Worf sighed. “We can only hope not.”
* * *
Sitting on a bench inside a quiet stone garden, Mhevet peered through the dim day, watching for her friend’s arrival. Erelya Fhret was at the Cardassian Intelligence Bureau. Mhevet had worked with her often during the early days of the reconstruction of both the constabularies and the intelligence services. The peculiar demands of that time, what they had required from the people who had been there and willing to push through the necessary changes, had formed a bond that cut across organizations. Mhevet and Fhret probably had more in common than many of the newer people they worked alongside now.
Fhret had agreed to meet on condition it was somewhere private. Mhevet had suggested a tiny eatery near the department building that they used many times before, but Fhret had suggested this place instead and hinted that she couldn’t stay long. So Mhevet had grabbed a makeshift lunch of feyt and warm flatbreads. The flatbreads were cooling. Fhret was late.
The dust was thick in the air. Mhevet was suffering behind her mask. She was about to give up, when she saw a figure emerge from the gloom. Masked. She raised her hand, tentatively, and then with more confidence when she saw the smart clothes and elegant hairstyle. Yes, this was Fhret. Mhevet moved along the bench to let her friend sit down.
“What have you got there?” Erelya’s voice was muffled behind her mask.
“Nothing special.”
“Anything’s fine. I’m starving. Working us like hounds at the moment. You know, big scare on.”
Mhevet split the breads between them. They dug into the feyt, expert at eating in a way that meant their food didn’t get coated with the red grit. Between mouthfuls, Mhevet explained that she wanted to check out her suspicion that Aleyni was connected to Starfleet Intelligence. “His assignment would take him to North Torr—but during the day, during school hours. What would take him there at night? A Bajoran, in North Torr, at night? It must have been important. And, really—‘cultural liaison officer’? I’m not stupid. I bet that’s your info too.”
“Actually, mine says information analyst.” Fhret munched on her bread. “You realize you’re not going to get anywhere near Starfleet Intelligence now?”
“I know.”
“Have you got any water?”
Mhevet handed over a bottle. “I thought you might be able to help.”
Fhret drank deeply. When she was done, she passed the bottle back to Mhevet and put her mask back on. “Sorry, Ari. This time I can’t.”
“But I’m stuck—”
“You’re going to have to resort to good old-fashioned donkey work, I’m afraid.”
Mhevet looked closely at her friend. She seemed tense, taut. “Is there something going on over at your place, Erelya?”
Fhret looked at her sharply: two bright stars of eyes glinting from an otherwise hidden face. “Why? Is there something going on over at yours?”
“Well, you can’t get coffee there any longer.”
“Coffee?” Fhret gave a dry laugh, like something was scraping along the back of her throat. “I bet you’re going mad.”
“Kalanis is behaving strangely—”
“Withdrawal. You two are basically junkies—”
“She took me out of North Torr. Put me on this murder case.”
“Oh, I see! So that’s why you’re hoping there’s another angle.”
“No, it’s not that . . .”
“What, then?”
Mhevet rubbed her eyes. “You must feel it too.” She lowered her voice, although there was nobody around. “They’re going. The Federation. And people are getting ready to make a move.”
“People?”
“I don’t know. Just people. It’s like . . . any day now all bets are off. People are maneuvering. Getting ready.”
“People.” Fhret brushed some crumbs from her beautiful smart dark suit. “Thanks for lunch, Ari. Sorry I can’t help.”
“Is that it?”
“I said I couldn’t help this time. But . . .” She glanced around. “I’m getting out, Ari.”
“What?”
“I won’t be there soon. I don’t want to be pushed, so I’ll jump first. Maybe you should think about doing the same. Hey, we could go into partnership. Fhret and Mhevet, Private Investigators.”
“Mhevet and Fhret. Why would I leave?”
