Star Trek: Typhon Pact - 10 - The Fall: The Crimson Shadow

by Una McCormack

  “Listen, son,” said Istek, “I don’t think you’re old enough to remember how things were before the Jem’Hadar got here. It was a different world. None of us are proud of the world that was—”

  “Not everyone worked for Enabran Tain. Which he did happily, by all accounts—”

  “I’d rather a man who understands that what he did in the past was wrong,” said Istek, “than someone like Temet who goes to some lengths to cover over what he’s done!”

  Mhevet drew in a breath. Oh, yes, that hazy period in Temet’s past, back during the Dominion War . . . Mhevet, looking around the room, was suddenly sure who amongst her colleagues would very soon be voting for Cardassia First. There were some low and angry murmurs, rising steadily—and then suddenly everything went dead quiet. Glancing over her shoulder, Mhevet saw Kalanis, her arms folded, a cold expression on her face.

  “Patrak,” she said. “I’m surprised at you. Istek, I’m not surprised, but I’m still furious.” She looked around. “The rest of you—you know the regulations. You keep this for the geleta house.” She glanced at Mhevet. “A word, please.”

  Mhevet followed her superior down the corridor.

  “What exactly was that all about?” Kalanis asked.

  “Just some steam being let off—”

  “In contravention of 964. There’s a reason that regulation exists, and it’s to stop scenes like that. You were the senior person present. Why didn’t you enforce it?”

  Because nobody really obeyed it any longer. “It got out of hand more quickly than I expected—”

  “What do you expect these days? You might have spared a thought for Fereny—his mother’s brother was murdered by the Order.”

  Mhevet frowned. “I’d forgotten that.”

  “You seem to be forgetting a great deal these days, Ari. How’s the Aleyni case coming along?”

  “Stalled.”

  “Stalled?”

  “I want to speak to Starfleet Intelligence—”

  Kalanis looked at her sharply. “Why?”

  “I think Aleyni might have been more than simply a cultural liaison officer.”

  “Why? What evidence do you have?”

  “It’s a hunch. . . . I mean, Reta, come on—‘cultural liaison’? That’s a euphemism for ‘spy’ if ever there was one.”

  Kalanis was thin-lipped with anger. “This is a murder case, nothing more. It’s tragic, but there’s nothing suspicious about it. Stop trying to dig up secrets, and start finding your murderer. In case you’ve been meticulously following 964 and avoiding the ’casts, you might not have grasped that there’s a Bajoran at the top of the Federation now. And if the city constabulary can’t be bothered to solve the murder of a Bajoran, we are going to have a great deal of explaining to do, at the highest levels.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am—”

  “I know you think I’ve moved you away from important work, but this is important too. So get busy, Investigator, and don’t get distracted because you think this job is beneath you.” Kalanis began to head off down the corridor but turned back and raised her voice so that it carried into the office beyond, where Mhevet’s silent colleagues were now making a show of being hard at work.

  “As long as I am here,” Kalanis said, “Directive 964 and all it stands for are at the heart of this constabulary. We are not enemies. We serve a common purpose to protect the people of this city. That is who we are and what we do.” And quietly, to Mhevet, she said, “And I expect you—you, of all people—to be making sure of this.”

  Six

  Dear Julian,

  Did I ever tell you about the funeral ceremony I performed not long after coming home? I don’t mean the burials, not those . . . I don’t wish to recall those, nor do I wish to make you think of them. . . . I mean for my own dead, here in what is now the garden.

  I had no perek flowers, which was another grief. You want to feel you have done your best, but there were no flowers to be found in the city. Still, I had my knife, and I had my voice, so I cut across my hand and let the blood drip onto the ground, and I chanted all their names: Tolan, Tain, Ziyal, Mila, Damar. Does it surprise you that Tain’s name was on the list? It might surprise you even more that I added Dukat.

  I chanted his name because nobody else would. Somebody has to remember him. Otherwise we’ll forget.

