HollowMen

by Una McCormack

  He closed his eyes, and withdrew deep into himself. The music was unfolding to fill the space, plangent and pure. When the long trill at last began, he found himself thinking that his only comfort was that once he had seen the truth, he had done what was right. And with that decision made, he knew he could continue to do what was right.

  A quiet alarm sounded on the console. Roeder jerked forward and opened his eyes. “Computer,” he said, “stop the music.”

  The piano cut out, before the end, before the theme resolved itself. Roeder moved quickly over to his desk, punched at the controls, and read.

  It was the message he had been waiting for. He scanned through it quickly, took in the news, and sent out the files that had been requested. Then he leaned over the console and—using all the skills of his last career, using all that he had taught himself while he was serving—he removed all trace of the message and the route it had taken. When he was done, he straightened up and drew in a deep breath. It was strange, he thought; it had all passed beyond his reach now, and yet he could feel a little welcome calm descend upon him.

  “Good,” he said softly. “Good.”

  “Come on, hurry up!” Steyn hustled them all toward the table. “Auger, you sit there, opposite me,” she pointed him to his place, “I’m south, you’re north. Trasser, put yourself here on my left…and, Mr. Mechter—this seat here, please, opposite Trasser, he’s your partner…”

  “There isn’t a north,” Auger murmured. “We’re in space.”

  “Steyn.” Mechter stood motionless behind the chair. “What is the purpose of this?”

  Steyn sat down heavily. She sighed, and looked around the tiny space, at the emergency lighting, at the little red flashes on the console informing her—persistently and wholly unnecessarily—of the unfortunate state of her ship. “Mr. Mechter,” she said wearily, “we have hours before we get to Deep Space 9. We can stare at the walls, we can stare at each other…or we can do something productive.”

  Mechter did not move.

  “It needs four to play,” she reminded him.

  Mechter remained unconvinced.

  “You might make some money,” she said.

  Mechter’s eyes flicked closed for just a second. “The rules,” he declared, as he took his seat, “as you described them to me, were very complicated.”

  “You’ll pick it up quickly enough,” Steyn said, rubbing her hands together. She nodded across the table. “Auger did.”

  When they were all seated to Steyn’s satisfaction, she picked up the deck and tore open the packet. She caressed the contents tenderly.

  “Right,” she said, looking at each member of the group in turn, and with the air of one officiating at an important ceremony. “You may, or may not”—she contemplated Mechter—“have heard chess described as the game of kings. But what we are going to play is the game of convivial couples who can’t stand each other. It is called, most appropriately, given our situation”—she gestured around the dim little space in which they had come together—“bridge.”

  She began to shuffle, expertly. Auger followed the cascade of cards with fascination, and Steyn smiled over at him. “Pretty, isn’t it?” she said. She flicked through the deck one last time, and then she began to deal.

  Mechter reached over and began to peel the pack away from her clutches.

  “I think I’ll do that,” he told her.

  “It would be a lot easier if you let me do it…” Steyn replied, tugging at the cards, and then, feeling the weight of his resistance, said, “…but probably even easier if I let you do it.” She relinquished her hold.

  Mechter dealt with method rather than speed, and he opened the bidding with a single spade. Trasser inched it up to two hearts. Auger passed. Mechter pushed up to five hearts, Trasser took up his offer and raised the bid to six. Auger passed again, and Mechter did this time as well.

  Steyn smirked at him. “I’ll double that,” she said. He looked back at her impassively as the bid came right round to him.

  “And I’ll redouble,” he informed her.

  The bidding reached Auger again. He sat for a short while contemplating the nature of things and then made his offer. “Six spades.”

  “Ha!” Steyn was triumphant. But, just beside her, waiting to meet the challenge, Mechter was unfolding a slow and thoroughly unpleasant smile.

  “I’ll double,” he told her.

  “Mother of all that is merciful…” Steyn muttered, and passed. So did Trasser, so did Auger. The bidding closed.

