HollowMen Page 2

  “Auger,” she said evenly, “what the hell is that red light?”

  The communication had come late in the station-day, the chime of the console echoing brash and loud around the empty office, and just when he had been contemplating sleep. Now Sisko sat running his finger along the edge of the desktop, trying to listen to Bill Ross.

  His back ached a little, and he shifted in the seat. Reaching quietly to one side, he touched a button on the console, flipped open a file, and started to read. He kept nodding as Ross talked, made the occasional noise of agreement. He kept one eye on him, the other scanning down the data in the file. Romulan Activity in the Benzar System—A Strategic Assessment. Slow going, picking off the system rock by empty rock, but still, ineluctably, advancing.

  A dream had been troubling Sisko the past few weeks. He would find himself standing on the bridge of the commandeered Jem’Hadar ship, pushing back the headset, rubbing at his eyes, the crew shifting in and out of his field of vision—and then they were rocked bow to stern. Unfriendly fire—very unfriendly. Smoke began to fill the bridge, he heard someone yell, “Hold on!,” and when he flipped the headset back in place, he could see them plunging down, down, toward the planet’s surface, and there was nothing he could do to stop it….

  It was at this point that Sisko would most usually wake up, sweating and wondering whether Vreenak had seen something like that. Whether he had known that he was going to die. Whether he had had that moment of terrible grace. Maybe, he would tell himself, Vreenak just never knew what hit him. Maybe the ship was gone in an instant. Maybe. Either way, you had to live with the uncertainty. You had to live with it.

  He had been contemplating sleep. But not quite risking it.

  “This offensive was a mistake,” Ross was saying. “It turns out we thought we knew more about the defenses at Sybaron than in fact we did.”

  “Cardassian intelligence is still tricky,” Sisko murmured. “Even without the Obsidian Order.” He read on. Details of Romulan incursions into Dominion space; attacks on ketracel-white manufacturing facilities; high rates of success.

  “And the Seventh Fleet has paid the price.” Ross shook his head. “It’s hard, Ben. Thinking of those ships going out there. Expecting…well, not what they must have hit up against. And what do we have at the end? Stalemate.”

  “It’s a bad business,” he muttered. “A bad business.” The report and the admiral’s features blurred together, his eyes heavy. He glanced up from the file. Ross was looking at him quizzically. With an effort of will, he marshaled his attention.

  “When do you set out, Ben?”

  “First thing in the morning.” Sisko sat up straight in his chair. “How are the conference preparations going?”

  “Well, everything seems under control. The Romulan and Klingon delegations are being quartered at opposite ends of the building.”

  “Perhaps they should be put in separate cities.”

  Ross gave him a dry smile. “I’d like this summit to lay the groundwork for coordinating military strategy. But what I’m hoping for is simply that all the delegates will be in one piece by the end of the week.”

  “I’m sure it’ll all work out just fine,” Sisko said. He looked back at the file and wondered who would be part of the Romulan delegation.

  “I’d be more confident we could come to agreements quickly if military coordination were the only thing the delegations were concerned with. But I have no doubt this summit is going to be as much about the peace as about the war. About what will happen next.”

  “Inevitable, I guess. Some politicians always seem more concerned with fighting tomorrow’s battles.”

  “Don’t be too hard on them, Ben. You know that, sometimes, we all have to be politicians.” He paused for a moment, as if weighing something. “This you won’t have heard about yet.” Ross paused again. “We have some representatives from the Cardassian government-in-exile.”

  Sisko looked back in surprise. “Is there one?”

  “Apparently so. There are two representatives coming—Rhemet and Tehrak.” Ross shrugged. “I gather they were both prominent in civilian life before leaving Cardassia. Rhemet was part of the government before the Dominion took over.”

  “He was lucky to get away.” Sisko started thumbing up and down the file on the Benzar system. All the data—all the figures on strike rates and targets met, on Dominion and Cardassian casualties—began to scroll past, far too quickly for him to read. A blur of light and color.

