Star Trek: Fall 02: The Crimson Shadow

by Una McCormack

  “He’s been serving with Starfleet. I’m professionally interested in relations between Cardassian and Starfleet military personnel. Well, I’m professionally interested in relations between Cardassia and the Federation in general, but the military in particular have been doing some interesting work. I’ve been monitoring Dygan’s career for a while and he’s impressed me. So when I decided I wanted more information on these ultra-nationalists that have been so plaguing our major cities, he seemed the person for the job.”

  Mhevet stared at him. “You’ve had a man undercover in North Torr? I didn’t know about this—”

  “No, I’m sorry about that.”

  “And neither, I’m sure, does the CIB.”

  “I sincerely hope not.” The ambassador’s eyes went stern. “That was the whole point of having Dygan as an independent observer. I don’t believe anything coming out of the CIB these days. Do you?”

  Her conversation with Fhret came back to her. Slowly, she said, “I know that there have been some changes there recently—”

  “Crell is not in favor of the alliance with the Federation—or, more particularly, any alliance with the Klingon Empire.” Garak frowned. “I have to say that given the choice, I wouldn’t go near the Klingon Empire either, but then Starfleet is a considerable buffer, and I’d rather the Klingons than the Romulans. But Crell does not agree, and I fear this may have opened him up to influence from some rather unsavory people.” His eyes were sharp above the mask. “I think you know what I mean.”

  People. People in the shadows waiting for the Federation to leave. “If you didn’t trust the CIB, you could have trusted us—” Trusted me. “Trusted the constabularies.”

  “If one institution has been compromised, why would I assume that another hasn’t?”

  “Because we’re the new constabulary, sir,” Mhevet said, with hot pride. “We’re not the people used by Skrain Dukat to murder our fellow citizens. We’ve built an organization that serves the Cardassian people as a whole and is not in the pay or power of any elite—”

  “Oh, yes?” Garak looked at her piercingly. “Tell me, Investigator—where do you get your human coffee these days?”

  “What? That’s beside the point—”

  “Of course it’s not beside the point. Details, Investigator. Pay attention to the details, scattered around you like the dust that coats this poor beleaguered city!” He swept his hand around, theatrically. “Directives from the top, instructing that any trace of Federation culture or influence within the constabularies should be removed? Think about the signals that’s sending to the old guard. Starfleet is leaving, gentlemen. It’s safe to come out.”

  “Sir, this is entirely beside the point. My question is, do you in fact have any authority to place an undercover agent in North Torr?”

  “Authority?” Garak’s eyes twinkled. “Of course not! I asked Glinn Dygan’s commanding officer to release him to me for unspecified services to Cardassia. He had the good sense to comply and ask no more. If Dygan then chose to come to Cardassia Prime and embroil himself with some of the less pleasant residents of the capital . . .” He held up his hands. “Has he broken any laws? Have I?”

  “That’s a fine line you’re treading—”

  “Yes, well, it usually is. Anyway, much as I’d like to chat all day, I have some very pressing business to attend to. So, if you could release Dygan, I can get back to that business, and Dygan can get back to being Blok.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, I’ve no intention of releasing Dygan.”

  “No?”

  “Not unless you can assure me he has no intention of going back undercover in North Torr.”

  Garak breathed out impatiently beneath his mask. “Well, of course he’s going back to North Torr. Where else do you think he’s going?”

  The idea of a random element in Torr horrified her. And these two men had no authority to do what they were doing. She shook her head firmly. “I can’t allow that—”

  “I rather think you can. I rather think you must.” He placed his hand upon the wall next to her and leaned toward her. “On Cardassia Prime there are forces at work now intent on destroying all that people such as you and I have struggled to achieve since the Fire.” He moved closer, lowered his voice. “You know who I mean, don’t you, Arati? The shadow people.”

  She started. His eyes narrowed.

