Shell Shock

Protocol demanded that the new arrival be given a tour of the ship, so the two men were walking side by side along the main access corridor of the freighter Pelosa. Conversation was limited to the perfunctory, to what was essential to satisfy procedure. One man spoke through gritted teeth, the other listened to the status reports in stony silence.

Behind them walked a crew that was well aware of the personal feud that existed between their captain and the passenger. Their anticipation of the scene they hoped would break out was only kept in check by the presence among them of the new arrival's aide. You had to watch your step around the Order.

Pausing at the end of a brief spiel about his ship's freight capacity, Glinn Dukat glanced sideways, regarding the other man with ill-concealed contempt. He could not believe that this piece of scum had made Gul at just twenty-nine. An Order rank, to be sure, but it infuriated him. Dukat was a year older and still awaiting that elusive promotion.

He remembered the man as a boy at school - slight, effeminate, talkative. Look at him now - his black suit beautifully cut, his hair immaculate, still youthful-looking. And he was expected to obey the orders of this catamite?

But it wasn't the demeanour of the man that most enraged Dukat. It wasn't even the traditional antipathy between the regular military and the Obsidian Order. It was knowing what this man had done, not eighteen months ago, to his beloved father... Dukat swallowed hard. The family was still reeling from the impact of the scandal. No wonder that promotion had not yet come.

For his own part, Garak was tired to the bone. He was conscious of Dukat's thinly-veiled loathing - how could he not be? - yet could not raise the energy to combat it, preferring, for the moment, to trust to fear of the Order to keep Dukat from stepping out of line. This new assignment had come too close to an exhausting one on Bajor. Garak had just finished overseeing the interrogation of five resistance cells which had been captured six weeks ago. Almost sixty Bajorans had been processed, each needing his personal attention at least in the initial stages of the interviews, before handing them over to a subordinate. He had personally conducted full interrogations on fifteen subjects himself, in the space of three weeks, a period in which he had lived off rokassa juice, pep pills - and not much else. He wanted nothing more than to sleep.

At least this mission was straightforward enough - a simple exchange of arms for information - but the flight time to the rendezvous point was frustratingly lengthy, well outside of Cardassian space, and he had no desire to be cooped up with a nearly insubordinate and patently resentful glinn for longer than was strictly necessary. At this stage in his career, the hatred of bereaved and bitter relatives was no longer a novelty to Garak; it bored him.

They had reached the living quarters, had come to a stop outside what was to be Garak's cabin. 'Thank you, Glinn Dukat,' he murmured. 'I believe I shall take leave of you now.' He nodded to his aide, 'Tolek, if you could join me for a few minutes?'

The two operatives went inside, the cabin door closing in Dukat's face. He turned to face his crew, smirking. 'Well, we don't want to come between them for longer than is necessary, do we?' The men laughed.

'I thought he'd at least come to the bridge for a while, sir,' one pointed out.

Dukat shrugged. 'Well, you know the Order. For all their claims, I don't think they can stand the pace of military life.'

Obsidian Order agents rarely socialized with each other, never mind with the regular military. Agents certainly didn't chat to their juniors. Garak had nodded to Tolek as he entered the mess hall, but sat at a different table. Five of Dukat's crew were at another table, talking, laughing. Their voices hushed as they became aware of Garak's presence.

Garak arranged his tray of food about him, and pulled out a stack of documents. Eating alone across eleven years in the Order had given him hours of reading time. And a pile of paperwork always made you look as if you were knowledgeable, well-informed. It helped maintain the Order's reputation for omniscience. As far as any observers could know, he was reading something about them.

But Garak rarely read reports whilst eating. He had discovered very early on in his career that ploughing through interrogation notes tended to affect his appetite. That sort of reading matter was best done first thing in the morning, before the mind was able to do anything other than press through it automatically, registering the essentials, but not reflecting on the details.

So how to fill all that time, all those meals? It was very simple. Garak was now extremely well read. He opened his latest file, a selection from a set of human writers known as 'The War Poets'. He began to read.

'It seemed that out of battle I escaped
Down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped
Through granites which titanic wars had groined...'

