Enigma Tales Read online

  “There has been good service, Castellan,” Renel agreed. “Fine service. But this—this will blacken our reputation. Rest assured, the military will not appreciate it—”

  “The castellan does not serve at the discretion of the military, Legate,” Garak said softly. “He, or she, serves at the discretion of the Cardassian people. There is plainly a desire on the part of the Cardassian people to understand fully the nature of the Occupation and to make appropriate amends. This was part of the manifesto on which I was elected. It was and continues to be a significant concern of the people. We have rebuilt, Legate, more quickly and successfully than we could have thought possible—yes, yes, with the military central to that effort! But we must confront this. Only then can the people of this Union go out into the quadrant and be able to hold their heads high. Proud of being Cardassian. Not ashamed.”

  Renel went stiff. “I have nothing to be ashamed of,” he said. “I am not a murderer, or a rapist—or a torturer,” he said, rather pointedly.

  “I don’t doubt that for a second,” Garak said, and he did believe it—of Renel, of Feris. Of Telek too. “But some people were, and they remain unpunished. It has to be done. Nobody is above the law.”

  Renel’s eyes gleamed. “No indeed. Not even castellans.”

  Here it was at last. Garak put down his cup and leaned back comfortably in his chair. His face would now be completely in shadow. “If I didn’t know better,” he said, from the dark, “I might think that was a threat.”

  There was a pause. Eventually, Renel said, “Not a threat—”

  “Good,” said Garak. “A threat from a legate to the elected leader of the Union might be considered . . .” He leaned forward and gave Renel his bright blue stare. “Unwise.”

  It could, in fact, be considered treason, of course, but Garak didn’t have to hammer the point home. Renel stood up. “I think we have nothing else to say.”

  Garak rose. “It seems so. Thank you for coming, gentlemen. Rest assured that I am not looking for heads to roll. But I am looking for justice.”

  The trio left. Garak sat back down in his chair and brooded. Akret came in and began to clear away the cups. After a little while, there was a polite cough. Garak looked up. “Yes?”

  “These prosecutions, sir,” she said. “Could the military force your resignation? If they found something in your . . .” She trailed off.

  “In my what?”

  “Your past, sir.”

  Garak, standing up, helped pile the cups on the tray. “Yes. They could.”

  He passed Akret the tray and she headed for the door. “Is it serving the Union, sir, to back yourself into a resignation?”

  “I don’t know,” Garak said. “What do you think?”

  “I think we could do a lot worse than you.”

  Garak opened the door. “Thank you, as ever, for that vote of confidence.”

  * * *

  A lazy day of acclimatization followed Pulaski’s arrival. She took the opportunity to flick through the holo-channels. To her astonishment, and horror, she counted over thirty news channels. These she went past quickly. Nothing good came of keeping on top of the news. If there was something she needed to know, someone would be bustling about ready to tell her. She enjoyed a few soaps, as outrageous here as they were throughout the quadrant, flicked through some history channels, and then settled on the hound-racing while she wrote the last of her medal acceptance speech. In the evening, Alden arrived after a day’s sightseeing, and they had a quiet dinner together. She spent a comfortable night alone in her suite. The following morning, Efheny arrived, bright and early, to take her on a tour of the campus. Alden went off again on his own to investigate more of the city.

  Pulaski liked what she saw of the campus. The architecture throughout the city, she had noticed, had a distinctly hybrid flavor: she recognized standard Federation materials in their ubiquitous gray, but their shapes had been bent to Cardassian tastes—twists and curves and spikes and spires, arranged in triads, often with intricate mosaic work. The buildings throughout the capital were of course relatively new, and here on the campus were even more recent—a great deal had been spent on the university in the past five years, under the stewardship of the current chief academician, and, more recently, with the explicit support of the castellan. These new buildings were more distinctly Cardassian. Efheny explained that there had been a number of competitions to encourage a new generation of architects, tasked to experiment with form and function and materials to create some striking and very beautiful buildings. There were green spaces too. (They, surely, couldn’t be easy to maintain on this dry world, which led to a detailed explanation of water management on Prime—a favorite topic of the inhabitants of the world.) The students were out in the warm spring day, enjoying being outside before the dust of summer arrived. She wholeheartedly approved of the crèche for the children of staff and students. This was how a university should be—woven into the warp and weft of daily life, not imagining itself separate. The Enterprise had been the same. People didn’t need artificial barriers erected to prevent them living their lives.