  “Yes, you know,” he said. “The people of the night. The ones who loathe our new Cardassia and wish to return us to the old ways. All the work you and I have done—it’s hanging in the balance now. They’re waiting for Starfleet to leave, and then they’ll come out. Only in the past few days, they have done some terrible harm, for which the Cardassian people may yet be terribly punished. I’m doing all that I can—but I need Ravel Dygan. Please—let him go.”

  He was very persuasive. But that was what you had to resist, wasn’t it? Being pulled away from your purpose to serve someone else’s. Mhevet took a deep breath. “There are numerous police investigations under way in North Torr at the moment,” she said doggedly. “Glinn Dygan adds an unpredictable element to the mix. His presence could put several constabulary people at risk.”

  “I see.” Garak pulled away from her, pressing his hand against his face. His shoulders sagged. For a brief moment, she again had the impression of an old man with the weight of the entire world upon him. Then he snapped back into control.

  “All right,” he said. “Let’s deal. If you release Dygan to continue his work in North Torr, I’ll instruct him to gain as much information as he can about the murder of Aleyni Cam.”

  Cold fury passed through Mhevet. The nerve of the man . . . Surely he didn’t think that his position put him above the law? Those days on Cardassia were long over and would remain so as long as she had breath in her body.

  “Sir,” she replied coldly, “if you know anything about the death of Aleyni Cam, you will tell me now. I’m sure you know that withholding information about a murder is a criminal offense and that if I suspected you of that, I would have to arrest you.”

  She realized that Garak’s eyes were looking at her in approval, like a proud father might look at a clever child. “That,” he said, “was an excellent response. I’m glad to learn that at least part of the constabulary remains incorruptible.” He took a deep breath. “Before you make your reputation by locking me up, you might want to listen for a while. I have a tale to tell. And when I’m finished, you’ll understand. You’ll give me Dygan, and you’ll send us both on our way with your blessing.”

  Mhevet blinked. He was mesmeric. It was frightening. She wouldn’t let herself be corrupted. She stood and faced him squarely, head on, arms folded. “Oh, yes? And what makes you think that?”

  “Why? Because you loathe these people, of course. As well you might. They did, after all, drive you and your family from your home.”

  Mhevet swallowed. She felt her arms and legs begin to tremble. Thickly, she said, “How do you know that?”

  Garak’s eyes were very kind. “You don’t think I walked in here blind, do you? I’ve been playing this game a very long time. Do you think I wouldn’t have found out all that I could about Investigator Arati Mhevet?”

  “There’s nothing to find out—”

  “No? Formerly a resident of North Torr, but since just prior to the age of emergence, a resident of East Torr? That is unusual, I thought. People don’t leave North Torr. Northerners stick together. So I rummaged around a little more.”

  “Shut up,” Mhevet said, harshly. She turned to leave, but Dygan was there, looking out, worriedly, blocking the entrance.

  “Your uncle.” His voice was like silk. “Ontek. He played with you, when you were little—”

  “Shut up!”

  “What a shame he made such bad friends. My . . . former colleagues didn’t approve.” He moved in again. His arm blocked any getaway down the alley, and Dygan was in place on the other side of the door. “I imagine it was terrifying when the Order came to vi
sit. That was certainly the intention. Did your father instruct you to tell us everything you knew? Or was that your own idea?”

  Mhevet’s mouth was dry. “Father didn’t tell me to do anything. I don’t know to this day whether or not he forgave me. Ontek was his brother. . . .”

  “Ontek was an unpleasant man. You were in an impossible position. You made a hard but practical decision. You certainly saved your father’s life.”

  “I ruined his life. He was heartbroken. We all knew what would happen to Ontek—”

  “I won’t insult you by trying to claim that the Order was a force for good in old Cardassia, but on this occasion we were certainly the lesser of two evils.” His eyes were full of compassion. “Did you ever discover that what you told our agent prevented a bombing in the Barvonok Sector?”

  Mhevet licked her lips. “No. I didn’t.”

  “Perhaps that might help.”

