Текст книги "A Stitch in Time "

Автор книги: Andrew Robinson

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 1 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

Andrew J. Robinson A Stitch in Time

PROLOGUE

“Of all the stories you told me, which ones were true and which ones weren’t?”

“My dear Doctor, they’re all true. . . .”

“Even the lies?”

“Especially the lies.”

My dear Doctor:

Forgive my delay in responding to your kind communications. I wanted to give this modest chronicle I’ve enclosed a modicum of organization and update it before I sent it on to you. Thank you for your concern. I have thought of you often since our last meeting, and I am pleased to hear that your life on Deep Space 9 remains challenging and productive. Considering all the changes that have taken place I would have expected nothing less. And I’m certainly not surprised that your research proposals have been accepted. You’re a brilliant young scientist–even if you are genetically enhanced. As for my life here . . .

It’s the dust.

I can live with the rubble. I can live with the survivors who move like holographic phantoms and spend every waking hour scavenging for whatever will keep them alive. I can even live with the stench of the corpses that litter the broken streets, waiting in grotesque poses to be transported to mass graves.

But it’s the dust that suffocates me and challenges my sanity. It clogs my nose, blurs my sight; my mouth is filled with a chalky paste that food and drink (scarce commodities) only thicken. We exist in a penumbral world where every shape and sound is blurred and muffled by this restless cloud of dust that refuses to settle and chokes my every breath.

Yes, Doctor, I have returned home. The only house I have ever known has been reduced to rubble. Fortunately, the little outbuilding in the back where Tolan stored his landscaping implements is still standing, and I’ve been able to clear a path to it and make a small place for myself inside. Indeed, as I write this, I am sitting here, the door open to make the space feel larger. It’s an ironic view I command: the dust and rubble of the home of Enabran Tain, the man who attempted to destroy the Founders’ homeworld.

The Founders have indeed exacted a Cardassian justice.

And then there’s the added irony of my own homecoming, Doctor, and finding nothing but Tolan’s tools and shed; an irony I think you will fully appreciate when you finish reading this recollection. Yes–I’m afraid you weren’t expecting this response to your kind inquiry; it goes a bit further than “Greetings from Cardassia–Wish you were here.” It seems I’m arrogant enough to believe this collection of reminiscences is something that may actually interest you.

I began writing it when I was first exiled to Terok Nor/Deep Space 9. It was an episodic and desultory effort chronicling my life on the station. Then last year, Captain Sisko invited me to join the initial invasion of Cardassian space–“the Battle for the Chin’toka System” as our Klingon friends trumpeted–an event I wasn’t sure I’d survive. My fondest wish at that time, as you well know, was to free my homeland from Dominion tyranny. Because of this uncertainty over whether or not I’d survive, I found myself devoting more time and energy to this journal with the following result. And now, here I am, a survivor in a “liberated” Cardassia, a Cardassia haunted by the souls of the countless billions slaughtered, who have taken the collective form of this dust cloud that constantly swirls and shrieks across this wasteland, vainly searching for a peaceful place to rest. It’s almost as if my homecoming was accomplished at their expense.

PART I

“You’ve come a long way from the naive young man I met five years ago. You’ve become distrustful and suspicious. It suits you.”

“I had a good teacher.”

1

To: Dr. Julian Bashir

Chief Medical Officer

Deep Space 9

Entry:

How odd you humans are. Or is it just the Starfleet people? Captain Sisko has just invited me to join the invasion–for which I am eternally grateful. The opportunity to liberate my homeland renews and animates my sluggish spirit. But the good captain makes no mention of the fact that this invasion is now possible because of the incident with the Romulans. I am simply to report to his office at “oh‑nine hundred hours” with ideas as to where the Dominion defense perimeter might be vulnerable. Oh, our dealings with each other are nothing less than proper (“Mr. Garak,” “Captain Sisko”), but what’s so odd is that he pretends the incident never happened. And you and I both know how deeply affected he was by the whole business. Only when we exchange direct looks do I perceive a flicker of . . . what? Anger? Betrayal? Violation?

Odd people.

