Pliable Truths, page 13
“I’d be surprised if they didn’t know of your abilities.” The Cardassians would be aware of her due to the recent run-in with the Enterprise and discussions with Captain Jellico in which she had taken part. Neither Wonar nor Ilson had made a point of mentioning it, which was interesting, but Picard chalked it up to a larger strategy being employed by the Cardassian delegates.
“What about Gul Dukat?” he asked, glancing to where the former prefect stood at the viewing port.
Troi frowned. “Definitely conflicting emotions. The confidence and arrogance we all see feel normal for him. He’s comfortable being in control, and presents himself in that way even if it eludes him. He’s putting on a front of self-assuredness, but I feel a sensation of disgrace. He doesn’t want to be here.”
“You’re an empath,” said Kalem. “Are you able to get all of that just from being in the same room with him?”
Shaking her head, Troi replied, “No, First Minister. It’s partially a reading of his emotions, but Starfleet was able to provide information about Dukat and his time as prefect. Based on their assessment, the current circumstances have undoubtedly cost him standing with the Cardassian Central Command.”
“And yet they sent him to participate in these negotiations,” said Picard.
“His presence is sure to unsettle some of the Bajorans on the station,” Troi offered. “I spoke with Mister Odo, the station security chief. He told me there were several Bajorans who saw him arrive. If there was one person the Bajorans would want to see brought to justice, it’s Dukat.”
Picard noticed the gul appearing to appraise Troi from across the room. Dukat’s expression was neutral, but there could be no mistaking the manner in which he looked at her. Picard felt his bile rising at the casual disrespect shown toward a member of his crew. Then Dukat caught the captain’s hard glare and held up his glass before returning his attention to the window and its view of the world beyond the station. Only then did Picard close his eyes.
“ ‘O gentle son, upon the heat and flame of thy distemper, sprinkle cool patience.’ ”
“Captain?”
It was Troi, and Picard’s eyes snapped open. Only then did he realize he had spoken the Hamlet quote aloud. How had he allowed his emotions to control him to such an extent? Shaking off the momentary lapse, he cleared his throat.
“My apologies, Counselor.” Dismissing the last of his errant thoughts, he said, “Please notify Lieutenant Worf to work with Major Heslo about increasing our security coverage on the Promenade. I don’t wish to overburden him, but we need to maintain order during these discussions.” He knew the major as well as the station’s interesting, enigmatic security chief, Odo, were concerned about someone seizing an opportunity to seek vengeance against Dukat or any Cardassian. They had already instituted protocols that kept all but authorized personnel away from this area of the station. An enhanced Starfleet presence in the station’s main thoroughfares would help to mitigate any potential risk.
Picard heard the wardroom doors open behind him, and he saw Troi’s eyes widen.
“Captain—” she began, before another voice interrupted her.
“Captain Picard, how wonderful it is to see you again.”
The words, that tone—that voice—cut into him with the speed and precision of a finely honed blade. Before he even realized that he was moving, Picard turned. Every fiber of his being screamed to do anything but stand here in this room.
Accompanied by two Enterprise security officers, Gul Madred stood smiling at him.
No, Picard corrected himself as he noted the new insignia on Madred’s uniform, identifying him as a legate. A promotion.
“What is the meaning of this?” asked Dukat, stepping away from the port and striding toward the legate. “Madred? Why was I not informed you would be joining us?”
Picard felt his heart racing. His mouth had gone dry. With his hands behind his back, he clenched them into fists. He willed himself not to react in any outward manner at the new arrival. Only his eyes moved, tracking Madred as the legate entered the room. For the first time, Picard realized he was taller and more muscular than Dukat. They wore identical uniforms, but there was no mistaking Madred was the senior officer. Picard’s eyes met his, and Madred held the captain’s gaze even as he spoke to his fellow Cardassian.
