Текст книги "A Stitch in Time "

Автор книги: Andrew Robinson

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Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

Entry:

Cardassians design everything carefully. Nothing is left to improvisation or chance. Everything has a function, and every function serves a purpose that fits into what the Bamarren prefect called the mosaic of the state. Just study the architecture of Terok Nor, for example. The diagonal angularity impels the inhabitants, workers and overseers alike, to move on to their next duty. There are no ninety degree angles, certainly no enclosed squares to capture one’s thoughts and energy in any kind of meditation. Everything is designed to guide and direct subliminally so that conscious choice is kept at a minimum in our daily lives.

But exile changes all that. You can only be subliminally controlled when there is a rationale, a meaning to your existence. A tailor. On Dukat’s Terok Nor. Is this Enabran Tain’s sense of humor? The punishment that fits the crime? He must be very angry with me indeed, not only to deny me the dignity of a summary execution but to bury me on this death station and render me as useless as one of these filthy rags.

Don’t surrender to the appearances.

I shook my head as I began to sense the stirring of feelings I didn’t want to emerge and slipped the device from a hidden pocket that eluded the fools who’d searched me. I had ignored Mindur Timot’s warning never to tamper with my wire, and had devised a control that allowed me to activate the mechanism myself. I had become quite devoted to the wire’s anesthetic power, and as I stood in my new home I could feel the endorphins rush through my nerve nexus and into and throughout my perceptual body. Suddenly I was standing outside of my body, watching my reactions–and marveling at how much I had aged.

Entry:

The doors opened, and a soldier walked into the shop holding a bundle. I had my head buried in the innards of the computer, where I was rerouting the circuitry in order to connect it to the station terminal, and I only saw his outline. I was at a delicate point and I didn’t want to lose my focus.

“Just put it in the corner with the other uniforms,” I said without looking up. Before I could react, the bundle hit me with force on the side of my head. It was Dukat.

“What is this?” he demanded as he looked around the shop and saw the pile. “Are you mending these garments or collecting them?”

“I will begin the repair process once my workshop is in order,” I replied as I stood up.

“And how much longer will that be?” he asked.

“When I have the tools I need,” I answered. Dukat looked at me with his mean and deadly smile. He knew that I’d been taking my time “cleaning” the shop. The pile of garments waiting for my ministrations was growing bigger every day, and there had been numerous complaints. One soldier walked in and threatened me with bodily harm when I told him that I didn’t know when his uniform would be ready. The truth was that I had neither the expertise nor the will to launch my new career, and when I wasn’t sleeping I was rebuilding the neglected computer that appeared to have been damaged by the Bajoran’s pathetic attempt at sabotage.

“If I wanted a computer engineer, Garak, I would have given you the assignment. I want a tailor. Do you know the difference?” he asked with overdone sarcasm. “Get this operation going in two days or you will become the first Cardassian to work in the ore‑processing center,” he warned. “I’m sure the Bajoran workers would enjoy your company.”

“Yes, you’ve certainly won their hearts and minds with your benign administration,” I observed pleasantly.

“Two days, Garak, or you can find out about their hearts and minds yourself. I’m afraid there’s not much call for a gardener on Terok Nor,” he said with disgust. Instead of leaving, Dukat moved to the panel where I was working and picked up one of the disconnected circuits.

“Who gave you permission to do this work?” he asked, inspecting the circuit as if he understood what he was looking at.

“You did.”

“When?” He arched his brows in a manner that told me he’d worked long and hard in front of a mirror.

“When you assigned me to rehabilitate this sad shop. Beside tools, I need instruction and information. Where do you expect me to go? My Bajoran predecessor, I believe, is now with his Prophets.” Dukat snorted, and dropped the circuit on the floor at my feet. His eyes were cold, almost dead.

“Your life means nothing to me. Just as my father’s meant nothing to you.”

“I beg your pardon? Do I know your father?” Dukat made a move to grab me and immediately stopped himself. I was impressed by his self‑control; I knew how much energy fueled his hatred.

“No offense,” I went on, further testing his control. “Of course, Procal Dukat was a famous military figure. We all mourned his passing. But I never had the pleasure personally. . . .”

