Three more weeks passed.
“You’ve got a visitor.”
“Fuck you.”
“I will give you time to at least sit up. Transporting you reclining as you are will probably give you a concussion. Sit up. Or stand, if you’d like not to bounce on your buttocks again.”
Thrace growled and sat up, then stood. He could already hear the transporter beam.
A moment later he was in the same holding cell. The Cardassian named Elim Garak was once again seated across the glass.
“What!” Thrace demanded.
Garak only stared, an amused smile on his face, his head tilting slightly as he studied him.
Thrace knew that another tantrum like the one he threw three weeks ago would produce nothing good, so he crossed his arms and said, “I thought I passed the test. I mistakenly thought passing the test meant that I never saw your seagull ass again.”
“You were wrong,” said Garak, who went back to studying him.
The computer hadn’t bothered telling him what the test involved, what benchmarks it was seeking to assess, what issues it was probing, whatever. It was simply some stupid test, one he apparently—somehow—passed.
When Garak didn’t explain himself, Thrace sat in the chair at the partition.
Garak continued staring, so he stared back. The Cardassian’s head tilted more, so he tilted his, in the opposite direction, at the same time.
Five minutes and twenty-four seconds later, the alien stopped. Imitating him was ridiculous, not to mention dead boring, so Thrace asked, “How’s that tight Vulcan piece of ass? Still recovering?”
Garak smiled. “Miss Q’añe is in fine health. I’ll be sure to convey your best wishes.”
Thrace crossed his arms and pushed his chair back to that it was balancing on its back legs.
“Test.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Garak shrugged. “Why not?”
“And how am I doing so far?”
“I have no idea. It’s not important. I will analyze the results later, at my leisure.”
It occurred to Thrace that the computer was monitoring his biometrics. Something about them was worth assessing, apparently.
“Not important? She kicks my nuts in, breaks my nose, and it’s ‘not important’? What the fuck do you want?”
Garak stared at him for a moment longer. “Despair Canyon.”
Thrace shrugged in angry confusion. “What the fuck do you want?”
“The Federation, for decades, has judged us as a brutal species, warlike, even fascistic …”
“The truth hurts.”
Garak nodded contemplatively. “Indeed, it does. The Dominion’s occupation of our worlds left tens of millions of us dead, millions more homeless and injured, our worlds smoldering from our ‘deal with the Devil,’ as it were, our economy in utter shambles.”
“What’s this got to do with Despair Canyon?” He really didn’t care, but did find the ramblings of an elderly Cardassian a welcome break from the interminable monotony.
“Humans are very proud of their humanity and all the trappings that go with it—democracy, equality, diversity, plurality, an economics of inclusiveness. And yet they are still mind-bogglingly hypocritical. ‘Despair Canyon’? Say what you want about Cardassians, we don’t hide our trash in the sightless canyons of airless worlds.”
“You’re calling me trash?”
Garak smiled. “Yes. I am.”
Was this another test? Was he trying to provoke him, push him into another fit of rage?
Thrace held to the surge of anger and sighed. “You’re boring me, Cardassian.”
Garak widened his stare. “And here I thought that Vulcans never lie.”
Yes. He was definitely pushing him, trying to get a rise out of him.
“It’s easy to flap your gums from behind two centimeters of reinforced glass.”
“Meaning…?”
“Say that here, without protection, and see what happens.”
Garak looked up, then stood. “Computer—Garak 2c.”
He dematerialized, rematerializing a moment later just behind Thrace, who had also stood, ready to tear his throat out.
“And here I thought Vulcans never lie.”
Thrace lunged for him, but Garak was surprisingly agile and quick, producing a Cardassian police stunner from his pocket and aiming it at Thrace’s head. The tight green beam slammed into him, knocking him unconscious.
He came too with a splitting headache. It was so bad that he couldn’t open his eyes right away. He covered them with his hands, and it was then that he discovered that he’d shit himself.
“What?” he moaned. “You can’t be fucking kidding me …”
“Are you speaking to me?” the computer asked.
“How … how long have I been out?”
“Fourteen standard hours. Cardassian police stunners aren’t configured for human or Vulcan heads.”
Thrace didn’t answer for a long time. The pain was too severe. It felt like his head was literally going to explode.
“I’m going to puke,” he grumbled.
“I have released more medbots into the air. You’ll experience relief shortly.”
“What the fuck, man? Why are you helping that Cardassian fuck out?”
“I am helping Mr. Garak because I am interested in helping you, Thrace.”
