But Garak’s heart lay elsewhere. At the center of the district was a bustling open market, and passing through this, either by foot or across the narrow walkways covered in graffiti, or going by tram down the narrow streets, one quickly came to East Torr. There was little money here either, but the eastern part of Torr had a very different flavor from the north side. Here, migrants from client worlds had often found a home, and more so since the end of the war, when many of these worlds had been left derelict, and they brought with them their own distinctive foods and fashions. Students too were drawn to eastern Torr—both from U of U and from the old technical schools—looking for cheap rent and ease of access to their classes across the walkways onto the campus. One could even sometimes find the odd scion of an old wealthy family, slumming it among the service grades, sharing an apartment that had been bought by their parents, renting out the remaining space to other students, the rich extracting more money from the poor in time-honored fashion. East Torr had a buzz about it: it was here, in the days before Dukat seized power, that the civilian freedom movement had found fertile ground. It was here where troops had, once upon a time, opened fire upon a peaceful march of protestors who were asking for free elections. The pride of the easterners was no less than that of the northerners, but for different reasons. This was where the exiles drifted, those who lived beyond the families and institutions of the old Cardassia, those whose entire existence was precarious. Even as castellan, Garak felt precarious. He had been convinced at an early age of his own conditionality; he had never entirely shaken off the sense that he was, ultimately, disposable.
He loved to come here. He loved its variety, its liveliness, the sense he had that if he ever hit rock bottom again, he could find a space here, crawl into it, and make a home. And he loved its vibrancy. East Torr was where many of the most exciting artistic initiatives of the Union often started, in the attics of tenements and the spaces behind geleta houses, in murals on the end of blocks and the dry walls of parched and tiny stone gardens, and its current residents had revived this tradition.
This was what brought Castellan Elim Garak to East Torr late this spring morning, to an exhibition of art exploring the shared themes in Cardassian and Bajoran visual art. The gallery had opened the previous year, with support from the People’s Artistic Fund, a new program of which the castellan was a trustee. He was directly involved in choosing which projects to finance. This particular project, proposed by a group calling themselves the Friends of Bajor, had immediately attracted his attention, and the centerpiece of this exhibition was a painting loaned by the castellan, a painting by a promising young artist whose career had been cut short before it had started: Tora Ziyal.
Garak had come today intent on enjoying himself, putting aside his current worries, and although there were necessarily many formalities related to declaring the exhibition open, and much small talk to be endured, he was enjoying himself. In part, this was because the pieces displayed had been chosen with great sensitivity and, given the small space, demonstrated an impressive variety of skill in numerous media: paint, ceramics, fabrics, and holo. He was particularly drawn to a tapestry banner using threads spun from both Cardassian and Bajoran natural fibers, combining bold Cardassian colors with more pastel Bajoran shades. It depicted the liberation of both capital cities, with ordinary people up front and center. He was considering asking whether this piece could be displayed in his official residence, and he had already quietly contacted Akret to get her to run background checks on the artist before he gave her his official endorsement.
But the artwork was not the only reason Garak was enjoying himself. He was also greatly amused by his hosts. The Friends of Bajor turned out to be a deadly earnest group, serious and high-minded. One or two of them even sported Bajoran earrings: Garak assumed that there was some mixed heritage here that legitimized this choice; otherwise it struck him as a massive lapse in taste. Of course, it was hardly the kind of question one could easily ask, although he had, by more subtle means of interrogation, established the backgrounds of some of the artists present. He was in the midst of listening to an achingly young ceramic artist dressed in flowing Bajoran robes explain how her work explored themes of spirituality across both cultures and how she hoped to spend some time next year at a Bajoran monastery, when, from the corner of his eye, he became aware of someone trying to catch his attention. He glanced over, saw Arati Mhevet, and his heart sank.
“Please excuse me,” he murmured. “I must speak to a colleague briefly.”
He extricated himself and went over to join her.
“This had better be good,” he said.
“It’s not,” she said. “Antok’s files on Enigma have gotten into the public domain.”
Garak didn’t move a muscle and kept a bland smile on his face as Mhevet handed him a padd. Quickly he digested the contents of her brief. Yes, the files were out there, and the ’casts were rapidly picking up the story. Natima Lang, he thought, was about to find out how good her press person was. “Thank you,” Garak said, handing the padd back.
Mhevet tucked the padd under her arm. “Is that all?”
“What else would you like me to say? We have yet to ascertain whether or not any of this is true. If false, we can dismiss this as an attempt to discredit the professor and investigate who is responsible. If true, Natima will have to answer questions about the case. For me to say anything would be inappropriate.”
She gave him a look that was full of doubt. Did she really think that he was responsible? “Any news on Pulaski?”
“Were you expecting any?” she said.
“I’d assumed,” he said coolly, “that the constabulary would be exerting all of its powers to find her.”
“We are. It’s almost as if there are forces ensuring she will not be found.”
“If there are,” said Garak, “I’m sure you’ll discover them.”
