“Yes,” I replied, taking my eyes away from Pythas. “I am indeed.” I rose from my chair. “I shouldn’t be here. This is not my place. I apologize for the intrusion.” I looked again at Pythas. I didn’t know what to say to him. But even with his one good eye he could still communicate with depth and meaning. Not here, he told me. Not now. Madred also rose.
“Thank you, Gul Madred, but I can find my way out.” I bowed to the company, and turned my back on them.
5
Entry:
Ever since the negotiations came to a conclusion, and with the transfer of Terok Nor to the Federation now imminent, I’d waited for some kind of communication concerning my status. Nothing but silence. Still, I was certain that my exile would end with the Occupation, and that soon we would all be on our way back to Cardassia Prime. This morning I decided to go about my routine even though I had no real work to speak of. After all, if the garrison and all Cardassian civilians are scheduled to depart today, why would any of them leave garments with me? However, I still had my own clothing designs to wrestle with.
When I came out onto the Promenade, I was stunned. It was like a holiday. The Bajoran population had obviously been celebrating all night. Groups of them were singing, dancing, holding each other up as they staggered and howled their delight. Debris was everywhere, as they tore down and scattered the remnants of the makeshift shelters they had lived in for so many years. I could hear the din from Quark’s bar, which evidently was doing a booming business. I ducked back into the shop as several inebriated celebrants came careening my way. When they had passed, I stepped out to where I could see more clearly down the Promenade. There wasn’t a Cardassian in sight. The only officials were Bajoran military and Federation people. The withdrawal had taken place during the night, and Terok Nor was now Deep Space 9.
I heard someone yell, “The tailor’s still here.” I hurried into my shop and locked the doors behind me. I stood in the darkness, trembling. Not a word. Nothing! They’d left me here. I wanted to contact someone. To protest. But ever since I had filed my last report about the negotiations, they had cut me off. I felt impotent. Ashamed. Elim Garak, a Cardassian tailor on a Federation outpost, cowering from drunken Bajorans.
There had to be a limit. My crime was a serious miscalculation, no doubt; I had ignored the warning, disobeyed my superior, and given in to the passion of my life. But I had dedicated myself to the state! This couldn’t possibly be unpardonable . . . not when idiots and butchers are promoted and prosper every—
The door chime rang. I froze. I wondered about my status. Would I be allowed to remain in the shop and work? Did I want to? Did I have a choice? The chime rang again.
“Yes?” My attempt to sound normal was pathetic.
“Are my c-clothes ready?” It was Rom. I had forgotten that I was still working on the suit of clothes he had “bought” from his brother.
“Just a moment.” I turned on the lights and took a moment to compose myself before I let him in.
Rom was apologetic. “I thought you were open, otherwise . . . .”
“Not to worry, of course I am,” I brusquely assured him, as I fetched his tunic and trousers. “And I think you’ll find everything fits quite well.” I held the curtain to the changing room open for him, and he took the clothes and entered. I pulled the curtain closed and checked behind the counter to see if there was anything left in the kanar bottle. There wasn’t even a bottle.
“How, uh, did you know I’d still be here, Rom?” A quaver undermined the attempted nonchalance.
“My brother said you would be, but I wasn’t sure, and when I saw that the Cardassians had left during the night . . . .”
I could tell from his tone that he wondered why I hadn’t left but was too shy to ask. Strange people, these Ferengi. Rom had a sensitivity, almost a delicacy that was totally lacking in his brother. Was there such a thing as a typical Ferengi? Most people judged him to be simple, as if simplicity was somehow a substandard quality. He came out of the changing room wearing his new garments. I had certainly dressed him like a Ferengi, and I could see that he was pleased.
“Tell me, Rom. Are they all gone? The Cardassians?” I stopped trying to disguise my concern. Rom looked at me with that fearful directness of his and nodded.
“Y-yes. Late last night. Gul Dukat passed the station over to the Federation and a Commander . . . Sisko and . . . they left.” He still wanted to ask why I had stayed.
“Well, Rom, the trousers and tunic fit quite well, don’t you think?” I pulled the tunic down at the back. “Don’t wear it so far up on the neck; it ruins the line. And I’d be grateful if you’d tell any interested parties that indeed I’m still here and very much open for business.”
“Oh, yes . . . yes! And I like. . . .” Rom made a broad, awkward gesture toward his new ensemble. I thanked him, and we walked out onto the Promenade, as if it were just another business day. We said good-bye, and I watched him march proudly through the ragged celebrants. I had a fondness for him. It was an odd relief, especially at this moment, to converse with someone who literally meant everything he said. My attention was drawn to a group of drunken Bajorans across the way who had interrupted their celebration to stare at me with hostile disbelief. They had the same question as Rom. I smiled graciously and went back into the shop.
I sat in the shop and tried to busy myself with a design that had been eluding me. It was almost as if the suit was designing me, and I thought that somehow this was appropriate at this stage of my life. I had my back to the door, but I could hear a crowd gathering outside. Their sounds were low but threatening, and I knew that my presence was the focal point. Would rule of law prevail now that the Occupation was at an end and I was the only Cardassian left on the station?
