A Stitch in Time stdsn-27

by Andrew J. Robinson

  “Can you even finda space to hold?” he asked.

  I came back to my sweating body and felt totally exhausted and beaten. We were dismissed, and I watched everyone move away. I had no idea of what had just happened to me. My work was cut out, Calyx had told me: I had to find my space and hold it. How do I even begin?

  7

  And how do we even begin to rebuild a world that doesn’t exist anymore? A world that exists in my mind with the same arid bitterness as the dust in my mouth. I have never lived with despair, Doctor, the way I live with it now. It’s almost like a phantom companion that shadows me and casts doubt on whatever I do.

  “Why save him?” it asks, as we remove a young boy from the rubble of a school. “You’re only keeping him alive for a future of privation and chaos. Wouldn’t it be more satisfying to join the burial unit?”

  I want to scream at this phantom, to shut it up. Once I turned around suddenly and raised my hand to strike it. When I realized it wasn’t there, it was too late. Everyone in the unit was looking at me; I’m sure I must have looked like a madman. Dr. Parmak tried to send me home, but I refused–alone it’s even worse. He offered me a relaxant, and I put it in my pocket.

  “Later,” I said. “It’ll make me drowsy now.” And we continued to dig for more children.

  When I returned to my shed, a rare rain was falling. I was chilled to the bone. I found the last of my rokassajuice and settled in front of the open door. I removed the pill Dr. Parmak had given me and I swallowed it with a gulp of juice. I watched the rain mix with the hazy dust and turn everything into a muddy swamp. As my muscles relaxed, figures began to emerge from the haze and take shape. They stood there–indistinct, silent–turned toward me as if awaiting my instructions or decision. There was nothing threatening about them; indeed, they were only the outlines of childlike bodies, standing patiently. My despair was finally in abeyance, and I experienced a relaxation I hadn’t known for a long time. I began to think that they were my old Bamarren schoolmates, and I wanted to speak to them, to welcome them back into my life. Yes, I thought, relief from the horror. I must get more of these pills from Parmak. As I tried to put faces on the shadowy children, they began to approach me. They became more distinct as they moved through the rain and haze. Can you believe it, Doctor? They weren’t my schoolmates; they were the Cardassian orphans from the Resettlement Center on Bajor we once visited. The orphans left after the Cardassian occupation forces withdrew. The same young girl was their leader and her lips formed the same question.

  Have you come to take us home?

  I jumped up. I felt the shed closing in, threatening to swallow me. I ran out into the rain and gloom.

  “There is no home anymore! Can’t you see that? Look around you! It’s gone!” I screamed at them and fell to my knees in the sodden waste. They continued to stare back with that same look of fragile trust that I would somehow relieve them of their fear and bring them home. I couldn’t look at them anymore and dropped down into the muck. My despair was no longer just a voice; it was this monstrous world the evil had created, and it surrounded and overwhelmed me.

  I don’t know how long I remained curled up in the mud. I felt myself being lifted and half carried, half dragged back into my shed. It was Dr. Parmak. He cleaned and changed me as best he could. He prepared a cup of Tarkalean tea, which made me think of you, Doctor. How ironic, another doctor pulls old Elim out of the muck of his despair, but this time he’s a Cardassian. Parmak offered me another pill, but I declined.

  “I’m afraid they don’t react well with me,” I explained.

  “I understand,” he said.

  I wondered–did he? Did he understand that I have to live with this brutal reality–live in it!–without hope of a cheap escape? Just as I learned to live on Deep Space 9 without the wire that anesthetized my pain. The same harsh lesson. I’m sure he did. After all, he has to live here, too. And he’s a doctor. A Cardassian doctor.

  Perhaps there’s hope for us yet.

