Worlds of Star Trek Deep Space Nine

by Heather Jarman

  24

  It was late afternoon, and by some miracle it wasn’t yet raining. Garak stared down at the padd in his hand, and thumbed his way diligently through a report from the Cultural Restoration and Reconstruction Commission. Next week’s business.

  Something flickered, and Garak glanced up and out of the window. Outside, the streetlights were coming on—now, there was a rare sight. Garak blinked, feeling somehow oddly heartened by this approximation of normality, and then he went back to his industrious assessment of the contents of the padd. As he read on, he listened closely as Entor, sitting in his place at the far left-hand side of the panel, finished his statement to his colleagues on the Technological Appropriations Committee.

  “—and as a consequence of the events of the past twenty-four hours, and because of my desire to see a safe and a stable Cardassia, it is my conclusion that the project at Andak requires the committee’s unequivocal support—”

  Too many words to say something very simple, Entor. You lost. We won. Garak reached the end of the report, came to his own conclusions on cultural conservation, and then allowed himself to stretch out lazily in his chair. But I’m content to let you talk on awhile if it makes you feel better.

  “Thank you, Councillor,” Ghemor said—really rather graciously, Garak thought, all things considered—when Entor at last drew to a close. Then he called for a vote. Two members of the panel from the Directorate voted against Andak, but it was a formality. The project’s funding and so its future had been secured.

  With evident satisfaction at the outcome, the castellan brought the meeting to a close. As he stood up, he glanced over at Garak and inclined his head almost imperceptibly. Garak knew the signal.

  I’d like to talk to you.

  Give Ghemor his due, Garak reflected, as he made his way across the meeting room, he never tried to make it an order. He weaved past all the people offering each other their opinions, and through the door that led to Ghemor’s office. Ghemor was standing with one hand pressed against the window frame, the other holding a glass, watching the light withdraw from the city. He shifted his head slightly on hearing Garak’s approach, and then twisted the blinds shut. The room became closed, suffused with the false yellow of the strip lights. Ghemor turned, leaned back against the wall, and regarded Garak thoughtfully.

  “Korven owed you a favor, you said. Do I want to know exactly how you did all this?” He downed the contents of the glass.

  Nothing to tell, Alon. Just the same old story. I tortured a man seventeen years ago, and now he does what I tell him.

  “Almost certainly not,” Garak replied.

  After a moment or two, Ghemor moved away from the window, walked slowly behind his desk and sat down, his eyes all the while fixed on Garak. He poured another drink for himself.

  “We got what we wanted,” Garak reminded him.

  “Indeed we did,” he said. There was a bitter edge to his voice. “Strike up another victory for democracy. What did Entor call it? A sham.”

  “If you wanted the luxury of leading an ethical life, you really shouldn’t have gone into politics,” Garak pointed out. “And if you’re not prepared to do what it takes to secure the future of Cardassia, neither should you have accepted it as your responsibility.” He moved carefully toward the desk, pulled out the chair and sat down. Ghemor didn’t answer.

  “What’s brought this on, Alon? This isn’t like you. This isn’t what you were saying yesterday.”

  Ghemor rubbed at his eyes. “I’m tired,” he said frankly. “And more than a little disheartened.” He glanced at the blinds shielding the window and the room. “And I’m sick of the rain.”

  Aren’t we all? I don’t think I know anyone in the city who isn’t desperate to feel the sun upon his face again. But Garak didn’t reply, just waited.

  “These are the days that count, aren’t they?” Ghemor continued, softly, still staring at the covered window. “What we do now—what we choose to fight for, how we choose to fight for it—that will make all the difference, won’t it?” He looked back at Garak, with eyes intense and more than a little troubled.

  You’re asking me for moral guidance? Oh Alon, you’re going to be sorely disappointed! I’ve played the part of the loyal lieutenant before—to Tain, to Damar—but neither of them made that mistake!

  “Yes,” Garak said instead, wearily. “The fights we choose now will make all the difference. But how we choose to fight them?” He shrugged. “Bad men seize power because—” The words “good men” stuck in his throat. “—because better men will not do what it takes to stop them.”