  “I don’t know the details. And while we’re on the subject of Cardassians,” Ross gave him a shrewd look, “I assume your friend Mr. Garak is still planning to come along?”

  That pushed the definition of the word friend. “Yes, he’s coming,” he said. “And I’m sure he’s looking forward to enlightening all of us about Cardassian tactics, technology, psychology, art, music…Mister Garak,” Sisko explained, “likes to talk.”

  “Good. Because Starfleet Intelligence are keen for him to talk to them.”

  Sisko stopped the file dead.

  “Starfleet Intelligence?” he said.

  “Questions about the information he gave us when he was at Starbase 375.” Ross shrugged. “More detail, if he can give it. And his recent report aroused a certain amount of interest. I think that several people are keen to find out what else he can do for us.”

  “I see….”

  “So if he’s feeling talkative, or feeling helpful, I’m sure they’ll appreciate it.” Ross smiled at him. “Anyway, we’ll speak again when we meet, Ben. Safe trip home!” He leaned forward, cut the com, and then he was gone. Quietly, discreetly, the familiar emblem of the Federation displaced Ross’s face upon the monitor. Its colors were muted and entirely lacking in their usual reassurance.

  Sisko swiveled in his chair, turning to look out at the pale starlight. He sat for a little while, watching the stars wink back at him, and he wondered whether Vreenak had taken comfort from them, or if he had cursed them, just before he died….

  “Dammit!” Sisko slammed his palm down against the desktop. He stood up, and began to pace the room, thinking hard. Starfleet Intelligence wanted to know what else could be done for them? That was all supposed to be finished, he thought as he paced. All in the past. Garak’s deeds done, report filed—now they could just get on with the job of winning the war. No more deals with the devil.

  Sisko came to a halt near the exit, rocking on his heels and staring out into ops. Beyond the tinted surface of the doors, he could see one or two people moving about quietly. Late shift. He could almost convince himself that it was peaceful out there—if it wasn’t for the war. He stood and watched through the door as the routine business of the night went on, and he was not comforted by it. All in the past?

  Sisko raised his hand to his head, pressed his thumb and forefinger against the bridge of his nose, and tried to order his thoughts. Two dead men, a guilty conscience—and nobody paying the price. Nobody paying the price for any of it. Perhaps there was something worse than crimes being discovered. Crimes remaining covered. Crimes willfully ignored.

  “Computer,” he said unwillingly, cursing once again the day he had decided to dance with the devil, “locate Mr. Garak.”

  The Ariadne rocked, bow to stern, and then everything went unpromisingly still. Steyn started swearing under her breath, remembered Auger fluttering next to her, and swallowed back the rest of her tirade. She drained the last of her tea and set the mug into its holder, hoping the shaking of the ship disguised her own trembling. She punched on the com, opening up a channel to the engine room.

  “Trasser,” she said calmly, not wanting Auger to hear her sounding anxious, “I could do with an engineering report…now?”

  Silence. Steyn watched the lights on the console flashing madly at her, jerking and dancing at random, nothing like their usual measured ballet.

  “Trasser?”

  As Steyn waited for her engineer to speak, she heard the door to the bridge open. She closed
her eyes very briefly. No surprise that her guest was awake, given how hard the Ariadne had just been shaken. But she could really do without Mechter’s attentions right now….

  Through the comm came the sound of something clattering. Then the Ariadne’s engineer began to talk. “Sorry, Captain…things have become pretty hectic down here….”

  Just behind her left shoulder, Steyn heard Mechter start to murmur.

  “Thanks for that,” she said, a little sourly. “How about something a bit more informative than ‘hectic’?”

  “Well, I think I know what the problem is…”

  “Yes?”

  “And there’s good news and bad news.”

  Steyn imagined she could feel Mechter’s breath upon her neck. Not a happy guest.

  “Mr. Mechter and I are eager to hear both, Trasser,” she said, pointedly.