  8

  Entry:

  All the lessons at Bamarren were harsh. Like my father, no one wanted to repeat an order or instruction. If they did, you paid the painful price. If you had to relearn a lesson it was made doubly difficult. Consequences always escalated. Like every other group the ten of us traveled in a tight and disciplined pack; we covered each other’s backs and punished stragglers who jeopardized our safety. We learned very quickly that group integrity was paramount, individual effort an alternative only when there was no group solution.

  The lessons I came to look forward to in Level One took place in the actual Mekar Wilderness. At irregular intervals we were taken out to desolate areas and, depending on the exercise, were assigned to hunt as a group or evade capture as an individual. If it was the group hunting exercise, we were told that a certain number of individual enemies were operating somewhere in our part of the Wilderness, and that our task was to track them down and take them into custody. We were given no supplies, no navigational instruments, and no information as to their location. If we returned without having captured all of them our mission was considered a failure. Needless to say, all failure at Bamarren had serious consequences.

  We were quite successful at the group exercise. Since we had no idea in which direction to begin our hunt, we used an elaborate system of whistle calls and signals as we radiated out from a central base. When one individual was located, only those hunters in that particular quadrant were assigned to apprehend him. The others continued the search in their respective quadrants, and we all reported back to the center, with or without our prey. There was only one instance when the length of the hunt far exceeded our supplies such that by the time we returned to Bamarren we were all dangerously dehydrated and exhausted. Six (the student who fainted in the Pit) had the hardest reaction to this exercise. He was studious, and excelled in a classroom situation, but while he wasn’t as slight of build as Eight he didn’t have the latter’s stamina. For a while he was near death, and spent nearly two months in recuperative care. It was to his credit that he returned to the group.

  We learned about each other through this training. One of the things that quickly became apparent in the Pit, the classroom, and the Wilderness was that our initial numerical designations were not truly indicative of ability. The numbers assigned to us were presumably based upon our previous school performance record. But just as important and rarely mentioned were our family and class status. Eight also came from a “service” family background, and it was soon clear to everyone that he should have been designated One Lubak, a fact not lost on the actual holder of that designation who, judging from his behavior and speech, came from the highest echelons of our society. Nine, however, came from an important political family but was as dim as a moonless night. Three wasn’t much brighter, but his physical size and strength–as well as his family’s connection to power–gave him a higher place.

  The patterns of political alliance within the group had about them the inevitability of iron filings on a magnet. To keep the low‑born but gifted Eight in his place, One immediately recruited Three and Nine. Not only were they of the same class, but One could mentally dominate them. Two went along with this group, but his political adeptness enabled him to remain on good terms with everyone. Four also went along with this group, but the only thing that captured his interest was finding a way to make contact with the women. This preoccupation–and his well‑developed shoulder ridges–made him seem older than the rest of us. Five was an athlete who also did well in class. I could see that he was attracted to Eight. As indeed I was. Seven seemed to be the youngest and most unformed of the group. He was another “service murk,” and his allegiance went to whatever person he’d spoken to last. Six, when he wasn’t recuperating, preferred his books and kept his distance. He wanted desperately to succeed at Bamarren, but he was vexed by his physical limitations. We all knew that these allegiances and predilections existed under the surface of our everyday interactions, but we also k
new that the dominant mask we were required to wear was one of unity. Especially in the Wilderness.

  My first exercise as the hunted individual was not successful. Four, Eight, and I were taken to separate desolate areas, as all the hunted students are, and set loose with the lone instruction that we make it back to Bamarren without being detected by any of the hunting groups. We carried nothing but the clothes we were wearing.

  Once I was left to my own resources I despaired. This was not the city. The landscape was unyielding and harsh; it held no clues that I could read as to what direction the Institute was in or how far. I wandered about in the searing heat, doing everything in my power to be captured. I was in terrible agony. Of course, it took no time at all for the Furtan Group to accommodate me. Four was captured, but only after a much longer hunt, and Eight successfully returned to Bamarren without being detected. I was judged an abysmal failure and assigned to solitary detention, as an example of what happens to lackluster effort and to think about how I could change for the better.