“I’m a soldier, Dukat,” he said, in that aloof manner Picard remembered so well. “I go where I’m told. I was ordered to assist in the important work taking place here.” Then came that sinister smile Picard still saw in his nightmares as Madred stepped up to him and Kalem. “Imagine my surprise, Captain, when I learned you were overseeing these negotiations on behalf of the Federation.”
Picard, fighting to maintain his bearing, said nothing. If Madred noted his reaction, he chose not to acknowledge it. The Cardassian turned to Kalem.
“First Minister, it is an honor to make your acquaintance.”
“Legate,” said Kalem, “would you do me the honor of explaining who you are and why you’re here?”
“As I said, sir, my superiors directed me to attend these negotiations.” Turning to Dukat, Madred said, “Commissioner Wonar and Arbitrator Ilson speak on behalf of the Detapa Council. The Central Command is not confident their interests are being adequately represented.”
Taken aback by the blunt response, Dukat said, “This is the first I’m hearing of this.”
“Yes,” said Madred, “they asked me to tell you when I arrived.” From a pocket of his uniform, he extracted a green data rod and proffered it to his counterpart. “Your new orders, Dukat. I’m told it contains everything you need.”
Feeling as though he had gained a semblance of control, Picard glanced to Troi, who was studying him with unguarded concern.
“This is completely inappropriate,” said Dukat, his voice wavering in obvious anger and embarrassment as he snatched the data rod from between Madred’s fingers. “I intend to contact Central Command to verify this for myself.”
Madred glowered at him. “Central Command’s verification is included. You may certainly contact whoever you wish to seek independent confirmation.” He paused, and when he spoke this time it was in that low, ominous manner that made Picard’s blood run cold. “But do it elsewhere. You are no longer required here.”
Stunned into silence, Dukat looked around the room and took in the expressions of everyone observing his dressing-down.
“Very well,” he said, his voice low and his tone defeated. “I will contact Central Command and seek clarification.”
“Excellent,” said Madred, who had turned and was now walking to the food and beverage table as if dismissing the entire interaction. Dukat glanced one final time at Picard and Kalem before pivoting on his heel and storming out of the wardroom.
“Captain,” said Troi as the doors closed, “are you—”
“Not now, Counselor,” he ordered.
Helping himself to a glass of kanar, Madred stared right at Picard and raised his glass.
“Now then, what should we talk about?”
15
Man, I’m tired.
The thought all but consumed La Forge as he and Data emerged from a turbolift onto the Promenade.
“I feel like I’ve been run through a transporter during an ion storm,” he offered, blowing out a breath. Using the sleeve of his Starfleet utility uniform, he wiped sweat from his forehead, and saw dust and lubricant gel on it. “Join Starfleet, see the galaxy. It’ll be fun.” Data looked at him with a bemused expression, and the chief engineer could not suppress a small chuckle. “Sorry, I’m a little punchy. It’s been a long time since I put in a day like these last two.”
“Geordi,” Data replied, “I have seen you work far beyond the human limits of endurance in order to address a pressing engineering or technical problem. Indeed, it has been my experience that you work harder than anyone under your supervision.”
“I can’t ask anyone reporting to me to do anything I’m not willing to do.”
“Of course,” replied the android. “Setting an example. It is one of your many qualities and a characteristic of effective leadership, as I have seen you exhibit on multiple occasions.”
La Forge smiled. “And sometimes that means you get dirty, right along with everyone else.”
The hours spent working inside Terok Nor’s vast maze of maintenance conduits, access crawlways, and service panels had been an invigorating change of pace. Their work over the past thirty hours had returned two of the four inactive fusion chambers of the station’s main reactor to limited service. La Forge had a team of his engineers running a level-1 diagnostic one last time before making them available for mainline use. This still left two chambers to repair. The station working with two-thirds of its power-generation ability was an improvement from when the Enterprise team had started. Barring incident or something unforeseen, he estimated the remaining two reaction chambers would be online by this time tomorrow.