A grey morning, rain drenching the open fields. A grey base, eight functional plastic buildings, quickly raised, quickly destroyed. A procession of grey Bajoran faces, sweating terror, rank with fear. One face, pinched, small, a thirteen year old boy...

The page had blurred before his eyes. Garak had to blink to clear his vision,

'The pity of war, the pity war distilled...'

It was a mistake to read human poetry. It only aggravated him. Where was the pity in war? War was brutal, merciless - it rewarded the victor, it destroyed the victim. There was no pity. By the end of last week, fifty-seven Bajoran resistance fighters lay in a mass grave sixteen miles from Jalanda City. Where had pity been then?

'I am the enemy you killed, my friend...'

Garak slammed the file closed in contempt. Enemies who were friends, friends who were enemies. He had no time for the delusions of human morality. He concentrated on eating instead.

He became aware that a figure was leaning over him. He looked up to see Dukat. The man sat down opposite him. Garak moved his files to make space before the tray was put on them.

'Read something not to your taste?' Dukat gazed at him balefully.

'Something like that.'

'And I thought that your tastes were... eclectic.'

The room was quiet. Dukat's voice carried. His crew glanced at each other, amazed at his audacity, nervous for the consequences.

Garak simply smiled and shrugged. 'And what would you know about taste, Glinn Dukat?'

'Only what I've heard, Agent Garak.'

Not acknowledging or using Garak's proper rank was, quite simply, insubordination. Garak looked away, gathered his files, stood up. 'I see that the Dukat family continues along its errant way. It seems increasingly likely that one day I shall have the pleasure of seeing you in the same circumstances in which I first met your father.'

With one swift, enraged movement, Dukat leapt out of his chair and flung away the table. For a split second it looked as if he might actually go for Garak's throat, and his crewmen jumped up to prevent him. Attacking an Order agent would see Dukat dead within a week.

Motion hung in the balance. Dukat took a deep breath, controlled himself. It was hard, with Garak smirking at him, but he swallowed, calmed down, and said, 'And what would you know about fathers, sir?'

He was surprised when it hit as hard as it did, noting, with pleasure, Garak's stab of raw humiliation, quickly masked. The agent delicately inclined his head. 'Touché, Dukat.' Now the younger man was completely back in control, urbane, cultivated, smiling. 'I doubted that you had the wit for any sort of verbal exchange. You'll certainly be more interesting to interrogate than your father was.' He saw that strike just a little, but he knew that Dukat had come out of this skirmish better than he had. He turned away and started to leave the room. 'Perhaps, Dukat,' he called back over his shoulder, 'when you have finished preening in front of your acolytes, you could allow me to brief you on the mission? I'll expect you in an hour.'

Dukat laughed as Garak left. His crew came over, patting him on the back. It was always pleasing to see points scored against the Order.

Tolek left the room, hurried after Garak, who was striding back to his cabin, bitterly angry at himself for allowing Dukat to score such an easy point. 'Sir?'

Garak halted his stride, turned to his aide. 'Yes, Tolek?'

Tolek paused, not actually having anything to say. 'Do you need any help preparing for the briefing?'

Garak's eyes glinted dangerously. 'I am not completely incapable yet, Tolek.'

The younger man flushed. 'I didn't mean, sir... I mean...' Garak's minor defeat in the mess hall had done nothing to damage his reputation in Tolek's eyes. No-one who spent their waking hours within the Order could think of Garak as anything other than a rising star, a man who, despite his comparative youth, had consequence, power... and the ear of Enabran Tain. Working for Garak was a singular honour. Tolek was, quite simply, terrified of his senior officer.

Garak pursed his lips, and looked at Tolek with something approaching liking. The young man's nervousness around him worked wonders for Garak's self-confidence. He smiled. 'Forgive my outburst. You're quite right. We really ought to prepare to brief Dukat. Now that the glinn has demonstrated such a keen intellect, I'm sure that nothing short of a first-class performance will suit...'