  And we are the better men—whatever that tells us about Cardassia. Whatever that means for Cardassia.

  “Yevir stopped that girl just by talking to her,” Ghemor answered.

  “From what I’ve observed of our good friend the vedek, he doesn’t trouble himself unduly with doubt. A luxury that he shares with Entor, with the True Way, with the puppeteer that pulled the strings on that poor child Nyra Maleren…” Garak stared down at his hands, smoothed out the creases on his jacket. Then he looked at Ghemor. “Stop flattering yourself that this has all taken some kind of moral or ethical toll. You enjoyed watching Entor this afternoon!”

  A smile tugged at Ghemor’s face. And then he began to laugh. “Oh, I most certainly did…!”

  “Well then.” Garak smiled at him. “Remember to relish your victories, Alon. Because no one else will. And because otherwise you’ll drive yourself insane.”

  Ghemor poured him a drink. “Celebrate this victory with me, Garak?”

  Garak took the glass and raised it, and they drank—and then the door to the office opened. Both of them straightened up in their chairs, pushing away what remained of the doubts before they might be seen.

  Jartek came in, holding some padds. Ghemor relaxed a little, resting his elbows on the desk. Garak didn’t move a muscle.

  “I have first drafts of the press releases about the committee’s decision if you want to take a look through them, sir.”

  “That was quick, Mev.” Ghemor reached out to take them.

  “Well, I didn’t have any real doubts as to the outcome,” Jartek replied. “Not once Mr. Garak here had taken charge of the situation.”

  Garak responded with a smile which he didn’t allow further than his lips.

  Ghemor scanned through the data. “These are looking fine, Mev—go ahead with them. Whatever we owe him, I’d still be more than a little pleased if we could dislodge Vedek Yevir from his customary spot as chief newsmaker on Cardassia Prime—if only for an evening. Do you need some quotes?”

  Garak stood up. His particular expertise was no longer needed here, and he wanted to get out of this shut-in room, even if only into the dead air of the city. He set his glass down on the desk. Ghemor looked up at him, raised his hand in farewell, and nodded his thanks.

  Outside, Garak stood for a minute or two and surveyed the world beyond the offices. The streetlights cast an orange haze that failed to diffuse the gray dusk encroaching on the city. Before him lay the black hole that had been Victory Square, where memorials to Cardassia’s greatest guls and legates had once stood, now no more than rubble on the ground and dust in the sky above.

  They poisoned Cardassia….

  Garak shook his head to free himself of the thought. O’Brien had been right—he was getting morbid. He really needed to put a stop to that.

  He walked out briskly into the wreck of the square. Within watching distance of the office block there was part of a statue still standing, the base of a monument, with a piece of an arch offering a little shelter. There, in the lengthening shadows, Garak stood and watched and waited, and thought about all that had been lost—Cardassia, with her bright skies and dark dreams; and he thought too about all that remained—all the certainties, all the doubts. The sky went black. After forty minutes it began to rain. Fifteen minutes after that, Garak’s vigil and his patience both paid off. He stepped out from his cover into the pa
rtial, artificial glow of the streetlights.

  “Jartek,” he said.

  The younger man slowed down and turned. “Garak,” he replied, his pale, hooded eyes blinking once, twice, dismissing a frown, and watching warily as Garak lengthened his stride to catch him up. “Have you been waiting for me all this time?”

  “It was no trouble.” They fell into step alongside each other. “You’re going in my direction, it seems.” Garak watched from the corner of his eye as Jartek considered asking him why he’d waited, and then didn’t. Jartek seemed always not quite to be as smooth as he would wish, Garak thought. And the stripes on his jacket were just a shade too wide.

  “It’s raining…” Jartek tried.

  “It’s usually raining in the city these days.”

  They walked on in silence.

  “So tell me, Jartek,” Garak said, as they rounded the corner by the offices, “are you content with how events have turned out?”