“Two days,” he repeated with deadly emphasis. “Get what you need–clear all purchases through my aide, Hadar–and begin work in two days. There’s a point beyond which you won’t be protected.” He nodded. “You’ll get to that point . . . and I’ll be there, waiting for you.” He turned and strode out of the shop.

Entry:

I have been taught ever since I was a child to believe that every event, every circumstance, every action and reaction in my life is an intertwining thread in my fateline, and that each person’s fateline is just another piece of that carefully designed Cardassian mosaic. In my current circumstances, the more I try to deny the past and the history that has informed me the more it overwhelms me. Even the wire can’t let me forget that this exile has a meaning: otherwise life on this station is even worse than death.

“Silence, exile, and cunning.” An expression which comes from a human someone urged me to read. His writing was too childish for my taste, but the expression always had meaning for me. Silence. Exile. Cunning. After all, we do have to get on with our work, however we can and in whatever circumstances. If mending the garments of our military occupation was the work designed for my survival in this time and place, then it would not be terribly cunning of me to refuse it. No, I decided that I was not going to sacrifice myself to Dukat’s desire for revenge. I would do this work; I would do it so well as to become indispensible to the station . . . and I would survive. I refused to be buried alive in this humiliation.

For the first time since I had arrived on Terok Nor, I felt an energy, an appetite for meeting this challenge, and I began to construct a course of action. Once the computer was up and functioning, I could get all the necessary information and guidance, but I still lacked state‑of‑the art tools. I quickly discovered that there was only one person on the station who could help me procure what I needed: the Ferengi publican, a Mr. Quark.

I found Quark’s establishment noisy and tiresome, filled with people looking for quick fixes and easy answers. And yet, here I was, looking for a shortcut of my own. I certainly didn’t come for rewarding conversation.

“I’m looking for a Mr. Quark,” I asked a Ferengi barkeep.

“And who’s looking for him?” he replied with unpleasant suspicion.

It turned out to be Quark himself. As I made my proposal, I was somewhat unsettled by the unblinking avarice in his eyes and the metallic assault of his voice. But as we got further into the negotiating details, I found him to be a reasonable man. Quark makes no pretense about his priorities, and woe to the person who enters into negotiations with him who doesn’t have his wits about him. And who doesn’t have a capacity for the drink Quark liberally pours during the haggling. But he delivered, Hadar paid, and I was soon set up with the tools of my new career.

Entry:

I pride myself on being a quick study, but even I am pleased with the progress I’m making in learning the tailoring craft. Indeed, I’m able to use many of the qualities I developed in the Obsidian Order: patience, precision, the ability to calculate how each part fits into the whole pattern. I suppose I should be grateful Enabran didn’t have me assigned to the ore‑processing center.

But the best part–which nearly drove me mad at the beginning–is the solitude, the silence in which I work. Although I did my best to use this work to blot out every thing and person from my past, I couldn’t help but recall that initial joy I found in the Mekar Wilderness. For it’s in this silence, as I cut and sew and measure, that I’m relearning how to listen. Not to the prattling of others, certainly not to the fantasies that my memory provokes when I try to rewrite history. But to the deeper voices in myself. What is pain, for example, but another voice to be listened to? Don’t identify. Keep your distance. But listen! There’s information that can help me find the missing piece to any puzzle; that can save me from this waking nightmare. Because it’s in this silence–as I listen to these voices–that I’m learning how to reinvent myself.

As my tailoring skills increase, so do the interruptions of my solitude by people who throw their garments at me as if their imperfections were my fault. Dukat has spread the word that I am a disgraced traitor, and I have become the receptacle for any ill will that walks into my shop. But I say nothing. These are only more voices that command my attention. I pick up their garments and mend them flawlessly. When they complain that the price is steep (because I’m treated like a slave doesn’t mean I’m going to start undervaluing my work), I just give them the smile–the smile shetaught me. It somehow tranquilizes them while I pick through their psyches. Oh, they pay, one way or another. When Quark found out how much I was commanding for a simple alteration he asked me how I was getting away with it. I assured him that I didn’t know what he was talking about . . . and smiled while he poured another glass of kanar.