As the briefing, a somewhat terse and chilly affair, drew to a close, Dukat's presence was requested on the bridge. He strode off, gladly. Garak turned to Tolek. 'I don't know about you, Tolek, but I'm keen to see what could possibly be so pressing that Dukat prefers it to our company.' They headed off after him.

On reaching the bridge, Dukat was informed that the Pelosa had just received a distress message from a Cardassian civilian liner, the Korinas. She had suffered serious damage in an asteroid storm, and was now drifting, out of control. She had received offers of aid from two other Cardassian ships, but it seemed unlikely that they could reach the Korinas before the air ran out. The Pelosa, however, was closer than either of the two ships, and could make it, but the Korinas was still fifteen hours away.

'Well, what are you waiting for, man!' Dukat barked at his navigation officer. 'Lay in a course! And let them know we're on our way.'

'Hold that order,' a voice cut in sharply. 'Glinn Dukat, what do you think you are doing?'

Dukat turned round in fury. 'What does it sound like I'm doing? I'm answering that ship's distress call.'

Garak moved from the doorway onto the bridge, Tolek close behind. 'I can't allow that.'

'You 'can't allow' it...!'

Garak brushed his hand across his front disdainfully. 'Please don't splutter,' he murmured. 'It does nothing for my jacket, never mind your dignity.' Garak smiled as he saw Dukat's blood pressure rise even further.

'Your jacket...? Are you insane, man? That ship is drifting, in trouble. We are the closest vessel available, and the only one likely to get there before their air runs out. This is a mission of mercy...'

Garak cut him off, and this time his voice was steel. 'Glinn Dukat, I have just spent an hour briefing you on our mission. Since it appears not to have got fixed into your skull, I shall explain once again. You are instructed to deliver me and my assistant to our rendezvous point in nine hours time. If we go after that ship, we shall miss our arrival time by nearly forty hours. That is not acceptable. If you want to play at heroes, you can do it after you have left us behind. But, for now, this ship will continue with the flight as planned.'

For one very brief moment, it looked as if Dukat was going to disobey. He held Garak's eye, his loathing of the operative plain. He wouldn't dare... Garak thought to himself. It would be mutiny. I could shoot him dead on the spot and be well within the law.

Dukat broke his gaze, looked at his navigation officer. 'Continue with the scheduled flight plan.' A murmur of dismay ran around the crew. 'Do it!' Dukat yelled. A rebellious silence fell over the bridge, but the crew obeyed. Dukat turned back to Garak, spoke quietly. 'When you've left this ship, I'm turning it around and going back for those people. I hope for your sake that their air holds out.'

Garak stared back coolly. 'I don't care what you do so long as you get this ship back in time for the pick-up. Just do your duty, Dukat, and I'll do mine. That's all that need concern either of us.'

'Tight quarters, aren't they, sir?'

Garak flicked open his eyes and looked round the chamber, five feet by seven feet, made somewhat smaller by the twelve cases of explosives they were here to exchange. He'd just been thinking that he felt pretty comfortable - considering some of the places he'd holed up in before - but nonetheless he flexed a cramped leg. 'I suppose they are,' he replied. He glanced at his aide, remembered it was his first field assignment. 'We're not here long,' he said, trying to sound sympathetic.

'Well, two days, sir.'

'I've been in worse,' Garak said calmly. 'And so will you, in time. Treat it as leave,' he said, drily, and closed his eyes again. The quiet before a rendezvous was something Garak welcomed. A period of emptiness, solitude, when you could be alone; when you did not need to worry because all you had to do was listen and wait...

'Sir, there's something I'd like to ask you.'

Garak sighed inwardly. It seemed there would be little in the way of peace and quiet on this mission. 'Go ahead, Tolek.'

'Why didn't we go after that ship? We're here almost two days in advance. We could easily have got over there and back with several hours to spare before the rendezvous.'

'It's quite simple, Tolek. This transaction seems straightforward enough - we've got something they want, they've got something we want. But you should never trust to that. I've no intention of meeting with a bunch of arms dealers without having had the chance to stake out the rendezvous point in advance.'

'But - sir - isn't two days a bit, well, excessive?'