Humans seem to walk through life’s infinite variety of relationships and situations taking them all at face value. They rarely look behind the faзade or the mask, where real intentions–the truth of our motives–live. And the fact is, more often than not they deny that they have any mask at all. These humans (and I do exclude you, Doctor–I will come to that shortly) believe that what they present to the world and, conversely, what the world presents to them, is the truth. It’s this belief that makes them dangerous.

In Cardassian society, we are taught from an early age to mask all feelings and thoughts, to deflect all outside perception and observation. The objective of this education is to create a citizen who can work within the group to accomplish a group goal established by the leader, and at the same time work in such a way that none of the other members of the group knows what he or she is doing. As long as the goal is accomplished, it’s nobody’s business how you went about your work.

So why Captain Sisko is so upset with me because I accomplished the goal (which he established!) of getting Romulus into the war against the Dominion baffles me. And it’s not because of the few lives that were sacrificed. Federation expansion has taken a toll in countless life‑forms–about most of which they are blissfully unaware. The moment you step into a garden and begin to cultivate and prune, you become a killer. Perhaps the captain was upset because he had hesitated to do what was necessary to insure the integrity of hisgarden. Sentimentality is another trait that makes humans dangerous.

But why am I writing this to you, instead of waxing philosophical over one of our lunches? I see that overly polite smile, your “Get to the point, Garak” mask. Patience, dear Doctor. First, let me explain why I can exempt you from this human bondage to appearance and sentiment. Long before it was revealed that you were genetically “enhanced,” I recognized in you an intelligence, a capacity for understanding that I found lacking in other humans. As much as the subject irritates you, you have not been so much genetically enhanced as “arranged.” The people who did this to you had specific reasons, which you have long since outgrown. And having assimilated these changes you’ve accommodated yourself to this “arrangement” according to the demands of your life. For me, this means that in a sense you are more Cardassian than human. Which is why I am able to share this document with you . . . and why I sat down to lunch with you in the first place.

Before you cringe with horror at the thought of being a Cardassian, let me give you an example. Human memory is selective and linear. Simply put, a human remembers the best of times in progressive order, beginning with earliest childhood. The rosy memories are only challenged by nightmares. A Cardassian remembers everything on every level all the time. For us, past and present are not neatly separated. We live with everything in the moment–including the nightmares. And so do you. To a human this would be chaotic, unbearable. For us it’s just the way it is.

This is one reason why I am addressing this recollection to you. Fate lines are converging, like memories to a dying man. I needto write this, Doctor, and you’re the only person on this station who will understand. The invasion of Cardassia is momentous. Many will die. If I don’t survive, I want you to deliver copies of this to some people I will name at the end.

There’s another reason. I know that we have grown apart and that’s as it should be. We learn what we can from certain people, then we move on after we’ve taken what we need. When we learn nothing new about ourselves in a relationship that’s when the relationship is over. Or it’s over the moment when we’re afraidto learn something new about ourselves. But what I have been learning about myself . . . whatever it was inside me that was sparked and challenged when I first met you . . . is deeply connected to this story. I’m an unfinished man, Doctor, like a suit of clothes hanging on a display rack waiting for the final touches that may never come; I need to tell this story to make a peace with those parts of me that were left unfinished. A healing. Indulge me, if you will; I need you as a witness. A stitch in time. . . .

2

Entry:

When I was at the age of emergence, I was sent to the Bamarren Institute for State Intelligence to begin my education as a security operative. This kind of education is usually reserved for children of the current ruling elite, but sometimes a child from the service ranks is identified as promising. I was one of those children.

My father was a maintenance foreman in charge of the grounds, monuments, and memorials of the Tarlak Sector, a majestic and ghostly place that commemorates the heroes of the Cardassian state. My mother was housekeeper to Enabran Tain, the man who owned the house we lived in, who worked at the Obsidian Order, the mysterious agency responsible for “state security.” We lived in the basement apartment of “Uncle” Enabran’s house, and my parents proudly identified themselves as servants of Cardassian public ritual and cleanliness.