  She twisted away. Perhaps, if she’d known that at the time . . . But who would have passed on information like that, back in those days? It had been her duty to tell the Order all they wanted to know and to leave the rest to them. Why would they bother to tell her if her actions had, by chance, had good effect? All that Mhevet and her parents had seen had been the disaster, the fallout: being shunned by the rest of the family, ostracized by their community around them, and having to move away. One rule in North Torr: You didn’t tell, you didn’t inform. And if you did, you suffered the consequences. She’d known, at the time—known for certain—that what her uncle was doing was wrong. She’d known he had to be stopped. But the powers that had existed to stop him were pitiless, and the labor camp had killed him.

  She looked at Garak; or, she looked at his eyes. He was, if all reports were true, a torturer, a murderer, a man with blood on his hands.

  “I think it will help,” he said. “In time.” Garak sighed, and once again she had that impression of great weariness. “I’m going to trust you with a secret, Arati Mhevet. You’ve made difficult decisions before, and you’ve made them well. So I’m going to tell you what Dygan just told me, because I know that you’ll understand, and I know that you’ll help.”

  She must have given herself away, some imperceptible shift in stance, or perhaps she blinked. He was not the kind of man to miss a signal. He took off his mask. He was not smiling. Could someone like this really bring absolution?

  “Listen carefully, Investigator. If Dygan’s story is true, then people like you and I and Dygan have got a fight on our hands. The fight of our lives.”

  * * *

  Ravel Dygan watched wearily as Garak and Mhevet talked. He was exhausted. He’d been in the thick of the battle, and he hadn’t slept well in the cells last night. He thought he might leave things to Garak for a moment. He leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. The long weeks of pretending to be the kind of man Blok was—unaware of what his actions really meant, pleased only to have fallen in with powerful friends—were taking their toll.

  There was a tap on the door. Dygan forced his eyes open. Garak was gesturing to him to come out and join them.

  “Well,” Dygan said, looking at them both. “Can I go?”

  “You can go,” said Mhevet.

  Dygan glanced worriedly at Garak. “What’s going on? What did you do?”

  “To my surprise,” Garak said, putting his mask back on, “all Investigator Mhevet wanted was the truth.” The ambassador brushed away dust from the sleeves of his jacket. “So that’s what I gave her.”

  “You told her?” Dygan looked at Mhevet in alarm. “Are you sure we can trust her?”

  “Trust her?” Garak’s eyes opened wide. “I trust her as much as I trust you.”

  “Am I going back in?”

  “If you’re happy to do that,” Garak said.

  Dygan ignored the churn of his stomach. “That’s beside the point, isn’t it? I have to—”

  “We need evidence,” said Mhevet. “We need proof.”

  “I don’t know whether I can get it,” Dygan said. “It’s not as if they take minutes of their planning meetings.”

  “No,” said Mhevet. “But they do talk.”

  “Will that be enough?”

  Mhevet fished around in her pocket, brought out a small recording device, and handed it to him.

  “Is this legal?” Dygan asked.

  “You’re not legal,” Mhevet replied. “Shall we worry about that later?”

  Garak studied Dygan carefully. “You could be in a great deal of danger now. We have no idea the extent to which the constabularies have been compromised.”

  “I suppose that’s a risk we have to take,” Dygan said.

  “The risk is primarily yours,” Garak pointed out.

  “I’m prepared to take it.”

  The ambassador leaned back against the wall and looked up at the sky. There was a long, low roll of thunder. “When will it rain?” he asked, to nobody in particular.

  “Later,” Mhevet said, with confidence.

  “Do you need some water, sir?” Dygan asked, looking at the older man with concern. The thunder had subsided, but the air remained quivering hot.

  “I’ll live, Dygan. But thank you.” The ambassador looked at them both sadly. “Your generation,” he said, with a sigh that came from the depths of his being. “What a hideous mess we bequeathed you! You’d be right to refuse anything we asked of you.”

  “Don’t you see, sir?” Dygan asked. “You ask. That’s the difference now. You don’t order. You don’t expect us to willingly sacrifice ourselves.”

  “A different contract now,” Mhevet said softly. “A different world. We mustn’t go back to the way we were.”