They don't train them like they used to, Garak thought. They don't put them in the field quickly enough, let them sink or swim. It was hard to believe that there was only seven years between them. 'The last person who said that to me got shot dead by two Flaxians who took the time to arrive early and didn't see why they should pay for goods when they could just take them. It's not rampant paranoia, Tolek, it's necessary caution.' He tried to sound kind, but it was difficult to keep the irritation out of his voice. 'What counts is that Dukat is here to pull us out after the exchange. There's no use in hanging around after the transaction's completed. It can be dangerous. As for this time...' he shrugged. 'We should be fine.'

'Still, sir, all those people...'

'Tolek, they are not our responsibility. We can't afford those sorts of distractions. We have to focus on the assignment and do all that's necessary to complete it efficiently and effectively. Anything else will one day get you killed.' He settled back down. 'No doubt Dukat will enjoy blazing across the sector, bringing succour to the afflicted. And as long as he gets the ship back, I don't care if he treats each survivor's injuries personally.'

'He doesn't seem to like you much, sir.'

'Relatives of men one has interrogated and had executed tend not to be amongst one's greatest admirers, Tolek. Or did you expect Dukat to congratulate me on a job well done?'

That appeared to quieten Tolek for the moment. Garak lay back, closed his eyes again, and started to think about the two weeks of leave he had coming up. He intended to spend it at the new villa he'd just bought in the Almath province. Even though it was still spring, the temperature would be well over 28°C; the province was remote and quiet - he could read and sleep and rest...

'Sir, if I may... there's something else I'd like to ask you.'

Garak sighed to himself again. Here it comes, he thought. They never tire of asking. Out loud, he said, 'What is it this time, Tolek?

Tolek swallowed, getting his courage together. 'Sir, is it true what they say?'

'What they say about what, Tolek?'

'Well, sir, what they say about you and Tain.'

Garak's mouth twitched slightly. This was going to take hours at this rate. 'And what do 'they' - whoever 'they' are - have to say about me and Tain, Tolek?' His voice dripped acid.

Tolek had the sense to look shifty, Garak noted. Perhaps there was some chance that this boy might survive into his thirties after all. 'Well, sir... Well, that he's your lover, sir.'

Garak didn't answer. Did this boy really believe that he could get Garak to share a confidence with him? He stretched out his arms in front of him, releasing some of the cramp in the muscles across the back of his shoulders. Tolek was watching him, expectantly, nervously. Garak swung his gaze round onto him suddenly, the gaze that had made stronger people than Tolek crack. Tolek flinched slightly. Garak smiled benignly. Tolek flinched rather more.

'Can I give you some advice, Tolek?'

The younger man nodded wordlessly.

'If you want to survive life in the Order, speculating about Tain is not a good idea.'

Again the younger man nodded. His eyes, hypnotized, didn't leave Garak's face.

Garak extended his arms as expansively as he could manage, given the space. 'Here we are, Tolek, far from Cardassian space. There's just you and me. We've checked for surveillance devices, we know that we are probably twenty miles from the nearest living soul. Yet Tain will know that we've been discussing him.'

Tolek blanched slightly.

Garak leaned back, put his face into the shadows. 'The other piece of advice that I can give you, Tolek, is that if you do want to speculate about Tain, you should do it out of my hearing. Do you understand?'

Tolek nodded slowly.

Garak smiled to himself, then patted the younger man on the arm. 'Tolek, I'm starving. Why don't you break out those field rations and make us something to eat?'

'Sir, the Korinas has just reported her current location. She's drifted quite a way since she last checked in - we're not going to be able to get to her and back to the pick-up in time.'

Dukat slammed his fist into his hand. 'So close!' he hissed. He paused in thought, then a sudden smile came over his face. He turned to his second. 'D'you know, Metor, I'm tired of being a fetch and carry service for the Obsidian Order. No-one else can get to that ship, and I'll be damned if I sacrifice their lives for that butcher. Maintain our current flight path.'

Metor beamed back. 'With pleasure, sir.' He started to turn away, but Dukat grasped his arm.

'Metor,' he had lowered his voice considerably, 'Delete all record of that transmission from our logs. No need for the Order to know all the details, is there?'