It was always assumed that I would become apprenticed to my father. Many of my earliest memories are of preparing for and cleaning up after state funerals and dedication ceremonies. I was a serious little boy, assiduously carrying out my duties and responsibilities. I had to. Father was much older than Mother, and he never said much, but what he did say was always clear and to the point. Anyone who worked for him understood that if he had to repeat himself you would very quickly be demoted to maintaining the city’s sewers.

Mother not only maintained Tain’s house but also worked with him at the Obsidian Order. He was particular about who cooked and cleaned for him, and depended upon Mother for all his personal needs. I was never sure what it was he did; I just assumed he was important enough to afford a house and a servant. The Obsidian Order was housed in those days underneath the Assembly building, and it was years before I even knew where the entrance was. As a child I would go to the Tarlak Sector with Father, and while he supervised his crews I’d play by myself amid the black‑and‑white angularity of the monuments, imagining myself a great gul or legate giving the funeral oration for a fallen comrade. There was nothing about the Obsidian Order that inspired or excited my childish fantasies. Nothing but silence and mystery.

But Tain at home was anything but mysterious. It was not unusual for Uncle Enabran to appear and take me away on some excursion that involved a long walk through a section of the city. During these walks he’d test my awareness, and challenge me to describe a house or a person we’d just passed. If I hadn’t been paying attention and couldn’t remember the details, the walk was over and we’d silently return home under the oppressive weight of his disapproval. He also seemed to know how I was performing at school, and if he wasn’t satisfied with my progress or behavior he’d punish me. I was a hard worker but I had a mischievous streak, and I enjoyed getting others involved in questionable activities and arranging it so they were found out and took the blame. On those rare occasions when I was caught, Tain would somehow find out and punish me–not for my misdeed, but for having been caught. And after he discovered my fear of small, dark spaces, his favorite punishment became keeping me in one until I had convinced him that I had analyzed and fully understood how my mischievous scheme had gone wrong. I found it odd that Mother and Father never had anything to say about these punishments.

One day, shortly after the emergent ceremony at school where I was acknowledged as a man, I came home ready to assist Father at the dedication of the Boltar War Memorial. I was surprised to find my parents at home with a stranger. They were never at home at this time of day, and we rarely entertained guests. They were very private people, and even discouraged me from bringing any of my schoolmates home. Both were clearly ill at ease with this man whom they introduced to me as an official from Institute Placement.

At first I thought I was in trouble, and my face must have reflected this fear because Father attempted to reassure me with a forced smile. But the uncharacteristic falsity of his behavior and his barely concealed agitation only made the situation worse. I had never seen him like this. Mother’s face was a mask; it revealed nothing. She spoke as if I needed to clean off the day’s work before we ate.

“Elim, it seems you have a sponsor. You are going to be placed at a prestigious institute. You leave today.”

Just like that. Any kind of response was beyond me–I had no idea what this meant. I stood there, looking at the three of them looking at me and expecting some kind of reaction on my part.

“The Bamarren Institute,” Father added, as if this was the vital and missing piece that would enlighten me. Oh I knew about the institutes. What student didn’t? I knew that each student needed a sponsor, someone high up in the government or military who would recommend the student and guarantee his or her performance. And I knew that I had reached the age when students were moved on to their next educational level, the level that would determine their working lives. But those schoolmates of mine who had been identified and assigned to an institute had known well in advance that they were going. And who the sponsor was. When I began to ask who mine was, Father cut me off.

“That’s not your business, Elim. Your business is to get cleaned up and ready to go.”

“His business is to serve Cardassia and the Empire in thought, word, and deed,” intoned the official. “Your childhood is over, Elim Garak.”

I was stunned. I wanted to ask more, I wanted to ask about the dedication ceremony that afternoon, but I didn’t dare. Father had that look when one of the workers didn’t get it right the first time. But what had Idone wrong? Mother, as if reading my mind, suddenly turned to me.

“This is a great honor, Elim!” she said with a passion that startled me and belied her mask. I felt that it was anything but.

It was a long time before I learned the truth about my “sponsor.”

