Текст книги "A Stitch in Time "

Автор книги: Andrew Robinson

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

Out in the street I followed as she set a brisk pace. She was a sturdy, compact woman with prematurely graying hair and strong features that were now leading the way. She was always very patient with me, but I was under the impression that she had something of weight and consequence on her mind that discouraged everything but essential interaction. As we moved through the busy, crowded streets I was struck by the way she appeared to be unaffected by the activity surrounding her. On a Cardassian street there is a lot of jostling and bumping and competing for lane space, but Mother set a fixed course and everyone moved out of her path. She behaved–and appeared–as if she were utterly isolated.

“You’re going to work today, son.” She remained true to her course and didn’t look at me when she spoke.

“I’ve been going to work every day,” I responded, out of a childish loyalty to Father.

“That’s notyour work,” she stated. “You’re a man now, and you’re being given a great opportunity. I want you to behave like a man and submit to the path that’s opening up before you.”

“Have I ever opposed your wishes, Mother?” I probably imagined the slight crack of a smile on her face. My name as a child was “Sleg” after the sleg corgan,a huge crawling beast that in certain seasons would barely move at all. I was oddly diffident about what this path would be. Perhaps this was a defense against this new “opportunity”–a word I now associated with betrayal.

“I’ve been told that you showed aptitude at the Institute,” she continued. “I’ve also been told that you had lapses . . . of a sentimental nature.”

I said nothing. For some reason it made me uncomfortable to think that she knew about Palandine.

“Your father has ideas I don’t agree with . . .that are best left unexpressed. I advise you to forget them. They’ll only make your work more difficult.” She stopped and looked at me for the first time. “Understand, Elim–you are being given the opportunity to move above the service class.”

I recoiled from both the word I mistrusted and the implication that the work Mother and Father did was low and demeaning.

“I was taught that the service class was an irreplaceable piece of the Cardassian mosaic,” I replied with crude irony.

“Listen to me!” she said with a passion that startled me. “You are my son and you are a Cardassian. Not a Hebitian. Look around you!” she commanded. I did. We were in the great public area which is surrounded by the buildings that house the power of the Union. “Hebitians did not build this. Cardassians did. Your father and I serve and maintain, but we do not influence or guide the destiny of the Union. You could. That’s why you must submit right now! Do you understand me, Elim? Once we walk through that door,” she indicated the one that led to the subterranean levels of the Assembly building–to the Obsidian Order–“you must submit to your fate.”

Mother’s eyes were burning with an intensity that communicated a care and passion that was every bit the equal of Father’s. I nodded dumbly. She took a deep breath and composed herself. Unconsciously, she smoothed my hair and tugged at my tunic.

“You’re a good boy . . . Sleg.” This time the smile was real. She led the way and we entered the building. What I understood was that I had no choice. Father, I’m sure, understood that–which was probably why he was gone this morning. The rest was a mystery.

And the mystery deepened when the man who greeted us was Enabran Tain.

“A pleasure to see you again, Elim. Thank you, Mila.” He dismissed Mother, who left without returning my look, and fixed me with that long and disconcerting smile of his. Did his eyes ever blink? “Sit down.”

I obeyed. Submit, Mother told me. And don’t ask to what. I tried to orient myself: the room was small and cluttered. My first impression of Tain in these circumstances, reinforced by his portly figure and shapeless clothing, was that he was not an important person. But I now knew better than to trust any first impression, especially one calculated by Tain.

“Everyone has an opinion, Elim.”

“Excuse me?” Had I missed the beginning of this conversation?

“Was Bamarren the right place for you?” he asked.

“I. . . .” Listen to him and answer truthfully, a voice said. “Yes. I would have liked to complete the course.”

“You and the First Prefect. He was not happy losing you.” Tain studied me in silence. Listen, the voice reminded me. Don’t turn away. Breathe. It’s Calyx, I thought. Instead of a sandy pit, it’s a dusty office.

“If you ask ten people, you’ll get ten opinions. Would you like to hear mine?” Tain asked politely.

“Yes. . . .” I still didn’t know what to call him.

“We get what we need, Elim. We listen to everyone’s opinion, but in the end we get what we need. What do you need?”

“I never . . . asked myself.”

