HollowMen

by Una McCormack

  “Am I ready for a game?” he said. “You bet.”

  Steyn started to laugh. “So, have you ever played dabo before, Auger?”

  “What do you think, Captain?”

  Steyn stood up. “I don’t think it will make much difference either way.” She nodded toward the back of the bar. “Shall we go and find out?”

  Auger grabbed his glass, spilling only a little of the contents, and followed her over to the table at the back of the bar. Mechter was close behind them, but Auger was getting close to familiar territory. He and Steyn eased past some of the punters to get closer to the table. There was a wheel on it.

  “This is dabo,” Steyn said. “Have a look, see what you think.”

  Auger watched the wheel. It began to spin. And with it—like with the twist of a kaleidoscope—the whole universe fell into a beautiful shape.

  Brixhta was still there, situated at one end of the bench, his hat serving as camouflage. Hearing Odo’s approach, he eased himself up into a sitting position, and raised his hat ever so slightly. “Odo,” he said, cheerfully.

  “You’re there,” Odo said, unnecessarily.

  “Now, where ever else would I be?”

  Odo did not reply. He checked the setting on the lock. The last time it had been activated was when he himself had sealed Brixhta in.

  “Although when one has experienced incarceration, one’s perspective on it does change.”

  “Does it indeed?” Odo said.

  “Why yes. A man’s body may be caged, but…” Brixhta raised his hand and moved it in a slow, meaningful arc.

  Odo checked a few of the less obvious settings on the door. There was nothing suspicious. No sign of tampering.

  “Is there something troubling you, Odo?”

  “Not in the slightest,” Odo replied, with more confidence than he felt. He checked all the door settings once again, but they brought him to the same conclusion. There was no way that Brixhta had been anywhere other than where he was now.

  The Centaurian Embassy took up the whole of a row of what had once been four tall, terraced town houses. Sisko and Garak materialized in a small flower garden at the front of one of the houses, at the foot of a set of wide stone steps that led up into the buildings.

  It was late evening in early autumn. The air was damp and smelled of leaves. Twilight. Looking out from where they stood, with the embassy behind, there was a quiet street running parallel to the row of terraces. Over the road, running left to right, was a line of trees and then a row of lamps that went along the length of the embankment. Beyond the thread of lights, Sisko could see the dark line of the river.

  “Where are we now?” Garak said, staring up at the gray wash of the sky, and then taking in the outline of grayer buildings that spread out along the far bank of the river.

  “London,” Sisko said.

  “I think I may have heard the doctor mention it.”

  “Well, this is certainly more his part of the world.”

  “It’s…a little darker than I expected,” Garak said. “Not that I’m complaining. Are we very far from San Francisco?”

  Sisko was sure he felt a spot of rain. “About as far as you can be,” he muttered to himself. “We’re on a completely different continent,” he said, for Garak’s benefit.

  “And an even wetter one, apparently,” Garak said. “Although it seems to me as if this entire planet is wet. Even more so than Bajor.”

  “What are you basing that on?” Sisko said curiously. “I thought you’d only been to Bajor a few times?”

  Garak turned away to stare across the river. “In my situation, it’s difficult not to hear a lot about it.”

  They went up the steps and through two ornate doors into the embassy, passing through a security field as they went in. Two men in tuxedos on either side of the doorway watched them enter, and one spoke discreetly into a communication device fixed to the back of his hand. Inside, the foyer was white and high-ceilinged; the walls were hung with landscapes and pastoral scenes. A wide staircase opened out to the right, but they were guided politely but firmly toward open doors straight ahead.

  They went into a large reception room, with high ceilings, bright chandeliers, and more paintings. Seascapes, this time, Sisko noticed; scenes of flagships of a long gone empire. Little groups of people had gathered together here and there, making light and insubstantial conversation, rising and falling in harmony, counterpointed with the sound of strings. The wall opposite was almost entirely given over to windows—two bays on either side of French windows, which were standing open. They led out onto a terrace; some of the guests had decided to brave the evening chill and take their drinks outside. Looking into the garden, Sisko could see spots of candlelight flickering against the graying sky, and dark lines of trees in the garden beyond.