Fhret shrugged. “You’re Fed-friendly too, aren’t you? Take care of yourself, Ari. Keep your head down. Who knows—being stuck on a routine murder case might be the safest place you could find yourself right now. I’ll be in touch. I’ll bring you a contract. Make you an offer you can’t refuse.” She stood and faded away into the haze.
* * *
The captain of the Federation flagship sat in the castellan’s office, accepting the offer of ettaberry tea, though he had a guilty conscience. He drank a little, welcoming the soothing effect upon his mouth, and then cleared his throat and began to relay President Ishan’s new policy. His audience of two, listening to what he had to say, was reacting in very different ways. The castellan was staring at him in undisguised horror. The ambassador, however, had acquired a blank expression that was doing very little to allay Picard’s concerns.
Rakena Garan collected herself. “Does President Ishan understand the position that this puts me in? I’ve staked my political reputation on this alliance. I’ve put all my weight behind this agreement, permitting terms about which I had some misgivings, about which both Ambassador Garak and I had misgivings.” She turned to Garak, perhaps hoping for some support, but he was sitting perfectly still. “And now the Federation wishes to renege on this?”
“Not renege,” Picard said firmly, hoping this was true. “Simply to delay for a while. I sympathize entirely with your position.” And he did. What was meant to be a diplomatic triumph for the castellan was rapidly turning instead into a political nightmare. “Castellan, as far as I’m concerned, nothing about our alliance has changed. This is a delay, nothing more. But do, please, understand the president’s position. We have been attacked, and we have no idea who has committed this terrible crime against us—”
“A Bajoran is being held, yes?” asked the castellan. “Does this not suggest that this is an internal matter, some grievance over their world’s admittance into the Federation?”
“Castellan, the investigation has barely begun—”
“A delay in the formal signing of the withdrawal agreement I could understand. It would hardly be appropriate to go ahead, given that Nan Bacco was meant to be in attendance. But from what you seem to be saying, this is intended to be a prelude to a review of the whole agreement.”
Picard glanced across at Garak, still motionless and expressionless in his chair, hearing everything, giving away nothing.
“Am I correct?”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Picard.
“Captain Picard,” the castellan said, “is this the first step to ending the alliance between our civilizations?”
Garak jerked forward. Firmly, Picard replied, “That would be a great shame, Castellan, when we have hardly had the chance to get to know each other.”
“Yet you don’t seem prepared to deny it!”
Finally, Garak spoke. “Moving back from the withdrawal. Pulling your people into your installations. You’re treating us like criminals, Captain,” he said quietly. “And yet we’re guilty of nothing.” The castellan choked back a short cry of distress. Picard noted that Garak had his hand upon hers. “Rakena,” he continued softly. “Remember how it was when Alon Ghemor died. Remember how distressing a time that was for us, and how we looked to our own defenses. Our friends within the Federation are surely experiencing something very similar now. I do not believe,” he said, his blue eyes fixed upon Picard, “that this signals a return to the old hostilities. Let us be patient with one another, while the shock passes. Let us not say anything rash, or do anything rash. Nan Bacco deserves better.”
He had known her too, Picard thought, looking down into his
cup. Worked with her, dealt with her. They both did. This is not only our grief.
The castellan pushed Garak’s hand away and sat back with one hand covering her face. Garak watched her for a while and then turned to look out of the window. Eventually, the castellan collected herself.
“Very well,” she said. “Cardassia will wait. Captain Picard, you must make your superiors understand—the longer this continues, the greater the damage will be done to me. I am your friend, the best you have here on Cardassia. If I go, people less friendly toward you may gain power. The Federation might not like what replaces me. I hope you can make President Ishan understand this.”
Dismissed, the captain offered, “Castellan, I shall endeavor to do so.”
Garak followed Picard out, and they stood together in the small room beyond the castellan’s office.
“Captain,” Garak said, in a low voice. “Please allow me to express my shock and grief at this news.”
“Thank you.”