“Most people don’t. They’re led by instinct to satisfy the basics. What they don’t realize is that if you don’task, other people will answer for you, and then you never discover who you are.”

“Is that what you’re doing? Answering for me?” The anger in my voice surprised me.

Tain smiled. “You learned what you needed from Bamarren. If you had stayed longer you would have developed . . . habits . . . useful for other organizations. We’re different, you see? I’m not even sure the First Prefect understands.”

“But what am I here for?” I now felt bolder.

“You’re here to find out who you are. And to create your own story.”

“Story?”

“Your history. Up to this point you’ve been defined by other people’s needs. Mila’s. Tolan’s. Your docent’s.”

“Yours?” I asked. Tain laughed.

“Perhaps. But here you have the opportunity to change all that.”

Opportunity. The word clung to me like my shadow. Tain touched his comm panel. “Limor, please come in.”

“The Obsidian Order?” I asked.

“What do you know about us?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s a good start.”

“What will I do?”

“To begin with, you’ll learn how to gather and process simple information.” As Tain said this, a tall, wiry man of indeterminate age entered the office quietly. Tain rose to meet him.

“And Limor Prang will get you started. This is Elim Garak, our newest junior probe,” Tain said to Limor, whose facial expression appeared permanently set to reveal nothing. Tain turned back to me; the smile was gone. “You will no longer live at home. Visits to your family will be limited to holidays and name days. You are never to say anything to anyone about your work other than your designation as a research analyst in the Hall of Records. When you see your mother, she is ‘Mila’ and you are to treat her like any other service worker.” He held my look to see how I would react to the last order. “You will receive all information and assignments from Limor. Thank you.”

Tain returned to his desk and Limor started to lead me out. We were dismissed. Just like that, my life had changed again. Tain noticed my hesitation.

“You have a question, Elim?”

I had nothing but questions. “I . . . don’t know what to call you now,” I managed.

The smile returned. “My name is Enabran Tain. Have you forgotten?”

“No . . . Enabran.”

In all my life I had never met a man who communicated so much with so few words as Limor Prang. Everything about him was as lean and spare as his body. He always looked like he was obscured by a shadow. In the brightest room one had to look twice to see that he was there. I thought that I was good at erasing my presence, but Limor made me look like a clumsy exhibitionist.

At the end of our first session Limor gave me my personal comm chip. “This has your schedule and data. It will answer all questions. Run the first program before you leave the building.” I looked down at the chip, which was smaller than the tip of my thumb, and when I looked back up Limor was gone. I sat down in the only chair and activated the chip.

“Elim Garak: code name, regnar;grade, junior probationist. Place chip in right ear,” the recorded voice instructed. I did, and the orientation program explained that communication is run once and not repeated. This is where the mnemonic training at Bamarren would be invaluable. I was given the location of my living quarters and the time and place of my first cell meeting. I was instructed where and when my training would begin. The program then rattled off a number of codes that would serve me in a variety of situations, from adjusting time and place coordinates to describing degrees of danger.By the time the program finished, my head was throbbing with the effort to hold on to this plethora of vital data.

5

As I moved building debris and arranged them into piles of different shapes and sizes, I came to realize that the ground floor of Tain’s house had been constructed strongly enough to withstand the destructive blast and hold the weight of the collapsed material. This left the basement undamaged. It was now just a question of clearing a way to the opening that led to the basement. But I hesitated: I knew what I would find down there, Doctor.

Most people, when I began this work, assumed that I was going to rebuild the house. After all, that was going on all around me. Cardassians are nothing if not industrious, and from the dust and rubble another, though more primitive, city was emerging. Each time the rudimentary shape of a house began to take shape, the morale of the sector was raised as well. At first people were confused by my efforts. Many assumed that I was unhinged and needed to do something, anything, to stay busy. Some even offered helpful advice about rebuilding, but when they realized that I wasn’t receptive they left me alone. After a while, as the shapes formed, they became curious, and their attitude changed. Many, like Doctor Parmak, were respectful, even reverent. One evening I came back from work and encountered a small group that had surrounded one of the constructed piles close to the walkway. As Parmak had done, they were calling out names in the traditional chant for the dead.