Metor nodded, then frowned slightly and, with his own voice kept low, asked, 'Sir, are you sure we want to keep the Order waiting? The gul was very insistent that we were back at the right time for the pick-up...'

Dukat leaned back in his seat, steepled his hands, and smiled. 'I'm sure it'll do them no harm.'

Garak's eyes fluttered open, somewhat pointlessly. It was pitch black. Physical sensation returned before conscious thought, and his immediate reaction was one of panic. He was in pain, and he couldn't move. He moaned involuntarily.

Get a grip.

His mind had kicked back in, just in time to stop him from yelling. He took a deep, shuddering breath, which collapsed into a coughing fit. He had clearly broken at least one rib.

What the hell happened? Instinct was demanding some explanation from intellect.

I haven't the faintest idea. The walls fell down. Intellect clearly wasn't back at its sharpest yet.

Walls don't just fall down! Instinct was starting to shriek. It was not helping. Garak swallowed, slowly and carefully. He concentrated on trying to stretch each limb, just very slightly, to see if there was any damage.

He was lying flat on his stomach, right cheek pressed against the ground. Both legs were pinned down somehow, probably by rubble. His left arm felt in considerable pain, most likely broken. His right arm - he could move it! He felt a flash of exultation which was disproportionate to the actual discovery. Nonetheless, he flexed his hand with relief, then pulled the arm round to check his head. His back thumped against rubble - he judged that he had about four inches space above him in which he could manoeuver, and wondered briefly why the walls hadn't collapsed on him completely. His hand shakily worked its way across his face, testing for cuts. Somewhere around his left temple he felt something sticky. Blood...

Space turned round on itself as panic set in again. I'm stuck in the dark, trapped under who knows how much rubble, with a broken arm and a bleeding head... I'm going to die... His good hand started to claw involuntarily at the ground.

Again, he forced himself to take deep, shuddering breaths. This time the pain from his ribs was expected, and the sharp, regular sensation even helped him calm down.

He tried to cast his mind back to just before all the lights went out and he lost consciousness.

They were in the cellar. They had made the contact. Twelve cases of high-grade explosives in exchange for two data crystals, which Garak had put in his inside jacket pocket. One of the two arms dealers had started to check through the cases, the other keeping his weapon trained on the two agents. Garak had been waiting patiently. This was just a straight exchange, arms for information. Suddenly, the dealer checking the cases had leapt up. 'Are you people insane? This is gonna blow!'

'What?' Garak didn't have the faintest idea what he was talking about. Then there had been a noise which had deafened beyond belief and, as the world swung round by 90 degrees, went white and then very black, he remembered thinking, 'Oh, this is what you're talking about..!'

He realized he had no way of knowing how long he had been trapped. Another pang of fear gripped at his belly, suddenly replaced by rage. Where was Dukat? If he was on time for the pick-up, as he had specifically been ordered, then Garak had nothing to worry about. He just had to lie here and wait, and it wouldn't be long.

Are you insane? You're putting your life in the hands of a man with a personal grudge against you who would happily pile an extra layer of rubble on top of you if he knew you were here.

A hideous thought crossed his mind. Maybe he does know you're here. Maybe he's been and gone, taken Tolek, said you were dead, left you here to rot... Garak began to shiver, despite the suffocating heat. His conscious mind, ever analytical and one step detached from the rest of him, registered this. I think I may be going into shock... His mind pulled him up to another level. I hope I still have those data crystals. His hand, trembling, somehow reached inside his jacket, felt that they were safe. Good, he thought. It would be a real tragedy if they'd been damaged. And then he fainted.

His eyes opened again, but this time to light, coming through a little hole in the rubble, falling directly onto his face. Light...

He licked his lips, suddenly realizing just how thirsty he was. It's the shock, intellect told him. Thank you, intellect. It's also a long, long time since I last had a drink. And it's desperately, desperately hot.

Don't think about that. Work with what you've got. Can you open this crack a little more? You could be under a lot less rubble than you think you are.

Don't be ridiculous. You met those dealers in a cellar. You've got an entire building on top of you.