  Jartek swiveled his head to look at him. “All things considered, I’d have to say yes, really. It could have been an awful lot worse. Imagine if that bomb had gone off. Disastrous for the government.”

  “It’s certainly been something of a triumph for Yevir—again.”

  “The castellan too,” Jartek said with a frown. “He ordered a prompt and effective response—”

  “Macet did his job there very well, I thought.”

  “It was Alon giving the orders—that’ll be clear enough, wait until you see the news later. It matters to people who’s running the show. And—even better—it all comes with the added benefit of securing the Andak funding.” Jartek smiled. “Yes, I think we can say the past few days have been a success for the Ghemor government.” He was almost preening. Garak pursed his lips.

  They were beyond the reach of the streetlights now or, at least, the ones that had been rigged up here had no power. There were a few halfhearted buildings, but no people to be seen about. Given the many dangers that they might face in the streets these days, people tended to stay under cover after dark. The rule of law was such a precarious thing, Garak thought. Even after such a good day for Ghemor and his government—and it had been just that, a very good day—there would still be parts of the city that really weren’t safe to walk through late at night….

  With one quick, expert movement, Garak had Jartek by the throat and pressed up against a wall. The younger man’s eyes goggled and he started choking.

  “What the—!”

  “Shut up!” Garak hissed, tightening his grip just a little further. Jartek clawed at his hand. Garak grabbed his wrist and slammed it hard against the stone of the wall. “Now you listen to me,” he said, very softly. “You’d better be just half as good as you think you are, because if you’ve left a single fingerprint, anywhere, we can kiss goodbye to Ghemor—”

  “What d’you mean? I don’t—”

  “Don’t lie to me! I’ve played this game for years, Jartek! Tell me what you did!” Garak gripped a little harder. “What did you give Korven? Information? Money? Both?”

  Jartek nodded, as much as he could.

  “So the True Way would make a move, yes? And you’d be there, a step ahead, ready to discredit them?” Garak’s eyes widened in sudden alarm. “Korven didn’t know it was all coming from you, did he?”

  That would put a rather different complexion on our little talk….

  Jartek shook his head. Garak concealed his relief.

  “You’re not that stupid, then. What else?”

  “Nothing, I swear, nothing….”

  “Are you quite sure of that? You didn’t, to pluck an example out of the air, leak Remar’s report on Setekh?”

  Jartek stared at him, his eyes widening, paling. Garak tightened his grip and the choking noise started up again.

  “Yes, yes, that—that too!”

  “And tell me—and you’d better be very, very certain of this, Mev—have you left any fingerprints?”

  “None, none, I’m sure of it—please…!”

  “Oh, you’d better be right.” Garak gave him a cold smile. “Anything more to confess?” he asked. “While we’re both here—and no one else?”

  “No…”

  Garak stared at him, at his unshielded terror, stared hard. Jartek’s hair was wet from the rain and his eyes were bright from fear and panic. Garak took it all in, and judged what it meant. Sometimes you knew when you couldn’t get anything else. You knew when there wasn’t anything else to get.

  “You’re choking me…” Jartek pleaded.

  Garak leaned in, close. “The next time,” he whispered into Jartek’s ear, “that you get a clever idea, you talk to me. Do you understand that? You do nothing before you’ve told me everything.”

  “I swear, I will….”

  “Oh, and I believe you!” Garak replied, his voice soft and benign. He let go. Jartek slid down the wall, rubbing at his throat and coughing.

  “One other thing,” Garak said, as he turned to head off into the night, “Get yourself a new suit.”

  And that, he decided, as he left Jartek spluttering on the ground, was a proportional response.

  Garak made his way back home through the rain and the ruins. There was a hazy red glow off in the distance—maybe the lights had come on somewhere, maybe something was burning.

  Dark skies and darker dreams, but still the city of crimson shadows.

  And as Garak walked along, his hand in place upon his disruptor, he remembered again all the lost ways of his city, remembered again all the rules of the game and just how well he played it. And he knew he’d not been this satisfied at the end of a match since he’d shot and killed Weyoun.