  But there was one area that puzzled her as they walked through the campus: a deep ditch, beyond which a high fence had been raised, covered with KEEP OUT signs.

  “What’s that, Metok? Is there some secret work going on there?”

  He shook his head. “That’s where the Jem’Hadar dropped biochemical weapons. It’s not toxic anymore, not to dangerous levels, but the land isn’t ready yet for building.”

  Pulaski felt ashamed. “I’m sorry,” she said. “But this city! This campus! There’s so much here that’s so good, so beautiful. It’s easy to forget how recent the war was.”

  “We don’t forget,” Efheny said quietly. “We’ll never forget.”

  After the tour, Pulaski enjoyed a working lunch with colleagues from the new exomedical school and then an entertaining afternoon exploring their facilities (outstanding) and talking to some of their advanced students (brilliant). She fielded questions about her own work (and attempted to get some of them to sign up with the Athene Donald when they had their doctorates). By late afternoon, however, Pulaski was glad to go back to her suite and relax for a while with the hound-racing, before dragging on her dress uniform and heading off for the welcome reception in her honor. She sat in the back of the skimmer while Efheny chattered. The reception was a glittering affair, hosted by the chief academician, and with the castellan himself in attendance. Pulaski was glad about that. She had a couple of questions for the castellan.

  Congregation Hall, at the center of the campus, was another fine piece of contemporary Cardassian architecture, and its current lord and master, Enek Therok, the chief academician of the University of the Union, was waiting to welcome Pulaski. He was a big man, cheerful in the way that people are on the verge of a comfortable retirement, and he greeted Pulaski with great enthusiasm and bonhomie. “An honor, Doctor, an honor,” he said, grasping her hand and shaking it.

  “You have a fine university,” she said. “A beautiful place.”

  Therok was delighted by her praise, as she had intended. They went into the main hall, and he asked for quiet and made a short welcome speech. He talked a fair deal about himself—Pulaski had found that people in positions like this were often their own favorite subject, even more so than their discipline, which they probably hadn’t practiced for a while—but he also gave her a very full welcome, so she couldn’t complain.

  “Glad to be here,” she told the room. “I’ll skip the speech, if you don’t mind, and get on with meeting you all one by one. That way I can start drinking sooner.”

  They laughed. They applauded. They liked her. Therok led her around the room, introducing her to various eminent people, most of whom she liked very much, which wasn’t always the case at university gatherings. Many drinks were pressed into her hands, and she didn’t refuse
them. After a little while, she caught sight of Alden across the room, and she took advantage of the opportunity to take a break from socializing and went to say hello.

  “Nice day?” Alden was no longer a Starfleet officer, so he was wearing civvies. He cleaned up well.

  “Good,” she said. “Long. How about you?”

  “Did the tourist thing in the morning,” he said. “Then wandered around East Torr.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Bohemian end of town,” he explained. “Galleries, markets, geleta houses. Found some nice pieces. Ate some good cake.”

  She laughed. “Sounds like you’re having a good vacation!”

  “Going to meet some people at xenolinguistics tomorrow.” Suddenly, he went tense and started scanning the hall.

  “What’s the matter, Peter?”

  “The room,” he said.

  “What about the room?”

  “It’s fuller, all of a sudden, and contains more weapons.”

  Pulaski looked around. Alden was completely right. Quietly, stealthily, the hall had been infiltrated by almost a dozen plainclothes security personnel. They were covering exits, windows, every single part of the room. Pulaski grasped Alden’s arm in alarm. “What the hell’s happening? Is there going to be a coup?”

  Alden laughed. “Those days are over on Cardassia Prime, Kitty! No need to worry on that score. I think someone important is about to arrive. Someone you were hoping to meet.”