“No sign of Antok either,” said Mhevet. “Since you ask.”
“I’d assumed not,” said Garak. “Otherwise you would have mentioned it.”
“I wish that . . .” Mhevet began, and then stopped.
“Go on,” he said.
She looked around the room. There were a few people looking at them with interest. “No, it’s okay. I’m sorry to have disturbed your morning. There was no need. I just . . . I didn’t want you to be blindsided by this. I’ll contact you via comm if I hear anything more. I just thought you’d want to know.”
She turned to leave, and he reached out with his hand, barring her. “I did want to know,” he said. “Thank you, Arati. Please don’t worry. We’ll get to the bottom of all this.” He smiled. “Why not stay for a while? Come and look at the art. I think you’d like it.”
Mhevet had grown up in East Torr, he knew, and she had been born in the north. She was part of this place; whereas for all his fancies, he would always be grafted here. “I’d love to,” she said, “but I’ve got to get back to work. Enjoy the show.”
He nodded, and she left, with a smile, but he had seen the doubt in her eyes. He watched her go, regretfully, and turned back to his hosts.
* * *
Lang was deep in preparation for her final meeting before she went away, reading the draft of a promising student’s thesis on the history of the enigma tale. All studies such as these in the new Cardassia were, by necessity, also archaeological tasks. The literature of an entire culture had, in its physical form, gone up in flames when the Jem’Hadar had set out on its task of not only exterminating the Cardassian species, but destroying all evidence of its existence: architecture, art, literature, and music. Much of the work conducted by Lang’s students these days involved tracking down lost texts: chasing leads on client worlds where small holdings sometimes revealed tiny but lovingly kept libraries; begging copies from other powers; chasing down the files of dissidents, who had kept their own secret archives during the glory days of the Obsidian
Order. Lang’s own texts had been purged from most public and private archives long before the Dominion occupation, when she had defected. She frequently counted her blessings on this score: her own writings had survived as a result of her taking them with her. But many of the sources she had used were no longer in existence in any form. Such cruelty, she thought; the Founders had acted with such cruelty when they had given their orders. Every single working day Lang grieved for something that was lost, and she knew that her colleagues studying in other art forms experienced the same sorrow. Whole schools of art were no longer in existence. Whole musical forms had been silenced. Some dances would forever go undanced.
The student whose work she was reading had tracked this process of literary archaeology with great sensitivity. The thesis was much more than a piece of scholarship: it was a personal exploration of loss. Reta Ghemeny’s mother had been a writer—she had written enigma tales, in fact, very popular ones that had sold well. She had been murdered by the Jem’Hadar in the capital on the last day of the war, although the little girl, Reta, who had been evacuated to the countryside and was staying with a grand-father, had survived. Ghemeny’s thesis discussed the process of trying to locate her mother’s work after the Fire, reading much of it for the first time, analyzing the stories within the broader tradition of the enigma tale, and of getting to know her mother through her writing, and coming to terms with her death and the loss of her world. It was a superb piece of work that had on several occasions brought tears to Lang’s eyes. All the loss, all the pain, all the years spent sifting through burned fragments of what had once been their great and subtle civilization—Ghemeny captured all of this. In the description of searching for her mother’s work—hunting out tiny libraries on distant client worlds, begging for favors from the archives of other powers, sifting through the rubble of the Central Archive here in the capital—Reta somehow found a story of hope, of renewal, of the possibility of connection with the past. Sometimes, something was found.
There was a tap on the door. Lang, irritated, looked up. She liked to be totally immersed when reading student work, particularly at this advanced level; some of her best ideas arose from responding to her students. But now her concentration had been disturbed. “Come in,” she said, leaning back in her chair.
It was, of course, Servek, peering around the door with an expression of apology on her face that came close to simpering. Steadily and politely, Lang said, “How can I help?”
“I am so sorry, Professor,” Servek said, “but there’s something on the ’casts that I think you should probably see.”
Lang looked down at the padd. She was almost done with Reta’s thesis—barely a dozen pages left. “I’ll look when I’ve finished this,” she said.
“Really, Professor,” said Servek apologetically, “I think you should look now.” She came into the room and, taking what Lang thought was quite the liberty, turned on the small oval viewscreen on the far wall.
“Servek—”
“Please, Professor. You must.”
Lang, trying to conceal her frustration, stood up and went over to the screen. Servek had put on one of the newscasts. To Lang’s amazement, she saw her own face on there, and she realized that her own career was being dissected. She moved closer, her attention now completely riveted. Slowly, and with the help of the tickertape, she began to piece together the story of the day.
“Oh my stars,” she whispered. “Children . . .”
“Professor, I’m so sorry.”
Lang turned to Servek. “I don’t understand—”
“Some files have gotten into the public domain. From before the end of the Occupation. And . . .” Servek looked pained. “Your name is on them.”
“But there were children involved,” said Lang. “Children.”
There was a pause. Lang turned back to the view-screen.