He rubbed his face, blood mixed with sweat. 'It would help immeasurably,' he said out loud to himself, 'if you would shut up.'

Now that he had some source of light, he cranked round his neck to look above him. It appeared that two or three floorboards were protecting the upper half of his body from the tons of rubble above. So long as they held out, he had a little space, a little air - and wouldn't be completely crushed.

He twisted his right arm under his body again, scrabbling at the hole to his left. It was a stretch, particularly as he had no way of moving the bottom half of his body round to aid his reach, and the space was so constricted. Eventually, he had done as much as he could with his right hand. He rested his head on it for a little while, considering what to do next. 'Well, your left hand isn't trapped, you know. It just hurts.' Talking out loud appeared to help, it punctured the oppression.

Hurting wasn't as bad as dying, he reflected. With great care, he lifted his left arm. No, hurting wasn't as bad as dying, but it was pretty bad. He stopped, rubbed his face with his good hand, tried to think what to do about the pain...

'Garak, you are so stupid, you don't deserve to live.' He scrabbled again at his jacket pocket, not easy with only a few inches space to work with above him, eventually managing to pull out a little packet. It contained a strip of painkillers. He downed two, gagging a little since his throat was so dry. The rest of the tablets were also useful. He swallowed a rehydration pill, which would hopefully take care of some of his lightheadedness. He toyed with one of his stock of pep pills, but decided to conserve them. They tended to lead to increased anxiety, which he could control under normal circumstances - but these weren't normal circumstances. The packet also contained a torch, flat and small, and not terribly long-lived or effective, but it was going to come in useful later. He caressed it fondly, then set it down to his left. The little set of tools he also carried were, unfortunately, no use to him this time round, being a little too precise in their applications. What he really needed was a digger and a team of ten men with shovels. He smiled wryly as he put his head back down again, breathing a little more steadily, allowing the pills to take effect.

His eyes snapped open. He had been asleep. He supposed that wasn't really sensible, but his head was ringing less, and the pain in his left arm was barely there. He felt curiously rested, given his situation.

The light was still there, he saw with relief. Still something to aim for. Gingerly, he lifted his left arm. The painkillers had done the trick. It still twinged, and he probably wasn't doing the break any good, but it was enough to mean that he could keep scrabbling at the rubble. The gap widened, first a few inches, then nearly a foot... The light was getting stronger. He dug away more keenly.

Through the increasing gap, he realized that he could see a black shape silhouetted against the light. He dug more urgently, screwing up his eyes to try to get some definition.

It came to him suddenly, coldly. When the bomb went off, he was right next to you... In a simultaneous flash, he realized that what he could see wasn't daylight. It was the light from an emergency torch issued as standard to all Obsidian Order agents.

'Tolek?' he whispered. He clawed a little more with his shaking hand, at the rubble in front of the man's face. He stopped in horror as he realized that the eyes were open, glazed, forever sightless. Unbidden, some lines whispered through his head:

'And by his smile, I knew that sullen hall,
By his dead smile I knew we stood in Hell...'

Garak started to weep. The dead man gazed back dispassionately.

It had taken a fair amount of effort, and even more nerve, but he had finally been able to stretch round Tolek's body, grab the torch, and switch it off. He told himself that he needed to conserve his light supply, but the simple truth was that there was no way he could lie there looking straight into the face of his dead aide. He would rather be in darkness. He reflected morbidly that Tolek had lived long enough to reach for his torch and turn it on, and then had died - most likely from internal injuries - alone, afraid. He supposed that it was sad, considering the boy was only twenty-two, but he mainly felt envy. It was better than waiting to die of thirst or asphyxiation.

He lay there, motionless, waiting for he knew not what. He had long stopped believing that Dukat was going to turn up. The painkillers wore off, but he could not summon the energy to take anymore. He did not bother with the rehydration pills either, despite the enervating heat. Why prolong the agony? He felt himself weakening, and drifted in and out of sleep.