  Garak

  —not sent—

  * * *

  The president pro tem of the United Federation of Planets, Ishan Anjar, was an intense, understandably humorless, and plainly very weary man. Given his age, he must, Picard thought, have been brought up under the Cardassian Occupation. For the moment, the focus that President Ishan brought to the task at hand impressed itself upon Picard, as did the man’s grasp of even the smallest details of what was happening on Cardassia Prime. This was not someone who gave the impression of being thrown by the situation in which he had found himself; this was someone who thoroughly grasped the gravity of the situation. Surely, Picard thought, this was to the good.

  Present also in the discussion were Admiral Akaar, speaking from San Francisco, and Ishan’s newly appointed chief of staff, a Tellarite named Galif jav Velk, who was with the president in Paris. When the introductions, handled briskly and without ceremony by Ishan, were completed, Picard spoke.

  “I regret that we must speak for the first time under such tragic circumstances,” Picard said. “May I offer my deep sympathies to you on the death of President Bacco? You must have known her well, and the situation in which you have found yourself is surely a uniquely painful and difficult one—”

  Ishan waved a hand to cut him off. “I’ve neither the time nor the energy to waste on self-indulgence, Captain. Let’s save our strength for the crisis at hand.” He lifted up a handful of padds. “You’ll forgive me for having only read your briefings very rapidly. The past few days have necessarily involved a steep learning curve.”

  “I quite understand, Mister President. Let me assure you that all Starfleet personnel stationed here on Cardassia Prime are on full alert. The Enterprise is of course ready to leave on your instruction—”

  “Enterprise will remain where you are for the time being,” Ishan said. “These reports about demonstrations outside HARF installations are very alarming. I want to make sure we have a presence in Cardassian space to remind the castellan that we take such threats very seriously.”

  Velk was nodding his approval. Picard glanced over at Akaar, who was impassive.

  “I’m meeting the castellan later today,” Picard said. “This is surely a grave loss to her too, both personally and politically. I imagine she also takes seriously any threat to an ally of her government—”

  “Yes, I’m aware that meeting is scheduled. You can inform the castellan when you see her that the withdrawal of our personnel from the Cardassian Union is now naturally on a new timetable.”

  “I’m sure she’s expecting that. President Bacco’s visit here was to sign that agreement. To continue with any such ceremony would be entirely inappropriate.”

  Ishan looked back with cool eyes. “You misunderstand me, Captain. I’m not talking about shifting the date forward. The Federation’s withdrawal from Cardassia is under review, and our forces will remain—”

  Akaar was plainly startled, as he broke protocol and interrupted the president. “This is a radical shift in policy—”

  “Perhaps so, Admiral,” Ishan replied. “Nonetheless, while Nanietta Bacco may have been satisfied that our interests in Cardassian space are secure, I am not.”

  “While I understand this perspective, sir,” Picard said carefully, “I must say that any such change in policy is risky. This withdrawal agreement is the culmination of many months’ work. There is a consensus on both sides that Starfleet is no longer required on Cardassia Prime. Our continued presence here will, in effect, be an occupying force of a friendly power—”

  Velk intervened. “The Federation is under threat. Surely you take that seriously?”
r />   “Of course I do—”

  “The responsibility has fallen upon me,” said Ishan, “to ensure that we are protected.”

  “From our enemies, yes,” Picard replied. “But not, surely, from our friends?”

  Velk shook his head impatiently, as if Picard was not keeping up with something that was patently obvious to him. “We can no longer assume that our friends are indeed true friends,” he said. “Your own briefings tell of significant anti-Federation sentiment on Cardassia Prime.”

  “Yes.” Picard nodded. “There is some ill will. There is never going to be perfect consensus. I imagine we could find many in the Federation who would not speak well of Cardassians—”

  The moment it was out, he could have bitten off his tongue. Ishan’s eyes hardened.

  “Quite,” he said. “And they might well be speaking from experience.”

  “All that we are saying,” Velk said, “is that we must not be complacent. We must be sure, even of our friends. If, as you say, the castellan is so well disposed toward us, she will surely understand.”

  “One can only hope that she will,” Picard said.