  “Well,” said the ambassador, “far be it from me to get in the way of such dedication and desire to serve. Back to where you were, please, Dygan. But you must be very careful now.” He nodded at Mhevet. “Get in touch with Investigator Mhevet, in extremis.”

  Mhevet gave Dygan the code for her personal comm. “What are you going to do now, Ambassador?” she asked.

  “Me?” Garak sighed. “I have to speak to the castellan, of course. Tell her what Dygan has told me.”

  Dygan looked at him with pity. “I don’t envy you that conversation.”

  “My job these days,” Garak said, “consists almost entirely of having unpalatable conversations with heads of state and their representatives. Fortunately, I’ve always enjoyed a good chat.” He checked the time. “I must be going. Take care, Dygan. The moment you notice them looking at you carefully—get out.”

  Dygan smiled. “Advice of an old hand?”

  They pressed palms: a gesture of comradeship and respect. “An old hand who has, hitherto, outlived most of his enemies. You’d be wise to listen.”

  * * *

  Mhevet walked the ambassador back down the alley to his skimmer. He had a quick word with one of his bodyguards, who had brought out three bottles full of water—a more than generous replacement for the rations Garak had drunk.

  “Be careful, Investigator,” he said. They pressed palms, and then he grasped her upper arm and squeezed. “There are dark forces gathering who will stop at nothing. I’d hate to see you become yet another casualty. Take care. Watch your back. Trust nobody.”

  “Nobody, sir? What about you?”

  “Trust me?” He looked at her sadly. “Well, if you must.”

  Later, back inside, Mhevet found Dhrok sitting with Fereny in the canteen. Dhrok waved her card at her. “What happened with Blok?”

  “Bailed,” she said, looking her straight in the eye. “Famous mother. Expensive conservator.”

  “Typical,” said Fereny. “Money always does the trick. Some people get away with murder.”

  * * *

  In the back of his skimmer, Garak took a moment to cool down. Then he put a message through to the castellan’s office requesting an immediate and urgent meeting. Her office tried to put him off until the next day, but he refused to get off the line, and eventually the aid
e capitulated. Garak was not easily deflected.

  What am I supposed to do now? he wondered, as the skimmer sped on. His instinct, he realized, was to conceal all that was happening; to deny, to obfuscate—to lie. Already his mind was racing: assembling schemes and plans; laying trails that led elsewhere; spinning, spinning, spinning. . . . But how well, really, had that served as a strategy? He had ended up in exile, and his world had come to the edge of destruction.

  I must find another way through this, Garak thought. If any of us are to survive. Outside, the city passed by: half-ruin, half-rebuild, entirely Cardassian. People were moving about slowly, struggling against the heat, trying to keep going until the rain brought relief. Garak watched them with increasing desperation.

  Who can I turn to? Who are my friends in this?

  They stopped in front of the New Assembly. Garak sat for a while longer in the back of the skimmer. His eye fell on the low walls of the stone garden that had been built to commemorate Alon Ghemor.

  All my dead friends, Garak thought. How do I honor you? How do I keep your memory alive? Why have the best of us died?

  He stepped out into the oppression of the Cardassian day. He paused for a moment by the garden, placing one hand lightly upon the stone of the wall. Unaware of what he was doing, he began to remove some moss that was growing between the stones. He was thinking about the boy who cried wolf. Honesty is the best policy. Wasn’t that the moral of the story, according to Julian Bashir? Or was it: Never tell the same lie twice.

  He went into the cool interior of the building. The castellan wasn’t pleased to see him. “I know that this is a delicate time diplomatically,” she said. “But you’re proving an exceptionally demanding colleague at the moment. Alon Ghemor was right to send you to Earth.”

  So she was still on maneuvers. “Rakena,” he said quietly. “Please. I’ve not come here to quarrel.”

  She looked at him sharply and then gestured with her padd that he should sit down. Wolf! he thought as he took his seat. “Have you ever heard of an organization called the True Way?”

  The castellan examined her padd. “Garak, are you here as ambassador to the Federation, or are you assigning yourself a different office of state today?”