3

You will be pleased to hear, Doctor, that I have volunteered to work with an emergency med unit in the City. Whenever people are found alive in the ruins, we are called in to administer aid and make sure that they can be moved to a medical facility. It’s a miracle how some have survived for days, even weeks, buried under tonnes of collapsed buildings. Just yesterday, searchers detected life signs in the middle of rubble at least four stories high. When we managed to reach the survivors, we found a dead mother with her baby–who was still alive. Dr. Parmak, the unit leader, worked furiously to stabilize the little girl, and when she was evacuated by the transport unit he broke down. He’s a very good man, this Dr. Parmak; he reminds me of an older version of you, Doctor. But what is again ironic is that Dr. Parmak was once marginally involved in an illegal political group, and when he was arrested, guess who was responsible for his interrogation? The man is anything but a coward, but his sensitivity is such that all I had to do was stare at him for four hours and he told us everything he knew. He claims that even today he has a hard time looking me in the eyes. I have asked his forgiveness, and he has been kind enough to give it. I hope the new Cardassia will have more people like him.

This morning I went to the Tarlak Sector and attended the memorial service for Legate Damar, and the dedication of a simple marker to his memory. When Kira and I were first assigned to work with Damar’s resistance group, I had every intention of killing him at the first opportunity in revenge for his murder of Ziyal. But as we worked together, I came to understand that he was a true product of Cardassian militarism and devoutly believed in his duty. When Ziyal “betrayed” her father, Dukat, and chose to remain on the station, Damar saw that his superior officer was becoming unhinged and believed it was his duty to kill her. But Garak, you’ll say, there’s noexcuse for killing a defenseless woman. And there isn’t . . . unless you’ve been brought up in our system.

I also came to admire Damar’s idealism, which led him to renounce his allegiance to the Dominion. If he had one weakness it was his propensity for long‑winded speeches. But given the fact that none of us are perfect, the man would have made a fine leader.

As I stood at the memorial service, I thought about all the grand affairs I had witnessed here when I was a boy. None of our famed heroes and statesmen has ever had such a humble service–and none of them, from Tret Akleen on, deserved more than Corat Damar.

I also thought about this Cardassian sense of duty and how it is largely responsible for bringing those of us who are left to these current circumstances. I asked Dr. Parmak how an entire people can come under the sway of this duty and blindly give allegiance to a state that goes mad and murders its own children.

“Poisonous pedagogy, Elim,” he replied. “We believe what we are taught.”

4

Entry:

The Bamarren Institute is located in the highlands adjacent to the Mekar Wilderness, a hot and arid area with sublimely beautiful rock formations and an endless network of subterranean caverns. At first the landscape was foreign, even threatening to my city mind and body. The seemingly endless skies and empty vistas–empty, that is, of man‑made incursions–made me anxious.

The Institute itself also made me anxious. Every waking moment was planned and accounted for. The Cardassian educational system is dedicated to the ideal that each generation needs a coterie of leadership, an elite in every segment of society. Artists, soldiers, politicians, scholars, and business and tradespeople all have appropriate Institutes where they are sent at the age of emergence. At that point, he or she is “identified” and assigned to live and study apart from family and home for nine years.

The course of study is divided into three progressive levels; every three years, one either advances from one level to the next or returns to serve society in a necessary but relatively humble position. If a person makes it through and completes the Third Level, he or she is then placed in the ruling vanguard of that segment.

My first day set the tone for my new life. After the orientation for the incoming students at which the First Prefect, the head of the Institute, likened us to the “missing pieces of the mosaic of Cardassian civilization,” the adults handed us over to upper‑level students who promptly separated us according to gender, stripped us of all personal possessions, gave us our scratchy, drab uniforms (Swamp green and black; is it any wonder I ended up a tailor?), and assigned us to living quarters consisting of ten narrow beds each connected to a private compartment for our few belongings, and an adjoining tiled room for hygiene. For the next three years, with the exception of our instructional docents, we rarely came into contact with adults. My childhood was indeed over.

I was assigned to the Lubak Group, Level One, and my numerical designation was Ten. From that moment I was no longer Elim Garak but Ten Lubak, and we were sternly warned never to refer to ourselves or to each other by anything other than this number/group designation. We were the “missing pieces”–and in order to find our place in the mosaic of civilized society, we had to be broken down and reconstructed from the bottom up.

