HollowMen

by Una McCormack

  Garak gasped. His headache had just become considerably worse. Tasting blood, he ran his tongue against the inside of his mouth. One of his upper teeth felt a little loose. Possibly two. He grinned up at Roeder. “For a peace campaigner,” he said, in between gulps of air, “your choice of tactics is very interesting. I’m just glad our paths didn’t cross when you were still a soldier.”

  This time, the blow was to his ribs. When the shock of it began to pass, Garak was able to feel a certain nostalgia for the wire. No pain, no gain, he thought, rather more hysterically than he would have liked. When Roeder pressed the nose of the phaser up against his throat his panic rose further, but he swallowed it back. It really would be the most dreadful waste of effort to lose control now. Now that Roeder was so close to the edge.

  “Tell me,” Roeder rasped out, “why Sisko brought you with him tonight. What do you know? Who else knows?”

  Garak had no idea what Roeder was talking about. Not yet. He knew there was something, and he meant for Roeder to tell him. Until then, what Garak did know—and knew a great deal about—was the application of violence. He knew as well as any other how it worked. And he also knew well, too well, how much it took to use it as a tool. Roeder’s nose had begun to bleed again; the phaser up against him was shaking. And, Garak thought, what better way to break a man of peace?

  “What do you think the cost of this will be, Roeder?” Garak whispered. Roeder’s own words, to Sisko. “Is it worth it? Will you be held to account?”

  Roeder hit him in the chest again but now, Garak saw, he was weeping.

  “These new codes are just not working,” Dax said in frustration. “Whatever I do, it seems to know exactly what I’m going to try.”

  “I have some news for you two, if you’d like to hear it.”

  “Make it good news, Chief,” Kira said, “because that Hamexi is just about to lay its hands—or whatever they are—on those crates of latinum.”

  “Pretty good news. I finally got through to Worf.”

  “He picked just the right time to be off-duty,” Dax noted.

  “He’s not in a great mood, though.”

  “Who is?” Kira muttered.

  The channel went dead. Dax and Kira waited patiently.

  “You both still there?”

  “You can count on that,” Kira said.

  “And we also managed to coax some life into some of the systems here: enough to run some scans of the station. There’s no problems with life support. So unless people are busy injuring themselves, there doesn’t seem to be any immediate threat to anyone on the station.”

  “Just to the latinum,” Kira said, looking back at the screen.

  “Just to the latinum,” O’Brien agreed.

  Built into the structure of the second bridge, there was a narrow alleyway. Chaplin led them in, reading from the coordinates on her tricorder. A line of lamps on the wall to the left cast orange light and uncertain shadows. Along the wall to the right, up the length of the alley, Sisko could see a row of four or five doors. Judging from the curve of the bridge, he guessed that there was a series of small, cellar-like rooms set behind the doors.

  Sisko glanced over at Chaplin. She gestured with the tricorder further down the alley. When they came to the final door on the right, she stopped.

  “In here, sir,” she whispered.

  Sisko nodded. He pointed beyond the bridge. They went on, out of the alleyway, and scouted out the far side of the bridge. There were some high windows set into the wall on the outside; too high for them to climb to take a look inside. Sisko went back beneath the bridge. He tested the handle on the door, very carefully. It gave a little; soundlessly, he noted with relief. He released it and looked at Chaplin.

  “What do you think, sir?” Chaplin whispered. “Shall we go in?”

  “Not we,” Sisko murmured back. He held out his hand, gesturing to her phaser. She passed it over. “Me. You’re going to get us some backup, and then stay here by the door. You got that?” She nodded. “Nobody gets past you,” he said. “Nobody.”

  “It seems,” Odo said, “we have just discovered the flaw in Captain Steyn’s flawless security systems.” He watched as the Hamexi went up to the crates of latinum, and began deactivating the security programs. Then he turned away from the viewscreen and went to sit, heavily, in his chair.

  “I suppose,” Bashir said thoughtfully, still staring at the screen, “that given the thing’s a machine, the scanners might not even be recognizing it as an intervention….” He shrugged and looked at Odo. “I suppose you’re more than satisfied now that this is all Brixhta’s work?”