  Epilogue

  Spring came as a surprise to Andak, and it surpassed all expectations. As each day dawned a haze would settle on the mountains, softening their edges, and for an hour or more they would be sheathed in cool, translucent gray. Then the rain would fall—clear showers of pure water that came punctually mid-morning, and that freshened the air for the whole of the day. Spring had come to Andak, as it had never done before, smoothing the shift from harsh winter to stark summer; a third season, a proof of change.

  Keiko watched all of this progress, and she marveled at it. In the plains to the south of the base, a gentle but ineluctable transformation was being wrought, as the barren yellow fields became fertile and grew. The first shoots of the crops they had planted were appearing. Monitored every minute, both day and night; surely nothing had been watched so proudly, discussed so thoroughly, nurtured so tenderly? The models from the physicists, the projections from the statisticians, the data from the geologists and botanists, the sheer bloody hard work of them all, as Miles put it—all these complex strands had been woven together, and now the plains of Andak were embroidered green.

  The gardens at the settlement were growing too—and this made the houses seem less temporary, as if their roots were finally taking. Here, it had to be admitted, lay one of Keiko’s few regrets—that she had not planted her meya lilies last year. But even I didn’t think that there would be so much water…! And it seemed to Keiko that even this lack was more like a promise—a promise that there would be a second year of growth at Andak, and that it would be remembered as the spring that meya lilies blossomed in the Cardassian desert.

  Keiko sat up from where she had been kneeling, stretched her back, and then tucked her legs under her again, watching closely the work being done in front of her.

  “Is this right?” the girl next to her asked, tentatively dripping water on the row of sprouting green. Keiko leaned in and checked the moisture levels.

  “They’ll cope with a little more,” she murmured. “And you’ll need to watch them—they’ll need watering each day throughout the growing season.”

  The girl nodded, and poured from the container much more abundantly. Having enough water for all their tasks still took some getting used to, particularly for the Cardassians here. Keiko set down her measuring tool, and wiped at her forehead with
the back of her hand. Then she looked around the square.

  The evening was golden, the light soft and warm. Children were out playing, Molly among them—or, rather, at the head of them. Even Yoshi was out, sitting near one edge of the square, down on the south side, where it was quiet. He was fingering the leaves of the aramanth bushes that stood there. These were already showing their first bright yellow buds. Feric and the other members of the Oralian Way, under Keiko’s tutelage, had planted these—two lines of bushes, four in each line, meeting up in one corner of the square. A small, secluded grove, set right at the heart of the busy settlement. In an hour or so, judging by the quality of light and the shadows being cast by the mountains, the Oralian Way would be coming out to hold their meeting there. Feric’s plan for later in the spring, he had told Keiko, was to put something permanent at the point where the bushes met. He had spent what time he could spare during the winter months working on a carving, chipping away slowly at a large piece of black Andak stone.

  For the winter had been long…and there had been points during it when Keiko had come close to despair. Even when the aftermath of the drama in autumn had died down, even after the work at Andak had been financially secured, there had still been the not inconsiderable matter of making the project a technical success. Once the politics were out of the way, there was still the science to be done.

  Keiko had been warned repeatedly—by Feric, by many others among her friends at Andak—that the winter would almost certainly be harsher than she was expecting. “Whatever you’re thinking it’ll be like, Keiko,” Feric had told her, “double it. Triple it.”

  And they had all been right. She would never have imagined that a place this hot could become so cold. Most of all, she would never have guessed how quickly the winds could whip up and in from the plains. Miles upon miles of flat, open land across which they could pass without hindrance, gathering speed and vengeance until they came to a sudden, whirling halt as they hit the mountains—and the settlement, huddled below. Winter had seemed to Keiko to consist of nothing more than day after day of salvaging and fixing broken equipment that had been ripped up in the gales; week after week of looking out at the plains and wondering whether anything of what they had planted there could possibly stay alive through such an onslaught. Winter had been long, bleak, and barren. Each day she had wondered how anything could survive it.