  There was a pause.

  “Oh. Right.”

  He’d taken the hint. Good.

  “The primary engines have failed, Captain—”

  “I’m going to take a guess and assume that’s the bad news?”

  “Yes, I’d say that was the worst of it. I’ve not quite got to the cause of the failure yet—though, to be honest, these retuned drives can sometimes be a bit off—”

  Steyn felt Mechter take hold of the back of her chair.

  “How about that good news?” she said sweetly.

  “Well, I’ve got the systems offline now—we won’t get any more of that shaking, which is good news for stopping the ship from falling apart…” He stopped. Perhaps—Steyn could only hope—he was thinking a little better of conjuring up such images. “Well, we’re stable now but we’re not exactly moving at full speed.”

  Had Trasser ever moved at full speed? Steyn put the question aside. “And how soon will we be moving again? At full speed or otherwise?”

  “All right, that’s the other bit of bad news—I’m not going to be able to fix this, Captain. Not quickly, anyway.”

  “Oh, come on—”

  “Don’t start, Steyn! Come down here and have a look if you don’t believe me. These systems are fried. It’s not a question of skill, it’s a question of manpower.”

  Steyn played with the controls of the com, thinking hard. “All right—keep at it down there. And keep me posted.” She cut the link, took a deep breath, and then turned in the chair to speak to Mechter.

  “Mr. Mechter—” she began.

  Moving with speed and ferocity, Mechter spun her right round, slammed the chair to a halt, and grabbed both of its arms, trapping Steyn in her seat. He leaned in close. Steyn stared up at the greens of his eyes and then down at his well-cut cuffs. Lissepians did have the edge when it came to polished villainy, she thought, with a certain fleeting admiration.

  “Steyn,” Mechter hissed, “you lowdown, cheap, third-rate excuse of a pirate, I am going to gut you from neck to tail like a copperfish.”

  No, Steyn thought, he really wasn’t happy.

  2

  THE DOOR TO THE TAILOR’S SHOP opened on approach. It was dark inside. Sisko stood for a moment or two on the threshold, letting his vision adjust, and then he went in.

  “Garak?” He kept his voice low.

  The gloom echoed no answer. He took a step forward. Ahead of him, the far end of the shop was in darkness, although he thought he caught a faint flicker of light. The door slid shut—a quiet, automatic, familiar sound. Sisko went further in, peering around for the proprietor. As he walked on, he passed a row of tailor’s dummies, standing huddled together, like mourners at a funeral, or conspirators in a plot. Their figures cast long shadows, slanting across the floor of the shop, more like feelings than visions.

  “Garak, are you in there?”

  Still no answer. Sisko stopped and reached out to touch one of the mannequins. Garak had to be lurking in here somewhere; he would never leave the shop unattended and unlocked. Sisko punched the dummy lightly on the chest, and it made a dull thud. “Computer,” he said, his patience finally running out, “give me a bit more light!”

  He blinked as the room became suddenly bright, until his eyes adjusted once more. Garak could be seen now, sitting behind the console at his desk, and looking up at the lights with an expression of distinct exasperation.

  “What the hell are you doing back there, Garak? Didn’t you hear me call?”

  “I was concentrating,” Garak replied pointedly and, Sisko did not fail to notice, only answering the second of his questions. He let it pass.

  “In the dark?” he said, suspicion mounting.

  Garak closed his eyes for a brief moment. “Dark, by human standards, Captain.”

  “Ah yes,” Sisko muttered. “Sorry.” He went a little closer and nodded towards the console. “Still—you’re working late,” he said.

  Garak shifted toward to the viewscreen and, with a quick flick of the wrist, turned it off. Sisko frowned.

  “Designs,” Garak said smoothly, “for Lieutenant Nedani’s elder daughter’s ih’tanu ceremony. She is very anxious,” he added, keeping his eye fixed on Sisko, “that the dress be kept a surprise for her big day.”