  “I was already more than satisfied.”

  “It’s all so elaborate,” Bashir mused. “Although that does make sense. In terms of motivation, I mean.” He stopped himself and glanced over at Odo, wishing there was something he could do. Odo caught his look.

  “If you want to help, Doctor,” Odo replied sharply, “you can stop fussing, and start telling me more about what you mean by ’motivation.’ ”

  “Well,” Bashir sighed, “I was thinking about Hamexi psychology. Like I said, physiologically, they’re all very alike. And this puts some very specific cultural and psychological stresses on them. There’s a great emphasis on social cohesion but, at the same time, individual Hamexi feel under a great deal of pressure to differentiate themselves from the rest.” He glanced at Odo and bit his lip.

  “Go on,” Odo said. He shuddered. Another few flakes fell away from him. He saw the doctor look away, down at the tricorder in his hand. “I am listening.”

  “Well, think about Brixhta,” Bashir said. “The way he talks, and that hat…it’s all about standing out from the crowd.”

  “I do find myself wondering,” Odo said, “how you know so much about Hamexi. Aren’t they known to be a reclusive species? Did you study them at the Academy?”

  “Hardly at all, in fact,” Bashir said. “Hamexi physiology was mentioned in passing, in a single lecture.” He gave a quiet laugh. “No, all my conjectures about the psychology of the species are in the finest traditions of evidence-based medicine. They rely on a single anecdote.”

  “Although I find your deductions fascinating, Doctor,” Odo said, “I do wonder if I am in quite the right frame of mind to listen to one of your stories of over-achievement at Starfleet Academy.” He felt another tremor pass through him.

  Bashir came over to the desk and leaned against it. He gestured with the tricorder. Odo sat in isolation for a moment, and then reached out his hand.

  “Then you can rest easy, Constable,” Bashir said, as he got to work. “Because this isn’t one of my stories. It’s one of Garak’s.”

  Mechter, Quark decided, was devoid of appetite. He had brushed aside all of M’Pella’s expert advances, turned down several offers of cheap, cheaper, and eventually free use of one of the holosuites, and the same glass of synthale stood beside him. He had even managed to block Morn’s conversational gambits. And now it looked like Rom was bothering him.

  “Rom…” Quark muttered. Mechter was going to squash him like a tube grub. And Quark could see that Steyn was beginning to get annoyed. She slid out of her chair, wandered about the bar for a little while, and then came to a halt a few feet behind Mechter. She glared over at Quark. What the hell is going on? she mouthed.

  “Rom!” Quark yelled. “Here! Right now!”

  Rom jumped, and then hurried over to the bar. Mechter frowned at him as he departed. Just in time, Quark thought.

  “What is it, brother?” Rom said.

  “If you’re going to be stuck in here with the rest of us, you can make yourself useful instead of wasting time talking. Start putting things away.”

  Dutifully, Rom came behind the bar and started picking up glasses. Quark could see him shooting concerned looks at him.

  “You seem worried about something, brother,” Rom ventured after a moment or two.

  “Well,” said Quark, glancing across the bar at Mechter, who
had gone back to watching the dabo wheel, “it must be because I’m looking ruin in the face.”

  “I’m sure it’ll all turn out fine, brother.” Rom soothed, and looked to see where Quark was staring. “Have you been talking to Mister Mechter too?” he asked. “He’s a nice man.”

  “A nice man?”

  “We got on just fine.”

  “You have been talking to him?”

  “Yes, brother. We have a lot in common.”

  “Rom, that ’nice man’ over there is a hired killer. You have more in common with the replicators. For a start, they’re not sentient.”

  “I’m sure you’re right, brother,” Rom said humbly. “But he did get engaged to a Nausicaan woman at the start of the year. And her family don’t like the idea of an interspecies marriage, so they’re making it difficult for the final ceremonies to take place.” Rom piled up a few more glasses. “Just before you called me over here, I was telling him about me and Leeta, and how we got things to work out between us…” Rom looked at Mechter sorrowfully. “It’s so sad,” he said. “I think he’s losing hope. He just needs someone to talk to.”

