Picard rested his chin upon his hand. He, too, contemplated the city. “As I read,” he said reflectively, “I became increasingly struck by the similarities with one of humanity’s great dystopian novels, Nineteen Eighty-four—”
“Yes!” Garak said. “What an excellent comparison to make!”
“How have you read so much human literature?” asked Picard.
“At one point I had more time on my hands than I knew what to do with,” Garak said. “Reading about home was too painful and, besides, given that I was surrounded by humans and looked likely to be in that calamitous condition for some time to come, I thought it best to learn something about you. Since hardly anyone would talk to me, I resorted to books—”
“What Elim is trying to say,” Parmak said, “is that he’s besotted with your culture.”
Garak frowned at his friend. “ ‘Besotted’ isn’t right. . . .”
“You prefer ‘enamored’?”
“I’d prefer . . . ‘intrigued.’”
Parmak smiled. “Whatever you say, Elim.”
“Thank you.” Garak turned to address Picard again. “But let us compare and contrast those books, Captain, because I believe you’re onto something. At the end of Orwell’s book, we are asked to picture a boot stamping on a human face forever.”
“An image of permanent conquest and the total obliteration of freedom,” Picard said. “Thus making it a very apt comparison with Meditations on a Crimson Shadow—”
“But that’s not how Preloc’s book ends,” Garak said. “This is exactly my point! How does Preloc’s book end? It ends with the human doctor finding the rose in the ruined chapel. Orwell’s book concerns the will to power—the lust in some of us always to dominate, always to try to extinguish dissenting voices. Preloc’s book does this too, yes, but she insists on the survival of an opposing dynamic. The desire for freedom, the irrepressible urge within each one of us to live according to our own lights. No boot in the face forever. Instead we have a rose among the ruins.”
Picard laughed and drained his glass. “That’s a very persuasive argument!”
“Yes, well, I’m a very persuasive man.”
“Don’t encourage him, Captain,” Parmak said. “He’s wrong on every count about Preloc, and the sooner he admits that, the better. He’s reading what he wants to find in that book, not what’s actually in it. How could Eleta Preloc, the darling of Central Command, have produced the book he thinks she wrote?”
“I can see it,” said Crusher slowly. “A book about surviving the end of the world with one’s spirit intact? What could be more Cardassian?”
Garak was smiling at her. “Thank you, Doctor Crusher. You have understood my point. Kelas, admit defeat.”
“You’re not all-conquering yet,” said Parmak. “But I’m content to leave the last word on the subject to the human doctor.”
Crusher raised her glass. “I’ll drink to that.”
* * *
After the captain and the doctor departed, Elim Garak and Kelas Parmak remained outside for a long while, amongst the memorials and the long shadows cast by the lamplight, and they were comfortable enough together not to talk. Garak pottered around peacefully, pulling a few weeds and deadheading some wilted flowers with the ruthlessness of the experienced gardener who knows that they will bloom again.
“I remember us rebuilding these, Elim,” Parmak said, at last, gesturing to the nearest of the memorials. “After Mondrig’s men kicked them down. It was dawn when we finished. You and I and Alon Ghemor stood here together and watched the sun rise. I was exhausted, but I remember feeling more hopeful than I’d ever been before in my life.” He rubbed his eye-ridge. “Poor Alon.”
Garak did not reply. Savagely, he dealt with some longweed that was winding its way around the mekla. Despite his offhand treatment of the subject over dinner, tomorrow’s debate was preying on his mind.
“Are you worried about Temet?” Parmak asked, watching him.
“I’m always worried about those who demonstrate lust for power. Always.”
“So what are you doing about it?”
“Besides tomorrow’s foolishness? What makes you think I’m doing anything else?”
“Elim . . .”
“What can I do, other than what I’m doing already, and what I’ve already done? I’ve spent my life in service to Cardassia, and I’ve done my best, in recent years, to atone for what I did in the past. I’ve tried to secure peace for our people. If those people now want to throw away all that hard work and elect a man like Evek Temet, then they’re welcome to him.”
