Work Text:
Covent Garden
London, 2383
It had been understood that work might well interfere with this trip, so Parmak spent a pleasant afternoon exploring the bookshops of Charing Cross Road and the National Portrait Gallery. When he got back to the hotel, the ambassador was still sitting in front of the comm. Parmak went into the other room, and sat down with Bleak House. Forty-five minutes before the performance was due to start, he went back into the office. The ambassador had not moved from his seat, although his right hand was now covering his mouth. His eyes, which were very narrow, flicked over to Parmak, who, wordlessly, pointed out the time. The ambassador lifted his free hand. What, really, can I do…?
About thirty minutes later, Parmak heard the castellan say, “Where are you right now exactly, Garak?”
The ambassador, removing his hand from his mouth, said, “I’m in London, ma’am.”
“London? Why are you in London?”
“Well, in about thirteen minutes, I’m going to the opera.”
“The opera?”
“Yes, ma’am. It’s a form of dramatic theatre in which the words are sung rather than spoken—”
“I know what opera is, Garak. Can’t you see it in Paris?”
“I can, ma’am. I can also see it in London, which is where I happen to be right now.”
“I see… Well, I suppose I’d better let you go.”
The call ended with the usual pleasantries. The ambassador, standing up, headed towards the bedroom, saying, “Two minutes.”
“Elim—”
His voice carried from the other room. “I want to get changed first.” He came back in holding two shirts. “Which one?”
“Elim—”
“Three and a half hours…”
“Elim—”
“Three and a half.” He stopped, still, and stared at Parmak. “Does she know you’re here?”
“That’s a little paranoid, don’t you think—?”
“She does know you’re here, doesn’t she?” Whereupon the ambassador let loose a stream of invective the like of which was rarely heard outside of Torr, apart from the odd phrase which Parmak suspected of being street Romulan. He thought, I bet you never spoke like that to Tain. When the ambassador was finished, he stared down at the shirts he was holding.
“We’re not going to make it, are we?”
“Not now,” said Parmak.
***
Ten minutes later they were in the hotel bar. The ambassador, who had not got changed, was skewering olives with cold precision.
“Have you thought again about coming home?” said Parmak.
“Yes,” he said. “And no. Have you thought again about coming here?”
“Yes,” he replied. “And no.”
The ambassador stabbed another olive. “The difficulty is that the castellan wants two incompatible things. Firstly, she wants complete oversight of everything that I do. Secondly, she wants me as far away from her as she can decently manage without actively sending me back into exile.”
Parmak took a fortifying sip of wine. “She’s going to stand for re-election, you know.”
“Oh yes, I know.”
“That’s in two years’ time. After which she’ll have another five years. Do you still want to be out here seven years from now?”
“No,” he said. “But…”
But what would he do instead? He was right, of course. Returning home would be the end of his career. The castellan only tolerated him in this position because he was so manifestly the best qualified candidate, and because it put him so far away from the capital’s political scene.
“I suppose I could retire…”
Parmak snorted.
“What?”
“You’re not going to retire.”
“Well, I could—”
“Think about it for a moment.”
They both contemplated this potential future. “Paris it is, then,” said the ambassador, and murdered another olive. “Shall we try and make the second half?”
“Why not.”
They stood up. The ambassador brushed his hand along Parmak’s arm. “Something will come up,” he said, and smiled. “It usually does.”
20th March 2026