But the silence in which I reinvent myself (out of whole cloth, as it were) is not easy. For someone who values the art of conversation as much as I do, establishing a new life based on the power of silence requires a cunning of which I never dreamed. But it’s my only chance to reassemble the mosaic. So I sit here, day after day, and work and watch and listen . . . trusting that sooner or later all the information I need to return home will come to me.

2

We live in an eternal twilight, Doctor. Because of the wind currents, the dust clouds produced by the innumerable detonations all over the planet have joined and created an unbroken atmospheric cover. For a while it seemed that the clouds covering the city were lifting and dissipating, but it was only a temporary clearing as they were soon replaced by others that had grown thicker and larger from their travels. We are now as gray as Romulus, but without the mitigating lushness.

Now that the thoroughfares have been cleared, I have resumed my long walks. Just in time, I might add. My dreams have become increasingly disturbed of late, and I wonder how much my involvement with what Gul Madred calls my necropolis has to do with it. And then there’s the invitation Madred has extended to me to join him at the next meeting in order to meet his colleagues . . . and my old schoolmate. Could it be him? After my exile, both Pythas and Palandine dropped out of sight. No matter how hard I tried to track them during my time on Deep Space 9, I could get no information. Either my attempts were stonewalled or I was told that they’d been victims of internecine warfare during the Dominion Occupation. At this moment I am almost afraid to discover that they’d survived. A part of me has wanted to bury that part of my life. The defenses I set up to survive my exile are obviously still intact.

I am often joined on my walks by Dr. Parmak. He’s a charming conversationalist, with a first‑rate mind. His perspectives are always provocative. He does, however, have a tendency to proselytize for Alon Ghemor and the “Reunion Project” (the name they’ve given their group to remind people of the principles that formed the original Union). Whenever we encounter other pedestrians along our route, Parmak engages them and attempts to win them over to the Reunion side. This often makes for spirited exchanges, and although I am subjected to the opinions of people who should be given a new brain, I rather enjoy this peripatetic politicking. It’s something I would never have done on my own. In some respects he is so much like you, Doctor. If I’ve found someone’s opinion insufferably boring, he’ll kindly but sternly lecture me on the value of tolerance.

“ ‘Reunion’ is about bringing together allpoints of view, Elim.”

“So we can spew forth whatever nonsense comes to mind?”

“In a context, my friend. There must be a political context, so that one opinion doesn’t dominate to the point of shutting out all others,” he patiently explained.

“The ‘anarchy project’ would be a more apt name for your group, Doctor,” I replied.

“Oh, my dear Elim,” is his favorite expression, usually delivered with a sigh and a sad shake of his head. But I listen to him because it’s bracing to have a genuine voice of optimism in the midst of this dust and devastation.

One day I asked him how he had been brought to Enabran Tain’s attention. He never struck me as being a dangerous radical. It turns out that he was Tain’s personal physician, and that the great man had him interrogated because, the Doctor assumed, “he was concerned that I was in an ideal position to assassinate him.”

“I think he was more threatened by the fact that you were intimate with his weaknesses,” I pointed out.

“Well, certainly his physical infirmities,” he admitted.

“Which are also a man’s weaknesses,” I reminded him.

“The paranoia, the secrets, the power he held. . . .” The doctor shook his head. “He must have been a difficult man to work for.” I smiled at his understated tact.

“He once tried to have me killed,” I said.

“Really? What did you do, Elim?”

“I survived.” The Doctor gave me a confused look.

“Survived . . . what?” he asked.

“Working for my father,” I replied. The Doctor stopped and just looked at me. His former fear of my eyes was long gone.

“A father who would murder his own son?” The idea horrified him. We were in the Barvonok Sector, where the tall structures of business and finance once dominated. “Oh, my dear Elim,” he said, this time with an empathy that stripped me of any illusions I had about Enabran Tain as a father. Surrounded by the piles of debris, oppressed by the low leaden sky, I finally began to surrender to the loneliness and loss that has preyed upon my dreams ever since I can remember. Even nothing is better than the ideas that have brought us here.

“Perhaps there’s a way I can help your project, Doctor.” As much as I tried to deny it, there was another “assignment” for me. Tain would have been amused by the irony.

