Brett Hudgins
Mind if I join you?
I can always move when another table opens up. This won’t take long.
It’s rather amusing, really. They expect me to lie to you, never mind that we’re perfect strangers. I told them, “I’m a tailor. I don’t do that sort of thing.” Except to spare a heavy woman’s feelings. I’m not insensitive.
But these Starfleet types aren’t content with bungling their operations on a Federation-wide basis. They like to micromanage, even if that means disrupting my blissfully quiet, insignificant life.
And yours.
The price I pay for living on a space station. The price you pay to visit. They love people like us. They’d rid their whole sprawling space of vagabonds and free spirits if they could. Give them the rank and file, the known and numbered. Every being’s every move monitored and evaluated. The galaxy would be so deliciously…predictable.
Yet certain people—and I caution you, so don’t react: they’re watching us as we speak—grow anxious when they don’t know what’s going to happen next. Not the sorts to live life to the fullest, if you get my meaning. Even if they worry only a smidgen, the pebble nevertheless enters the pond. Ripples spread. Suddenly healthy self-preservation seems paranoid or suspicious. And just because not everybody is out to get you doesn’t mean they shouldn’t be.
War does that to people.
You’re looking pale. A drink, perhaps? This establishment is one part necessary evil, two parts life support system. Where would we be without it? Is it worth the price to find out? I don’t pretend to know.
I might say the same thing about Starfleet. They seem to think they’re “on to you,” that they have you “red-handed” and similarly colorful idioms, but they’ll go to great lengths to avoid being straightforward. The joys of a top-heavy bureaucracy in action. They prefer subterfuge, convoluted action they can document with a paper trail long enough to stretch through the wormhole. Protecting their already armored rear ends is, you’ll pardon the expression, the bottom line. This despite the fact that you have no more to hide than I do.
But then, I’m only a tailor.
I wish I were more. So does my father. Ambition can be painful, though. It can win or lose entire wars. If you wonder how one of my lowly station could get drawn into an act of espionage, I’ll tell you: through the same sorry brand of politics that’s stained the Federation for generations. Prejudice and xenophobia. Oh, they try to dress up their fear in suits of caution and wisdom but I know they see only my heritage. My biology.
I’m alien. They’re not. Plus ca change, plus c’est la meme chose.
The more things change, the more they stay the same.
By their logic, if I’m an outsider, then I must be the perfect choice to befriend and beguile a fellow outsider. What does trust or decency matter to one of us? We might not be Klingons—thank your Prophets for that much—but we have our honor. We have the wherewithal, the fortitude, to meet openly and speak our minds. Let them observe, record, dissect. They don’t dare interfere.
Not now. Not here, where we’re but two more customers cheerfully oblivious to the Ferengi greed fattening our tabs.
Would that there were a wormhole to bridge the personal and cultural gulfs that separate our peoples. You don’t believe me, and why should you, but consider. Animosity would be an abstraction rather than a subtext. A simple conversation wouldn’t draw so much attention. And there wouldn’t be any doubt as to only one of us walking away alive. Though I’m used to the scrutiny, you understand. I’ve been here a long time, my survival a testament to my skills.
As a tailor, that is.
But that doesn’t mean I like it. I build walls. Call them fortifications—or perhaps justifications. I pretend people are examining my clothes, admiring my workmanship in advance of a lucrative purchase. I don’t dwell on the ill will. But one’s imagination is rarely an effective shield against reality.
Ah, your drink. Ektarian fizz. Excellent choice—and a personal favorite of the Lurian-shaped lump growing out of the bar. Don’t mind him, though. We were talking about us.
It’s hardly a pleasant label, but I might go so far as to call us victims. Of circumstance, if not fate. Neither of us asked to be here. I want no part of Starfleet’s ham-handed cloak and dagger. And you surely have business of your own or family commitments. Why else would you come here? Not to meet me or listen to my theories of alienation and persecution.
If you want to go, go. No one will stop you. As I said, they don’t dare interfere.
And not just for the sake of their secrecy. Would you believe the mental giants in Starfleet Intelligence have pegged you as a suicide bomber? Oh, don’t jump. I laugh at the very thought. You’d need at least five allies to smuggle in component materials, conduct surveillance on the targets, and distract unwanted attention once you were ready to strike.
Granted, I know little of death, despite the abhorrent crimes committed by my people against yours, but even I can see that violence only prolongs violence. That’s why your Resistance persisted so fervidly and why the Occupation went on so long.
That—and greed. The greed that motivates people to take things to which they aren’t remotely entitled. Wealth. Resources. Lives.
I’m not greedy. I want nothing from Starfleet, least of all their gratitude. That’s why I’m doing this my way. Which is distinct from the typical Cardassian way, if you’re curious. There’s a famous story about a Resistance fighter facing excruciating torture by the Obsidian Order. They’d stripped him naked, attached electrodes and auto-probes, and done their level best to reduce him to an animal. Expecting him to recant and reveal his organization’s secrets, they asked if he had any last words. “I can stand the pain,” he said, “if you can stand the screaming.”
One must have a sense of humor about these things, after all.
If you were a different man than I believe you to be, I’d urge you to recognize that blowing up Cardassian diplomats aboard this station under a flag of truce will neither end the war that threatens your world nor undo damage done years previously. Your life is worth more than that.
As is mine.
Should you return to your quarters for the device that is supposedly a detonator and the material that is supposedly a bomb, you’ll leave this station under heavy guard and heavier scrutiny. An embarrassing public trial will blare your selfish, shortsighted failure from one end of the quadrant to the other.
However, should you quaff the rest of your delicious Ektarian fizz after I add a special ingredient—note the vial concealed in my palm—you’ll reap the glory of completing a full half of your assignment.
The suicide half.
You might hope I’m lying…but I don’t do that sort of thing.