“I understand the shock waves that are passing among you now. Your beautiful Federation. Its generous, hospitable people. Unbearable!” Garak shook his head. “Captain, I am committed to Cardassia’s role as a full partner in this alliance—no, not simply a partner, a friend. I know your world very well. I’ve long understood what we can learn from the Federation.”
“You understand that my hands are tied?” Picard asked quietly. “I must follow my orders.”
“I understand. But I also understand that castellans and presidents do not last forever and that we are players in a longer game.” Garak reached out, tentatively, and touched Picard upon the shoulder: a surprisingly consoling gesture. “We’ll get through this. But you must trust me,” urged Cardassia’s most accomplished liar. “After all, I’m trusting you.”
* * *
After Picard returned to the Enterprise, Garak stood for a while outside the castellan’s office, deep in thought. Things fall apart, he thought.
“I think I may have spent too much time reading human literature,” he told the wall.
“I’m sorry, sir?”
Garak suppressed his reflex to jump. Behind him, one of the castellan’s aides was waiting to go past into the castellan’s office. He had an apologetic air about him, as if embarrassed that he had gotten so close without the ambassador noticing. Once upon a time, Garak thought, that would not have happened. I’m getting old. I’m losing my grip. The center cannot hold.
“Can I get you anything, sir?”
“Not unless you can turn time back by thirty years.”
“I’m afraid that’s not within my skill set.”
“Twenty years would do.”
“Still sorry to have to disappoint you, sir.”
“Then . . . may I have a brief period of time undisturbed with the castellan?”
The aide glanced down at the padd in his hand, looking, presumably, at the castellan’s agenda. He jerked his head toward the door. “Don’t say who let you through.”
Garak nodded. He knocked three times on the door in rapid succession and went straight inside. The castellan was entering something into a padd. Garak closed the door behind him and leaned back against the wall, folding his arms and waiting. When the castellan was done, she put the padd aside and sat back in her chair, looking at him thoughtfully. “Who,” she said, “will rid me of this turbulent priest?”
Pushing himself off the wall, Garak approached her desk. “I’ll not inquire how you’ve become so well informed about human literature—”
“I spend a great deal of time listening to you.” The castellan gestured at the chair Picard had lately vacated. “I assume that you and Captain Picard assured each other of your undying friendship?”
“There was a brief exchange along those lines, yes.”
She picked up another padd and began to read. “Your advice is to sit this out, isn’t it?”
“Ishan will be gone soon.”
“But the damage will be done by then.”
“It might.”
She continued reading. Garak leaned forward in his seat, clasping his hands before him. “I’m going to say something now that you won’t like hearing, Rakena.”
Her head shot up. “What do you mean?”
“I mean about Evek Temet.”
She jerked her head, as if confused by this sudden change of subject. “Temet? What about him?”
“He wants to speak at Bacco’s commemoration ceremony.”
She drew in a breath and returned to her reading. “He’s deluding himself.”
“It’s imperative that he speaks.”
“No.”
“He’ll have something planned, Rakena. Don’t let him sabotage the occasion—”
“Are you listening, Garak? No.”
“If Ishan is concerned that popular opinion is shifting toward Cardassia First, then we need to demonstrate that we have Temet under control. That we don’t fear him—”
“No!” The castellan threw down her padd with a clatter. “I’ve had enough of Evek Temet! At every turn, that man has tried to make political capital out of this tragedy. Well, no more! Only a few days ago, he was saying that Nan Bacco was the reckless leader of an unstable nation on the verge of collapse. And now he wants to eulogize her? He can forget it!”
Garak’s alarm had been growing throughout this outburst. This was not the caution and moderation that he knew. This was unexpected, and not entirely explicable. “What’s the matter? Is there something going on that I need to know about?”
“Is there something going on?” The castellan stared at him across her desk. “The leader of our closest ally has been assassinated, our alliance is teetering on the brink, and my political reputation is hanging in the balance—”
“I know all this. It’s not grounds to panic. You have not been elected to this position to panic—”
“I am not panicking!”
