A Stitch in Time stdsn-27

by Andrew J. Robinson

  “One Charaban, murk!” He wheeled away back into the darkness.

  “Charaban?” I weakly repeated as I watched him leave. Thedominant Level Two group. “They were assigned to this hunt?” I asked the two sentries.

  “All Level Twos were assigned. It happens once a year. How did you elude them?” The younger sentry was violating all protocol and rank distinction with the question.

  “That’s enough, Six!” the other sentry snapped. “You heard One Charaban, murk. Get back to your section.” He pushed me in the direction of the gate.

  As I walked among the buildings just beginning to come alive with dawn activity, I tried to piece together what had happened. The Gruff Voice was the leader of the Charaban, which meant he was the leader of male Levels One and Two. Small wonder he was not pleased with me. The failure of a Bamarren elite cadre to capture all the murks would not polish their reputation, and it certainly wouldn’t help One Charaban’s quest for the ultimate leadership position in Level Three. While I understood that I would have to watch my step with One Charaban, I also acknowledged that I had never been in a manlier or more attractive presence. It was like encountering an ideal that I’d only dreamed about. As I walked back to my section and accepted the congratulations of my mates, I was baffled not so much by the appearance of this new and commanding person in my life as by my recognition of his strong connection to me. But what connection? Did it have anything to do with the vision I’d had that first day in the Pit with Calyx?

  From that point on, no one at Bamarren ever captured me again. And it was not for lack of trying. I became a bit of a legend. Other students constantly asked me about my evasive techniques. When I wasn’t forthcoming, they grudgingly agreed that giving up this information would make me vulnerable in future hunts. I maintained, with a certain amount of truth, that with docents like Calyx such information was accessible to all Bamarren students. Of course I couldn’t tell them the truth. How could I? Then I would have to tell them about Mila. Pets were strictly forbidden, and anyone caught with one was punished, and the pet destroyed. How could they accept that Mila taught me the lessons that had enabled me to crawl out of the Wilderness undetected?

  And how do you explain those lessons? I struggled to explain them to myself: cultivating stillness and silence; relying less on sight, sound, and physical touch and developing the finer senses to gather intelligence. So much of what we see and hear is not the truth of any given situation; sometimes it’s necessary to close the eyes and be still, to extend our awareness beyondwhat we’ve been conditioned to believe is our field of sensory operation. Only then can we learn the patience to trust that allthe information that we need will come to us. This is some of the wisdom of the regnar. The wisdom that helped me hold my place for the first time. And for better or worse, it was this wisdom that set the unexpected course of my life.

  11

  Entry:

  The other day, the Doctor, Odo, and I were at the Replimat having lunch, an event that Odo, after our conversation, had taken it upon himself to organize. The station grows more tense each day the invasion is put off. The fabric of community interaction is wearing thin, and flaring tempers are no longer confined to Quark’s. Indeed, after my “situation,” the Promenade witnessed several such incidents. Each day we look for signs that might indicate who will be assigned where, for what duty, and when. Each day we’re disappointed, and the tension is further bloated with rumors that range from the plausible to the wildly fantastic. As the casualty figures mount, some of us attempt to keep the prevailing sense of doom at arm’s length with what the Doctor calls “gallows humor.”

  “The one I heard this morning was about you, Garak.” It was clear from Odo’s expression that he’d been looking forward to this moment. “I was warned that not only were you a changeling, but that the reason you spent so much time in the Replimat was that you had found a way to slowly poison us all.”

  “I’m sure the Replimat is quite capable of doing that without my help.” I was only half‑joking.

  “That must be the same person who came to me and accused you of sewing a deadly toxin into his shirt,” the doctor said.

  “Yes, I remember him. He didn’t want to pay for the shirt.” And I did remember him–another Bajoran who thought he could alleviate his troubles by targeting the Cardassian tailor.

  “When I did an analysis of the shirt,” the Doctor went on, “I found nothing but traces of his own bodily fluids.”