  A man came through the door, halting on the threshold to take his own look around. There was no formal fanfare, but everyone stopped what they were doing to turn and see. The man was of middle height and indeterminate age; he was also extremely dapper, and when he realized he was the focus of everyone’s attention his bright blue eyes widened slightly, and his mouth twitched in amusement. Behind him, slightly tucked behind in the shadows, was another man. He had a slight stoop, graying hair, and a thoughtful expression.

  “The castellan,” murmured Pulaski. Now she under­­stood. Of course the room would fill with security. “Who’s the other guy, behind him?”

  “His name is Kelas Parmak,” said Alden. “Garak doesn’t go anywhere without him.”

  “Parmak, huh?”

  “He’s a doctor, Kitty. You might want to talk to him at some point.”

  Pulaski eyed him thoughtfully.

  Alden smiled. “I do my research.”

  Therok went forward to greet the castellan. People in the room began to turn back to chatter eagerly to each other about his presence, but Pulaski watched the meeting between the castellan and the chief academician with interest. Effusive on Therok’s part; friendly neutral on Garak’s. She wasn’t sure what to make of that. Friendly but neutral was probably the default for any head of state. She thought she saw Therok say her name, and then, suddenly, Garak’s bright blue eyes were turned on her. She met his gaze with equanimity. Garak smiled at her broadly. Therok spoke again, Garak nodded, and Therok led him and Parmak over.

  Up close, the castellan’s style was reinforced. His clothes were insanely well made (she wondered if he made them himself); his shoes gleamed. Everything about him had a slight gloss, Pulaski thought, like he had been varnished, or was coated in a thin and invisible protective shell. Even up close, she couldn’t guess his age. Older than he looked, she suspected. As they were formally introduced—and Garak offered his hand to shake, rather than raising his palm—Pulaski had the sense that his attention was simultaneously on her and on the entire rest of the room. This was definitely someone who knew exactly what was happening behind him. Therok introduced Alden, and then Parmak. There was a brief pause as Pulaski and Garak observed each other further.

  Garak spoke first. “The famous Doctor Pulaski. Welcome to Cardassia Prime, Doctor. How has your visit been so far?”

  “Extremely welcoming, thank you,” said Pulaski. “The young man assigned to us, Efheny, couldn’t have been more attentive if he’d tried.”

  Garak seemed to catch a little of her meaning. His eyes sparkled, and his manner softened slightly. “Ah, the tyranny of the tight schedule! May we all one day be released from its grip!”

  They smiled at each other. He greeted Alden warmly and showed himself familiar with Alden’s research. (“I always take an interest in the work of a visitor.”) He asked about Alden’s sight-seeing and recommended an exhibition of Cardassian-Bajoran art that was about to open in Torr. Pulaski gave her impressions of the campus, and Garak admitted, when pressed, that he had indeed been involved in selecting some of the winning buildings. Altogether, the conversation was . . . well, friendly but neutral. Parmak spoke only a little. At last a brief lull allowed Pulaski to ask the question uppermost on her mind. “How’s Julian?”

  She saw Parmak start, heard Alden mutter, “Oops,” and, to her surprise, the castellan visibly hardened. Or was it that the shell became more brittle?

  “Quite comfortable, thank you,” Garak said.

  “I’d really like to see him while I’m here. As a doctor, and as his friend.”

  Alden tugged on her sleeve. “Kitty,” he muttered, “leave it.”

  “Do put a request in via my office.” Garak turned to Therok. “Is Ventok here? I’d like a word with him.”

  Therok, somewhat on the back foot, murmured, “Yes, of course, over here,” and began to lead the castellan away.

  “I put a request in weeks ago,” said Pulaski, but Garak had his back to her and was on his way. She turned to Alden. “Did I just get the brush-off?”

  “Kitty . . .”

  There was a polite cough beside them. Parmak was still there. “I’m sure the castellan wouldn’t want to offend a guest.”

  “That’s not a ‘no’!” Pulaski said.

