Second self, p.18
Second Self, page 18
Plant your garden wisely; do not trust a single seed.
The first beating, when it came, was finely judged and very thorough. These boys were professionals. The days were getting shorter. It was dark when he went to work, and dark when he ended, and his hours were completely regular. He tried altering routes, but the compound wasn’t that big. Antek and three gils grabbed him on the path by the side of the accommodation block. Dragged him off to some lightless corner. Kicked him around. Called him a few names. Stinking skrit. Little bastard.
When they were done, Gherrod lay in the mud for a while, then hauled himself up and checked himself over, piece by piece. Nothing broken, he thought, but he was going to ache again for days. He dragged himself back to the dormitory, slinking past the others to the washroom, and looked at himself in the mirror. His nose had made it through intact, but the area around one eye was swelling. He went to bed and took out the hypo. Old friend; reliable friend. He’d been lucky tonight, he knew. The problem was, he didn’t think this was going to satisfy them. They’d tried their luck and got away with it. They’d tasted blood. They’d be back for more.
The next few days were another low point. He worked through the pain and Prill’s abuse. He hid as best he could. In the evenings, he worked on the remote boosters that would extend the range of his surveillance devices. Each evening, sitting outside behind the farthest accommodation block, cold fingers working cleverly, patiently, until he was able to monitor the whole set of offices. Faithfully, diligently, he recorded everything he saw and heard—although he was baffled. There was, as far as he could tell, nothing of note. But then, he was only one small part of a large machine. The Order had its own purposes. One did not question; one simply obeyed. For Tain, or rather for Cardassia, which were as close to being the same thing in his mind that he was barely able to distinguish the difference.
He felt better for this progress, nonetheless, and perhaps that made him lower his guard. Anyway, the next attack didn’t come in some dark quiet corner. It came in broad daylight, in the middle of the compound, with at least a dozen other people walking by. A couple of gils were walking past. Suddenly, one of them dived in close, and punched him hard, in the gut. He went down, doubled over, retching and coughing. He heard their laughter. He heard the same old insults, thrown back casually as they went on their way. He saw others walking past. Across the way stood Entrek, who took in what was happening and looked away. When Gherrod got his breath back, he staggered over into the dormitory, where a couple of the others took one look at him and turned their backs. He fell onto the bed. Fumbled around for the hypo. Tried to take the pain away.
The next morning was his day off. He woke early, well before dawn, still sore. The walls seemed closer than usual. He had to get away. He didn’t have permission to leave the base, but he didn’t care. He slid out of bed—everyone else was still sleeping—and was through the back fence within fifteen metrics. When he reached the Bajoran town, he walked down to the river. A boat had arrived—a major event by the standards of daily life in the town—bringing in boxes of food and other supplies. He watched as it was unloaded and then as it started on its slow journey back downstream. Then he went to the temple. The little green tree was upright again, and the door was open. He went inside.
The air was full of a sweet clean scent that was completely unlike crimson shadow. Had there been a ceremony? Gherrod knew only a little about their superstitions and had no framework by which to make a guess. He should learn about that, he supposed. They were Cardassian subjects after all, and information was his business. Better to know, than to be caught unawares. He sat down on one of the wooden chairs and put his head in his hands. He breathed in, hating the smell. He hated this whole world. He longed to be back home, on Prime, walking through East Torr. The smell of familiar spices, the oil and the tar from the river, the dry heat, something other than this wet and rotting place.
A hand upon his arm. Pale and alien. Gherrod looked up. It was the old vedek. He said, “You’re in pain.”
Pain. They should do something about that. Find a way to stop it. Make it go away.
“What?”
“I’m sorry to see you like this.” The vedek sat down beside him. He folded his hands upon his chest and stretched out his legs. Completely at home. What are we doing here? Gherrod thought seditiously. Why did we ever take these worlds?
“You’re alone this time,” said the old man.
“Yes.”
“Well,” said the vedek, “temples are places of sanctuary and contemplation. You’re welcome to sit here for a while and see what a little quiet can do for you.”
Again, he gave Gherrod that intense and rather unforgiving gaze. Why did he think he could do that? He must know, surely, that even a service grade like Gherrod only needed to say that one of the Bajorans had stepped out of line, and there’d be reprisals. Gherrod stared at the candlelight. He’d heard pity in the vedek’s voice. Pity.
Suddenly, Gherrod saw himself through this man’s eyes. Shabby, underfed, beaten down. But that was not who he was. Not really. He was someone else, really. He wasn’t sure, right now, who that person was, but it wasn’t this. This was a part he was playing for a while. A mask he was wearing. “A vedek is an unusually high rank for a temple this small and remote,” he said, a little Order steel creeping into his voice. His right, as a Cardassian, to be acknowledged the superior here.
“Oh, well, Akantha has its charms. There was a big monastery here once, a few centuries ago. This temple was part of the monastery, a very holy place. It’s all that remains, of both city and monastery. And my rank remains. There’s always been a vedek at Akantha.” He smiled. “You haven’t told me your name.”
“Mas Gherrod.”