  “Tell me how this murder investigation is proceeding,” Ishan said.

  “I have no further information on that—”

  Ishan frowned. “I wish I could feel that the Cardassian constabularies were taking the death of a Bajoran seriously.”

  “I’m sure that everything that can be done is being done. The investigating officer is known to Commander Fry. I’m sure that she can give you further assurances—”

  “I’m speaking to Commander Fry next,” Ishan said. “She’ll be instructed to order all Starfleet personnel to remain on HARF installations for the foreseeable future.”

  Picard thought of the briefings he had received from Šmrhová and Worf on the set-up at HARF, and the integration policy at the heart of all their operations. “That might be difficult to achieve if we want HARF to remain functioning—”

  Admiral Akaar looked like he had swallowed something sour.

  “Commander Fry,” Velk said, “must make sure all Starfleet personnel across the Union are safely inside our installations. I’ll be instructing our embassy to advise all non-military Federation citizens to do the same. I’m not going to have any of our people—who have, after all, gone to Cardassia with the purpose of giving aid—be harassed or threatened.”

  Picard addressed Ishan directly. “Mister President, you’d be wise to listen to Commander Fry’s advice on this, sir. She has more experience with the Cardassians than any of us—” Again, he stopped himself.

  “I can assure you that I have plenty of experience to draw on,” Ishan said. “Captain, you have your orders. Convey my cordial respects to the castellan, and inform her that Starfleet’s withdrawal is under review. I’ll be giving Commander Fry her new orders myself. And may the Prophets guide us through these difficult days.”

  The channel to the president’s office closed. “ ‘Cordial respects,’ is it?” Akaar asked. “Garan is going to hit the roof. . . .”

  “Admiral, this is an appalling decision. I cannot think how this can be presented to the castellan as anything other than an insult. We are, in effect, signaling that we no longer trust the Cardassian government. A suspicious mind—and we need look no further than Ambassador Garak—might even draw the conclusion that the Federation thinks the Cardassians are implicated in the assassination.” Picard frowned. “I assume Starfleet Intelligence is not pursuing that as a possible explanation?”

  “Not that I’ve been told. I think you’re reading too much into this. President Ishan has found himself unexpectedly thrust into the limelight in the most shocking of circumstances. I can’t blame him for wanting to show his strength at every available opportunity—”

  “But the long-term cost of that might be considerably greater than any temporary gain—”

  “You have to consider the mood at home.”

  Picard pressed his fingers against his brow. “I can’t even bear to think—”

  “Jean-Luc, it’s worse. The president is taking the correct approach. People here want to feel protected.” Akaar rubbed his tired eyes. “This is a temporary appointment. In sixty days there will be an election. I suggest we keep him happy for as long as he’s here.”

  “Very well, sir,” said Picard, although not without misgivings. “But we run the risk of throwing away a great deal of hard work and a great deal of goodwill.”

  “I have every faith that you can make both the castellan and the ambassador understand. Good luck, Jean-Luc.”

  * * *

  Aneta Šmrhová, standing in the square outside the main Starfleet building at HARF, was watching an uncharacteristically stressed Commander Fry trying to placate a young and very angry Bolian doctor.

  “I know how hard this is. But it’s straight from the top. I promise it won’t be for long—”

  “Maggie, I’ve got a shift starting at a free clinic in East Torr in”—the young man checked the time—“twenty-five minutes. What am I supposed to say? ‘Sorry, I can’t come’?”

  “That’s exactly what you have to say.”

  “And how am I supposed to explain it to my colleagues? We’re understaffed as it is—”

  The security officer went back inside the building. She took off her mask and brushed the dust from her hair. Turning to Worf, who had been watching the scene from inside, she said, “I don’t think this is a good idea, sir.”

  “It is clearly difficult. But we have our orders. We are all distressed by the news of Bacco’s death. And we have seen signs already that many Cardassians are not well-disposed toward us.”

  “It’s not the Cardassians’ fault the president is dead.”

  Worf narrowed his eyes.