  “Is that right?”

  “That’s right.” Garak shifted back slightly in his chair. He seemed, Sisko thought, to want to keep a little distance between them. Not surprising, perhaps, given just how hard Sisko had hit him last time he had come into the shop. Hard enough to knock him to the ground.

  “Was there something in particular you wanted, Captain?” Garak said. “Or are you just late-night shopping?”

  “In fact, there was something in particular.” Sisko glanced uneasily about the shop, and then gestured around him. “Can we talk…?” Safely, he meant.

  Garak took the hint. “Captain,” he said, “If you can’t trust your tailor to be discreet, then really—who can you trust? Ask Nedani Iriya.” He slithered out a smile. Sisko’s palms began to itch. “Talk away,” Garak finished. He turned his attention to a pile of samples spread out over the table in front of him, and started folding them. Sisko watched this ritual for a moment or two, and then began to ease himself cautiously into the conversation.

  “The Rubicon is all ready to leave at oh eight hundred tomorrow morning,” he said. “Runabout pad A.”

  “Of course,” Garak murmured, casually. “Our trip to Earth.” Sisko watched a muscle in his cheek twitch. “So you are shopping?”

  “This is business, Garak, not pleasure.”

  “What a shame.” Garak looked back down at his work, and began smoothing out a piece of bright blue silk in front of him. “Captain,” he said, folding the silk with exaggerated care, “as you know, I have been eagerly anticipating this conference ever since the invitation to attend was extended. And I’m grateful you’ve taken the time to let me know our travel arrangements. But it does seem the kind of information you could have passed along rather than brought in person. So”—he looked up again at Sisko; his eyes had gone wide and, for a second, they were very intent—“why are you here?”

  Sisko managed not to recoil. “I was just speaking to Admiral Ross,” he said.

  “How nice for you.”

  “And he had some news which I thought you might find interesting.” Sisko made his tone almost conversational. “It turns out you won’t be the only Cardassian at the conference.”

  The silk went on top of the pile. Garak picked up another bit of material; red, with a darker, crimson pattern upon it. He didn’t fold it straightaway, and instead began rubbing it between his fingers. “Is that right?” His voice was very bland.

  “That’s right,” Sisko replied. “Your government-in-exile will also be attending.”

  The motion of Garak’s fingers stopped abruptly. “There is no Cardassian government-in-exile,” he said.

  “It seems there is now—”

  “That idea died with Tekeny Ghemor.” He had started running his fingers along the cloth again, tracing the lines of the pattern.

  “And now it has a new lease of l
ife,” Sisko said. “Ross mentioned some names—Rhemet, Tehrak…Do they mean anything to you?”

  “Never heard of them,” Garak said flatly. He folded the patterned cloth, set it in its place, and then picked up a long piece of creamy linen. “Take hold of that end, please,” he murmured. Sisko did so dutifully. They pulled the cloth out taut, brought it together corner to corner; then Garak took it back, folded it once more, and put it down on the pile. Sisko watched his face and tried to anticipate him.

  “In the light of this news,” Garak said at last, “I think that my attendance at this conference would be a bad idea.” He bent back over his desk, his focus returning entirely to his work.

  “What?” Sisko had not seen that coming.

  “The Federation is of course free to recognize whoever they want as the legitimate government of Cardassia,” Garak said. “But they can do it without my endorsement.”

  “You haven’t even heard of these people!”

  “Which is reason enough not to trust them with Cardassia’s interests. Besides”—Garak’s eyes sharpened with malevolence—“with such an exceptional resource now at its disposal, what could the Federation possibly want with me?”

  “Starfleet Intelligence wants to talk to you.”

  Garak froze, leaning on the desk in front of him. He did not look up at Sisko. “They’ve already had my report,” he eventually said.

  Sisko watched Garak’s hands, pressed out flat. “Not that,” he murmured. It was the first time they had referred to the events of the previous weeks; the first time since…