“Ten Lubak!”

And the person who began this restructuring process was our section leader, One Tarnal, a physically powerful Third Level individual with a thick neck and close‑set eyes.

“Y‑yes?”

“Yes, section leader!”

I was instructed to go to the stockroom and bring back implements for cleaning the hygiene chamber. After he gave me directions, he told me that I could take as many of my section mates as I wished to accompany me. I was somewhat confused by the offer, but I thought it was a test of my self‑reliance and replied that I could handle the errand by myself.

“Then go!”

After wandering through what seemed like a labyrinthine maze, in which I saw other new students on similar errands, I finally found the stockroom. The door opened, and a student my age came stumbling out with cleaning equipment, looking very untidy. He gave me a quick and fearful glance before he disappeared down the corridor. He should be punished for his appearance, I thought.

“Next!” A distinctive and gruff voice shouted from within. I entered and was surprised by the enveloping darkness.

“Hello . . .?” I hesitated, afraid of stumbling into something.

“Did you come alone?” The Gruff Voice asked.

“Yes, I came for the . . .” Before I could finish, a hand grabbed me by the hair and the lights went on. Facing me were three older students, perhaps Level Two.

“Why did you come alone?” The Gruff Voice was behind me, along with the owner of the hand that held my head facing front. When I tried to turn, the hand painfully tightened its grip.

“I thought that . . .”

“You thought only of yourself. You didn’t think of the group. From now on you are going to learn neverto think of yourself apart from the group.”

At which point I was punched and kicked several times. I tried to resist, to fight back, but there were too many of them. I went down on my knees, trying to catch the breath that was knocked out of me. Clearly overpowered, I refused to cry and I refused to concede defeat. I would die before I did either.

“Enough!” the Gruff Voice called out. One of my attackers pulled me up and another handed me two buckets filled with cleaning solutions and implements.

“Take them and go back to your section. And remember, Ten Lubak, this is what happens when you separate from your group. All individuals are hunted and punished. By yourself you’re pudding. We’re going to be watching you.”

I was pushed toward the door and the lights went out. The door opened, and as I stumbled through with the buckets I nearly bumped into another student who was waiting to go in. We looked at each other and I recognized the disapproval on his face. I thought of warning him, but something told me to return to my section. I hurried past him and heard the Gruff Voice call out, “Next!”

5

Entry:

“Tell me, Mr. Garak,” Captain Sisko said, as he intently studied a viewscreen diagramming the Cardassian Union. “Where do you think the Cardassian defense perimeter is most vulnerable?”

I laughed. How do you explain to an alien that’s the one place where Cardassians are not vulnerable? The good captain gave me one of his bemused stares.

“The likelihood of any exploitable weakness,” I replied, “would be in the chain of command between the Founders’ orders and the execution of these orders by the Vorta and their drug‑addicted Jem’Hadar soldiers. If it’s a perimeter put in place by the Cardassians, it won’t be vulnerable.”

The Captain gave me a skeptical look. “That’s a very confident assessment.”

“Captain, Cardassians come into this life with an awareness of their protected perimeters–what the doctor calls our ‘reptilian brain dominance’–and die defending them.”

The Captain nodded and turned back to the diagram. I almost added that, in between, we perfect this awareness at places like the Bamarren Institute.

6

Entry:

Males and females of the First and Second Levels were kept separate at Bamarren. While we shared certain docents and outside training areas, each group had its own living quarters and facilities. It was explained to us that until we became disciplined in our relations with the “complementary gender” we would make better progress this way. When I asked One Tarnal how we would learn this discipline without interaction between the sexes, he blinked and mumbled something about “distractions.” When I asked what that meant I was told that I had a loose mouth and given five days of hygiene‑chamber maintenance as punishment.

“You don’t know enough to ask so many questions.”

