HollowMen

by Una McCormack

  After a moment or two, Jedburgh turned, and gestured toward the bench. “Why don’t you take a seat, Mister Garak,” he said.

  Garak obligingly sat down, and Jedburgh joined him, sitting on his left-hand side. Enderby moved into the shadow of one of the trees, with his back to the water. From where he was standing, he had a good view of the path as it bent away from them in both directions.

  “So, we hear you had something of an adventure last night,” Jedburgh said.

  “Something like that,” Garak replied. He watched with fascination as Enderby arranged himself precisely against the tree. Enderby kept on glancing up to check that he had the best view of the path, and then he would make some minor adjustment to his position.

  “Were the speeches interesting?”

  “The whole evening was an education,” Garak replied. As he watched, Enderby shifted himself almost imperceptibly, and then gave a slight nod, apparently satisfied now with how he was placed. He was still holding the padds, clasped together in front of him.

  Garak turned back to Jedburgh. “I thought that the keynote speaker in particular had many…intriguing things to say.”

  “Tomas Roeder is a man in whom we take a great deal of interest,” Jedburgh said.

  A little of his geniality had leached away. Garak took a moment to construct a careful response. “Well,” he replied, eventually, “a war is hard enough to fight without high-profile people unhelpfully pointing out its ambiguities.”

  “There is no ambiguity about this war,” Enderby stated, from beneath his tree.

  Garak didn’t reply. He himself had come to the opinion over the years that every situation had its ambiguities. War was certainly no exception; in fact, it was probably the paradigm case. Still, Garak could recognize devotion to duty when he saw it, and experience of that made him certain it would be pointless to argue with Enderby. But not everyone, Garak reminded himself, was busy selling out their homeland. Not everyone was fighting a war quite as ambivalent as his own. “Roeder,” he tried again, “did intrigue me.”

  “Probably not as much as he intrigues us,” Jedburgh said, “but it’s good to know that we’re starting from some common ground.”

  The breeze picked up. A prickle of apprehension went down Garak’s spine. He watched as Enderby looked up and then down the path.

  “Before we progress any further,” Enderby said, “there is something that you must understand. Tomas Roeder was Starfleet Intelligence’s agent within the antiwar campaign.”

  Garak considered again the passion with which that speech had been delivered. “Then you should be glad he’s on your side,” he said, “because he’s doing a very good job of being undercover—”

  “You’ll notice,” Jedburgh drawled, “that Enderby said he was our agent.”

  Which presumably, Garak thought, staring across the water, meant that he was still an agent. But not Starfleet’s…. “So you think Roeder has made a new cause of his own?” he said. It made sense. Converts usually made the best zealots.

  Jedburgh waggled a finger. “Now, Enderby and I, we wondered about that for a while,” he said. “But, you know, some people just aren’t very enterprising.” He shrugged lazily. “I don’t know what happens to them. Maybe they get a bit institutionalized. They’ve gotten used to hierarchy. And it just doesn’t feel right to them if they’re not serving some kind of master.” He nodded across at the figure standing in the shadow of the tree. “Take Enderby there. You know, I don’t think he’d be happy if he had no one to report to. Not happy at all.”

  Garak took a moment to assess the full meaning of what Jedburgh had just said. And then he laughed into Jedburgh’s face. “Forgive me my discourtesy,” he said, incredulously, “but I’m afraid I find it very hard to believe that a Starfleet officer would sell out the Federation to the Dominion!”

  Jedburgh leaned back against the arm of the bench. He looked at Garak, and began to shake his head. “Now, that’s strange,” he mused. He seemed genuinely perplexed. “Very strange indeed. Because I’d have thought that you of all people would understand that there might be circumstances where betraying your home could be necessary.”

  Garak’s sense of foreboding became a little stronger. That barb was just a little too well aimed. It really must be a very good file that they had on him. He was starting to worry what else might be in it. “That’s…a fair point,” he conceded. “But are you saying that Roeder’s apparent…conversion is necessary to the advancement of your interests?”