He started to dream, feverishly. He dreamt in fragments - glimpses of faces flickered in and out of focus, like a series of interrogations at an insane speed. Some of the faces were people he'd questioned, others were friends or lovers, but it was impossible to tell between them; at this level, victim and beloved were indistinguishable, they had become one. Only Tain stood out, a single face amongst a million others.

Then, a great rage overtook him, a terrible frenzy that this was how it was going to end, when he was so young, so full of promise. He wept and cursed at the thought of how little he had done, how much more he had thought he would do. He had believed that he would have authority, influence and, in time, sufficient power to run his life and his affairs as he chose. He had thought of this life he led now only as a means to an end, a way of providing him with the security he had lacked for years, and which he craved more than anything else. He had wanted, ultimately, to be safe - but he had only ended up here, dying of thirst and exhaustion and lack of air. It was bitter; bitter and cruel.

In time, a sullen peace descended over his thoughts, as heavy as the dank and dwindling air around him. He found himself murmuring to himself, fragments again, pieces from books he had read, mission briefings he had memorized, alibis he had produced. And then he thought he heard another voice, the voice of a child. He opened his eyes, unsure if he slept or if he hallucinated, and saw the face of a Bajoran boy, tears running down pinched, pale cheeks.

'"Strange friend,"' Garak mumbled through cracking lips, '"Here is no cause to mourn."'

'"None,"' whispered back the spectre, '"save the undone years, the hopelessness. Whatever hope is yours, was my life also..."'

Garak's eyes closed one last time. Fifteen minutes later, Dukat's men had dug through enough of the rubble to be able to transport Garak directly to the Pelosa's infirmary. He had been buried for thirty-four hours. On the bridge, a course was laid in to take the Pelosa away from Tzenketh and back to Cardassia Prime.

Dukat came into the infirmary, three crewmembers in tow, his gait just stopping short of a swagger. He looked at the sorry figure lying on the bed - and grinned. 'Garak!' he said. 'You don't look quite as dapper as usual.'

Garak's eyes shot open. He took one look at Dukat's smirking face and his self-control finally snapped. 'Glinn Dukat,' he snarled. 'While this mission remains in progress, this ship is under my command, and I am your superior officer. Either address me as such or I will have you court-martialled. Do I make myself clear?'

Dukat burned with fury. 'Yes, sir,' he whispered.

'Tomorrow morning,' Garak continued, 'In my capacity as an Obsidian Order inquisitor, I shall be commencing interviews with your entire crew about the events of the last few days.'

A rustle of dismay passed through the rest of the room. Nobody wanted a brush with the Order down on his record.

'I hope for your sake, Dukat,' Garak went on, his tone lowered, 'that you did not allow a personal grudge to get in the way of carrying out your duty. If you did, then I won't stop with one generation of your family. I won't even stop at you. I'll reduce you and your descendents so low that they'll spend the next four centuries saluting Bajorans! Now get out of my sight!'

Dukat's eyes blazed, then he turned on his heel and strode out of the room. The other crewmembers looked shifty, avoided looking at Garak. No-one wanted to be next. Threats from the Order were not usually empty.

Dukat having left, Garak's rage subsided and he slumped back onto the bed, exhausted from the outburst.

'I suggest,' murmured the ship's paramedic, 'That you stay here in the infirmary for the next two days. I've fixed the bruising and the broken bones, but you're dehydrated, and suffering from carbon dioxide poisoning, and you should be here where I can check on you. You certainly shouldn't be working yet...'

'Just give me the drugs,' Garak snapped. He sat up, and swung his legs round somewhat shakily off the bed. Without further comment, the medic handed him four hyposprays. '10ccs from each every six hours for the next two days.'

'Thank you.' A little gingerly, Garak stood up. He had no intention of remaining in the infirmary. He had a report to produce on the mission for Tain, and he intended to have crucified Dukat by the time they arrived back on Cardassia Prime. Besides, the three other patients in the infirmary were survivors of the Korinas. Their watchful, angry eyes told him that Dukat's crew had wasted no time in informing them that here was the Obsidian Order man who had been prepared to let them die rather than interfere with his mission.