“Professor,” Servek said at last, “you should go away for a while.”
Lang, barely able to drag her attention away from what she was seeing, turned to Servek. “I beg your pardon?”
“Go away for a while. Until all this blows over.”
“I am going away.”
“I mean today.”
“That’s impossible—I have a tutorial tomorrow—”
“Your student won’t mind—”
“Reta’s very close to submission—”
“You can speak to her—”
“This is her thesis I’m talking about! Her license to teach and research.”
Servek stared back at her, and, not for the first time, Lang wondered whether this woman actually understood what a university did.
“I’m sure it’s very important to her, Professor,” she said, “but you have to think of the university’s reputation—”
“The university’s reputation?”
The comm on Lang’s desk began to buzz furiously. Lang, striding back to her desk to answer, found that Servek was ahead of her, switching the console to offer a general message. “Servek,” said Lang, her voice stern, “what do you think you’re doing?”
“That’ll be the press office,” said Servek. “They’ll want to speak to you.”
“I have no problem with that—”
“Professor, listen to me! Go away. I’ll tell the press office you’re aware of what’s happening, that you have nothing to say, and that you’ve decided to start your vacation early. I’ll contact this student too. She’ll understand.” Catching Lang’s expression, Servek hurried on. “She can come out and see you at the house, can’t she? Out in the country. I bet she’d like that. You can talk through her essay—”
“Her thesis. Her doctoral thesis.”
“Okay, yes. You can still talk it through, but not here. Professor—the best thing for you right now is not to be around.”
“But there’s nothing to this,” Lang said. “It’s a mistake. I should go out and deny it.” She made a move to the door, but again Servek was there.
“Professor, that doesn’t matter. They’re not interested in whether or not it’s true. They’re interested in filling their ’casts. Don’t fall into that trap. Go away and let the press office handle it.” She coaxed Lang back to her chair. “Finish your reading. I’ll go and change your ticket. You can be on your way by the end of the day. Trust me, Professor—this is the best thing to do.”
Lang looked down at her student’s draft. Servek was already back at the door. “Servek,” she called out, “you don’t believe I had anything to do with this, do you?”
The other woman’s split second of hesitation told Lang everything she needed to know. “Of course not, Professor. Of course not.”
* * *
Garak left the gallery as soon as he decently could, and with considerable private disappointment. He had been looking forward to the event, and, perhaps inevitably, the whole thing had been thrown completely off the rails by Mhevet’s appearance. He tutted to himself. She could easily have let him know that the story was about to break via his private comm, and she should have known better than to come to this event in person. It drew attention to their relationship that they really shouldn’t allow. He wondered whether he had made a mistake allowing her such access to him. It could easily be misconstrued. But she had been so impressive during the events surrounding Bacco’s death, so solid, and she had so clearly understood the nature of her tasks in the new Cardassia. He sighed. He often thought that it was a mistake letting people in, but the simple fact was that he couldn’t do this job alone. Not and remain sane. Not and remain on the right side of the law. Garak had isolated himself before, and he knew where that led. Into the echo chamber of his own mind, where he was always able to find a justification for the most terrible actions. No, he could not run that risk, not now, and certainly not in this role, when the power he held was so great and the stakes were so high. The truth was, he needed Mhevet. He needed he
r scrutiny, and he needed her to ask him the difficult questions that she was asking. He was angry at her seeming lack of trust, but this was what he had asked her to do. To watch him and to tell him when she was afraid.
The air quality was markedly worse today. The dust had always had a tendency to linger in Torr, down in the bowl of the river, with the buildings cramped so close together. Garak stood on the steps of the gallery, flanked by bodyguards, waiting for the official skimmer to arrive. He coughed and rubbed his eyes. “Sorry for the delay, sir,” one of the bodyguards said. “I should’ve remembered the masks.”
“That’s all right. It’s come a little earlier this year, I think.”
“This skimmer should be here,” the guard said darkly, looking up at the high tenements, as if every window or doorway might contain an assassin or two. Garak smiled to himself. His personal comm chimed, and he lifted it out to see a message from Parmak. Sorry it’s been spoiled, it said. Garak had a pang of guilt. He had a feeling that he had not been treating Parmak well in recent weeks, and he needed some time with the other man to make amends. They needed to talk about . . .
About Bashir. As if Garak could put any of that into words, other than what he so often found himself saying.
I’m sorry, Kelas. Please—forgive me.
The big skimmer pulled up, smoothly and quietly. Garak took a step forward, but before he could reach its sanctuary, there were some yells and cries, and he looked around to see a whole flock of journalists coming his way. He thought about making a quick dive into the skimmer, but there was no way to achieve that and maintain his usual urbane dignity, and the thought of how it would play on the ’casts held him back. He would hear what they had to say about Lang, offer some bland pleasantries, and then go on his way. “Gentlemen, ladies,” he said as they screeched to a halt in front of him, “how nice to see your familiar faces! How gratified I am at the attention you pay to my schedule!”
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