I started to ask him how could I learn without asking questions when he pulled out his murking stick (so named because they are used to beat “murks”–that’s what First Level students are called) and gave me a whack on the leg and told me to get to the storeroom for cleaning implements. When the pain passed through me, I looked around for group “support.” You can be sure that this time I wanted to be accompanied by as many of my mates as possible. There were five students in the room, but when I made my request four of them gave excuses ranging from barely plausible to outright suspicious. Three Lubak, the biggest in our section and the one I most wanted to go with me said, “The section leader’s right. You talk too much.”

Unfortunately, the only student left was quiet Eight Lubak, who kept completely to himself. He agreed to accompany me and quickly moved to the door. He was short and slender, and his dark eyes and long lashes made him look younger than the rest of us. He was almost too delicate for a Cardassian. I was not encouraged . . .but I had no choice. I went through the door, unconsciously imitating the Gruff Voice from my previous experience.

“All I need is an extra pair of eyes. Just keep them open, and let’s get the job done!” Eight said nothing and followed me out.

The trip to the storeroom was uneventful, and we received our supplies without incident. On the way back, however, we noticed that an intersection of two corridors was much darker than before. Eight, who was walking behind, touched my shoulder.

“I think we forgot something,” he said with uncharacteristic loudness. He motioned for me to follow him. We backtracked to the previous intersection, made a right turn and continued down another corridor until we came to a third intersection. He stopped and took the cleaning implements from me and carefully put them down. He chose one that was attached to a pole and handed it to me. He took a shorter implement, looked around the corner down the darkened corridor and quickly moved to the other side. I started to follow him, but he made it clear that I should stay where I was and wait. All during this, Eight was quiet and controlled–and as sure of himself as if he’d done this many times. How did he know where he was going? How did he . . . ?

We heard footsteps coming down the corridor from the direction Eight had anticipated. He held up two fingers indicating how many people. We kept out of sight on either side of the corridor as they approached. His face was dark, intense with concentration; his brow ridges, which were unusually pronounced, cast shadows over his eyes. My heart began to pound when I realized what Eight was planning. These were certain to be older students, but he expressed no hesitation, no doubt.

Just as the two unsuspecting students passed, the one closest to me caught sight of me, but it was too late. We were on them, and we both knew exactly what to do. First we disarmed them of their murking sticks with blows to their hands and arms. Then we laid into them with such ferocity that they fled down the corridor.

“I’ll show you who’s pudding!” I started to follow.

“No!” Again the strength of his voice shocked me. I stopped, and before I could ask why, we heard a high‑pitched whistle screech out the emergency signal for immediate assistance we had just learned in a field‑training class. We grabbed our implements and ran as fast as we could all the way back to our section.

We burst through the door, flushed and out of breath. Most of the group was present and wanted to know what had happened. In my excitement I started to tell the story when Eight dropped a pail with implements and grabbed my attention. He looked sharply at me.

“W‑what?” I stammered.

I followed his nod to the door where One Tarnal was giving me a hard look. Eight moved to his sleeping area and quietly busied himself in his private compartment. I immediately shut up, gathered the implements and took them into the hygiene chamber.

Shortly after, when we were alone, I asked Eight how he knew about the corridors. He didn’t answer. He turned away and picked up his orientation chip and punched a code. I was about to comment on his rudeness when he turned back and handed it to me. It was a diagram of the rooms and corridors on the storeroom floor. We had all been given the schematics of the Bamarren spaces. I assumed that no one paid any attention to them.

I didn’t know then if I could ever call Eight a friend. Something about him was strange and impenetrable. But it didn’t matter. At least I knew there was one person in my section I could trust. How I had misjudged him. It was obvious that Eight had what Cardassians call a ferocious spirit–and that I could learn a great deal from him.

* * *

Much of the focus of Cardassian education, especially during the early years, consists of exhausting and merciless physical training. The training area on Deep Space 9 always amused me. People struggling by themselves with weights and machines in front of a mirror. The results seem more about strengthening the appearance of the body rather than the fiber of the character.

Our training centers on trials of one person’s skill matched against the skill of another. But where Klingons regard physical combat as the primary test of mastery, we beginat that level and then progress to the subtler methods of confrontation. There are enough levels of expertise for two lifetimes, but a student has to master each one before moving on to the next. It was during these trials that we came to know each other.