  “You were absolutely right, Steyn,” Mechter said, beginning to lay his cards out on the table. “I picked it up.”

  “No, no, no!” Steyn slapped her hand down quickly, hiding Mechter’s cards from view. “That was just the auction! There’s the game to play yet!”

  The morning wore on. Sisko was aware that Batanides had left the conference room a couple of times throughout, but she had brought no news back with her—or nothing that had been passed up to them at the front. Whatever was happening at Sybaron, it was not enough to interrupt the meeting. Whether that meant success, or disaster beyond anything they could mitigate, Sisko did not want to take a guess. The business of the morning was technical: Who was willing to deploy what, and where. Who was willing to give, and who was willing to take. The Klingons were blunt in both their offers and their refusals. The tiny Cardassian contingent was guarded and saying very little; they had none of the characteristic swagger Sisko had come to expect in his dealings with Cardassians. The Romulan delegation seemed to delight in the intricacies of the discussion; in the debate itself as much as the outcome. Shanthi too seemed to enjoy more than a little of the cut and thrust. It did have a certain allure, Sisko thought. An academic exercise, without loss or consequence. But it was a false glamour, far removed from the actuality. Too far removed. Do we grow too fond of war? he wondered.

  He found, throughout the morning, that he was listening less to the proceedings, and thinking more about the delegate between him and Cretak, the one who had seemed to be watching him earlier. He knew her name now, Subcommander Veral. He flipped fretfully through the files that Chaplin had prepared for him. Veral…Veral…Surely the capable Chaplin couldn’t have missed her?

  When he followed Chaplin’s index methodically, he soon found the right file. He read through the details of a more than competent military career, considered the observations on the more-than-likely intelligence career…He glanced over at Veral. She was sitting with her elbows resting on the table; her hands were steepled in front of her; her chin was balanced on the very tips of her forefingers. She was a study in symmetry. As he watched, she seemed to become aware of him. She turned, smiled ever so slightly, and then went back to listening closely to the proceedings.

  Sisko tried to emulate her. Rhemet had finally begun to talk, saying something about whether an offensive could be launched against the Glintara Sector. Glintara. The name sounded vaguely familiar, but Sisko could not place it immediately. He looked at Veral again; she seemed now to be completely absorbed in listening to Rhemet. And then she frowned. Someone else was speaking, from near the back of the room. Sisko snapped back to attention. It was Garak.

  What the hell does he want?

  “I really am very sorry to interrupt,” Garak said, “but I wonder if I might address one of the points just raised by the conservator?”

  From Shanthi’s expression, she did not look inclined to let him, but she glanced first over at Sisko for his opinion. Sisko shrugged. Might as well hear what he has to say. Wasn’t that what he’d brought him all this way for, after all?

  “Very well,” Shanthi said, apparently unable to think of a reason not to allow him to speak. “What is it that you have to say, Mr. Garak?”

  Garak rewarded her with his most dazzling smile. Which was when Sisko began to get the first vague sense of unease.

  “I’m sure it will prove to be only a very small matter,” Garak said, “But my recollection of the Glintara Sector is
that it has been a covert base of operations for the Fourth Order for the best part of two decades.” He smiled helpfully at Shanthi. “I doubt very much this activity has been scaled back; in fact, I rather imagine the Dominion may have reinforced the area. Conservator,” Garak turned away from Shanthi and looked at Rhemet, “surely you must have been aware of the sector’s status during the brief period that you were in government?” Rhemet did not reply, and Garak strolled in for the kill. “Unless, of course, Gul Trepar of the Fourth Order did not see fit to pass the information on to you.”

  It was painfully apparent from Rhemet’s face that Gul Trepar of the Fourth Order had not. Over to Sisko’s right, he could see that the Romulan delegation had been watching this one-sided exchange with increasing and barely concealed delight. Sisko remembered what Ross had said to him before he had set out for Earth: It’s as much about the peace as about the war. He glanced at Cretak. She herself was maintaining an exquisite distance, staring decorously at a point on the wall somewhere beyond Rhemet. She was making no attempt to rein in her staff however; and Veral took her silence as indirect permission to score a few points.