  “Which were toxic only to the people in his immediate presence,” I added just before a fight broke out in the food line. Two Romulans had decided that waiting in line was beneath their dignity, and the others were vigorously disagreeing. Odo did not appreciate the interruption and gave our new allies a blunt lesson in station etiquette. They left with sneering disdain. With friends like that. . . .

  Odo sat down and gave me a look.

  “It was Captain Sisko’s idea to get the Romulans involved, Odo. Not mine,” I answered the look.

  “Humph,” was his only reply.

  “But what about you, Doctor?” I asked, returning to the business at hand. “It seems there’s a movement afoot to have you replace Captain Sisko.” The doctor winced.

  “Is this true?” Odo asked. We both looked to the doctor for confirmation. He sighed.

  “There’s a group of . . . genetically enhanced people who feel that one of their own should be guiding the station during this emergency, and they’ve petitioned the Federation Council, but it’s Jack and his group, and no one takes them . . .” Exasperated, he broke off. “Garak, how did you hear about this?”

  “My clientele talk and I listen.” This was also true: an idiot savant who wears his presumed genetic superiority like a badge of privilege walked into my shop and never stopped talking. Of course I encouraged him, and by the time he left I had heard all about some organized attempt to elevate Dr. Bashir to the leadership position. I could see that the doctor was upset that I’d divulged this information. Clearly this genetic business was not his favorite topic of conversation.

  “Is this something we should keep an eye on?” Odo asked, studying us carefully.

  “No, not at all,” the Doctor assured him. “It’s just Jack’s people. This was nearly a year ago, and I’m afraid they have too much time on their hands–like some other people I know.” He pointedly looked away from me as Odo continued to study us, trying to decode the undercurrent of this last exchange between us. No wonder he was such a capable security operative. Odo registered every change in tone and temperature and tracked the change down to its cause.

  “Tell me something, Garak.” It was clear that he had found an opening for one of those deferred questions he kept on a prioritized list somewhere in his changeling head. He was still a basically shy and tactful person, especially when it came to other people’s business, but lately he’d become more openly inquisitive. I wondered if it was Major Kira’s influence.

  “Certainly, Constable,” I replied.

  “If Cardassia remains within the Dominion sphere, would you stay on the station?”

  “Judging from the sartorial styles,” I gestured to the crowded room, “I’d say a good tailor is a necessity.” I smiled, not believing for a moment that I’d survive an aborted invasion of Cardassia or that there would still bea Deep Space 9 if we failed. This must be the lunch where we deal with uncomfortable subjects.

  “But if Cardassia is liberated from Dominion control . . .” Odo went on.

  “ WhenCardassia is liberated,” I interrupted.

  “Would you return?”

  “Would you return to the Great Link?” Odo reacted with sharp annoyance to the question. It wasn’t a fair one, because although we were both exiles, we were in very different circumstances. With the humanoid shape he was still learning to live with, and his deepening relationship with Major Kira, Odo was discovering a new mode of existence, a new link. He had an alternative, however difficult the choice. I didn’t.

  “Y
es, I know. You can’t say.” I was sorry I had asked again. It was a question he was obviously struggling with.

  “Would you return to the same Cardassia?” the doctor asked.

  “What do you mean ‘same’?” But I knew perfectly well what he meant.

  “To a Cardassia containing the political and social elements that made the current situation possible.”

  “My dear Doctor, that’s also the Cardassia that made mepossible.” I half‑hoped my joke would end this conversation . . . but I knew better.

  “Yes, certainly, but given its totalitarian bent, do you really believe that the previous regime served its people? Liberation might allow for a new government that would ensure the freedom and well‑being of its citizens, one that was based upon democratic principles.”

