Chapter 20
Half-dead Gagh at 500 hrs
Something is not adding up. I can feel it. It is as though I have swallowed a Denavan neural parasite, and it won't stop biting and crawling around my intestines. I don't have the will to eat, or sleep. Every sound screeches devastatingly in my eardrums. The touch of my bed sheets claw at my skin and it is so overwhelmingly cold on this insufferable station.
Which explains why I am here in the Klingon restaurant at 500 hours in the morning, tiredly swaying over a plate of barely wriggling Filden gagh with a tall glass of orange juice. The black plate holds the mini rust-colored insects with such revolting bluntness, the sight of it reminding me that I have been unable to stomach anything in the last two days.
I don't even want to think about the funny expression that Klingon chef made when I told him to give me the half-dead gagh. It's just that when the gagh moves too much, it looks like a huge rotting mass, and I already have enough snags in my appetite. Unfortunately, Quark's is full of Bajorans, or else, I would probably be sitting at the bar right now but here I am. The Klingon eatery never has a morning rush, I don't really understand why he's open so early, lunchtime and dinner are so much more busier. However, like any other Klingon, the chef probably is an early riser and thoroughly devoted to living by the ways of a warrior. Such as getting up at 500 hours to scoop barely living gagh onto my plate.
My hands are stiff with cold. The tendons on the back of my hands feel tight and rigid when I grip. Flexing and bending my fingers, I try to excite the blood flow and warm up myself. Deep Space Nine is torturously cool in it's simulated atmosphere. I can't help wondering if Dukat kept the temperature at a superb 80° Fahrenheit during the Occupation. I could happily endure a few days of Dukat's strutting and preening if he could ease the wintriness of this place.
Yet, the station's climate control actually isn't what has awaken me so early this morning. It is Evelyn Riley. There is something that I can't shake off and as upsetting as the thought is, I can not believe that I didn't realize it earlier.
I don't believe that it was actually her.
It doesn't seem authentic. That understanding smile as I related my feelings to her, the pleased look that emanated from her when I confessed my past. There are recent moments that I can spot the holes in the façade. Her comment about my eyes, I have moss-green eyes, and yet she claimed that I bore her eyes, a searing black. I even recall her small accusation that I had changed my eyes.
Almost as though she forgot that her own eyes are dark, and not light.
I groan aloud at the inconsistencies in my memories. Thankfully, no one is around to wonder what I am complaining about. After all, I am basing everything on what I can remember. My suspicion is not based on fact, but on my own wits. If there were a more reliable way to conclude all of my feelings as being no more than paranoia, I would be comfortably at rest in my bed.
But, I don't trust what has happened. She was too reserved, always quiet in everything that she did. Recently, I have tried recalling the behavior of Evelyn Riley. Traits, habits, and anything else that might prove that I am mistaken in my thoughts. It makes me cower in my chair. I can not afford to be wrong about this.
Evelyn Riley appears to me, in the shadow of my memories, as outspoken. If it were actually her, then she would have been furious and cut-throat. She would have never accepted an apology or hugged me to her with such maternal tenderness in such a short time. My grandmother would have stood proud and ready. She would have waited silently for my story to be said. Her face should have laid still and never told me what she was feeling or thinking. Her hands would never have fiddled on the table, they would have sat still in her lap while her eyes scrutinized me with cold regard.
However, if that wasn't Evelyn Riley than who was it? And why?
They didn't learn anything valuable. At least, I believe it was nothing of value.
Unless, it was actually her and she was working for Starfleet. Then this would have been an attempt to uncover the Cardassian operation.
But if it were Starfleet, than why I am sitting here and not in a cell?
It's not Starfleet. It can't be. It has to be someone else. Someone who is gaining something out of this.
That is it. Someone arranged that meeting. Someone purposely put on that charade for me to fall prey to. There can be no other reason, except I did not give any information to that stranger which could possibly used against me. Although, that certainly does depend on who is after me.
Romulans?
