . . .” Garak swallowed. “And there’s the scrutiny, Kelas. The checks and the balances. Most of all, I’ll be safe from myself.”

  “I see. So you’ll be safe, from everyone up to and including yourself. Good. But will you be happy, Elim?”

  “Probably not. Have you met the kind of idiot who gets elected to the Assembly? I imagine I’ll spend most of my time infuriated. But I certainly won’t be bored.”

  Parmak sighed. “I suspect you won’t. And I suspect I won’t get bored watching you.”

  A slow smile curved across the lips of Cardassia’s most irrepressible son. “Who knows? It might even turn out to be fun.”

  Twelve

  My dear doctor—a brief note to let you know that I am not dead (yet) but may soon be castellan. Longer letter to follow.

  Yours in the pursuit of peace, order, and good government,

  EG

  * * *

  Mhevet came up to Fereny on his blind side. Leaning over his shoulder, she whispered, “We can step outside into the corridor, or I can arrest you in front of everyone. The choice is yours, Tret.”

  He looked up at her, wide-eyed with shock.

  “Come on,” she said softly, helping him to his feet. “There’s no need to make a scene.”

  When it was all done, she came back up from the holding area. Nobody was working. She walked across the room. They stopped talking and watched her progress.

  “There are going to be some changes around here,” she said, coming to a halt in front of them. “Listen. I don’t care what your politics are. I don’t care whether you think we should be friends with the Federation or take th
e chance to break free of them and find our own way. Chances are the truth lies somewhere in the middle. What I care about is this organization—not for its own sake, but for what it does and how it does it. I don’t care what you believe. I only care what you do as a result. And if you lie, and cheat, and murder, then I’m coming after you. Because those days on Cardassia are over. We’re watching now—people like me—we’re watching out for the signs of corruption, and if you’re a creature of the shadows, we’ll find you, and we’ll bring you out into the light, and you’ll burn in the glare.”

  Mhevet looked around. “Have I made myself clear?”

  There was a silence.

  “Have I made myself clear?”

  There was a general noise of agreement. “Thank you for your attention. All right. I want someone to go out to those old industrial units in southeast Torr, and I want someone to go to this address on the west edge. And will somebody else please go and sort out the coffee supply?”

  * * *

  When Mhevet next went into Kalanis’s office, she put two bags down onto the other woman’s desk.

  “I was going to get them ground,” she said. “But Lieutenant Šmrhová said no. She said to put them in small bags, freeze them, and only grind them as you need them. Isn’t that strange that we never knew to do that? Nobody ever mentioned that. Anyway, these are to say I’m sorry. I didn’t realize what you were trying to do, and I must have been an extra worry exactly when you didn’t need one.”

  Kalanis opened one of the bags. They both savored the warm blissful scent that pervaded the room. “Where on Prime did you find these?”

  “Lieutenant Šmrhová gave them to me. Apparently I was mainlining the stuff the whole time I was at HARF.”

  Kalanis dug into the bag and brought out a handful of the beans. She pressed her nose against them and inhaled deeply. “You realize this addiction might become a problem after Starfleet goes?”

  “I hope not. I hope some things are here to stay.”

  Kalanis smiled for the first time in months. “You know I’m moving sideways?”

  “Sideways and up, isn’t it? Lucky CIB. Keep an eye out for my friend—”

  “Erelya Fhret. Yes, I’ve got plans for her. And for you too.” Kalanis pushed a padd across the desk. Mhevet read it and opened her mouth to query the contents.

  “It will have to go through the usual channels, of course,” Kalanis said. “There’s no guarantee. But if you’re not this side of the desk in a few weeks’ time, I suspect there’ll be a lot of questions asked.” She gave her protégée a steady look. “Are you ready, Ari? There can be no more hiding away. No more pretending that problems will solve themselves. You’ll be a target, a point of focus. People will be gunning for you, trying to catch you out, and trying to get around you to promote their own agendas. And always you’ll never be quite sure whether they’re simply opportunists or servants of something more shadowy.”

  Mhevet thought of the conversation she’d had with the ambassador—was it really only the night before?

  I don’t want to be Obsidian Order.

  None of us do.

  The old Order was dead, she knew that, and she was glad, because the Order had become the problem, not the solution. But the purpose, the original purpose—to watch the people who served Cardassia, to hold in check their worst instincts—that made sense. Perhaps the error had been in formalizing this purpose around an institution, she thought, and then giving that institution free rein. In doing so, the Cardassian people had outsourced their consciences and relieved themselves of the burden of self-scrutiny.

  We tricked ourselves, she thought, when we handed this responsibility over to others. It’s the duty of each one of us; it’s the service we require from one another.

  “I’m ready, Reta,” she said.

  “Good.” Kalanis ran her fingers through the precious beans. “Do you have something to grind these with?”

  “No.” She hadn’t thought of that. “Do you?”

  * * *

  Choosing which book would make a suitable gift for Ambassador Garak had proven a difficult task, and it was not until just before their meeting that Picard made his final decision. Most of his choices had, on reflection, seemed obvious; the others he was sure that Garak would know already. He had wanted to find something obscure, but not too obscure, and worthy of the ambassador’s attention. He was, after all, going to be a very busy man for the foreseeable future.