  But it was in the Pit and my work with Calyx that I suffered the most. My dreaming made me “an air man.”

  “You have no grip, no focus. How can you find your strength if you can’t hold your place? Living in your dreams is like living in exile.”

  His critique cut to the heart. It was only my determination to somehow find my place in Bamarren–in the group, in myself–that kept me from total despair. But I was very close to giving in.

  After a particularly brutal session in the Pit, when Three pinned me face down in the sand and nearly broke my neck, I lingered in the training area to be alone and deal with another bitter defeat. The worst thing about it was that it was self‑inflicted. I wasn’t as strong as Three, but I was much smarter and my instincts were truer and faster. However, there was always one point during a strategem where I would panic and lose control. It would happen the same way every time: A difficult move under pressure against strong physical resistance from an opponent . . . and something would snap. A painful blow might set it off, a whispered insult, perhaps just a thought or a feeling of hopelessness, and I would suddenly lose control and lash out like a madman. I became suffused with a raging, crimson anger that poured out from some black hole somewhere deep inside me. At first I appeared ferocious, and my opponent would back off. But it was Eight, of course, who efficiently exposed my lack of strategic control and the utter impotence of such behavior. Without Eight, Three would never have gotten past my berserker appearance.

  As I sat on a bench and went over the moves that had led to my latest failure, I heard a female voice in the adjoining area. The voice was saying something about what constitutes a crime in a covert assignment. I heard no voice in reply, and I thought I was having another one of my visions. I started to leave before it took over–this was the last thing I wanted. But the sweetness of the voice stopped me. It had a piping and melodic lilt, firm and confident. And there was a soothing quality as it spoke of dry legal definitions. It acted as a balm for my bruises and bitterness. I began to feel such longings. It was like hearing music that you love when you least expect it. How I missed Mother, and working with Father in the flower beds. How I longed for home. I dropped my guard and surrendered to the voice. The tears I was determined never to shed accompanied choking waves of shame and relief, sadness and joy. I finally was able to admit to myself how unhappy I was.

  I had lost track of the voice. When I was able to exercise some control I began to pull myself together before someone saw me. I used my dirty tunic to wipe my eyes, looked around . . .and there she was. The young woman from my vision in the Pit. Except that I knew from her look of concern that this was not a vision.

  “Are you hurt?” she asked.

  I wanted to hide, I wanted to say yes. I just looked at her. How could her eyes be both so clear and so unfathomably black?

  “Thank you,” I managed.

  “For what?” She was confused, concerned, but I could see the hint of amusement in her look.

  “I . . . you have a . . . pleasant voice.” Pleasant! I think I actually cringed. But she laughed at this. She had such a delighted look on her face.

  “Then was it something I said?” she asked.

  “What?” I had no idea what she meant.

  “If my voice didn’t make you cry it must have been my speech,” she continued to laugh. “I don’t blame you. The establishment of the Habburitic Code and its relevance to covert intelligence missions is enough to make the angels weep.”

  “What are angels?”

  “A human religious tradition. You get all that in Second Level. It’s a lot more fun than Foundations of Cardassian Law. Are you alright?”

  Yes . . . uh, I’m . . .” I shook my head, embarrassed.

  “Homesick, I know. This can be such a cruel place. But you know the secret, don’t you?” She asked this with exaggerated confidentiality, looking around as if there might be spies. I was still getting used to her manner, and I looked around as well in case there really were.

  “No . . . I don’t think so.”

  “Your sense of humor. Without it you’re lost.”

  I wasn’t sure I understood.

  “You strike me as being very serious and ambitious. That’s fine, most of the students are,” she patiently explained. “But it’s pretty funny around here.”

  “I don’t know.” I was dubious to say the least.

  “No, really. You study with Calyx, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” I glumly answered.

  “I know. The Pit wasn’t my favorite place either, but look at his eyes when he’s instructing or when he watches the others. There’s a glint. He’s enjoying himself. What’s your name?”