  A waiter passed by, carrying a tray of drinks. Sisko grabbed a couple of glasses and handed one over to Garak. “Champagne,” he said. “That’s…a kind of fizzy wine,” he added, by way of explanation, when Garak gave him a questioning look.

  Garak peered down at the contents, and then took a taste of it, cautiously. “Odd,” he said. “Not unpleasant, but odd.” He took another sip.

  Sisko looked around the room. The reception seemed to be in full swing. The room was full and busy but not yet crowded. Sisko spotted the source of the music: a string quartet was sitting in the space opened up by the bay windows, playing something that he recognized but could not place. It was all so very civilized. A shame, really, that the Romulans all seemed to be at one end of the room, and the Klingons at the other. Or maybe it was the safest option for the décor.

  Their host, at least, was not letting this segregation trouble her, Sisko thought, although she was clearly conscious of it. He watched Councillor Huang, dazzling in electric blue, as she threaded her way between the little groups, stopping to speak to people now and again. After she had passed, one or two people would peel off from their set, and make the effort to speak to others beyond their obvious circle. Huang was very skilled at this, so Sisko had heard. Who knew—by the time the evening was over, a lot more of the work might have been done to make the whole conference a success.

  Huang moved away, laughing, from what looked like it had been a spirited conversation with a Klingon attaché. Her eye fell on Sisko, and on Garak. She made a direct line for them. Closer to, her dress seemed to shimmer a little; the blue silk was shot through with silver thread.

  “Captain,” she said, brisk and businesslike, and smiling as they shook hands. “It’s a pleasure. Your fame precedes you.”

  “So does yours, Councillor,” he said, and nodded around the room. “The evening looks set to be a great success.”

  She leaned in toward them, as if drawing them into her confidence, the silk of her dress rustling as she came close. “Between you and me,” she said, lowering her voice, “I would have liked to see a little more integration between my various guests from the outset. Never mind! I have an hour or two yet in which to achieve it.” From the assurance of her smile, Sisko found that he did not doubt her ability to make it happen.

  Huang turned her attention sharply toward Garak. “Welcome to Earth, Mr. Garak,” she said. “I had hoped that some members of your government-in-exile would be able to attend this evening, but they declined the invitation. I believe they preferred to remain within the safety of Starfleet Headquarters. A pity.”

  Garak inclined his head. “They are not my government,” he said politely, “but I believe it to be possible that a period of exile can induce a rather suspicious cast of mind. May I apologize for any offense they might have inadvertently given?”

  “No offense has been taken. I can sympathize with their security concerns. Although, as you can see,” she glanced over at the door, “I am not taking any chances this evening.” She smiled at them. “Well, good evening, gentlemen; duty calls. Try some of the caviar, Mr. Garak,” she ordered him, as she turned away. “I suppose you shouldn’t leave Earth without
that particular experience. Personally, I think it’s foul stuff, but people seem to expect it.”

  They watched her head back into the fray.

  “What an exquisite dress,” Garak remarked.

  “Yes,” Sisko said. “Very nice.”

  Garak smiled down at his champagne. “Look,” he said softly, raising one finger from his glass to gesture across the room. “There’s Roeder.”

  Bashir was, Odo guessed, as embarrassed about his outburst the previous day as Odo was embarrassed to have been the cause of it.

  “Odo,” the doctor said, “I didn’t expect to see you back here so soon.” He gave a rueful smile. “I’m sorry if I was short-tempered yesterday. Locking up the Hamexi—I guess it just didn’t seem right…” He stopped himself. “But under the circumstances…Well, let’s not get into all that again. Are you satisfied now that the latinum is safe?”