Parmak smiled and shook his head. “You’re not going to let Evek Temet take power.”
“Well, fortunately for me, and as she is always keen to make clear to me, that is the castellan’s affair. My chief business is to ensure that relations between the Union and the Federation remain as cordial as they possibly can.”
“This is something I’ve never asked you about—why not an alliance with the Typhon Pact, Elim? Why the Khitomer Accords? I remember watching Klingon officers standing in the ruins of this city and laughing as they kicked their way through the dust. Why them, and not the Pact?”
Garak himself had pondered this when Bacco had made her offer of alliance. He too recalled scenes such as Parmak described, and they still rankled, deeply. But a Cardassian could look anywhere around the quadrant and see grudges and enemies. The difficulty was learning to look around and see friends.
“I like Nan Bacco,” he said.
“Forgive me, Elim, but that’s hardly grounds for an alliance—”
“No? What better grounds are there? If I like Nan Bacco—which I do—and she likes me—which I venture to suggest she might—then from that basic affinity grows friendship, and from that friendship grows trust. Isn’t this exactly what organizations such as HARF and our own reconstruction committees have hoped to achieve? To put former enemies alongside each other, and have them work together constructively, and from that to let friendship emerge? Don’t underestimate the importance of respect and friendship in diplomacy, Kelas. You can’t do deals with someone you don’t respect.”
“But the Klingons, Elim . . .”
“What’s that old saying? ‘My friends’ friends are not necessarily my enemies—’ ”
“That’s not an old saying; you just made it up.”
Garak smiled.
“Don’t be coy, Elim. Tell me what you’re thinking.”
Garak sat down and wiped the soil from his hands. Parmak, who knew him, had guessed correctly: there was indeed another motive behind his desire for this alliance. Something that went much deeper than calculating the odds and deciding that the Accords were a better bet for his world than the Pact. Softly, he said, “What we choose to do at this point in our history is critical for us, Kelas. I’m no longer willing to allow us to indulge our worst impulses. My intention is to remake the Cardassian soul.”
Parmak looked at him fondly, and with great compassion. “Nothing too ambitious, then?”
Garak laughed. “Merely a small project to keep my mind ticking over as I approach old age. And I must thank you for your contribution to my diplomatic efforts tonight, Kelas. I cannot think of anyone better to demonstrate to Captain Picard and Doctor Crusher that decency is a universal quality, and that not all our people lust for power.”
“So you do have Temet in mind.” Parmak all but rubbed his hands together. “I cannot wait for tomorrow. What are you going to do to him?”
“I’m going to do exactly what Rakena Garan’s aides tell me to do. Temet is unequivocally her business. She’s the one that has to secure a consensus in the Assembly to defeat him and remain castellan.” Garak looked longingly around his garden. “I’ve been thinking of retirement.”
Parmak snorted. “You? Retire? Don’t be ridiculous. You’ll die with your boots on.”
Garak shuddered. “Don’t say things like that.”
“This is why I don’t believe you’re
not playing some game,” Parmak said. “It doesn’t sound like you, letting someone else run the show.”
“I promise you, Kelas, I had no intention of finding myself exposed to such public scrutiny. I let my concentration slip for a moment, and the castellan volunteered me.”
“What do you have in mind for him?”
Garak shifted uneasily. “I could, of course, do what I did in the past. Pursue Temet with impunity. Set out to destroy him, and have him destroyed. But if I’ve learned anything from our bitter and bloody history, it’s that I cannot control everything, and that trying to do so only leads to murder. I’m not going to forget that. I’m never going to forget that.”
Parmak stood up. He went over to his friend and put his hand on his shoulder. “Good,” he said. “Good.”
They smiled at each other. Above them, a few faint stars twinkled in an obsidian sky.