  “Although I must derive a certain amount of pleasure,” Veral said, “in watching the Cardassian delegation fall apart before my very eyes, I do think that discussion of the internal arrangements of the Union strays somewhat from the specific purpose of this meeting.”

  “Oh, I would have to agree,” Garak said cheerfully, from his seat. “It’s none of your business in the slightest. Nevertheless, I do think that my point stands. Send your ships in that way, by all means. I can’t exactly stop you. But I feel I’m being remiss in not pointing out that you’ll almost certainly be sending them against one of the more highly fortified sections of the Cardassian border.”

  Rhemet had collected himself. He ignored Garak and addressed Shanthi directly. “This man has been away from Cardassia for many years,” he said pointedly. “It is more than possible that his information is out-of-date.”

  “Perhaps what we should draw from that,” Shanthi said, cutting in before anyone else could speak, “is that we need better intelligence about this particular sector.”

  It was a remark aimed substantially at face-saving on Rhemet’s behalf, but no one was going to point that out, not even from the Romulan delegation. It still did very little to restore orderliness to proceedings. The various delegations were now talking rapidly among themselves. Sisko shook his head. He should have seen this coming. What had Garak said to him earlier? They’ll soon show themselves for what they are. One of Garak’s coded warnings, and Sisko had been too distracted to register it. And he had not even been thinking about the Seventh Fleet. He’d been thinking about Romulans, about Veral. No, Sisko thought, no more deception. He had been thinking about one other, very particular Romulan.

  From the chair, Shanthi managed to restore a little order. “This is as good a point to stop as any,” she said. “Let’s take a break. We’ll reconvene at fourteen hundred hours.” She stood up to go and speak to Rhemet, and shot Sisko a slightly irritated look on her way past. Sisko tapped a fingertip against his brow.

  “Bill.” He leaned toward Ross, and kept his voice very low. “We have to talk.”

  Ross looked at him, frowned, and then glanced quickly toward the door of the conference room. Batanides was on her way over.

  “Now?” Ross said.

  “Now, Bill.”

  They sat together uneasily, watching the room empty around them. When Batanides came up, she had no more news than that the fleet was still holding, but the losses were going to be high. Then Sisko saw her take in the expression on his face. “This looks pretty serious,” she said. “Do you want me leave you?”

  “No,” Sisko said. “I think you should hear this too.” He leaned back in his chair as she got settled into one of the seats just behind him. He folded his hands on top of each other. It was not comfortable, so he unfolded them, set one on each knee. He looked down, and saw that they were spread out and taut.

  “All right, Ben,” Ross said. “What’s the matter?”

  Sisko studied the lines of the tendons for a moment longer, and then he looked up. The room was empty now; it was strange, he thought—it had been so charged only a few minutes before. Now it felt deserted. The door was firmly closed. Only the three of them left in there. Sisko listened to the quiet for a moment, then looked directly at Ross, and began to speak.

  “You both read my report on Senator Vreenak’s visit to DS9,” he said. They each nodded.

  “I should tell you now,” Sisko said, “that I omitted a number of significant details from that report.”

  Ross and Batanides glanced at each other. “Go on,” Batanides prompted. Ross was frowning.

  “Concerning the senator’s death,” Sisko said.

  “Vreenak was assassinated by the Dominion,” Batanides said. She was frowning now. “They put a bomb on his ship while he was at Soukara. Lucky for us.”

  “Vreenak was assassinated,” Sisko said. “But not by the Dominion.” He jerked his head toward the closed door of the conference room. “Garak planted the bomb on Vreenak’s ship while he was on DS9.”

  There was a silence. Batanides spoke first. “You knew about this?” she said. Her voice sounded very neutral.