A kind of rough justice had operated, Garak reflected, as he made his unsteady way back to his cabin, his hand brushing against the wall for support. He'd been prepared to let the people on the Korinas suffocate; it was, perhaps, only fair that he should nearly have died that way himself. He shook his head. You're becoming maudlin. Stop thinking this rubbish and concentrate on your work.

Garak slammed the file closed, frustrated. Dukat's crew had closed ranks most effectively - their loyalty was a credit to him. There was nothing to prove that Dukat had deliberately delayed his return for the pick-up on Tzenketh. No further action would be taken. It would have to suffice that each crewmember's record would show that it had been considered necessary for the Obsidian Order to investigate them; this was not a sign of guilt per se, but it was a black mark, a blot on a man's record.

In fairness, no further action was necessary. The mission had not failed. Garak had the data crystals he had been sent to collect. Even now, the military was acting on the information retrieved. It had precise details of the Federation's plans for the next stage of its war against the Tzenkethi, and Cardassia could take advantage of this to further her interests in and around Federation space. It was useful to know where the troops would not be. No, in that respect, the assignment had been a triumph. It was true that one Order operative was dead, but there were plenty to spare. The senior Order officer, himself, was returning alive. Even better, a successful rescue mission had been undertaken which had saved the lives of twenty-six civilians. No, nothing had been lost.

Garak swigged deeply and somewhat feverishly from his glass of kanar. Nothing lost... He had found, across the previous two days, that his concentration had been slipping during his interviews with the crew. The room he had commandeered for the purpose seemed stuffy, unpleasant. He had curtailed three or four interviews earlier than he would have done normally, needing to get out, get some space between him and the task at hand.

He placed his hands flat on the desk in front of him, looked down at them. The left one was twitching slightly, involuntarily. He tried to take a deep breath, but it seemed to catch a little, it didn't seem to bring him enough oxygen.

It's the job, the damn job... Something Order agents said a great deal, their mantra. A colleague would be found in a stupor, drunk on duty. They would shrug. What do you expect - it's the job. He would be parcelled off for six months R&R, coming back after that time bright-eyed and efficient at his new desk job, doped up to the eyeballs on tranks. Another colleague would shoot himself in the mouth with a high-energy weapon. It's the job, everyone would say, clearing away the mess, pensioning off another distraught widow. The Order looked after its own.

Elim Garak was a deeply perceptive man. It was what had made him such an effective interrogator. He looked down again at his trembling hand. I have just been through a traumatic experience, he thought to himself calmly, attempting to put an intellectual distance between himself and the events of the past few days. But I need to get this under control. If I'm getting a problem with enclosed spaces, I'm not going to be such a good interrogator, or a good operative. And that makes me useless to the Order. And if I'm useless to the Order... He stopped there. Life outside the Order was unimaginable.

Another truth struck him in the face. If I don't do something about this now, he thought, I'll have slit my wrists before I turn thirty-five.

Garak flicked on his computer console. There was a message from Tain, who had received the report on the Tzenketh mission the previous morning. Tain was informing Garak that the brother of a man Garak had interrogated three years ago had been arrested. It appeared he had bribed a minor Order official to sabotage the shipment of explosives. 'Congratulations on surviving your first assassination attempt!' Tain ended jovially. 'But next time - check the boxes.'

Garak deleted the message, and accessed his personal schedule. He put in a request to extend his two weeks' leave to two months. There was a pause of about a minute, and then permission came through, granted personally by Tain. Eleven years of solid service brought rewards. Then Garak arranged himself some counselling sessions. Psychotherapy was just the flipside of interrogation. The Order looked after its own.

'I am the enemy you killed, my friend.
I knew you in this dark; for so you frowned
Yesterday through me as you jabbed and killed.
I parried; but my hands are loath and cold.
Let us sleep now...'

On the bridge of the Pelosa, Dukat thought of his father, then of his passenger - and smiled through his grief.

In his cabin, Garak lay motionless on the bed. The light stayed on. He did not sleep.

In the fields near Jalanda, a mother wept for her son, raised her hands to the heavens and swore the eternal and cyclical oath of vengeance.

Lines from Strange Meeting by Wilfred Owen

January 2000