  When Garak arrived, the first thing he did was to offer his thanks. “I must express my gratitude for everything that you have done for me over the past few days.”

  “All I did was to make sure that you were safe, Ambassador. The rest was all your own doing.”

  “Yes, indeed.” Garak raised an eye-ridge. “And I’m willing to accept the consequences of everything I’ve done over the past few days. But this is not the first time that the Federation has given me sanctuary. I won’t forget it.”

  “I wish you the very best of luck with your forthcoming campaign, Ambassador. You are a friend to the Federation.”

  “I was a friend of Nan Bacco, Captain. I intend to make sure that her legacy—our alliance—remains intact.”

  “I spoke to the president before you arrived,” Picard said. “He asked me to tell you that as a further gesture of goodwill toward the Union, he will drop the limit on military spending that was proving such an embarrassing aspect of the withdrawal agreement.”

  A smile twitched across Garak’s mouth. “That will rather take the wind out of Temet’s sails.”

  “I believe that may have been the intent.”

  Garak’s eyes narrowed. “Your temporary leader is not, I think, a man naturally disposed to make friendly gestures toward us?”

  “No,” agreed Picard.

  “Which leads me to suspect other hands at work in securing this concession.”

  “That may have been the case.”

  “Then again—I am very grateful to you, Captain Picard.”

  “None of us wishes to see Nan Bacco’s legacy squandered,” Picard replied. “And it is incumbent upon all of us to ensure that.” He waved a hand. “That was the least I could do.”

  “And . . . may I ask what you intend to do with the information that has caused us all such grief over the past few days?”

  That a Cardassian was Bacco’s murderer, he meant. Picard tugged his uniform, straightening it. What could he say to President Ishan? A Bajoran: a man who had lived through the horrors of the Occupation, who had inherited a Federation reeling from a profound blow, and who had shown himself willing to make harsh decisions. “I don’t know,” he said, honestly. “I don’t know yet what’s for the best.”

  “I will naturally trust you to make the decision you believe is best for us all,” said Garak. “But, please—remember that the alliance is paramount. It’s what will secure lasting peace between our civilizations. It’s infinitely more important than presidents, or castellans—”

  “—or captains,” Picard said. “I understand, Ambassador. Thank you for trusting me.”

  “I cannot think of anyone I could trust more.”

  Garak made to get up, and Picard reached across his desk for the book. “For your library,” he said.

  Garak, taking the volume, looked deeply touched. “Captain, how kind of you! I certainly didn’t expect my gift to be reciprocated!”

  “It’s been difficult to select something for a man like you.” Picard gestured toward the pile of books he had considered and rejected. “I assumed you already knew The Prince.”

  “I’ll send you my annotations,” Garak deadpanned.

  “And I saw a complete set of Austen in your home.”

  “Who could be without the sublime Jane?”

  “Doctor Faustus I suspected you had read.”

  Garak smiled. “More than once.”

  “So in the end I chose this. I didn’t think you’d know it. But I thought you might enjoy it.”

  He watched
the ambassador examine the book. It had a bright yellow cover with a red dash on the front like a splatter of paint or blood, across which stalked a black cat. The author’s name was in black too: Булгáков. Garak traced his finger across the script and mouthed the syllables.

  “I only regret it doesn’t have the personal connection of your own gift,” Picard said, “but it’s a fine edition nonetheless. Do you know it?”

  “I don’t,” said Garak. “What happens?”

  “It all starts,” said Picard, “when the Devil arrives in Moscow.”

  To Picard’s relief, Garak began to laugh. “Oh, yes? And the cat?”

  Picard smiled. “You’ll see.”

  * * *

  The Riding Club was nearly empty, and those who were there were drinking alone. Who was in the mood for socializing with Nan Bacco dead?

  Glinn Dygan, deep in thought, did not notice at first when someone sat down opposite him.

  “Hey,” Šmrhová said at last. “Are you going to finish that so I can get you another?”

  Dygan drained his glass. “I think I should be ordering.”

  “Don’t let me stop you.”

  Their drinks arrived, and Dygan eyed his balefully. It didn’t help, not really. No wonder that there weren’t many people here tonight. “You don’t let much trouble you, do you, Aneta?”

  “That’s not true, but I’ll take it as a compliment.”

  “I don’t mean to be rude. What I mean is—you don’t agonize over decisions. You don’t worry about whether something is the right thing or the wrong thing to do. You just get on with it.”

  “Security doesn’t allow for me to take my time to make a decision,” Šmrhová said. “That’s the quickest way to get myself killed, not to mention anyone who happens to be in my charge. I know right from wrong.”

  “Did you get into trouble for beaming us into the compound? You know you probably saved our lives.”

  “I didn’t get into trouble.”

  “No?”

  “No. If you want to thank anyone, thank Commander Worf. Anyway, if I did get into trouble, that’s my problem, not yours. I’ll live with the consequences of my actions.” Šmrhová looked at him carefully. “What did you do that’s troubling you?”