Individual voices could be heard yelling from the crowd and urging that action be taken. I could sense the growing anger as their numbers increased. And they weren’t complaining about their pants. The muscles of my neck and shoulders were tense as I sat hunched over the work table. I erased another design and started again, chasing the design that in turn was chasing me.
Someone broke away from the crowd and stormed into the shop. I braced myself, but I didn’t turn to face her: a woman screaming at me in a peculiar Bajoran dialect that was totally incomprehensible. I continued to work, focused on a design that was now oddly coming to life. I could feel the heat of her rage, and believed that there was no way to confront it without making the situation worse. But more people had entered the shop, and suddenly I was grabbed from behind with great force and pulled to my feet. I stumbled against the table, quickly regained my balance, and turned to confront a Bajoran man who immediately realized that he needed the rest of the crowd to follow through with his intent. The others stood behind him and the moment was suspended. No one spoke, no one moved. We just looked at each other. Their hatred was a unified field that blurred all individual distinction. I realized in that moment the gravitational field of the station had been adjusted to a heavier setting, and the wave of hatred flowing from these people made it even more oppressive. I felt as if I were carrying twice my weight. I fully expected to be torn to pieces.
“That’s enough!” a harsh voice commanded. The constable of the station, the shapeshifter Odo, was standing at the top of the outside steps. With his customary dignity he made his way through the crowd, which was now half in and half out of the shop.
“Clear this space,” he told them. “Go on! Get about your business.” Two of his Bajoran officers were directing people back onto the Promenade. Odo grabbed my attacker unceremoniously by his shabby tunic and turned him over to one of the officers.
“Put him in the holding cell,” he instructed. As the man was escorted off, several parting curses and threats were hurled from the Promenade. “Are you harmed?” Odo asked me in his formal manner.
“No, not at all. Thank you for your concern . . . and your intervention,” I replied. He stood for a moment, studying me, trying to divine why
I had not been allowed to join the withdrawal. Unlike the others who assumed that because I was a Cardassian I had a choice, Odo knew that I’d been abandoned.
“Was there any damage or theft?” he asked.
“No,” I answered. I knew little about Constable Odo, but I was confident that he would never ask me questions that went beyond his function as security chief. He kept his distance and carried himself like someone who understood exile.
“I will make sure that nothing like this happens again.” Odo gave one last look around the shop, wondering, I’m certain, who was going to do business with a Cardassian tailor. He left with the same lack of ceremony with which he’d entered.
The room was suddenly empty. I studied my reflection in the full-length mirror. Changes were in order for my new life. For one thing, I thought, I’m too heavy for this gravitational field. I patted my stomach: silence, exile, cunning . . . and less spice pudding.
6
The Directorate wasted no time: a “Restoration Cadre” was established in each sector. Ostensibly its purpose was to maintain order while Cardassia recovered enough “strength of will” to restore its former governing structures. The Directorate presented itself as the legitimate agent of this restoration, and in each sector the Cadre supported the Directorate’s choice of leader. In the Paldar Sector they had chosen Korbath Mondrig.
The reality, Doctor, is that the Cadre functions to intimidate the people of each sector into accepting this restoration and condemn the Reunion Project as a subtle Federation corruption. But instead of submitting to the Cadre’s threat of violence, many people throughout the city—and indeed the planet—are resisting and organizing along the lines of the Project. For these people, a restoration means returning to the conditions that created the rubble and dust that now surround and choke us.
For the first time in our modern history, Doctor, we are faced with a choice between two distinct political and social philosophies. The crucial question is how we are going to make this choice. Is a consensus achieved by peaceful means? Or do we now go to war with each other?
I had anticipated the current stalemate. I had even anticipated what happened last night, when I was awakened from my usual fitful sleep by the sounds of falling debris. For a moment I thought we were still under Dominion attack. I jumped up and looked outside. Several men dressed in the makeshift Cadre uniform and led by someone I recognized as one of Mondrig’s aides were pushing over the roughhewn memorials. I set off a loud alarm I had created for just this kind of event. After the rally for Alon Ghemor, the grounds had become a magnet for the Reunion. In an amazingly short period of time scores of my neighbors, including Parmak and Ghemor, had appeared. The outnumbered marauders, expecting a violent confrontation, prepared for battle. We had agreed beforehand, however, that violent resistance was pointless; all that would happen would be a further escalation of violence until one side dominated the other and we would be left with less than the nothing we now had.
It was an eerie scene, Doctor: mute witnesses, men and women, surrounding a phalanx of sweating belligerents prepared to fight to the death. Cardassian against Cardassian—a unique and disturbing sight. Some of the marauders were ex-soldiers following new masters, some were no more than orphaned children. Some probably were in the service of the restoration ideal of returning Cardassia to its former imperial glory. Most were just hungry and desperate. It was a dangerous tactic on our part, Doctor, and as the tense and silent standoff continued I could see certain faces on both sides giving in to the strain. It was only a matter of moments before something happened.
Suddenly one of the younger marauders broke ranks and attacked a man across from him. Several of the witnesses immediately reacted to defend the fallen man.