  “I knew about it…later. When the ship blew up,” he said. “That’s when I knew what had happened. And Garak confirmed it.”

  “He told you that?” Batanides’s tone had sharpened; she sounded as if she were more than a little disbelieving of Garak’s testimony.

  “I did hit him quite hard,” Sisko murmured, flexing one hand and remembering.

  “I bet you did,” Batanides muttered. “Look, Ben, back up a minute—I need you to take me through this from the beginning. The idea of bringing Vreenak to the station; the idea behind the…” She hesitated, seeming to consider how to phrase it.

  “Fraud,” Sisko said, “is the word you’re looking for.”

  She gave him a very narrow look. “The idea, as I remember,” she continued, “was to send Vreenak home with evidence that had been prepared of a planned Dominion invasion of Romulus—”

  “Yes, that’s right—we brought Vreenak to DS9 to give him the evidence we had prepared of that. And when that plan fell through—Garak murdered him. Garak killed the forger too—no loose ends, you see. His name was Tolar. Graython Tolar.” Sisko trailed off. He licked at dry lips. “When the Tal Shiar investigated Vreenak’s death, the imperfections in the faked files looked like they were caused by the explosion on the ship.” He lifted one hand. “Details of invasion,” he said. He lifted the other hand to weigh against it. “Dead senator. You do the math.” He stopped, drew his hands together, then added, “And then I left all of this out of my report.” On balance, Sisko thought, that was probably the least of the crimes he was exposing, but he felt it was important at this point to be complete.

  The silence fell again. That really was everything, Sisko thought. He felt light, as if he had been emptied out. It was relief, he realized. Whatever happened next, he really believed he could live with it. Because he had done the right thing.

  Batanides sighed. Sisko saw that she was running her fingers around the insignia on her collar. She glanced over at Ross, waiting for him to respond before she said any more. Ross sat back in his chair, and looked Sisko straight in the eye.

  “Well,” he said. “That’s quite a story.”

  Sisko met his gaze firmly. He and Ross had worked together so closely, and he had lied to him. “I’m sorry.” he said. “It was wrong. I should have had the situation under control, and I failed to admit the…consequences of my judgment. I’m ready to accept it; whatever you decide you have to do—”

  “I don’t intend to do anything,” Ross said. His voice had gone very soft.

  Sisko stared back at him. “What?”

  Ross sighed. “It’s happened; it’s done. We’ll leave it at that.”

  Sisko began to fill up now, wit
h anger. “That’s all? No committee of inquiry? Nothing at all?”

  “Ben.” A single word from Ross, stopping Sisko in his tracks. He watched as Ross leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, putting his hands up to his face, and sitting hidden behind them. Sisko recalled how tired Ross had looked when they’d met earlier. And it had been a long morning since.

  After a moment or two, Ross looked up. “What do you expect me to do?” he said. He jerked his thumb toward the door. “Go out right now and tell Cretak what you’ve just told me? Where do you think that would leave us? Where would it leave the alliance?” Ross carried on, without mercy. “Right now, I’m waiting to hear whether or not we even have a Seventh Fleet. But for the first time, we have everyone sitting in the same room—Klingons, Romulans, Starfleet; dammit, even some Cardassians!—and for the first time we have a real chance to win this war. Not to lose, or make a peace that will mean we lose in the long run. Win.”

  Sisko had to look away. “It was murder,” he said. He shook his head. “Twice over.”

  “I know. But I can’t regret it.” Ross looked Sisko straight in the eye. “I’m not going to give you some crap about the greater good,” he said softly. “But think about this—a month ago we were losing this war. Now we have a chance to win it, and it’s all because the Romulans are our allies. It’s all because of what you did.”

  “In all fairness,” Sisko said bitterly, “that particular medal really should be Garak’s.”

  Beside him, Batanides drew in a sharp breath.

  Sisko shut his eyes for a moment. “I’m sorry.”