  “There is no ambiguity,” Enderby said again, “about this war.”

  “And, at this stage, Roeder’s continued participation in events,” Jedburgh said, “really would complicate things. Now,” Jedburgh said, with a slow smile, “Enderby and I—we like a quiet life. We don’t much like complications. And we both believe our lives would be a lot less complicated if Tomas Roeder were no longer on the scene. His little walk-on is over.”

  The privacy beneath the trees had begun to feel a little stifling. Less complicated for who, exactly? Garak inclined his head. “I have no doubt that that is the case, gentlemen,” he said. “And although I am naturally troubled to see either of you inconvenienced in any fashion, this really is none of my concern—”

  “Well, I’m going to have to contradict you there,” Jedburgh said. “Because—from what we’ve heard—we think you’re just the man to help us out.”

  “I’m gratified,” Garak said, through gritted teeth, “to think that my reputation precedes me, but you really shouldn’t believe everything you hear about me. The rumors are usually disgracefully vague and wholly inaccurate.”

  “We have something quite specific in mind,” Enderby said.

  Yes, I thought you might.

  Garak rubbed his thumb against his palm. If he was being honest with himself, it hardly came as a surprise. Sisko, after all, was an honorable man; certainly far too honorable to keep his part in a double murder from his superiors. And while Garak would have gladly welcomed a small demonstration of personal loyalty from the captain, he had to admit that he had not really been expecting it.

  “It only came up on our radar yesterday, but it did pique our interest,” Jedburgh said. “So Enderby went off and did a little poking around. He’s good at that kind of thing. You see, we were both intrigued to find out what the hell could possibly connect a senator to a forger. Apart from them both being on DS9 at the same time. Oh, and both of them turning up dead shortly afterward, of course.” He leaned past Garak and addressed Enderby directly, counting off on his fingers. “A senator…a forger…was there anybody else?”

  “According to my information,” Enderby said, from the shade, “the senator was traveling with four bodyguards.”

  Jedburgh beamed. “I just don’t know what I’d do without him,” he confided in Garak.

  “Oh, I’m sure you’d cope,” Garak said acidly.

  “Maybe, maybe.” Jedburgh grinned. He counted off four more, holding up all the fingers on one hand, and his thumb on the other. “So, each one of those comes with…” He looked over at the tree again. “How long is it now, Enderby?”

  “Twenty-five years each,” Enderby said. “Served concurrently, however.”

  Jedburgh whistled. “Well, I’d say myself the senator is the one that really counts. Particularly with all the visitors we have around these parts at the moment. Still—twenty-five years for a forger…” He trailed off, shaking his head and looking around. Garak glanced at him surreptitiously, and tried to guess not so much what was coming next, but how it exactly would be phrased.

  Enderby took a couple of steps away from the tree, and joined them on the bench, sitting down on Garak’s right. Garak felt a perverse admiration for the precision of the maneuver, which pinned him once again between them both. He stared ahead, at the railings and the emptiness beyond. There was, he thought, a distinct lack of exit routes. He gave Enderby a cautious, sideways look. Enderby had placed the padds in front of him, on his knees. He wa
s holding them in place. They were perfectly symmetrical. On Garak’s other side, Jedburgh had folded his arms and was now leaning back comfortably against the bench.

  “But, you know,” Jedburgh was saying, “there are far worse places than a Federation prison. Tell me, Garak,” he continued, conversationally, “just how long is it since you were last on Cardassia Prime?”

  People kept on asking him that question, Garak thought. Very solicitous of them—although he had to say that when Sisko had asked it, it hadn’t made him go cold. Garak sucked in a breath of air. He looked at his hands, and then clasped them together.

  “Seven years,” he said, leaning forward, and staring down at the gravel on the path beneath his feet. The next bit of the conversation played out almost exactly as he expected it would.

  “You also made a very short trip back two years ago,” Enderby corrected, from just behind him. He was pressing the edge of one of the padds into his palm again. Garak watched with morbid fascination. He pictured the red mark it must be making against the white flesh.