It was at that moment that I decided that not only was I not going to open up the basement, I was not going to rebuild the house of Enabran Tain. Instead I constructed the largest and most ambitious formation of material where the center of the house–Tain’s study–had formerly been located. This was my memorial to Mila, who remained entombed in the basement. If the people need a place to mourn their dead, to mourn a way of life that will never return, then I offer the home of Enabran Tain, the man most responsible for provoking this destruction. Parmak is right: otherwise, how can we ever move ahead?

6

Entry:

The first cell meeting took place in an empty, cold warehouse in the Munda’ar Sector that was almost entirely comprised of storage facilities for the foodstuffs and other goods that kept the city alive. I walked into the echoing, cavernous space, and saw that no one was there. I placed the comm chip in my right ear and was directed to a hidden ladder that took me down into a dark room, where ten chairs were arranged in a semicircle facing one chair isolated in a pool of light. Two of the chairs were empty, and it wasn’t until I took one that I noticed Limor Prang in the chair facing us. The eight people who preceeded me sat quietly in the shadow at the edge of the pool. Even though no one was encouraged to make contact we tried, sneaking surreptitious looks at each other, until we were interrupted by the last person descending the ladder. By then my eyes had adjusted, and when I stole a glance at the latecomer taking the last chair, I was struck by the familiarity of his face. I knew him–probably from Bamarren–but couldn’t precisely place how.

“Don’t ever be late again.” It was stated quietly, but everyone in the room got the message.

It was a short meeting. This was a new cell–Limor said little and made sure that we introduced ourselves with code names only. The person who was eluding my memory was called Maladek. Limor told us to put the names together with the faces and voices as best we could. This would be the only meeting like this our cell would ever have. If we saw each other again it would be “on assignment.” The clear implication was that we had better remember each other, even though we were given no opportunity to go beyond the faintest of first impressions.

Before we left, I took another look at Maladek, and a shock of recognition traveled through my body when he returned my look. It was at that moment that I remembered: at Bamarren he was One Ramaklan, the student leader who’d been humiliated in the Competition. His look, however, revealed nothing. We left one by one in the order we had arrived (“Never in a group,” we were warned) and as I made my way to the ladder, Maladek/Ramaklan avoided my last look. Perhaps it was just an uncanny resemblance.

I decided to walk to the Torr Sector, where my new living quarters were located, and requested directions from the comm chip. It was a beautiful night, and the sight of the Taluvian Constellations pulsing their secret messages made me think of the Mekar Wilderness and a simpler time. Perhaps if I could decode the pulses, I thought, I could begin to unravel the mystery that was engulfing my life. I slowed my pace, as I thought about Father and Mother and the path that was leading me to my new home. I felt oddly disconnected, almost as if I were walking next to and observing this person, Elim Garak, who was playing out a fateline that demanded his submission, and over which he had no control.

A group of people pulled me back into myself. How unusual for this time of night, and how clumsily they tried to appear inconspicuous, as if ignoring each other would be interpreted that they were several strangers who happened to be on the street at the same time. I fully appreciated why Limor warned us against such group behavior. And yet, as I studied these people, they expressed no guilt or shame in what they were doing. Indeed, there was a connectedness to them that any amount of pretending couldn’t hide–and which almost made me follow as they entered this one building. Grudgingly, however, I admitted that I had better “submit” to my fate, and I continued in my direction at a quickened pace.

It was a modest dwelling in an old residential area. The comm chip gave me the entrance code and instructed me to a side door that led down to a clean, stark basement. Another basement, but much smaller than home. I wondered if I’d ever live at ground level or higher in the City. The few belongings I owned had been transferred from Tain’s house, and were piled neatly on my pallet. It took me very little time to arrange them and acquaint myself with the room and its few amenities. When there was nothing left to do I decided to go to sleep. But I couldn’t. From upstairs there came the faint sound of someone moving about. It wasn’t Tain. But how could I be sure? He seemed to be everywhere else in my life. I thought of Father and wondered when I’d see him again. Would I ever have the chance to plant Edosian orchids with him again? The question was swallowed by the thick darkness of my new home.