  Odo began to look around the infirmary. It seemed he would have to be embarrassed once more. “Not exactly…” he said.

  “No?” Bashir said sharply.

  “I have just,” Odo said, staring at a flashing light on the console with an intense and thoroughly unnecessary degree of interest, “concluded my latest check on the security around the latinum shipment….” He risked a glance at the doctor.

  “And?” Bashir had folded his arms and was now leaning back against the console. Odo looked back quickly at the flashing lights.

  “And one of my officers told me that an Hamexi had asked to be allowed into the assay office. However, when I checked on Brixhta, he was still in his cell and the door had not been activated since I put him in there.” He glanced up again.

  Bashir was grinning at him. “That must be very puzzling for you, Constable,” he said.

  Odo made a low, noncommittal sound.

  “Well,” Bashir said, straightening himself up, “it doesn’t really surprise me.”

  “Would you care to enlighten me as to why?”

  “I’m not entirely sure that you deserve this information after being so quick off the mark to lock the man up, but Hamexi are a very interesting species from a medical point of view.” He reached for the padd, and punched a few controls. “There you go,” he said, offering it to Odo. “It’s all there.”

  Odo took the padd, and glanced down at a meaningless stream of numbers. “I think that I will have to ask you to interpret this data for me, Doctor.”

  Bashir grinned again. At least he wasn’t angry anymore, Odo thought. Although he could try to be a bit less self-satisfied about it.

  “Hamexi share an unusually high level of genetic information,” Bashir explained, obviously enjoying himself. “They’re often particularly indistinguishable to members of other species. So you see, Odo—it’s very simple.” He smiled. “Your security officer saw an entirely different person. A traveling companion of Brixhta’s, I imagine.”

  Odo stared down at the padd, and then pointed to the console. “Do you mind if I check something?”

  Bashir stepped courteously out of his way. “Be my guest.”

  It took a minute or two, but Odo soon had the information he needed. “I’m afraid you’ll need to come up with another hypothesis, Doctor. There’s no record of any other Hamexi arriving on DS9. And a scan insists that there is no other Hamexi on the station. Apart from Brixhta himself, that is.”

  Bashir blinked. “Oh,” he said. He looked rather crestfallen. “Well. Yes, that does put a rather different complexion on things….”

  Sisko looked across the reception room. Roeder had positioned himself in front of one of the windows. It put him on the edge of the party, and he was standing silently, watching, and seeming to monitor the little groups that had gathered, sipping his champagne, and filing away who was talking to whom. You can take the officer out of Starfleet security…

  Sisko downed another mouthful of champagne. “All right,” he said, unwillingly, “shall we get this over with?”

  “Try not to sound so enthusiastic, Captain.”

  “And you try not to—” Sisko stopped himself and wondered how best to put it. “Just…try not to provoke him.”

  Garak was affronted. “Captain, I am genuinely interested in hearing what he has to say! Quite frankly, I am insulted by the assumption that I might—”

  “All right, all right,” Sisko cut off the tirade. “But he hits even harder than me. So don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  They went across the room. As they got a little closer, Sisko noted that there were flecks of gray against Roeder’s dark hair. They had all gotten older, it seemed. And who could say which of them it was that had gotten wiser?

  “Tomas.”

  Roeder turned at the sound of his voice, and looked straight at him. His eyes widened; for just a second, Sisko thought he looked shocked, but then it seemed to be no more than surprise.

  “Ben,” he said quietly, in greeting, and came toward him. He offered his hand, and Sisko took it. Roeder’s grip was strong and certain. “I didn’t expect to see you here. I wouldn’t have thought anything could bring you away from DS9 right now.”

  “Well, it’s an important conference, Tomas. I have a lot to say—and I mean to be heard.”

  A faint smile crossed Roeder’s face. He nodded, as if something had become clearer to him. “You haven’t changed a bit, Ben,” he said. “It’s good to see you again. How’s Judith?”