  “No,” said Parmak simply. “It’s not. Allow me to repeat what the castellan said. You’re very welcome here. The Distinguished Impact Medal is not given often and not given lightly. I know that Castellan Garak was particularly pleased to hear that it was going to a friend from the Federation.” He glanced across the room. “Have you met Professor Lang? You really should meet Natima Lang.” He took a step or two across the room, signaling to a tall woman dressed in a long white gown to come and join them. “Let me introduce you.”

  “Who’s Natima Lang?” Pulaski muttered to Alden as Parmak crossed the room.

  Alden rolled his eyes. “Really, Kitty, you need to watch the news more often.”

  “Why the hell would I do that?”

  “She’s one of Cardassia’s most respected public figures—”

  “She’s written books, hasn’t she?” Pulaski said mournfully. “You’re going to tell me she’s written a stack of important books.”

  “Yes, a massive stack. She was also Cardassia’s ambassador to Bajor just after the war, and a fearless campaigner for democratic rights under the old regime. She ended up in exile for a while.”

  “Has she ever helped save a species from extinction?”

  Alden laughed. “Some would say she saved the Cardassian soul.”

  “Good for her. Bring her on.”

  Parmak returned with Lang. She was elegant, poised, and she greeted Pulaski with great warmth. Pulaski took to her at once.

  Parmak said, “Forgive me, Natima, and I’m sure you’ve been plagued by this question all day, but—”

  Lang lifted her hand and laughed. “No comment, Kelas!”

  Parmak turned to Pulaski and Alden and said, “I don’t know if you’re aware, but Enek Therok has recently announced his retirement—”

  “Ah!” said Pulaski. Some of Therok’s jokes from earlier now made sense.

  Alden said, “Are you intending to put your name forward, Professor, if that’s not too intrusive a question?”

  “Certainly that’s what some people are assuming,” said Parmak. “But Natima, it seems, couldn’t possibly comm
ent.”

  Lang gave a bland smile. “I have plenty to keep me busy already,” she said. “I have teaching, I have research—”

  “Garak liked the recent lecture on enigma tales,” Parmak said.

  “Did he?” Lang glanced across the room, to where the castellan was in the midst of a jovial conversation with Therok and one or two others. “I bet you didn’t.”

  “You know me,” said Parmak. “My tastes are very particular.”

  “What’s an enigma tale?” said Pulaski.

  “It’s a kind of Cardassian murder mystery,” said Alden, unexpectedly. “Don’t look at me like that, Kitty. Some of us read beyond our immediate research interests.”

  “I read beyond my immediate research interests!” protested Pulaski. “I read the parrises squares results.”

  “A sport,” said Alden, seeing Parmak’s and Lang’s baffled expressions.

  “I’m not closed to new information,” Pulaski said. “Murder mysteries, huh? So what makes these enigma tales particularly Cardassian? Is everyone guilty of something?”

  Alden winced, but Parmak and Lang both burst out laughing. “You’ve got it in one!” said Parmak. “And they’re terrible. Potboilers. So predictable!”

  “They’re more interesting than that,” Lang said. “They offer a microcosm for society and, I think, the means to diagnose its ills—and, perhaps, the method to bring about its cure.”

  “I think you see more deeply than the average reader,” said Parmak. “But I have come to believe that this is what literature always does—reflects back some part of the reader. You see a means to reform society. I see melodrama in country houses.” He leaned in confidentially. “The castellan adores enigma tales, but I think it’s mainly to do with the frocks.”

  Lang laughed. Pulaski noticed that Garak, still talking to Therok and another man, flicked his head around slightly. Meeting Parmak’s eye, he smiled, and with unexpected warmth.

  “Take this place.” Lang glanced around. “The University of the Union. A more perfect setting for an enigma tale I cannot imagine. A closed environment. A limited cast. Small stakes, but stakes upon which reputations stand and fall. And most of all, an institution that resonates deeply within its wider context. One may detach it for the purposes of a story, but in reality it is deeply intertwined with the society in which it operates.” She smiled. “Of course, it could simply be that I’m trying to give academic credibility to my comfort reading. But I think I’ve earned a little comfort reading. I’ve spent many years reading things that left me feeling considerably less comfortable.”