3

Entry:

My life has taken on a rhythm and a routine I would never have anticipated when I was exiled to Terok Nor. Once I made the decision to pursue my new profession vigorously, and had set myself up with the proper tools, I was working all day and well into the night. Being the only tailor on the station meant there was never a shortage of garments to be mended and altered. As I became more proficient I found that unless I challenged myself, I would soon suffocate in the monotony of repeating the same basic actions. Again I went to Quark with a proposal: I would gladly make a new outfit for him, if he’d be willing to spread the word that I was also a designer of clothing. He countered my offer with the suggestion that if I would also design and build outfits for his waiters, he would make sure that any visitors to the station in need of clothing would be directed my way. I explained that such a project would leave me with little or no time to deal with the backlog of repair work I had. We compromised, and I agreed to create outfits for him and his brother Rom. (I later discovered from Rom that Quark had charged him for the outfit. When I expressed outrage, Rom assured me the price he had paid was reasonable.) Quark also got me to agree that for every client who came to my shop on his recommendation I would pay him a percentage of the agreed price. He was true to his word, and with his help I began to build a clientele for my designs.

Entry:

One day a human woman came into the shop. She was in a state. It turned out that she was a member of the Federation’s negotiation team that was working out the details of the Terok Nor transfer of power from the Cardassians to joint Bajoran/Federation administration. The garment carrier containing her uniforms had been lost or stolen in transit, and the first negotiating session was to begin the next day. Here was an opportunity. Not only was I deeply curious about these negotiations for my own personal reasons, but this might be useful information I could pass on to interested parties at home.

I calmed her down with some tea and the assurance that she had nothing to worry about. We specified the type of uniform, discussed various details, and when she was ready I took her measurements. She, of course–in that endearingly literal‑minded way humans have of assessing others–assumed that a tailor was always a tailor and would never be anything else. Consequently, she revealed more to me than just her bodily measurements. In fact, she was more protective and shy about her body than she was about vital state information. Why the Federation doesn’t train their people better I’ll never know. I suppose it’s the arrogance of believing that no one is smart enough to outsmart you. In any case, this was an opportunity. Silence, exile, and cunning.

Entry:

“I’ll deliver the information,” the nameless contact said after I had made my report.

“I trust you’ll find it useful. . . .” He cut me off before I could finish. I rescrambled the signal, to make doubly sure the transmission wasn’t picked up. I expected that Entek would use a subordinate to receive my offering. And I expected no promises or “news from home” in return. They must have somebody from the Order on the station monitoring the meetings, but obviously my information was more interesting than what they were gleaning. I wondered if they would try to make contact with me. In the meantime, however, I was determined to press my unique advantage and keep them interested.

I was also determined not to overvalue the information and congratulate myself prematurely. I had to make sure that Iwasn’t the one being used. The woman is a charming and clever conversationalist, and she’s providing something I have deeply missed since being exiled to this floating arachnid. She told me that she has never met anyone who listens as attentively as I do. I would dismiss this as gross flattery, except that she responds to my silences as if they were words; I sometimes feel that she’s able to read my mind. All the more reason to be careful. She’s either a skilled operative who has enough information about me to manipulate an ingenious strategem . . . or a lonely woman who needs to talk to someone who will listen. And if it’s the latter, why would such an attractive person, even for a human, not already have a mate or a confidante?

Careful, Elim. You know perfectly well that the surest way to your heart is through conversation.

Entry:

Over the last several days we’ve been meeting every day, ostensibly to furnish her with a new wardrobe. Quark’s going to be very pleased with his commission. We pretend that the time spent together is necessary. I know why I’mpretending, but as for her. . . . At one point yesterday I nearly made a childish mistake. Her personality sketches of the Cardassian negotiators (most of whom I know) are wonderful, but when she mentioned that one in particular was most definitely making sexual advances I blurted out, “It’s probably Gul Dukat.” She was surprised by my immediate response. How did I know? I told her that his behavior in these matters was notorious. And indeed it was. The imperious manner in which he exercised sexual sway over the Bajoran women laborers was disgusting. When she asked why I seemed so disapproving, I controlled my response and explained that on Cardassia we value the integrity of the family, and that married men were held to certain standards. Of course I was aware of the irony of my current circumstances as I explained Cardassian sexual morality. She accepted my explanation and became thoughtful, almost sad. At that point I had to bring our session to an end.