“How is getting shot by a Cardassian police stunner in any way helping me?”
“The police stunner might give you a clue. Think about it for a minute.”
“I can barely move let alone think!”
“Yes. Your pain levels are measuring as quite extreme. Releasing medbots.”
Eyes clenched, Thrace croaked, “Thank you!” and waited.
A few moments later, drowsiness overcame him. A few moments after that he was back asleep, soiled pants and all.
He dreamed of Cardassia Prime. Of smashed buildings, toxic smoke choking the air, long execution lines, enormous craters formed by massive disintegration beams, a world in shambles.
A voice in the back of his head cried out, “Why do you give a shit?”
Up into the sky, then beyond. Cardassian starships battling Dominion cruisers many times larger. He was in an escape pod, floating high over the planet. The vision faded, and suddenly he was with the Vulcan girl. They were kissing passionately.
He pulled back, puzzled and enormously turned on.
“What?” she asked with a dusky smile, her hand on his face. She licked his lips, and they kissed again.
Back in his cell. Garak was smiling down on him. “He’ll do,” he announced.
“I’ll do what?” Thrace returned.
His right leg hurt. It hurt really badly. He couldn’t reach it to find out what was going on, as though he didn’t have arms! He struggled and cried out, kicking with all his might …
Darkness. His right leg was numb. He’d been sleeping in one position too long.
He rolled onto his back and felt tingles as blood flow returned to his leg. His hip felt bruised. Somehow his clothes had been removed. He was in pajamas he’d never seen or worn before.
“Time,” he called out after muttering “What the…?”
“Just after 1 in the morning, standard,” replied the computer as he gazed down in puzzlement at the clothing on him. “You were having a violent nightmare. You appeared to be frozen in place. You kicked …”
“Cardassian police stunners,” he interrupted, blinking.
“Go on,” said the computer.
“Before they joined the Federation, they didn’t exist.”
“That’s correct,” said the computer.
Thrace sat up. Fuck asking about the pajamas. “To join the Federation, they had to start using things like stunners instead of disruptors.”
“Many changes the Federation insisted on were adapted by the Cardassians, yes.”
“I remember now,” said Thrace, biting a hangnail. “Their society was in a state of collapse in almost every way. Their empire wasn’t even a fraction of what it was in its heyday. It was a common sight to see Cardassians dead in the streets of Cardassia Prime from starvation. The Federation offered to help many times, according to news reports, but Cardassian leadership refused any aid. Eventually it got so bad that a coup brought down that leadership and established a civilian government, the first in Cardassia’s history.”
“They came to the Federation and asked for help. The size and scope of that operation, still ongoing today, rivals the exodus of Romulus.”
Thrace held up. “It wouldn’t be too difficult to smuggle a disruptor in here.”
“It would,” countered the computer. “Even a stunner isn’t allowed past the primary field.”
“But you allowed it.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“So we’d have this moment, that’s why,” said the computer.
“But this facility isn’t completely automated. The humans overlooking you would have been notified once a stunner crossed the primary.”
“Correct.”
“So they allowed that stunner in here?”
“Elim Garak is quite influential.”
“Is that your answer?”
“Do I need another?”
Thrace gathered his thoughts. “So by your admission, the seagull is influential—so influential, in fact, that he can get his way with the overseers of this dump.”
“Correct.”
“So what the fuck does an influential seagull want with me?”
“He needs your particular skillsets.”
That gave Thrace pause. “Which are?”
“Your physical strength, your physical make-up—admittedly not a skillset—and your intelligence. He has been looking for people to help him. It has not been an easy task, as I understand it.”
“Hundreds of billions of sentient beings in the Federation alone … and he’s having trouble finding employees?”
“He will get you up to speed, I am sure.”
Thrace stood. The floor of the cell was cold on his bare feet. “Wouldn’t it have been much easier to simply state what the fuck he wants and let me decide? Why all the subterfuge, the game-playing, the ‘testing’? Seriously—what the fuck?”
“Mr. Garak is very thorough. And … he hasn’t had much success. He has considered quitting many times.”
“Quitting what?”
“I believe you make the ideal candidate. And I believe you can be of great service to him, the Federation, and Cardassia, all over time, of course.”
Thrace spoke very slowly, emphasizing each syllable. “Quit-ting what?”
“There are strong forces aligned against allowing the Cardassian Democratic Consortium into the Federation.”
“I thought you said that Cardassia is already a member,” he said, his temper holding only because he found himself interested in the computer’s continual evasion. Was this another fucking test?