  “Ten Lubak.”

  “No, your real name.”

  “But we’re not supposed to . . .” I stammered, truly shocked.

  “I’m not going to tell anyone. My name is Palandine. What’s yours?”

  “Elim.” It barely came out of my mouth.

  “Our secret. Agreed?” Faced with her smile I would have agreed to anything.

  “Agreed.” Suddenly she was running off.

  “I have to deliver this silly thing for next class. Remember, it’s all funny. Think about it . . . Elim.” She whispered my name, laughed, and disappeared behind the barrier. I didn’t even say good‑bye. I didn’t even know what her proper designation was. I looked around and saw the Pit. I tried to see what was funny about it, but my mind wasn’t yet ready for this concept. I wasn’t even sure that I had this mysterious sense of humor. Suddenly I felt angry. How dare she? She broke two rules that could get us both in serious trouble. And like a fool I’d told her my name. The use of our real names was a serious transgression. From the beginning it’s drummed into us that the less security operatives know about each other in any given unit, the less they can divulge if they fall into enemy hands. I felt like I’d given up a precious secret to someone I didn’t even know. Someone who seemed almost frivolous. There’s nothing “funny” about Bamarren. As I walked off, I considered telling someone about this encounter. But how would they interpret my part in it? And what about the secrecy agreement I had made with Palandine? I didn’t know what to do . . . but I did feel much better.

  9

  Entry:

  “Doctor Bashir is with Chief O’Brien. He should return at fifteen hundred hours. Unless it’s an emergency.”

  I assured Nurse Jabara that it wasn’t, nodded my thanks, and walked back out to the Promenade. I stood there for a moment, trying to deny that I was upset. This was the umpteenth time I had come to invite the doctor to lunch, only to find that he was already engaged with the Chief. Playing darts. Building models of old wars. Battling ancient enemies in ancient flying machines in some holographic fantasy. Or the latest diversion, listening to the insipid “lounge” music at Vic Fontaine’s. Child’s games. That’s it, I decided, if he wants to have lunch he can damn well ask me.

  A Bajoran lout nearly knocked me into the
perfume display and continued on his way without so much as a glance back. I controlled my temper and followed him. The Promenade was crowded, and I quietly negotiated the crowd until I made my way directly behind him. I slipped my left foot between his two legs, hooked his right ankle and pushed him hard in the small of his sweaty back with my left hand. He went down like a demolished building, taking two or three innocent pedestrians with him, and I peeled off to Quark’s bar. As I entered I could hear a fight erupting. My action served a double purpose; not only had the lout been dealt with, but Quark’s now emptied out as the fight escalated. Louts and buffoons–and we’re going to war to save them from the Dominion. Bajorans find it difficult to believe they can ever be on the winning side; more and more they seem to prefer the dark side. I wonder if the Kai’s actions on the Promenade haven’t brought the entire society closer to the abyss.

  I sat down at the end of the bar instead of going to my usual place on the second level. I wasn’t sure how long I wanted to stay; I just had to get out of the crowd and a grip on my feelings. I was in a dangerous mood. Ever since that ridiculous holosuite program, I thought. The spy game. Well of course it’s a game. It’s all a game. But it’s not a holosuite program. And yet, the moment Julian wounded me with his ridiculous weapon, everything changed. I thought it was a magnificent moment. He showed me that he had the spine to play the game as it ought to be played. But why then did he back off? Why couldn’t he go beyond that moment? Why did our relationship end?

  “Garak!”

  Odo’s voice was sharp enough to pull me out of my musings. He was standing next to me, with that mask of detached hauteur he wore when he’d decided you were the culprit. A mask upon a mask.

  “Constable. What a pleasure. Have you had lunch yet?” I asked. He just looked at me. “Yes yes, I know, you don’t eat lunch–but join me anyway.” I gestured to the stool next to me. He didn’t move.

  “Someone witnessed you creating a situation in the Promenade,” he said.