  I made no reply. We’ve had our clashes on the subject of Earth‑style democracy during previous lunches. Dr. Bashir was of the opinion that the Cardassian political system allowed too many competing groups, especially the military Central Command and the Obsidian Order, to function in secret and above the will of the people. No one was surprised when the Detapa Council, the ruling civilian authority, overthrew the Central Command; and very few people, certainly, mourned the demise of the Obsidian Order. But while I didn’t disagree entirely with the Doctor’s analysis, I found it somewhat simplistic. One cannot understand a political “system” detached from its societal context. I also found his eagerness to promote these political remedies somewhat condescending, but I knew the good Doctor was on a mission, and I was determined to show good manners and let him make his case.

  “With your background and experience, Garak, I’m certain that you could serve as a liaison between a new Cardassian government and the Federation.” The Doctor paused and waited for a response. None was forthcoming. “I once suggested that you visit Earth as a member of the Cardassian government‑in‑exile. . . .”

  Laughter erupted from my mouth; I truly couldn’t stop it. “Forgive me, Doctor, but the people who call themselves our government‑in‑exile wouldn’t have me to lunch–and I wouldn’t let them clean my shoes.”

  “But you see,” the Doctor exclaimed, “that’s just the problem. Each group has its own agenda. You’re all so busy finding reasons to dislike each other that you don’t have the will or the energy to find common ground. You’re so dedicated to your . . .”

  “Reptilian mind‑set,” I prompted.

  “Well . . . yes.”

  I laughed again, but inside I was beginning to lose patience with the analysis.

  “You are, Garak. Democratic principles, on the other hand, are about adjusting boundaries, negotiating these differences . . . finding some kind of consensus.”

  “Your common ground.” No one could accuse me of not listening, especially to the key phrases.

  “Yes. Because without common ground there’s nothing left except the kind of selfish interest that eventually leads to anarchy. Don’t you see? That’s why the Dominion found Cardassia to be easy pickings.”

  I looked over at Odo. He was nodding in appreciative agreement, as if he’d learned something new and interesting. Indeed, there were several people at adjoining tables who were hanging on to the Doctor’s passionate words, as if he’d been anointed not just leader of the station but the savior of the Alpha Quadrant. Of course they loved his analysis of the evil Cardassian empire.

  “That’s why I urge you to go to Earth and experience, firsthand, a democracy that has evolved and united so many disparate groups . . .”

  I had had enough. “First of all, Doctor, I don’t quite know what you mean by ‘democratic principles.’ Are you referring to the appalling lack of discipline and self‑control I’ve observed on this station? The exaltation of individual freedom above the welfare of the group? The fact that the ‘first among equals’ in democratic society seem to get preference and privilege?”

  “Go back to Cardassia!” someone shouted from a table.

  “Dominion spy!” cried another.

  “That’s enough!” commanded Odo. He wasn’t going to let this get out of control.

  “That’s another principle, is it not, Doctor?” I gestured to the crowd. “Free expression of one’s opinion?”

  “Yes, it is, Garak.”

  “Educate me, Doctor, please. I’m obviously in the dark about these principles. What about the shabby manner in which certain acts of public service are ignored because they don’t measure up to ethical Federation standards? Is that also a principle? Whereas lying, cheating, and stealing seem to be encouraged and amply rewarded as long they keep the wheels of commerce turning and bring in a profit. You see, my friend, I’m somewhat confused. One man’s democratic principle seems to be another man’s political and social nightmare!”

  My voice had risen to an uncharacteristic pitch. It was still ringing in my ears as the Doctor stared at me as if he were studying a baffling microbe. I, too, was baffled. I had no idea where this outburst came from. I know that a distance has widened between us during the past year or so and I know that the holosuite program incident and the revelations of his genetic enhancement are the symptoms of this distance rather than the cause. It’s only natural–we’re very different people. I also know that he had only the best intentions in suggesting that I use the Federation model in order to influence the future of Cardassia. Misguided, yes, and somewhat patronizing and arrogant, but hardly sufficient to elicit this embarrassing and public loss of control.

