A Stitch in Time stdsn-27

by Andrew J. Robinson

  A Stitch in Time

  ( Star Trek: Deep Space Nine - 27 )

  Andrew J. Robinson

  For nearly a decade Garak has longed for just one thing -- to go home. Exiled on a space station, surrounded by aliens who loathe and distrust him, going back to Cardassia has been Garak's one dream. Now, finally, he is home. But home is a world whose landscape is filled with death and destruction. Desperation and dust are constant companions and luxury is a glass of clean water and a warm place to sleep.Ironically, it is a letter from one of the aliens on that space station, Dr. Julian Bashir, that inspires Garak to look at the fabric of his life. Elim Garak has been a student, a gardener, a spy, an exile, a tailor, even a liberator. It is a life that was charted by the forces of Cardassian society with very little understanding of the person, and even less compassion. But it is the tailor that understands who Elim Garak was, and what he could be. It is the tailor who sees the ruined fabric of Cardassia, and who knows how to bring this ravaged society back together. This is strange, because a tailor is the one thing Garak never wanted to be. But it is the tailor whom both Cardassia and Elim Garak need. It is the tailor who can put the pieces together, who can take a stitch in time.

  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 irrit
ates 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 m
oved 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.