  Females, thought Quark, with some vindication. “Well, then,” he said, retrieving a glass from his brother’s hand, twisting him round bodily, and pushing him back in Mechter’s direction, “what are you doing still standing here? Get over there right now and talk to him some more!”

  He watched Rom head across the bar. When Mechter saw him, his mouth twitched into what Quark assumed was a smile. Quark took a look at Steyn. She raised her eyebrows at him. He tapped one of his lobes and winked. She grinned, gave him the thumbs-up and then went back to her chair to carry on watching Auger’s success at the wheel.

  Rom, you’re an idiot. But I don’t know what I’d do without you.

  The moon had come out again. Garak turned his head to the side. Roeder was sitting on the floor now, his knees drawn up, his back against the wall. His hands were balanced on his knees, and the phaser was hanging limply from one of them.

  “One of the dark places,” he murmured to himself. He leaned his head against the wall, and then turned it so that he was looking at Garak. “You’ve been in places like this before, haven’t you?”

  Garak looked straight ahead again; back at the moonlight. “Yes,” he said.

  “And not always in the chair.”

  “Not always, no.”

  Roeder nodded. “I thought so,” he said, turning away. “You can always recognize them, can’t you? Recognize the people like us.” Garak watched as Roeder ran his thumb mechanically up and down the edge of the phaser, and said nothing. Roeder was right. You did come to recognize them: the men who lost themselves in violence, who let themselves be hollowed, who cut out their souls and filled the space with something they called duty. You learned to grasp their loves, and the limits of their loves. You learned to see what would bring them to those limits. Roeder was close now, Garak could tell. Garak had brought him there.

  “Did you ever reach a point,” Roeder asked, “where you had to say, Enough? Was there ever a line you couldn’t cross? Something you just couldn’t bring yourself do?”

  Garak closed his eyes. He let his head fall forward. His gamble, it seemed, was about to pay off. Had it, he asked himself, even been that much of a gamble? They always confessed in the end. They always told him everything.

  He gave a little thought to Roeder’s question; found himself remembering being on the Defiant above the Founders’ homeworld and, before that, on the bridge of Tain’s flagship. He had been quite ready, both times, to wipe out an entire race. No, Garak answered Roeder, with complete sincerity, and with a little pity too. Never. He opened his eyes again, and glanced across at Roeder, sitting in silence, drawn in upon himself again. The moonlight was landing on his face. He looked wrung-out.

  Tell me, Garak willed him. Tell me what’s happening.

  “Roeder,” he breathed.

  Roeder’s hand twitched; the one holding the weapon. Garak licked his lips, and tasted metal in his mouth. He swallowed, and drew in some air.

  “Talk to me,” Garak urged him, almost tenderly. “Tell me—”

  And then there was a noise, from near the door.

  Roeder was up on his feet again in a second. He moved to stand next to Garak. He put one hand on the back of the chair, and raised the phaser, pointing it across Garak, toward the entrance. Garak turned his head to peer into the shadows, slowly, trying not to startle the other man. There was a shape moving near the doorway. Garak raised his eyes to the darkness above and prayed to gods he did not believe in that this was not going to turn out to be some well-meaning but remarkably ill-timed rescue attempt.

  “Tomas,” the figure said quietly, from the darkness. “It’s Ben. Ben Sisko.”

  From just inside his field of vision, Garak watched as Roeder shut his eyes, for the merest moment, and opened them again. Slowly, gently, he felt the blunt nose of Roeder’s phaser press against his temple. “Well,” Roeder muttered. “You’re here.”

  Sisko. At this moment, Garak came close—closest—to seeing the whole story; unraveling the threads that bound him to this place, these people. But the pain, and the darkness deluded him, and all he understood was Roeder. The charm, the brutality, the whole terrible episode had simply been contrived to find out why Sisko had come back to Earth. Not Garak. Not the conference. Not even the protest. Just Sisko. After that, Garak could penetrate Roeder’s mind no further. Whatever it was that Roeder wanted to know, whatever it was about the commander of Deep Space 9 that had driven Roeder to take these desperate measures—all of this Garak could not begin to guess. He had hoped that Roeder would tell him; had been certain that Roeder was about to tell him. Now he had to doubt whether Roeder was going to get the chance.