Their involvement isn't so frightening but this doesn't seem like them. I would have been detained and interrogated. As though those pathetic Tal-Shiar could ever actually question me about Cardassian matters. How amusing.
Bajorans?
No, no, no. Their precious morals would get in the way, and they would have more than likely killed me once they heard that I was working with the Cardassians.
It could easily be the Cardassians.
A test of theirs, but I would have been pulled out of this mission or killed. Whoever is behind this, they want something. Then something on the side of my plate catches my attention. The thoughts cease when I see a tiny gagh worm makes out of the small pile on my plate. Its ends kick towards each other as it struggles to escape. A quivering little golden worm trying to make its way out from death. Attentively, I pick him up and allow him to rest in the palm of my hand.
I understand the worm's plight. Watching his small attempts at escape from my hand reminds me of my own unquestionable fate. I am so much like the worm. We are both trying to get away from our destinies. His, to be eaten; gobbled up whole by some larger organism than himself. Mine, to be disposed of when I am discovered to be no longer useful or am found to be a threat; I will be eradicated to aid some other larger force of individuals, Cardassian or not.
It's interesting how the ordinary processes of life seem so much more meaningful when I realize that I might never partake in them again. Things like being able to stroll with nothing but peace of mind without the never-ending wondering about any missions, politics, or death. Loving someone with the hope that I will spend the rest of my life with them and be of no danger to them. But I have made my choice. I will obey Central Command until that fateful day that marks my end.
"I have never found Klingon food to be that entertaining, my dear. Although, my powers of observation could have simply been mistaken for all of these years," drawls a friendly tone as its Cardassian owner stands patiently beside me, "Or, maybe not?"
A quick zing of liveliness shoots back into me. This effect that he has on me seems to never break down. Always, he makes me feel unexpectedly alive, and everything else seems heightened and more vivid. An awkward smile presses out of me as I gleefully answer back to Garak.
"Not exactly entertaining, Garak. More so as a way to pass time." Languidly, I drop the worm back onto the plate and tilt my head to the side to face him in a supposed bored manner, "However, I presume that you can do better than any gagh?"
"Well, I most certainly would imagine so," quips Garak as his smiles lightens up his presence into a more playful one, "But there those who would tell you that I barely meet the standards for being as amusing as a Vulcan monk."
"Really? I would think that a Vulcan monk would surpass you by far."
"My dear Erica, you must be teasing me," his tones rises to show that he feels hurt by my snappy retort, "If you are not, than I must let you know that you have deeply wounded me."
His hand laid over his chest to show his emotive injury. If I didn't know Garak's usual manner to be ready for any repartee, then I might believe that my comments have marred him. But those blue eyes of his, are telling me that he is enjoying this little game between us. I reach for his other hand and hold it between my own hands with mock repentance while intoning, "Now, now, Garak. You know that you are far more amusing than anyone on this station. Much less a Vulcan monk. However, if you don't accept this request for forgiveness than I will have to…"
My teeth close over my bottom lip as I think carefully over my next words, "Go to Quark's and drink bottle after bottle of Gamzian wine before taking over the station communications' and drunkenly announcing to everyone that I have lost the dearest friend that anyone on this station could ever hope to have. Then I will jump out of an airlock. Which will leave you with nothing but guilt and regret for the rest of your life because it will show that, in fact, you do have the sense of humor of a Vulcan monk and are just as forgiving as one."
"All of that for me? How melodramatic of you," coyly sighs Garak. His smirk has turned to being very amused and pleased. Gently, he slips his hand out from mine, lightly skimming the tops of my hands. A slight tremble drops down my spine, a very enjoyable tremor. Then he takes the seat across from me, while adding calmly, "I do not believe that any Vulcan monk would stand for that. Much less a simple Cardassian tailor."