And that, gentlebeings, he mused, is how we do that.
Tackling a complex technical problem always energized him, and this station was one gigantic technical problem. No, it’s more than that. The station was an evolving series of smaller challenges, all linking together to form the larger, more complex challenge facing them. It was a massive hairball, as Miles O’Brien had so eloquently put it during one of their inspections.
“I’ll tell you one thing these days have been good for,” said La Forge as he and Data weaved in and around some Bajorans and Starfleet personnel of assorted species from the Enterprise and the Oceanside. “I’ll never complain about all those rules and regulations for maintaining systems aboard the Enterprise ever again. To say Cardassian standards for this sort of thing are lacking is a serious understatement.”
He caught Data regarding him with puzzlement before asking, “But you authored some of those rules and regulations. Seven have been adapted by Starfleet for use on all our starships.”
La Forge could not help laughing. “That’ll teach me to be so conscientious.” He looked around the Promenade. It was not as crowded as it had been the previous evening. The engineer realized the raised lighting levels, intended to mimic sunlight at this hour on Bajor’s surface, succeeded in disorienting him. Having lost track of where they were on the large thoroughfare, he began searching for familiar signs or indicators of their present location.
La Forge was hungry, and he had only allowed himself thirty minutes for a midday meal before returning to work. Eating here on the station would be faster and easier than going back to the Enterprise. Several of the storefronts along the Promenade advertised the promise of restaurants, a small grocer offered different cuisines, and a deli specialized in Klingon dishes. The very thought of that made La Forge’s stomach lurch, and he was relieved to see it, like many of the adjacent shops, was still in the process of preparing to open. There was Quark’s Bar, but La Forge wanted something quick and without the noise in the establishment that plainly was the beating heart of this section of the station.
Data pointed up to where the wide corridor curved to their right. “There is a replimat.”
“Works for me.”
Making their way along the Promenade, La Forge was able to admire the odd blending of form and function typifying Cardassian architecture and design. Bold, curved columns towered above them, accented by colors and artistic designs that evoked an aesthetic like those cultures on ancient Earth. This was accented by the obvious examples of technology: overhead illumination, lighting panels set into bulkheads and columns, viewscreens, and the omnipresent hum of the station’s main reactor. It was, La Forge decided, an unusual and yet striking blend of artistic expression and technological advancement.
He heard voices coming from around the bend that drifted across the Promenade. Without thinking, he hastened his pace, falling in step with Data. They negotiated the curve in the main corridor to find three Bajorans, all dressed in loose-fitting clothing consisting of brown or tan fabrics, attacking someone. They had no weapons, just their fists and feet finding their target, who was dressed in a dark suit. He was on the deck rolled into a ball while covering his head with his hands. Other Bajorans were watching the fight, keeping their distance. A few people in Starfleet uniforms were trying to push their way through the growing crowd.
“Hey!” La Forge shouted. “Move aside!” With Data leading the way, they cleared a path through a dozen civilians. The assailants ignored La Forge and continued their attack.
With just enough force to get his point across, La Forge pushed aside several gawkers and moved to the closest attackers, arresting the Bajoran’s next punch by grabbing his raised left arm at the wrist. Shocked by the abrupt interruption, the Bajoran attempted to break free. At the same time another took a swing at Data with his free hand, but the android easily deflected him.
“Data!”
La Forge reached without thinking across to his hip where under other circumstances a phaser might have been holstered. The station’s chief of security, Odo, had instituted a new order forbidding weapons on the Promenade except for his officers.
Damn it!
Data retained his hold on the first Bajoran even as he parried a punch thrown by one of his companions. Planting the palm of his left hand into his assailant’s chest with just enough strength to knock him off balance, the android sent the man tumbling backward off his feet before stumbling and falling to the deck.
“That’s enough!”