“Mas Gherrod. I am Saba Taan. You’re not, I think, a religious man.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Faith can be a great support, you know,” said the vedek. “We all need something, especially in trying times.” Again, that pity. Pitied by a Bajoran. “What supports you, Mas Gherrod?”
“I have things I believe in,” he said. Why so defensively?
“That’s a start,” said Saba. “There is an order to things. What, for example, do you think, has brought you to Akantha?”
“There was no plan. I made some bad choices.”
“I see. A lucky man.”
“Lucky?” A little bitterness slipped through.
“Not everyone gets the chance to step aside from the path of his life and have time to reflect.”
Just in time, before nodding, Gherrod caught the ghost of a smile pass across Saba’s face. He burst out laughing. The vedek was actually teasing him. “My own personalized homily!”
“With my blessing,” said the vedek dryly.
“I’ll try to take it to heart.” Gherrod took a deep breath. “I should go. Thank you for your time, Da’eel. Vatay-ja.”
A look of deep sadness crossed the vedek’s face. What had he said? That was the right honorific, wasn’t it? The right phrase? He didn’t think he had offended. So what had he done? Was it simply that this Cardassian had taken the time to learn such things? But information was his business. He was showing this old man that he knew his business. As he tried to rationalize this, Saba leaned over and placed his hand upon Gherrod’s face. His touch was very gentle, almost tender. “Ja-rataja, Mas Gherrod.” Ever so slightly, his thumb stroked the ridges on his cheek. “Oh, I do forgive you, you know.”
“Forgive me?”
“For everything you are about to do.” Saba drew back his hand. “Mas Gherrod. May the Prophets guard and guide you on your path.”
“Do you know,” observed Gherrod, “I don’t think you’ve mentioned the Prophets before.”
“No,” said Saba. “I haven’t.”
Gherrod, who was a little shaken by this exchange, and whose cruel streak was, by this point in his life, starting to win out, said, “It’s nonsense, you know. Superstition. Lies.”
Saba gave a low laugh. “Lies often conceal a deeper truth.”
“That’s sophistry.”
“Tell me,” said the vedek, “is the path you’re on now making you happy?”
Happy? What did that have to do with anything? It was his task, his role, his function. It was what Tain required—what Cardassia required. He was nothing, had nothing, came from nothing. And yet the Order had found a place for him. A family. And family was all. What did happiness have to do with any of that?
Beside him, the old man sighed. “I do wonder,” he said, “what would happen if you came to see me again. I could tell you everything about those paintings, you know. I think you’d be interested.”
“I think I would,” said Gherrod, and stood. “Perhaps I will come again,” he said, but even as he said it, he knew it was a lie. He schooled his face into a bland smile that one day he would use so often it would fit like a second skin. “Thank you for your time, vedek,” he said brightly, tilting his head. “Most helpful. Very kind.”
The old vedek closed his eyes. “Goodbye, Mas Gherrod. Be seeing you.”
* * *
That night, tired and afraid and deep in the embrace of the crimson shadow, Mas Gherrod dreamed. He was walking through the temple once again. A bright light flashed, and he saw three figures, walking slowly around him. One of them was Vedek Saba. He was telling him, again, that he was forgiven—for everything he was about to do. The other figure, he did not know. A young human, of all things, a Starfleet officer, very beautiful, and he was telling him that he was forgiven—for whatever it was that he had done. The third figure, he knew all too well. Tain, brutal and jovial as ever, telling him that he could not forgive what he had done, but he could try to forget.
Gherrod woke, sweating, and with full understanding. He knew, now, without doubt, the truth about Akantha. He understood, now, everything that he had seen. The prayer chambers. The empty barns. The desolation. The world had tilted. The everyday and commonplace had taken on a new, more sinister, complexion.
How could I have been so blind? So completely, utterly stupid?
He sat for a while, his hands on his knees, calming himself, thinking through what had to happen next. He got up, and dressed, and slipped through the base, and down toward the town. On the outskirts, he broke into a run, stumbling slightly, only stopping when he came to the temple. The door was locked, but that was no challenge. He was inside in a matter of moments. The candles were out, he noticed. No, you wouldn’t want naked flames burning unattended around here. He took out his flashlight, its bluish, artificial light alien in this ancient, sacred place, and made his way toward one of the red doors.
He scrabbled with the catch, some of the stone crumbling in his hand. When it finally came loose, he opened the little door. He shone the flashlight inside, revealing to him a miniature armory. All the necessary materials to make explosives. Grenades. In the name of Tret Akleen, ground cannon! He pulled out some of the hand weapons. Ancient phasers. Plasma rifles. Many different makes and worlds. There were even some Cardassian disruptors. Chamber after chamber revealed the same story. He walked out of the temple and looked around the town. The temple contained a large cache, but there were about fifty buildings in the town, not to mention the barns on the outskirts… No wonder the fields looked so poor. Akantha had not been a farming community for many years, but not for the reason they thought. It was a storage and supply center for the Resistance.