“And so I have to trust our people,” Garak said, “will not fall for the lies of a man like Temet. In my heart, I believe that most of our compatriots feel the same as we do—that each of us who lived through those years bears some responsibility, however slight, for the calamity that overcame us, and that denying this will only bring us full circle. Perhaps destroy us for good, next time. Therefore it is incumbent upon each of us to prevent it happening ever again.”
“A lot of people suffered, Elim. It’s easier to blame than to accept blame.”
“I know. I also know that few have hands as bloody as mine. But in my heart, Kelas”—he tapped his chest—“I believe our people have become wise. They won’t listen to a Dukat again.”
“It’s good to hear you sounding optimistic.”
“Well, I wouldn’t go that far. . . .” Garak shivered, suddenly. “It’s getting colder. Shall we go inside? A game of kotra and kanar before bed?”
Parmak laughed. “But you always win, Elim!”
“And thus the time when you must win is surely close at hand.”
They clasped hands, and Parmak pulled Garak to his feet. “I’m not convinced of the logic of that,” Parmak said, but he accepted his inevitable fate, and they went inside, and closed the doors, and settled down opposite each other with the board in between. And, although the Cardassian ambassador to the Federation’s preoccupation with what might occur the following day allowed his opponent numerous unexpected openings, Parmak’s time did not, in fact, come. As the contest moved toward the endgame, Garak relaxed and secured a comfortable victory. But the board upon which he was accustomed to playing was set to change, irrevocably.
* * *
Next day the dust lay thick on the city, and Garak’s spirits were low as he made his way to his encounter with Temet. The castellan’s office had sent a skimmer for him and, as promised, the castellan also had sent one of her aides to brief Garak thoroughly. Garak looked out of the window at the fug. Watching the shadowy figures of the city dwellers, their faces hidden behind their masks, he could not find the heart to feign interest in what the young man was telling him. As the skimmer drew up outside the studios, the young man gave up.
“I know you’re going to do whatever you want, but please, Ambassador, please—don’t lose your temper.”
“Lose my temper?”
“Just try to remember that there’s an election coming.”
“I believe,” Garak said softly, “that I may have heard something about that.”
“The surest way for this to backfire further on the castellan is if somebody as closely associated with her as you are loses his temper. It makes us look out of control.”
“Be assured I’m perfectly in control.”
For some reason, this didn’t mollify his companion. Garak felt a twinge of conscience. He had no desire to make this young man’s day more stressful than it must be already. But he was truly angry at Evek Temet’s self-interested sabotage in what had constituted months of work on his own part. He was also, although he did not care to admit it, rather nervous. Garak looked out of the window of the skimmer and breathed in, slowly, as if to succor himself with the processed air of the skimmer.
“I promise to remain very calm,” he said.
“In which case, we might just get through this unscathed,” said his companion. “And I might still have a job by the end of today.”
When, Garak wondered, as they got out of the skimmer, had everyone become so rude? Cardassia had always been such a courteous place. This was the downside to everyone being able to say exactly what was on his or her mind, he supposed. At the entrance, another youth who was surely barely old enough to vote met them and whisked them briskly past security and through the building. A whole new industry, he thought, as they went through open-plan spaces filled with researchers and journalists and editors. Plenty to keep everyone busy. Perhaps we should have thought of this before. He realized that his presence was attracting considerable (if discreet) attention: heads turned as he passed, and lowered voices spread the news of who exactly this was. Garak’s unease grew. He’d spent a lifetime avoiding exposure. Now every step was bringing him closer to the spotlight.
He entered the studio. Bright lights. Holo-cameras. Plenty of action. Three comfortable seats arranged easily around a table, looking not remotely like an inquisition room. And yet, and yet, all these lights . . .
Garak looked around covertly. He counted three potential exits out before Ista Nemeny appeared, looking like the holder of a winning ticket in the Union lottery. No wonder. Getting Ambassador Garak to appear on this sideshow was surely going to be one of the coups of her career. Most likely she would pick up a professional award; be feted by her colleagues; devote a substantial portion of her eventual memoirs to the event . . .
“A pleasure to meet you face-to-face, Ambassador,” she said, offering her palm.