  “I know that there’s some pretty ugly history between the Empire and the Union, sir,” Šmrhová said, “and the same is true between the Union and the Federation. That’s not a reason to turn on them. It’s not their fault.”

  “Our responsibility is to protect Starfleet personnel and Federation citizens here on Cardassia, Lieutenant.”

  “Protect them from what exactly? A few civilians who turn up and wave some banners and call us some names? We don’t need to cower behind walls. They’re civilians. Half of them were kids!” She kicked the floor with the heel of her boot in frustration. “If I didn’t know better, sir—”

  “Tread very carefully, Lieutenant.”

  Šmrhová subsided. “My apologies, sir.”

  “These orders are from the office of the president, Lieutenant. Ignoring them will only add to the confusion. Not to mention to the captain’s burden. If I know Ambassador Garak at all, he will not be happy with this turn of events.”

  “But it’s as if we’re painting all the Cardassians with the same brush. It’s wrong. We’ve both served alongside Cardassians, sir. Think of Dygan!”

  Worf nodded. “Ravel Dygan is an excellent officer and an honorable man.”

  “I just think this is an overreaction. Are we going to put up force fields next? Point weapons outward? This place wasn’t meant to be a fortress! It was meant to be where both sides could work together! If I was a Cardassian bringing my kids for their appointment at the clinic today, only to learn that my doctor is barred from walking around my city because his superiors think I’m going to attack him, I’d be insulted!”

  “I remind you that a Starfleet officer was murdered in this city less than a week ago, Lieutenant.”

  “Yes, sir. Who knows what he was doing? Maybe he didn’t pay his bar bill. Maybe he got drunk and went up to someone and called him a spoonhead. Maybe he was the attacker—”

  “Whatever he was doing, Lieutenant, your fellow officer did not deserve to be beaten to death,” Worf shot back. “This is not a permanent situation. A few days at most, and the city will surely have settled down, and all our people can resume their duties.”

  “But in the meantime, sir, won’t the damage be done?” Right
down at the lowest level, where the trust had been so painstakingly nurtured, over so long. This was like seeing a few weeds, she thought, and bombing them from orbit. The weeds wouldn’t survive. But neither would anything else.

  Worf sighed. “We can only hope not.”

  * * *

  Sitting on a bench inside a quiet stone garden, Mhevet peered through the dim day, watching for her friend’s arrival. Erelya Fhret was at the Cardassian Intelligence Bureau. Mhevet had worked with her often during the early days of the reconstruction of both the constabularies and the intelligence services. The peculiar demands of that time, what they had required from the people who had been there and willing to push through the necessary changes, had formed a bond that cut across organizations. Mhevet and Fhret probably had more in common than many of the newer people they worked alongside now.

  Fhret had agreed to meet on condition it was somewhere private. Mhevet had suggested a tiny eatery near the department building that they used many times before, but Fhret had suggested this place instead and hinted that she couldn’t stay long. So Mhevet had grabbed a makeshift lunch of feyt and warm flatbreads. The flatbreads were cooling. Fhret was late.

  The dust was thick in the air. Mhevet was suffering behind her mask. She was about to give up, when she saw a figure emerge from the gloom. Masked. She raised her hand, tentatively, and then with more confidence when she saw the smart clothes and elegant hairstyle. Yes, this was Fhret. Mhevet moved along the bench to let her friend sit down.

  “What have you got there?” Erelya’s voice was muffled behind her mask.

  “Nothing special.”

  “Anything’s fine. I’m starving. Working us like hounds at the moment. You know, big scare on.”

  Mhevet split the breads between them. They dug into the feyt, expert at eating in a way that meant their food didn’t get coated with the red grit. Between mouthfuls, Mhevet explained that she wanted to check out her suspicion that Aleyni was connected to Starfleet Intelligence. “His assignment would take him to North Torr—but during the day, during school hours. What would take him there at night? A Bajoran, in North Torr, at night? It must have been important. And, really—‘cultural liaison officer’? I’m not stupid. I bet that’s your info too.”