Gherrod put together the likely pieces of the operation. The weapons arrived farther up along the Parset river, no doubt. Brought here from around the quadrant. Little ships, slipping past their sensors. Cargo transported onto the planet’s surface from orbit, or perhaps they even landed there to unload. Carried downriver, to Akantha, that neglected and forgotten town, where they were dispersed through Ordeve and then, via as-yet-unknown routes, into the Bajoran system. The remoteness of the town meant that the few troops stationed here were looking mainly at the engineering project. Not to mention their inexperience, or, in Entrek’s case, their apathy. How long had this been going on? Two years? Five? Little Resistance activity here, Khenet had said. He really had known nothing. They all knew nothing.
Silently, Gherrod left the temple, closing the door behind him. He slipped back through the darkness to the base. This time, he went in through the main entrance. As he made his way through the compound, his whole bearing altered. Gone were the slumped shoulders, the downcast eyes, the hangdog expression. He moved with confidence and surety. His back was straight. His eyes, blue and bright, were unblinking. He would perform this transformation many times across the years to come, until the whole change—there and back—could take place in the blink of an eye. This was his true purpose. This was what he had been trained to do—and if, at the back of his mind, he thought that now he might be able to redeem himself in Tain’s eyes for the disaster his original mission had become, then who would blame him?
Gherrod marched straight into the main office block, down the corridor, and into Entrek’s office. Entrek was in there, drinking kanar with a couple of the junior officers, Antek included. When Antek saw the kitchen boy stride into his commander’s office, ill-fitting threadbare coat trailing behind him, his eyes flashed in fury. “Gherrod! You little shit! Do I have to kill you to make you understand what you are?”
Elim Garak reached across the desk and hit the console. “Clearance code verification nine two one eight”—his eye fell on Entrek as he gave the last word—“black.”
There was a pause, and then a beep.
“Clearance code verified.”
“You?” whispered Antek. “You’re with the Order?”
Garak turned his eye on him. “We are everywhere, soldier. You would do well to remember that in future.”
Entrek was collecting himself. “Sir,” he said, standing and saluting a man young enough to be his son, “we are here to serve.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” said Garak, moving to take his place behind Entrek’s desk. His desk now. “Because we have work to do.” He pointed at Antek and didn’t give him a second look. “You, get me some armor.”
* * *
The first order was to contact the capital and request reinforcements, but the base comms were down, and the officers responsible couldn’t say why, and couldn’t say when they’d be back, and looked terrified at having to deliver this news to the Order. That, at least, should spur them to find a solution in record time. Or Garak would want to know why.
“Sabotage,” said Garak. “The Bajorans know what we’ve discovered. We need to move quickly.” Equipped now with armor and a disruptor, and with Antek scrambling like a hound at his heels, trying to win his favor, Garak assembled the junior officers and the foot soldiers and gave them their orders. Most of them looked terrified. He realized, as he spoke, that more than half of them had never taken part in a real military operation before. Serving meant sitting around in a remote backwater on a colonized world, waiting for your tour to end. It didn’t mean firing weapons and shooting people. Entrek, to give him his due, knew his business. He slipped seamlessly into the role of second-in-command.
Within the hour, the operation was underway. The company moved into Akantha. Within the next hour, two-thirds of the buildings had revealed weapons’ caches, and Garak had fifty hostages at his disposal. Two Cardassian foot soldiers and eleven Bajorans were dead. Five of those Bajorans had been killed in scuffles, the other six Garak had ordered shot, one by one, until the rest surrendered. A dozen or so were still loose, by their best estimate, so Garak ordered his captives marched down to one of the barns and locked inside.
“I want this whole area searched,” he said. “I want every single Bajoran still alive in the area brought here. And—when you find him—I want to speak to the vedek.”
Yes, he thought, he particularly wanted to see Saba Taan again. Speak to that old man, who must have known, both times, exactly what his temple contained, who had tricked him—a member of the Order! Saba Taan had lied to him, and he would pay the price for that.
All night, Garak watched the officers fall over themselves to obey his every order. He watched them snap out salutes to him. He watched how they could not meet his eye, from the sheer terror of what his reprisal might be. He thought: This is how it feels to be powerful. In control. This is how they all must feel, all day and every day. He would come to crave this feeling.
After a couple of hours, Entrek came unwillingly to speak to this cold and brutal young man, his superior. “Gherrod, sir,” he said, “there’s still no sign of the vedek.”
“No,” said Garak. “There wouldn’t be. What about the rest?”
“We think we have the whole adult population—”
“Adult population?”
“We can’t find any of the children, sir,” said Entrek unhappily.
“The children?” Garak stared around the town. How had they missed them? Where had they gone? What was going on here?
“What are your orders, sir?” said Entrek.
“Set charges on the buildings,” said Garak. “I want the town leveled and burned. And I want Saba Taan and the children found.”
The junior officers standing by looked at him, and then at Entrek.
“Sir?” said Tretor uncertainly, to Entrek. Why was he looking at him? Garak was in command now. Garak was their superior.
“Start with the temple,” Garak said.
“Gherrod…” said Entrek. “Sir—”
“Why are you all still standing here, looking at me?” said Garak. “You have your orders.”
“Sir,” said Entrek, “we still haven’t been able to reach Merna. We don’t know whether there are more of them out there, and we’re very exposed—”