  Sisko smiled back. “She’s very well. Just got back from a tour.”

  “I never seem to get the chance to hear her play. Always offworld, or speaking somewhere…”

  “She was asking after you.”

  Roeder’s smile became distant. “Remember me to her, please.”

  “Of course I will. I should be catching up with her later in the week.”

  “And your father—how is he? And the restaurant?”

  “Both still going strong.”

  Roeder nodded. “It’s good to know some things remain the same.” He took some of his champagne, and seemed to fall into thought. For a moment, Sisko thought, it was almost as if Roeder had absented himself from the room, although the fingers around the glass were still following the arpeggios in the background. At last he spoke.

  “I heard the news about the Seventh Fleet,” he said. “There were a lot of familiar names on the list.”

  “There are always a lot of familiar names these days.”

  “I’m very sorry.” Roeder looked away, out across the room.

  “So you don’t think we’re just getting what we deserve?” Sisko’s voice had softened, but the words did not lose their edge. Beside him, he heard Garak draw in a sharp breath.

  Roeder turned his head, and looked at Sisko with something like compassion. “It’s the cost of it all, isn’t it?” Roeder said, with pity. “The realization that comes—early one morning, or late one night, or whenever it is that the dreams wake you up—that it just isn’t worth that cost. That whatever credit is on offer right now, one day there will have to be a reckoning. One day, we’ll be held to account.”

  Sisko drew his finger round the perfect crystal circle of the rim of his glass. The comfortable distance of Earth permitted many persuasive fictions. But the truth, Sisko knew, lay back on the front line. He tapped his nail against the thin glass. It rang, a hollow sound. “I don’t doubt I’ll pay a lot more yet for victory,” he said.

  Roeder did not answer, and the sound of strings intervened.

  “I heard your speech the other night,” Sisko said, as a peace offering. “Well, as much of it as you were able to give.”

  Roeder’s mouth tightened at the corners. “It was not,” he said, “exactly how I would hope a peace rally to end.” He gestured impatiently with his glass. “Sometimes I’m sure there are agents provocateurs in our ranks—”

  “I don’t believe that for a moment, Tomas—”

  “Yes, well—then I think I’m probably being paranoid.” He gave a short laugh. “Still,” he said, looking around the room, “these are s
trange days. Sometimes it’s hard to pick out our enemies from among our friends.” His gaze, perhaps inevitably, came to rest on Garak, who had been standing by, patiently. “Forgive me,” Roeder said, “I don’t think we’ve met before….” He glanced quickly at Sisko and quirked a dark eyebrow up at him.

  Sisko roused himself. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I should have introduced you straight away. Tomas, this is Elim Garak. He…” Sisko struggled for a moment to think of an adequate way to explain away Garak. “He’s come this evening very eager to hear about your reasons for joining the antiwar campaign.” That was pretty heavily edited, Sisko thought, as Garak and Roeder shook hands, but it was enough as a start. If Roeder really wanted to know anything, he could try getting it out of Garak himself. It would be interesting to watch.

  “So, Mister Garak,” Roeder said, addressing him directly, “explain to me—how does a Cardassian find himself here on Earth in the middle of a war between us?”

  “That’s not difficult to explain at all,” Garak replied, easily. “By being at odds with the current regime.”

  “Something that can happen to the best of us,” Roeder pointed out. “So—does that make you a peacemaker too?”

  “A peacemaker?” Garak smiled down into his glass. “I am a Cardassian, Mister Roeder, first and foremost.” His smile thinned. “And a very long way from home.” He stopped speaking, and the sound of a solitary cello began to filter through again.

  “I was once fortunate enough,” Roeder said, into the gap, “to hear one of your finest musicians. Ilani Tarn.”

  “You heard Ilani Tarn play?” Garak switched his attention back to him, eagerly.

  “She gave a performance here on Earth, eighteen months ago. A cultural exchange, arranged just before your civilian government fell, I think.”