“Very well.” You could have fooled me. “But you must see that preventing Evek Temet from speaking at the ceremony is playing right into his hands? I can see the headlines now—‘Silenced by the Castellan’—”
“Garak!” The castellan slammed her hand flat on her desk.
Garak, shocked, subsided.
“I must remind you,” she said, “that you are the ambassador to the Federation, not one of my advisers. When I want advice, I’ll turn to one of the many people who I employ in that capacity and not someone who left the political scene years ago!”
Garak looked at her in surprise. Well, he thought, I believe I have just been reprimanded.
“There is no reason for Evek Temet to expect that he can speak at the ceremony,” the castellan continued, “and his assumption that he will speak is typical of his opportunism. His party isn’t even one of the largest in the Assembly!”
“Not yet,” Garak said.
A chill descended across the room. The castellan picked up her padd and began to read. Garak blinked. Am I being dismissed?
“Temet’s welcome to attend in a private capacity,” the castellan said, coldly. “For him to speak would break with protocol and, frankly, would be an offense to the memory of Nan Bacco.”
“Do as you think best, Rakena,” Garak said. “But think it through before making a final decision. You don’t want to be the castellan who wouldn’t let her opponents speak for fear of losing the argument. You don’t have to look too far back in our history to see how badly that’s turned out for those leaders.”
The castellan grayed, and Garak wondered whether drawing a comparison with the late Meya Rejal was going too far. Rakena Garan was unlikely to end her political career shot in a military coup. At least, one hoped not. Garak sighed. “I wish you would trust me,” he said. “I wish you would listen to me.”
“Why?” she shot back. “What reason have you given me to trust you? At every opportunity, you have conveyed to me your regret that I am neither Corat Damar nor Alon Ghemor. No, I’m neither of those men. But I am the castellan of the Cardassian Unio
n. And I’ll make my own decisions.”
That brief moment of friendship, born of grief, they’d shared only the day before now seemed an age away. Wounded, Garak struck back. “You might not be in the position to make decisions for much longer.”
“But I’ll have done what I thought best, and I’ll have done it for the good of the Cardassian people. You’re not the only one who loves this world, you know. You don’t know best.” She gestured toward the door. “Thank you for your time, Ambassador. When I require your help—if I require your help—I’ll contact you.”
There was no further good-bye. Garak rose from his chair and left. The aide, seeing his face, looked alarmed.
“Don’t worry,” Garak said. “You’re not the one in trouble.”
He went out into the stifling morning. One of his security detail took him around to his skimmer. He sat in the back, confused, and more than a little hurt. He had believed that their antagonism was over and that, if nothing else, the death of Nanietta Bacco might have taught them that friends were not to be squandered. He didn’t mind when people reacted this way to something he had done. It was all he deserved. But this seemed unjust. . . .
A message arrived from Parmak: What’s going on?
Under his breath, Garak said, “I wish I knew.”
* * *
Elim Garak was not the only servant of the Union to find himself at odds with a superior that morning. Arati Mhevet, arriving at the department, found instructions on her desk to report to Director Kalanis as soon as she arrived. She looked around hastily for tribute, but there was nothing, so she armed herself with two cups of the canteen’s red leaf tea. The moment she went through the door, she knew that Reta wasn’t going to be satisfied with this or any other offering.
“Sit down, Investigator.”
Mhevet sat down. She put the cups onto the desk and pushed one forward.
Kalanis ignored it. “Tell me what you were doing in North Torr the other night.”
“I was . . . going home.”
“Unless you’ve moved houses and not notified the department—which is a minor infraction punishable by a verbal warning—the Blind Moon geleta house is only on your way home if you’re taking the scenic route. Given that Torr is the least scenic part of our city, if not our Union, tell me why you were there.”
Star Trek: Fall 02: The Crimson Shadow Page 12