The shouted command came from one of two Bajorans wearing militia uniforms, each brandishing a phaser while ordering onlookers to move aside. They shouldered their way through the crowd that had gathered to watch the fight. Seeing a third Bajoran assailant trying to run, La Forge grabbed him by his collar before subduing him in a defensive hold that would, if sufficient time passed, render the man unconscious. He was relieved of that burden by another pair of militia members arriving on the scene.
“Are you all right?” one of the officers, a woman, asked La Forge.
The engineer nodded. “Yeah.” Before she could inquire about Data, he added, “He’s fine too. Trust me.” La Forge knew she likely had no idea who his friend was.
Pausing as though to assess the android, the Bajoran officer replied, “Yes, I can see that.” She observed as her companions took the three attackers into custody. “Take them to Security. Odo will want to question them.” Satisfied that her people were following her orders, the woman returned her attention to La Forge. “Thank you for your assistance.”
“No problem.” He looked past her to see Data tending to the man who had been attacked. Only then did he realize it was not a Bajoran who had been targeted, but a Cardassian. “Oh, man,” he said moving forward to assist his friend. Was this a member of the delegation meeting with Captain Picard?
“You,” said the Bajoran security officer, her voice dripping with contempt as the Cardassian, with Data’s proffered hand, regained his feet. He made a show of straightening his disheveled clothes, which were now dusty, before using both hands in an attempt to smooth his hair. He had wide eyes that moved in rapid fashion as though assessing everything around him. At first, La Forge thought the Cardassian might be scared, but his mannerisms reflected something else. This was not fear, the engineer decided.
He’s scanning for other threats, the way a soldier might.
Clearing his throat, the Cardassian bowed his head toward Data and La Forge. “Thank you for your assistance, gentlemen.” He attempted an air of confidence, but La Forge could tell he was still rattled as he directed his attention to the Bajoran officer. “For what it’s worth, Lieutenant Cebal, their attack was unprovoked on my part.”
“I don’t know if I’d go that far,” replied the woman. “They’re Bajoran. You’re Cardassian. Around here, that’s enough. You might consider moving your business to another location. I can recommend a good airlock if you’re having trouble making a decision.”
Before the Cardassian could say anything else, Cebal turned and departed, and her subordinates followed her toward what La Forge knew was the station’s security office. That left the Cardassian, who was now alone with the two Enterprise officers and a dwindling collection of Bajoran onlookers. A pair of militia members were standing some distance away, near the replimat. No dinner.
“I expected a cold welcome,” said the Cardassian. “I thought with the station having new owners, I’d still be offered at least a measure of grace.”
Eyeing him with skepticism, La Forge said, “You’re not like any Cardassian I’ve met before. Who are you?”
“His name is Elim Garak.”
Startled by the new voice, La Forge turned to see yet another Cardassian standing in the middle of the Promenade walkway. This new arrival exuded a palpable confidence, and La Forge noticed how those few Bajorans still in the immediate vicinity gave him a wide berth. Only the pair of security officers who stood in front of the replimat watched this new arrival with focused intensity. Whoever this Cardassian was, he was someone the Bajorans wanted to avoid.
“Dukat,” said Garak, “I honestly thought it would be a bit longer before our paths crossed again.” Even he seemed put off by this Cardassian.
“How fortunate for me that we meet one last time, so that I get to see how far you’ve truly fallen. Garak’s Clothiers?” Dukat looked past Garak toward the shop behind him, which bore the owner’s name.
Straightening his posture, Garak replied, “A good tailor is an asset to any well-dressed individual, Dukat.” He paused, eyeing his rival’s uniform. “Perhaps I can offer you a wardrobe upgrade for your trip home.”
Dukat smiled. “Another time. I am proud to wear the uniform of my people. They honor me by allowing me to wear it and serve them. That was once true of you, Garak. Don’t you miss that feeling of purpose, of pride?” He gestured to the storefront. “I doubt you’ll garner the same level of appreciation by making clothes for your betters.”