The most horrible images of littered corpses and mass destruction crowded my mind’s eye; my senses filled with the smells . . . the feelings. . . . I knew I couldn’t take much more. Faces of everyone I knew–my parents, the people I cared most about at Bamarren–distorted and frozen in their final agonies, as the sounds of a final cataclysm rose to a shrieking pitch and suffocated all breath and hope.

And then nothing. In every direction. Surrounded by a deadened void; alone. The silence of the end of days. Nothing resounded; everything had been absorbed beyond grief and sorrow. My breathing began to clutch. The void was shrinking; the dense and darkened silence was closing in. I couldn’t swallow. End it. End it now!

“That’s enough,” Limor’s voice said, and simultaneously the room returned. He was intently studying my reaction as I struggled to return my breath to normal.

“You have to raise your threshold.”

“But I didn’t say anything.” I was too defensive, and we both knew it. He was right; my fear made me identify with the images. I couldn’t maintain the distance to remove myself from the pain. He just looked at me, and I knew I was on the verge. How would I ever survive even a moderately challenging interrogation?

“We’ll continue to work on it,” was all he said.

“I’ve . . . never gotten this far before. The third level seems to require certain adjustments. . . .” I knew I had failed–and I didn’t want to let it go.

“There are ways, Elim,” Limor said as he removed the device from the base of my skull. I rubbed the sensitive area in the back of my neck where the filament had been connected.

“That’s enough for today.” Limor took the “enhancer” and left the room. I pondered my failure, the first during my orientation training as a junior probe.

The enhancer is a chip‑size modulator designed to be used for difficult interrogations–a “tool of last resort” Limor called it, which meant that it was used only when standard techniques of sensory destabilization were insufficient. The enhancer is dangerous, because clumsy modulation can unravel a subject to the point of incoherence and insanity, even death. Once attached, it targets the oldest area of the brain, the primal nexus, which contains the master plan of our physical creation and evolution. All recovery from injury or illness depends upon the integrity of this plan. The nexus is also the storehouse for our deepest anxieties regarding death and annihilation. The enhancer attacks the sophisticated nexus defense system with neutrinos that mimic stimuli sent by the new brain requesting information for healing and repair. As the barriers are broken down by the neutrinos, the images of this stored anxiety are released like poison into the new brain and “enhanced” until the whole person is destabilized–or worse. No one knows the fear any one person can live with, and in the hands of a fool or a brute the enhancer is merely a form of torture, rather than a means of intelligence gathering.

Limor had seen my deepest fear surface; I wondered if it would affect my future with the Order. So by the time I had moved through the various methods of interrogation and assassination, assuming identities and learning codes and complicated technological devices, I was eager to take on an assignment and prove myself in the field. It was with a good deal of relief that I received the order to attend my first operations preparatory meeting.

7

Entry:

All I could think about was Tzenketh, and the image of those walls collapsing in all around me. Reading, or sewing, or moving my display clothing (optimistic about the shop someday opening again), I’d feel the walls slowly moving in. I’d look up–and they were perfectly normal. I was relieved that it was time for lunch, so that I could spend some time away from the shop and these codes. Tzenketh was the rendezvous point where–years before–I was supposed to meet my Bajoran contact. It was only after the explosion went off that I realized I had been betrayed. I don’t know how long I was buried alive in the rubble before I was dug out by my support unit. It was several weeks before I could function again. Ever since then, the image of the collapsing walls would flash in my mind’s eye when I was under stress. I cursed these Cardassian military codes. I knew how desperately the Federation needed them decoded, but every time I worked on them the walls began to move in. And they weren’t even that cleverly done! The codes we created at the Order were far more sophisticated.

As I walked along the Promenade to the Infirmary, I let go of Tzenketh and wondered why the Doctor had extended an invitation to lunch. In the past I wouldn’t have thought twice about it, but it had been so long since we’d had one of our lunches that I felt somewhat apprehensive. Our relationship had changed irrevocably, and it was foolish to pretend that even a simple lunch would be unaffected.

“Hallo, Garak.” He was waiting at the entrance. “I hope you don’t mind, but I had something prepared for us and thought we could take lunch in my office.”

“No–that sounds fine.” I was taken back by the suggestion, since we had never dined in his office before. I followed as he led the way to the cluttered space he usually reserved for private consultations. When I saw that the table was set for three, my system went on full alert.