  “I’m armed, Tomas.” Sisko’s voice was as smooth as silk. Trying to keep everything calm. Particularly the man waving the gun around. “I have a phaser pointed at you. Why don’t you put your weapon down, and we can talk?”

  Garak swallowed and looked at Sisko, silhouetted in the doorway, taking slow steps forward. Sisko spoke again. “Tomas,” he said, “please—don’t do anything you’re going to regret. I know we can talk this through.”

  Something felt like ice, Garak thought. It was not just the headache, he realized. It was the phaser, cold against his temple.

  Captain, he thought, please—don’t do anything stupid.

  The Hamexi figure had now reached runabout pad B. Kira and Dax watched as it boarded, and began the launch procedures. The runabout was ready to leave.

  “Chief,” Kira said, resignedly, “I’m guessing there’s no way you can take the Ariadne after the runabout?”

  “Can’t release the docking clamps, Major.”

  Kira sighed. “I thought you might say something like that.”

  Together, she and Dax stood and watched as the runabout was launched. “So,” Kira said, “there she goes.” She glanced at Dax. “And I’m really not looking forward to explaining that to the captain.”

  From the shadow of the doorway, Sisko took in the tableau before him. Over to the left, moonlight was filtering in through three high windows. It fell upon the scene straight ahead: Roeder, looking right at him, his arm stretched out, holding a phaser up to the forehead of the figure in the chair; Garak, sitting there, facing the windows, unable to move.

  Sisko took a few cautious steps forward. They echoed out loud against the concrete.

  “Stop,” Roeder ordered.

  Sisko obeyed, and cast a quick look at Garak. Garak’s eyes were intent upon Roeder, but Sisko could almost hear him, warning him. Not to do anything he would regret.

  “What’s going on, Tomas?” Sisko tried to keep his voice calm. Unthreatening. “When I left the reception, you two were hitting it off just fine. What happened?”

  “What happened? Your friend here pulled a knife on me, that’s what happened.” He sounded breathless.

  Sisko glanced at Garak again and
frowned. “Is that true?”

  “In my defense,” Garak said, “I would like to point out that he was attacking me at the time.”

  Roeder’s hand twitched and tightened its grip on the phaser.

  “Shut up, Garak,” Sisko advised.

  “He’d come to kill me, Ben,” Roeder said.

  Sisko stared at him in disbelief. “What?”

  “He’d been sent to kill me.”

  “Tomas, that’s crazy—!”

  “Is that why you’re here too? To kill me?”

  “I don’t want to kill you!” The words came out too loud in the space. Sisko made himself suck in a breath. This conversation had gotten way out of control. He smoothed his voice. “Tomas, I don’t know what’s happened to make you think that—”

  “You. Here. Now. You bring this Cardassian to meet me—an assassin!” Roeder pushed the phaser harder against Garak’s face. Garak’s eyes closed automatically; Sisko watched him swallow, and then look up at Roeder’s face. “Ben,” Roeder shouted, “I swear, you’re not going to stop me. I can’t let you stop me. I will shoot!”

  “Don’t do it, Tomas,” Sisko said. He raised his own phaser and took aim; targeting right at Roeder’s heart. He looked into the other man’s face. The moonlight was streaming down upon it; Sisko could see the blood drying around Roeder’s nose. People really had been fighting a private little war here.

  Sisko glanced down at Garak. Garak was watching him now; watching with bright and glittering intensity. Then, just as on the Rubicon, Garak’s eyes widened, ever so slightly; it seemed that something had become very clear to him. His lips curved slowly into a cold smile.

  Sisko could not say later why that had made the difference. But, at that moment, it seemed to him that everything came together at once: Vreenak’s murder, his failed confession, Ross’s sanction, Leyton’s approval, Veral’s consent. All of the lines drew together at this point. Shooting Roeder would not be a crime, but that did not make it right. And Sisko knew he could not do it. He could not cross this line.