His voice is so pleasant to my ears. Yes, it holds a touch of arrogance but being a Cardassian, he is naturally proud as far as I see it. Garak continuously sounds delighted to my hearing. Even in pain or impatience, I suspect that he would still have a tinge of amusement in his tone. I can only imagine him singing, it would be fulfilling in a way that I can not even begin to confess. With suppressed anxiousness, I wait for his voice to push on and, he does.
"You didn't come visit me as I thought we arranged, Erica. May I ask why?"
So many reasons. Angry Bajorans, conspiracy theories that only exist in my head, frightening images of Dukat strangling me in my sleep…..
Garak's smile has not slipped in the least. Yet, those dark eyes are piercing in their own right. They are searching for answers. For excuses, for lies, or maybe, even for me to do more than propriety would allow.
Pushing that last idea out, I lurch out an excuse for him, "I said, maybe I would come see you. Then again, a time nor a date was given for me to visit."
"My dear, you don't seem the type of person who needs an excuse to do as she wishes. Did you not wish to visit me then?"
"Not at all. I am-"
My lips cut the sentence off in fear. I almost allowed the truth to come out. It seems to always come down to this with Garak. He will appear, sit down and talk with me. A few words get passed back and forth. Then he will smile. A warm expression that I rarely encounter on this station, and suddenly, I start to slip up.
Self-restraint, Uleni. This is no more than a game, and you will win because that is all this will ever be. Only a game.
Letting my shoulders relax, I try to recover gracefully from my fumbled moment. I tense up my words as though they pain me in saying them, "Garak, There has been some trouble with the Bajorans."
This is controversial. He should enjoy that. Those Obsidian Order types always enjoy controversy.
The grey-skinned tailor sits erect at attention. His eyes quietly follow my lips but as I finish, there is no change in him at all. Instead, he appears more entertained by my statement then horrified. I hear the rosy undertone in his voice as he speaks, "The Bajorans, my dear? What makes you so concerned about them?"
"There has been recent dissent on the station."
"Over our camaraderie?"
He knows. The atmosphere on this station lays heavily on me but it doesn't appear to bother Garak in the least. He lets himself wait for my reaction. I daresay that he wants me to be just as amused as he is in this matter. That I should be just as laidback in this as he shows.
Pushing my nibbled meal away, I don't look at him, but at the table as I reply in decaled frustration, "Yes. They think that I am a person with little to no moral values because I fraternize with you."
A light chuckle rises out of him at my usage of fraternize. His laugh eases the intensity of my words and makes me lift my head without thinking, just basking in our shared situation. Although, I am not threatened by these ridiculous allegations towards me; I feel better knowing that he is not threatened either.
"This is not the first friendship I have had on this station that has broken down because of the collected Bajoran feelings toward me. However, those selected friends were Bajorans who had their own families to worry about. No Bajoran wants to be known as a collaborator among their own," excuses Garak as he softly relates his thoughts so that no one else may take part, "Then again, Erica, if you are not at ease in maintaining such close relations with me than we can depart from each other right now, if not as close acquaintances then as customer and tailor. I will leave the choice to you."
"I have no intention of changing anything, Garak. I want you to be my friend. There is actually only one problem that has come up with this."
I cross my arms as I say this. I don't want to share my quandary with Garak. Yet, this is an issue that has only came up recently, and I have not found the solution to it. His eyes widen at my words and even more at my forlorn act. Then his voice gently touches on the subject as though I were something to broken by mere expressions, "Are there threats made against you, Erica?"
"Of course not. Even if there were, there is no need for worry, Garak."
"There are dangerous people out there. You can not trust anyone."
And don't you know it, Garak? Strangely enough, you are the only one that I trust. Will you betray me in end as everyone says you will?
Clearing my throat, I listen to Garak as he tries to coax my problems out of me, "If there is no immediate danger, then what could be so distressing?
"I make my livelihood on entertainment. If no one is willing to listen to me then I will have to move on."