“Are we expecting someone else, Doctor?” I asked.

“Well, uh, yes . . . or rather, Odo was going to try to make it, but he may be held up.” The doctor was almost too casual as he busied himself serving the prepared dishes. “He said we should start without him.” He uncovered my food: tojalin yamoksauce, one of my favorite Cardassian dishes. Now I was certain something was up.

“Where did you find this, Doctor?” I didn’t have the heart to tell him tojalis a breakfast dish.

“Oddly enough, the chef at the Klingon restaurant fancies himself an intergalactic gourmet. However, I’m afraid the concept of chips still eludes him,” the doctor said as he held up a long, greasy strip of what he called fried potato.

“What’s the occasion, Doctor? You didn’t have to go to all this trouble. You’re a busy man.”

“I just thought it’d be pleasant if we had some privacy today,” he said, avoiding a direct look.

“Oh. For any particular reason?” I asked as I began to eat.

“Well, I . . . uh . . . actually was planning to talk about this after lunch.” I could see that the doctor was out of his element. Perhaps he was disconcerted that we had to conduct this lunch without a third party.

“Talk about what, Doctor?” I put down my utensils and gave him my full attention.

“Well, I was hoping that Odo would join us.” The Doctor looked toward the door with a look that corroborated my suspicion. He suddenly nodded.

“Yes, quite right. We should do this before; we’ll digest better.” He suddenly jumped up. “I have some rokassajuice . . . tea?”

“What is it?” My insistence pulled him back down.

“You know how important those codes are to us. I don’t have to tell you what that information means.”

“No one knows better than I,” I said.

“Of course not. And I respect that for whatever reason you’re . . . unable to continue to break them down for us.”

“Yes?” I prompted.

“You see, this is so difficult, Garak. I know what a private person you are, and how you detest people meddling in your affairs. . . .”

“Ironic for a spy, isn’t it?”

“No, everyone has a right to their privacy, but . . . circumstances being what they are. . . .”

“Captain Sisko would like it very much if I could somehow continue.”

“Yes.” With help, the doctor had finally gotten it out.

“Nothing would give me greater pleasure. But tell me, Doctor, how am I to do this?” I asked. “The moment I seethose scrambled characters, my throat tightens, and then when I start working on them. . . .” I shrugged. How could I explain the unexplainable?

“But you see, perhaps it’s something that I can help you address.”

“Your holosuite program. The one that allows me to visit the traumas of my childhood.”

“I hesitate to suggest this, remembering how you reacted the last time . . . but, yes, I feel it could make a difference,” the Doctor gamely admitted.

“Oh, Doctor,” I sighed. “We’re so different. Perhaps someday I’ll be able to express to you just how different we are.” I pushed my food away, and took a deep breath to calm the rising anxiety. “All of my so‑called childhood traumas are right here in this room with me, at this moment.”

“Yes, of course they are,” the Doctor readily agreed.

“But they’re not hidden. They’ve happened, they’ve had their effect, and all of it is incorporated into who I am.”

“I know this,” the Doctor assured me.

“No, you don’t. Because you’re operating from a psychological model that is human. Would you use a human model as your guide if you needed to perform a delicate surgical procedure on me?”

“Of course I wouldn’t.”

“And you’ve proven that. Not knowing Cardassian biochemistry, you went to the Arawath Colony to get the appropriate data from Tain himself in order to remove the wire from my brain. Why should this be any different?” The question hung in the air. The Doctor had no answer, and I could see by his expression that he was genuinely embarrassed by the situation.

“Please, Doctor, I understand why you’re asking this. But the stress, the anxiety, the fear a Cardassian experiences is about what hasn’thappened. We’ve already processed the past; it’s what’s in front of us that’s worrisome.”

“And you don’t think that what’s in front of us has any connection to what’s past?” he asked.

“Of course it does, but not in the causal manner you’re suggesting. One model does not fit all, however admirable that model may be.” I smiled and gestured to the Doctor; but he wasn’t in the mood for a compliment.

“I’m not trained in this field, Garak, and I’m not going to send us off on a fool’s errand–but I ask you as a friend to help us. However you can. This information could save countless lives.”