  “It’s still a long time,” Jedburgh said. “And seven years is a lot longer. To be away from home. So I’d imagine.” He stopped. Garak resisted the temptation to glance up at him. “You anxious to go back there, Garak?” he said.

  Garak stared down at the stones on the ground. He swallowed. “Not under the current administration,” he said. “As I’m sure you are quite aware.”

  “Yeah. In fact, we were kind of counting on that.” Jedburgh leaned forward. Garak turned to look at him. They were face to face, and Jedburgh wasn’t smiling at all. “You ready to do business now?”

  Sisko and Leyton talked for a little while, about inconsequentialities. The hour wore on. Sisko began to wonder whether this had been a good idea. Leyton had been shifting restlessly in his chair. He was clearly having the same thought. After the conversation ground to a halt for the third or fourth time, Leyton leaned back in his chair and regarded Sisko thoughtfully.

  “Ben,” he said, “why have you come here?”

  “What makes you think I had a particular reason?”

  “Well, we’ve talked about my health, your health, and the weather. We’ve even talked a bit about how the war is progressing in your part of the quadrant. But you must only be here on Earth for a few days, and you must have a very busy schedule while you’re home.” Leyton gave him an unfriendly smile. “I can’t believe you took a whole heap of time out of your diary, just to spend an hour with your old commanding officer.”

  He had thought that Leyton was unchanged, but now there was a doubt—a thought that there was something different about him after all. Sisko suddenly wanted to look away from the other man in front of him. He began to search restlessly around the impersonal room, but there was nothing to take his attention. “I did want to see how you were doing,” he said. “But you’re right,” he confessed, glancing at Leyton again, “that isn’t the only reason I came today.”

  Leyton gave a short nod; his suspicions were confirmed. “So…are you going to tell me why you’re here?”

  Sisko stared down at the table. Anywhere other than at Leyton. Now that it came down to it, he found himself unsure of how or where to begin. So he picked the place that let him make the most sense of it all; the place that, at the time, had seemed to justify every decision that came afterwards. Sisko started with the casualty lists. And he went on from there. He found that it got easier as he went on; got easier to tell Leyton everything. To tell him all about biomimetic gel and optolythic datarods. All about a senator, and a forger. All about making a deal with the devil.

  He got to the point where the Romulans declared war on the Dominion, and then stopped. He thought of going on to tell Leyton about his conversation the previous day with Ross and Batanides, but his voice died away. It was, Sisko realized, because he wanted to give Leyton the chance to say something. The chance to speak his piece. Leyton had bent the law—had broken it—to suit his ends. He had ordered officers to open fire on other officers; had been prepared to murder for his ends. Was it right, Sisko thought, that Leyton was locked up while he remained free?

  Leyton had been listening to his account in silence, and with no reaction. Partway through, he had leaned his elbows on the table, and rested his chin in his hands. When Sisko finished, he stayed in that position, just looking at him. Sisko looked back. Then Leyton relaxed, and put his hands down on the table in front of him. He interleaved his fingers, and contemplated them for a moment or two, before looking up again at Sisko, and giving him a wry smile.

  “You know,” he said, “as you get older, you come to realize you’ve cast yourself, or you’ve ended up being cast, in a lot of different roles. I’ve been an officer, an admiral, a prisoner—” He glanced around him. “—a traitor…” Something about Leyton’s expression suggested to Sisko that perhaps he thought that the last of those had been miscast. “But never, in my wildest dreams,” Leyton finished, “did I imagine myself playing the part of your confessor.” He gave Sisko a sharp, calculating look. “Have you told this story to anyone else?”

  “Yes,” Sisko answered, and left Leyton to work out the rest.

  A look of comprehension spread across Leyton’s face. “I see,” he said, and gave a slight smile. “And there hasn’t even been a slap on the wrist, has there?”

  “No.”

  Leyton gave a short laugh. “Well, what the hell were you expecting, Ben?” He waved a hand around. “To join me here?”