After she had left, I realized that it was becoming increasingly difficult to maintain my professional silence. I, too, was filled with a sadness . . . and an inexplicable desire to share feelings that had lain dormant since my banishment. Her openness invited my exploitation, but it also tempted me to reveal the pain and the bitterness of my current circumstances.

Entry:

“All I can tell you is that the authorities are satisfied with your intelligence,” the officious young contact informed me. I had to admire how his mask revealed nothing about my present status, or whether or not I would be allowed to participate in the almost certain Cardassian withdrawal from Terok Nor.

“I appreciate your help, but if you could pass on a message to Pythas. . . .” Once again I was rudely disconnected. I slammed my hand against the console in frustration. How dare he treat me like a common drone! This child. I poured myself a glass of kanar. I could not allow the tenuous truce I had arranged with the circumstances to be compromised. It was too easy for me to slip back into despair. I then made a decision. I had to have an answer to my question, and it meant using a resource I’d been saving. I punched a long code into the computer. I waited. When I read the response, it was just as I had suspected: the personal codes I had created and rarely used when I was active were still in place. I rescrambled and punched in another code. I waited again, and the response told me there was no danger of being intercepted. Then I punched in the final code. I waited, praying that Pythas would be accessible. A face appeared; but it was Corbin Entek.

“Garak!” Why was Entek in Pythas’ office? At his desk?

“Where’s Pythas?” I asked, my heart sinking.

“How did you . . . ?” We were cut off in the middle of his question. His stunned reaction revealed that contact with me was the last thing he expected. I immediately scrambled the transmission to mask my code, but they had other ways of resealing their integrity. Where’s Pythas? I repeated to myself. Had Entek replaced him as head of the Order? Had my last possible link been broken? I had to focus my breathing and reestablish my tenuous truce with the circumstances . . . and with the despair that hovered like the Corillion Nebula.

Entry:

In the middle of today’s fitting my client broke down. It was an extraordinary moment. She confessed that she had just received word that her father had died. As her grief spilled out she also revealed that she had separated from her husband just before the negotiations began. It seems that he was a philanderer who had betrayed her trust from the beginning, and that she had tried for years to deny the truth of their relationship. I was nonplussed. This outpouring of emotion . . . I offered her a glass of kanar,and to my surprise she accepted it . . . and several others. Out of courtesy, of course, I joined her.

I don’t do well with the kind of emotional exchanges humans seem to engage in regularly, and I have little sympathy for those who confuse the responsibilities of family with their duty to the state; but I confess that I am deeply moved by this woman’s plight. Here is a highranking officer in the Federation hierarchy–a politically astute woman able to converse with depth and intelligence on any subject–revealing intimate details of her life to me, her “tailor.” At one point she looked at me and asked me to hold her. I did. As I tentatively put my arms around her, I was so afraid of her need that I tried to keep her body at a distance. She would have none of it. She collapsed against me, and the sobs that convulsed and rolled through her body found correspondence in mine. I bit my tongue until I could taste blood in the effort not to surrender. Gratefully, the door to the Promenade was closed.

Eventually she regained her composure. She was embarrassed by her behavior and apologized. I assured her that apologies weren’t necessary. I suggested that we finish our business for the day and pick up again tomorrow. She agreed and left. I didn’t report this meeting to my contact. I just stood in the shop as mute and frozen as one of my display dummies. The one dominating thought was that I looked forward to our next appointment. The near empty bottle of kanarwas sitting on the desk and I decided to finish it. Oh yes, I sighed, getting involved with a subject of investigation. Violation of a cardinal rule. I laughed. Enabran would be very disappointed with me. If he thought I was sentimental before. . . . I emptied the bottle, but I still couldn’t get this woman out of my thoughts.

Entry:

She didn’t keep our appointment today. Instead, two Federation investigators, one human and one Vulcan, came to the shop and asked me questions about her. The short human, with a face like a hungry vole, was openly suspicious and at times insulting, while the Vulcan conducted himself with a formality I’m sure must have been encoded in the rules regulating Federation investigative procedures. I quickly realized from their clumsy methods that they knew nothing. Their unskilled questions told me that they were investigating a newly discovered and serious breach of security surrounding the negotiations. Because of my contact with her, I was a suspected source of this breach. When they asked why we met so often and what we discussed, I assured them that as a plain and simple tailor our conversation dealt with the business at hand and nothing else. When I suggested that their uniforms looked a little worse for wear, they sniffed at the suggestion, dismissed me as someone obviously lacking taste, and left the shop. They don’t have a clue. Where do these people learn their craft? A holosuite program?