Garak lightly touched his palm against hers. “The pleasure is most surely mine.”
“You’re not nervous, are you?”
Garak laughed. She had the instincts of an interrogator. “It is on the whole more fun to be the one who is asking the questions.”
Someone standing nearby gave a small, involuntary gasp. Nemeny grayed, but her smile remained gamely in place. I must remember not to joke about the Obsidian Order in polite company, Garak thought. It’s not as if we were a laughing matter.
“This is a new world to me,” he said gently. “Perhaps you might explain what happens?”
Collecting herself, Nemeny walked him around the studio, running through the procedure. She introduced him to the show’s anchor, a stocky, white-haired man named Edek Mayrat who had a northern accent and who impressed Garak with his ability to look him fearlessly in the eye. Garak took his seat to Mayrat’s right, and therefore was ideally placed to watch the arrival of Evek Temet and his entourage.
He’d seen Temet on many ’casts, of course. You couldn’t get away from him these days. He was in his mid-thirties, and handsome, but in an obvious way that had never held much appeal for Garak. He had a clear speaking voice that sometimes shook (when he spoke about “our boys,” for example), and there was an intriguing uncertainty over where and how he had served during the Dominion War. Temet insisted he’d been on the Romulan Front, but records from that conflict were of course very fragmentary, and there weren’t many people left to confirm or deny his stories. A few months ago, a woman from a client world—a non-Cardassian—had claimed that she had been forced to serve the Cardassian unit stationed there as a comfort woman, and that Evek Temet had been one of her regular patrons. Unfortunately, the woman concerned had been exposed as ex-Maquis, and the furor that followed precipitated a breakdown that had necessitated her being hospitalized. The story had died a quiet death. There were many alive who did not want all of their actions during the dying days of Dominion rule to be subject to scrutiny. Still, a part of Garak yearned to have unfettered access to Evek Temet for a short while. Just for a short interview.
The young man, seeing Garak, smiled. “Ambassador,” he said. “Nobody from the castellan’s cam
p willing to come along?”
“You’d have to ask them,” said Garak. “I’m here to talk about my work.”
Brash music signaled the start of the ’cast. Garak didn’t take his eyes off Temet. Beads of sweat appeared on the young man’s brow. Perhaps it was the lights. Garak felt warm himself. Mayrat introduced them both (Garak appreciated the reference to his own impeccable war record alongside Damar) and then, as agreed, Mayrat turned to Temet first.
“Representative, your party has been at the forefront of criticizing the current administration’s handling of Starfleet’s withdrawal—”
“Indeed we have, and I have to say that it comes as no surprise to me that Rakena Garan has once again bowed to pressure and given her Federation allies unwarranted control over our affairs. It doesn’t suit the Federation or Starfleet to have a powerful Union on its doorstep.”
“Actually,” said Garak, “it does suit them to have a powerful Union on its doorstep—as long as it’s a free and democratic Union, and not some cut-rate version of our so-called glory days. Strong allies are good allies. Weak allies are a liability.”
“That’s beside the point,” Temet said. “What concerns me here is not so much the meddling in our affairs, but the signal this sends to the Cardassian people. It’s ten years now since the end of the Dominion War, and we have worked hard to rebuild our lives and our worlds after the devastation wrought upon us by the Jem’Hadar.”
Not just the Jem’Hadar, Garak thought. “Let us not forget that entry into the Dominion was met with dancing on the streets in many of our cities—”
“Yes, yes, we hear this all the time,” said Temet. “How long are we going to be punished for the crimes of those who went before us? When are we going to be allowed to move on from that whole sad affair?”
“A ‘sad affair’—?” Garak was speechless. Yes, he supposed, that was one way of characterizing the collapse of one’s civilization and the cruel proof of its hollow moral core. Although, Garak had to acknowledge, if you had spent part of the war raping women, you might indeed want to somehow “move on” from the whole business.
Star Trek: Fall 02: The Crimson Shadow Page 7