  “I was expecting something!” It exploded from him. “Surely someone has to be held accountable for what was done? For what was allowed to be done?” With an abrupt and angry movement, Sisko got up from his chair. He began prowling around the little room, as if he were the one that was caged.

  “So that’s what you want from me, is it?” Leyton was watching him as he paced up and down. “You want me to tell you that you did the wrong thing? Then you’re going to have to wait a long time, Ben. Because from everything you’ve told me, I don’t think you did. In fact, I think you did the right thing—”

  “But he murdered them!”

  “No, Ben,” Leyton said, shaking his head emphatically. “It was war.”

  “There are rules to war—!”

  “Ben, wake up!” Leyton’s anger lanced through his words. “Listen to yourself! You don’t still really believe that, do you?”

  Sisko came to a halt, by the window. He tapped the frame, and stared out onto a blank space of rough grass with a high wall rising beyond it. It seemed to him to be a bleak outlook. Leyton was still speaking from behind him.

  “Look around you, Ben,” he was saying. “Look at the situations you’ve faced. Look at the choices you’ve made. Do you really still think there’s a rule book you should be following? This isn’t the Academy any more. This is the way the world works.”

  Sisko stared out of the window. “Is that what you told yourself?” he asked, very quietly. “Is that how you justified it to yourself?” He looked back over his shoulder.

  Leyton just smiled at him. “What makes you think I felt a need for justifications? Or feel a need even now?” he said. “The Federation was threatened, Ben. And I tried to defend it. It was my duty. That’s the only justification I need.”

  Sisko turned round to face him. “You went too far,” he said.

  “And you didn’t?”

  Sisko said nothing. A shaft of bright sunlight came in from behind him, hitting the gray table just in front of Leyton. Sisko could see little bits of dust swirling in the dry air. It suddenly struck him what it was that was different about Leyton. He had hardly ever seen him out of uniform before. Sisko leaned his head back against the wall, and stared up at the bare ceiling. Tried to keep it all under control.

  “Aren’t you angry?” Sisko said, at last. His voice sounded composed. Like the voice of a completely different man.

  “Angry?” Leyton was puzzled. “Why would I be angry?”

  Sisko continued examining the ceiling.
It was turning out not to be so bare after all. There was a crack over in one corner. “You’re here,” he said. “And I’m not.”

  “But that doesn’t make me angry, Ben. If anything, I feel…validated.”

  “Validated…?”

  “Well, from everything you’ve told me,” Leyton sighed, “it seems my real mistake was to make my move too soon. Another year, eighteen months…Maybe what I did would have seemed more comprehensible to others. I think perhaps you understand my actions a little better now.” He gave a quiet laugh. “Now that you’ve seen a little more of how the universe really works.”

  “It should have worked differently.” Sisko remembered how Garak had come back to him, again and again, asking for just a little bit more each time. “There was chance after chance to call a halt, but every time, it just went a step further. Every time. It should have worked differently.”

  Leyton did not answer. Sisko listened to the silence for a while, and then gave up and looked at him. Leyton pointed at the empty chair in front of him. “Sit down, Ben,” he said. There was still something of the commander about him. Sisko pushed himself away from the wall, and took his seat again. Leyton wove his fingers together again, and sat for a moment quietly, deep in thought.

  “When I put troops on every street corner,” he said, at last, “I know that many people saw them as a threat. To our way of life. Our liberties. I know you saw them that way,” he glanced at Sisko. “Saw them as dangerous.”

  Sisko nodded. “I did. They were.”

  “But what I saw,” Leyton carried on, “was something much more threatening. I could see the alternative—Jem’Hadar on every street corner. Jem’Hadar, here, on Earth.” He shook his head. “I wonder if you saw a little of what I could see. Can still see.”

  “What happened…they were crimes. Acts of violence. An abuse of power—”

  “And you thought governments didn’t do that kind of thing?” Leyton raised his eyebrows. “No, they just have a more highly developed apparatus for dealing out violence. More bureaucracy, certainly. Sometimes we even call it law—”