“Hold!” Ghemor commanded. They did. No one retaliated and the young marauder stood over the man with a confused look. He had hoped, I’m sure, that his action would have been absorbed by an ensuing battle; but now, being the focus of every eye, he had no choice but to accept sole responsibility for his act. When he received neither guidance nor approval from his superior, he found the attention unbearable and ran off. The standoff continued, but now the marauders became restless. The watchful stillness of the witnesses began to unnerve them. If they weren’t going to fight . . . ?
“This is shit,” an older soldier muttered in disgust. He looked around at his companions and at Mondrig’s aide in contempt. “Shit!” he repeated with greater force. His hard face and warrior poise told me that he held no fear of battle. “Shall I fight women?” he asked the aide. To answer his own question he spat and walked off into the night. His uneven gait and low center of gravity reminded me of Calyx.
Mondrig’s aide attempted to salvage the situation, and ordered the marauders to continue the destruction of the memorials, but the older men took the lead of the grizzled veteran and dispersed. The younger inexperienced men realized that they were no match against the organization of the witnesses. And it was this discipline that also reminded me of Calyx. Ghemor had not only learned how to “hold his place” in the Bamarren Pit, he was able to teach others as well.
After the remainder of the Restoration Cadre had made their careful retreat, the witnesses, without any perceivable instruction to do so, began to rebuild the toppled piles. When someone voiced the worry that he wasn’t sure how the formation had looked before the damage, I assured him that it didn’t matter. Dawn was breaking when we completed our repair work, and people began returning to their homes. Parmak, Ghemor, and I stood silently among the formations, inspecting the results of our work in the first light.
“I mean no disrespect, Elim,” the Doctor said, “but the memorial looks even better.” I nodded in agreement.
“Please, Doctor,” I replied. “ ‘Restoration’ is fine for artifacts and museum pieces. When it comes to building a new community, I think what we did tonight is more to the point.”
“And we did it without murdering each other,” Ghemor added.
“How un-Cardassian of us,” I observed. But we knew this was only one skirmish that had been avoided. Although it had bolstered our spirits for the moment, we could only hope that it was an indication of the battle fatigue of our people, and not an aberration.
Shortly after the incident, Parmak came to Tolan’s shed and informed me that Gul Madred had requested a meeting between the Directorate and the leaders of the Reunion Project. He asked if I would join them, and I demurred.
“Given the circumstances of my last meeting with them,” I explained, “I think it would be best if you and Alon heard what they have to say.” Parmak paused, turning a thought over in his mind.
“You know what they’re going to say, don’t you?” he asked.
“I do,” I replied. “And so do you.” Parmak paused again, the thought deepening as it turned.
“Certainly they’ll offer us some kind of compromise,” he began.
“A compromise that will prove fatal to your ideals, Doctor. And you know that, too,” I said with certainty. “These people are holding on desperately to an idea of power that they refuse to admit no longer exists. They will offer you and Alon important places in their structure . . . but there will be no compromise.”
“Only choice,” he nodded. “Which is all there can be at this point.”
“When you meet with them,” I suggested, “just listen. Try to ascertain if they’re willing to risk a civil war. They’re desperate, but not all of them have been made stupid with a desire for power; some of them know how depleted we are. My guess is that the incident here the other night has them worried.”
“Yes, I agree,” the Doctor nodded. “I’d better go over our strategy with Alon. Thank you, Elim.”
“If there’s a man with a disfigured face at the meeting, try to make contact with him. Don’t be put off by his remoteness.”
“Who is he?” the Doctor asked.
“An old schoolmate of mine . . . and Alon’s,” I replied. “He’s a good man.”
“What’s he doing with them?”
“I don’t know, Doctor. That’s one of the things I want to find out.”
“And once I’ve made contact . . . ?”
“If it’s possible, tell him I need to see him.”
“I’ll do my best, Elim.” The Doctor hesitated.
“What is it?” I asked.
“A civil war would destroy us,” he said.
“Indeed.” I could see that he was feeling the weight of his mission.
“You know, Elim, I’m neither a soldier nor a politician. I’m a doctor.”
“I do know that. I also know that we’ve been betrayed by our previous leaders. Our only hope is that men like yourself can offer an alternative.”
“But you have the expertise that can . . . .”
“Doctor, I have the expertise that comes from survival and compromise. There’s already plenty of that on the other side . . . and it’s not an alternative that will create a new and lasting union.”
“No, I suppose you’re right,” he conceded.
“You’re a doctor, yes, and that’s your strength. I’ve learned something about your profession over the past several years. Don’t think like a politician. Think of the planet as a patient barely hanging on to life. Think like a doctor. How would you save this planet?” He considered what I’d said in his careful manner.
“Thank you, Elim. I’ll keep you informed.” He started to leave. A group of people were gathered at a nearby formation chanting names of the dead.
“Ah, Doctor,” I stopped him. “You can’t go to your meeting like that.”
“Like what?” he asked with a puzzled look. Without explaining, I helped him out of his worn outer coat and showed him a ragged tear in the fabric. Despite his protests, I made him sit down and wait while I gathered my sewing kit and repaired the tear.
STAR TREK: DEEP SPACE NINE ® Page 32