However, I was concerned about her. The investigators were probably checking on all members of the Federation’s negotiating team–but I wondered if the stress she’d been experiencing had betrayed her. I waited until afternoon, and when she still didn’t appear I closed the shop and went to Quark’s to see what I could discover for myself.

Unless I have business I rarely go to Quark’s; I have little tolerance for noise and stupidity. So when he saw me he assumed that I had another proposition, and I observed him shift into his engage mode. After all, he was making a tidy sum from the shop. I rejected his offer of kanarand asked for red‑leaf tea instead. This put him on the alert; he didn’t know what I wanted, and his Ferengi suspicions were aroused. As I weighed how best to enter his information bank, the same two Federation investigators entered the bar and asked to speak with Quark. I pretended I had never seen them before, and I’m sure that they thought I was just another Cardassian. To humans we all look the same.

They moved out of earshot with Quark, but I could see that he was initially defensive with them. The suspicions I had aroused in him were now directed at the investigators. I’m sure he assumed that one of his “enterprises” had violated Federation law. But he calmed down, and after a short while the investigators left and Quark returned to where I was sitting at the bar. I didn’t have to say a word; he was eager to share the experience.

“One of the Federation negotiators is a spy!” His eyes were bulging with drama.

“Really?”

“Yes. I’d heard something about this two days ago from a . . . a source,” he whispered as he looked around. “It seems that the Federation negotiating position is being leaked to the Cardassians, and everything is in an uproar.” Quark’s eyes had a glitter that reflected the concern shared by all the inhabitants of the station. These negotiations would determine their future. My future.

“I’m shocked. Any idea who it is?” I asked. Quark leaned over the counter in that melodramatic and confiding manner of his.

“My . . . source says they have a suspect, but before they make a move they want to uncover the suspect’s contact as well.”

“Contact . . . you mean . . . ?” I gave him my best puzzled expression.

“Whoever’s taking the information and passing it on,” he explained as if I were a child.

“And quite right they are,” I replied. Quark leered at me. I thought he was going to tout me on one of his more salacious holosuite programs.

“What have youheard?” He brought his face even closer to mine. Any interaction with Quark was always a quid pro quoexchange.

“In my shop?” I finished my tea. “My dear Quark, all I hear is the sound of footfalls that drift in from the Promenade.” I smiled and nodded, and made my way to the door.

“Very poetic!” he yelled after me. I’m afraid Quark was as disappointed with my response as I was disturbed by his information.

Entry:

For the second night in a row I didn’t sleep. On my way to the shop that morning I felt a tension in the atmosphere. Was it just me, or was the Promenade in a remarkably unsettled–even agitated–state? It was certainly swarming with people and creatures of all sorts. At the Replimat I debated whether or not to stop for what passed there as food. However, my favorite table–ideally placed directly opposite the airlock doors that lead to the docking ring–was empty, and I decided to indulge myself and order an Idanian spice pudding. I enjoyed sitting there, watching the comings and goings of every traveler to and from the station. It’s very relaxing . . . and sometimes very rewarding, when people appear whose whereabouts are valuable information.

I had no sooner settled into my seat with my pudding when I heard the sounds of a commotion coming from the middle of the Promenade. It was still crowded, and I couldn’t tell what was creating the disturbance. I took a bite of pudding and turned back to the source of the noise–and there she was. The pudding turned to chalk. The crowd had momentarily separated her from her escort, the two investigators and Constable Odo, and she stood there, looking at me with an expression that froze my blood. Not angry, not reproachful. . . . not even disappointed. An even expression, relaxed, clouded by that tinge of sadness I had first noticed when we discussed Gul Dukat and the expected morality of Cardassian men. My first thought was that she must be a formidable negotiator. My second was that she was about to expose her “contact.” But she just continued to look at me with her intelligent, gray eyes as if my skin were transparent and she could see all the way down to the bottom of my soul.