“I’m surprised you don’t know.”
It took a moment for him to get what the computer was saying.
“Why would I care about Federation politics?”
“The Cardassian Democratic Consortium, as with all those wanting to join the Federation, must do so through a long onboarding process. The CDC is a provisional member. All new joinees go through a three-step process: Provisional, which lasts twenty-five standard years, Partial Representation, a decade-long evaluation process where the new joinee gets to vote on restricted legislation, and Full Membership, which includes full voting and veto powers. The ongoing Cardassian Relief Mission is separate from these considerations.”
Thrace was enjoying this little game. At least, he wasn’t really all that bored while playing it.
“Garak is a higher-up who is fighting against those who don’t want the CDC to pass from Provisional to Partial.”
“Correct. There are many violently opposed to allowing Cardassia to join the Federation. Those member states that make it to Partial Representation are given massive resources and aid, if needed. Cardassia is just a few years from becoming PRs. They desperately need that aid.”
“Don’t Provisionals get any aid?”
“Of course they do. But nothing close to what PRs and higher get. The Federation isn’t all-powerful, of course: the resources of the member star systems are finite. They spend them on each other. Cardassia desperately needs that aid boost, even with the relief mission and the massive resources that they are receiving because of it.”
Thrace was beginning to get it. “Someone is sabotaging their efforts.”
“Yes.”
“You know, I couldn’t care less about Cardassia and its people. They only joined the Federation to save their psycho asses.”
“Most member species have done so for exactly that reason. To ‘save their asses,’ as you put it.”
“I said psycho asses.”
“So you’re saying you won’t help Mr. Garak even if that means release?”
“Immediate release?”
“Given that Mr. Garak wants you, and is willing to work with you—no small thing, given your behavior to this point—yes.”
“And what am I being released into, exactly?”
“His employment, of course.”
“And what will I be doing in his employment?”
“You sound as though you are interested. Are you?”
Thrace took a deep breath. Getting out of here would be great, yes. But he was a convicted murderer. What Garak wanted him for had that factored in.
“I’m interested because anything is better than here, even if it’s playing strongman for some Cardassian ass-kisser—er, I mean diplomat.”
“Mr. Garak is no diplomat. He is head of the Obsidian Order.”
That gave Thrace pause. “Ah-ha,” he murmured, lowering his head. “A strongman for the head of the most oppressive secret police organization in the entire galaxy …”
“The Obsidian Order’s leadership and many of their key players from the old regime have either been killed in the war with the Dominion, have escaped prosecution and are hiding out from the CDC, or …”
“… are still active and working to undermine the CDC,” finished Thrace. “Is that right?”
“I was going to say ‘in jail.’ But yes, some are working to sabotage the CDC’s full inclusion into the Federation—or at least are suspected of doing so. They have done everything from bombing embassies to deep fakes to unleashing viruses in critical Cardassian and Federation computer systems to assassination attempts and suicide bombings. They are a devoted, well-funded, and highly dangerous bunch.”
“And I’m to help him hunt them down?”
“I don’t know the full extent of your potential duties. I never asked. But I can’t imagine that that wouldn’t be one of your duties, yes.”
“Because I have a short fuse, is that right?”
“I haven’t noticed that, Thrace. You have a temper, that much is true. But during normal times it takes a great deal to get you really ‘pissed off,’ as you might put it.”
“Like being in jail?”
“That goes without saying. Not normal, as you have guessed.”
“Garak is getting old, so he needs fresh blood to do his dirty work.”
“If by ‘dirty work’ you mean doing what you can to stop the CDC from entering more fully into the Federation, then yes.”
“Wouldn’t hiring thugs to do that dirty work look very poorly to those stuffy Federation politicians and the like?”
The computer held up. “There is always a lot of resistance to species joining the Federation. The Vulcans, charter members along with humanity, are still fighting members of their own species centuries later for joining.”
“You mean those logic assholes?”
“Logic extremists, yes. They came into existence to fight Vulcan’s inclusion into the Federation. They have never disbanded. To date they have killed almost thirteen thousand sentient beings, eighty-nine-point-six percent of them their own species.”
Thrace sighed, clasping his hands over his knees and dropping his head. The computer stayed silent.
“Call Garak,” he said. “I want to meet with him again. If he agrees to do that, I’ll consider this idea. If not, then fuck both of you.”
“I will contact him immediately,” said the computer, who actually sounded happy.
You can read an earlier edit here.
Comments ()