"Leave-" He buzzes as though I had said something unnatural and shocking. He makes no move in his body to show any personal injury. It is hard to not assure him that I never intend to leave here for that reason, that I want to stay here with him. But I will not. I am not even sure that this Cardassian cares for me, or even likes me. Perhaps, he only seeks my company because I am one of the few who give it so willingly.
"Erica," I meet his friendly gaze, and smile a little even though I feel quite glum for the moment, "Perhaps, there is a possible positive outcome for this situation."
I certainly can see no possible "positive outcome," but I am not one to be rude. Naturally, I raise an eyebrow in curiosity then I gesture with my hand for him to go on.
"I could always use some assistance in the shop." He asserts passively as though he were some Q that could change the universe with a wave of his hand, "If you need it, I could remunerate you for a few hours of labor."
"You would do that for me, Garak?"
He slowly asserts his approval with a small bow of the head, keeping his eyes locked with mine.
"I am touched."
Truly, I am. I have already looked through most of Garak's personal files on this station and on Cardassia, listened to the Bajoran gossip, and observed enough to know that, although his salary is modest at best; Garak does not hire anyone to help in his shop. Not Bajoran, Human, Bolian, Firengi, or Klingon. No one.
"Conversely, my dear," His smile disappears but his azure eyes seem to gain more gravity as they pass onto my eyes with such intensity that only his words are able to reach me, "I don't believe that you would leave on such insubstantial grounds as lack of commerce. Your eyes are darkened around the edges. You haven't slept for the past few days. Your hair is.."
"Terrible." I agree wholeheartedly and finish his search for a fitting description.
I grimace at my dark stringy locks that I didn't bother to fix this morning. Usually, I will pull my hair up into a suitable style for what I am wearing but not today. For now, it is only parted to the left and rests heavily on both shoulders. I am beyond the point of minding the unseemly nature of my appearance for the moment.
"Defeated, came to mind. Not terrible," counters Garak kindly in his unusually accurate inspection of me, "Your features are gaunt as though you have no appetite, and you are not one to deprive yourself of nutrients nor allow sloppiness. Clearly, you are suffering from some ill complaint, and taking note of your recent activities, I would proclaim that there is a problem with that gift I left for you at Quark's."
That obvious, huh?
"And your choice of drink is far from the ordinary."
He's been watching me, he's seen enough to know that I drink water in the morning.
I nip my tongue to stop from shuddering at the disturbing and strangely exciting notion. Focusing my sight on his dark blue suit, I am distracted by the strange design in the fabric. Studying it closely, I can see infinitesimal swirls of thread. There are so many of them, clinging to each other to make up that oceanic cloth. I can imagine that they are so fragile on their own, so easy to tangle and break. They remind me of single situations like my own, so small and insignificant because we are only tiny parts of something much more larger and important. Garak and myself, are a part of Cardassia. Major Kira belongs to Bajor. Jadzia and Dax are connected to Trill and Starfleet.
So, my own circumstances are currently apart of a larger scheme that I am not seeing. Yet, it involves my family. Or, someone who has posed as my family. Someone has planned this out and done it. Someone who knows my future, who knows enough to see this as my weakness. A chill of realization creeps out into me as a plot outlines itself in my head.
My family, he used my family against me. It's how he operates. He's always operated like this. During the Occupation, during everything. How many Guls and agents and Cardassians has he exposed this way? Hundreds or more? He wants something from me.
My voice croaks awkwardly as my legs shove out from under me and push me away from the table, "I have to go, Garak."
I can't hear his reply. I am already outside the Klingon's restaurant, and sprinting to the closest lifts. Faces watch me with confusion as I run past with all my might. Breathing evenly, my feet patter softly on solid ground. My arms move in tandem with my body's momentum as I race against time to stop him.
A Cardassian. A sick and twisted fiend. Someone who uses peoples' families against them to extract the truth and trap them into a morbid situation that will only serve his needs. Then he discards of them without a second thought. He is one of the few Cardassians that I humbly despise without question.
Corbin Entek of the Obsidian Order. An insidious and daunting bastard.