“Help you by helping myself, you mean.”

“However you can.”

“You have my word, Doctor. I will do whatever I possibly can.”

“I’ve never doubted that, Garak.”

I nodded, looking at the third setting. “Tell me, Doctor, why did you invite Odo today?”

“I thought since you were working together on this project. . . .” His voice trailed off. We just looked at each other. “I think I was afraid to do this by myself,” he finally admitted.

“I appreciate your honesty, Doctor. Please assure the captain that I will pick up more codes from Odo today.”

“Thank you, Garak.” The doctor seemed enormously relieved. He gestured to our food. “I’m afraid it’s all gone cold. Why don’t we just go to the Replimat after all?”

“Excellent suggestion,” I eagerly agreed. The room was rapidly becoming much too confining. As we walked back out onto the Promenade, I wondered what it was about my future that was suffocating me. And how could I overcome it? Even as I thought this, I had to force myself to breathe.

8

Entry:

As I walked to the Diplomatic Service building, which was not far from the Hall of Records, I went over my cover information. I was to identify myself as Alardig Ra’orn, the youngest son of Krai, the newly appointed consul to the Cardassian Embassy on Tohvun III where the off‑and‑on Federation‑Cardassian peace talks were on again. I had to be extremely careful (I was warned) with the military personnel who guarded the diplomatic compound. The military had their own security/intelligence apparatus, which did its best to discredit the Obsidian Order whenever possible. The military distrusted the Order and its seemingly autonomous position in the power structure. The fact that the Detapa Council chose the Order rather than the military for its Tohvun undercover operations only exacerbated the rivalry. There were instances of joint operations between the two, but they were rare and only happened when the Council twisted arms.

“All right, pass through,” the glinn grudgingly allowed when my security code cleared. I smiled my thanks (this was completely ignored), and as I made my way to the appointed conference room I understood why the so‑called rivalry was one‑sided. The military mind doesn’t lend itself to subtle and creative obfuscation.

The first person I saw when I entered the room was Maladek. He returned my look with a bored expression, and turned back to his comm chip. He was punctual for this meeting. Limor explained that Maladek was my older brother “Begom,” and another member of our cell, Oonal, was “Krai,” my father. As I studied the three of us, we did indeed look like a family.

The purpose of the peace talks was to determine a settlement of the often violent Cardassian‑Federation border dispute that centered around several planets, Dorvan V being the most important. During these talks a truce had been declared. The assignment, as far as I was involved, was disappointing. Oonal was the experienced operative, and he was charged with the sole responsibility of working with his contacts on the Federation negotiating side. As probes, Maladek and I were there to give credibility to Oonal’s cover, and beyond that simply to observe and learn.

“Learn your stories, follow orders, and serve Cardassia,” Limor had admonished the two “brothers.”

* * *

Tohvun III is a pleasant if somewhat damp and cold planet on the Federation frontier. It’s mainly an outpost for traders and those tourists interested in trekking the forested slopes of Mandara, an enormous volcano that’s been inactive for two centuries. The Cardassian Embassy compound, a bare‑bones operation, consists of a main administration building and several attached residences, which were built as temporary shelters and over time became permanent.

Maladek and I were assigned adjoining residences; because of the shoddy construction, each of us could hear everything the other was doing or saying. The circumstances made me self‑conscious, and I tried to live quietly, but Maladek thrashed about as if he was unaware or just didn’t care. Odd behavior even for a novice security operative. His attitude toward me was guarded, but proper; neither one of us talked about anything unrelated to our work–least of all Bamarren. Even with the recognition that had passed between us at the first meeting, I was uncertain if he remembered me and, if he did, whether he knew of my contribution to the outcome of the Competition. This uncertainty kept me off‑balance.

We were invited to all the social functions, and the reception at the Federation Embassy on the eve of the talks afforded me my first contact with humans. Before this evening, I had only seen them once from a distance, many years before when a delegation of Federation officials had attended the Tarlak funeral of Councilor Erud, who had been a leading proponent of a peaceful solution to the frontier wars, and whose name was invoked several times during the evening. Maladek seemed to be familiar with human ways, and when he expressed the strong judgment that they were a stupid race, I assumed that he knew what he was talking about.