  I mumbled some sad excuse which the good Doctor and Odo were kind enough not to challenge and left the Replimat to return to my shop. As I passed Quark’s I caught his eye and we nodded. Why I included him in my outburst also puzzled me; I rather admire his industry and resourcefulness. I especially admire the way he consistently bends Federation rules so that they work for him.

  Back in the shop I shut the doors and tried to work on an outfit I had started to cut and to come up with some designs for Odo. That brown uniform of his is so drab, I was pleased when he decided to take my advice about something more stylish.

  What is going on with me? Surely it’s not about Captain Sisko ignoring my contribution to the Romulan solution. I know better; the reward for work well done is the work itself. I’ve been included in the invasion of Cardassian space, regardless of how limited its ambition and scope or when it takes place; the rest of it–recognition, medals, monuments–is truly not important to me. What isimportant is that I feel that I am necessary, that I function with all my faculties in the service of a greater cause. And while I wait for this invasion, is making Odo more attractive to Major Kira a greater cause?

  I threw down my sketches. I didn’t want to stay in the shop with these colliding thoughts. But as I was about to leave, I was stopped in my tracks.

  I knew what it was: Odo’s question. What will I do if Cardassia remained in Dominion control? Where would I go? The Doctor’s interruption prevented me from answering, but truly I have no answer. I don’t know where I’d go. Much more troubling to me, however, is another question. Will I have a home if Cardassia is liberated?

  12

  Entry:

  As I progressed through my First Level at Bamarren, I acquired a reputation as a resourceful and serious student. Not only had I broken all previous records for evasion of capture in the wilderness, but I had also excelled in my studies. The only member of my group who performed as well in all areas was the taciturn Eight.

  I had no real friends to speak of, and told myself that loneliness was the price I had to pay for success. I considered the games and behavior of my mates to be childish, and that any unnecessary interaction would only distract me from my work. The truth, of course, was that I didn’t know how to forge those kinds of bonds. I wanted to be closer to Eight, and to a lesser degree Five, who besides being one of the great Pit strategists Bamarren ever had was fair in all his dealings. The rest, to one degree or another, I found to be jealous and manipulative. As I began to progress rapidly after my success in th
e Wilderness, One and his allies obviously felt threatened and maneuvered as a unit to cut me out of the unity we were supposed to be creating as a group. They did the same to Eight. Because this was directly counter to our training goals, they had to be clever and subtle about their methods. They had a harder time with Five, because he wasn’t as aloof as Eight and I. We made their job easier for them, Eight with his silence and me with Mila.

  Inspired by my guide Mila, I would experiment at withdrawing my presence when I had to remain in the same room with people I didn’t like. Of course I couldn’t change my coloring like a regnar,but with constant practice I was learning to change the nexus of thought, feeling, and perception that defines my presence in space. If I am sitting on a rock, I surrender to the vibratory rate of that rock, using the techniques I began learning in the Wilderness. The more successful I became, the more I was able to keep the other students at a comfortable distance–especially the ones so involved with their own agendas, they were not paying the attention they should have.

  When I smuggled Mila into my section, I made a home for him behind the shelving of my personal wall compartment. This compartment was the one place where a student’s privacy was inviolable. No one was permitted to inspect these compartments, not even the upper‑Level leaders. Without this piece of privacy I would never have been able to keep Mila. I created a space for him consisting of elements from the Wilderness, and I enjoyed opening the compartment and just watching him, especially when I was missing my home and family.

  One day I was stretched out on my bed after a grueling training exercise. A few of the other section mates were in the room and I didn’t want to be included in their idiotic conversation, so I employed my “disappearing” technique. I was working on some calibrating equations from engineering class when I heard Three exclaim, “Ten has something in his compartment.” Three had that winning combination of arrogance and stupidity, and he spoke as if I were not in the room.

  “Why else does he spend so much time staring inside?” Three demanded. The others in the room, Six and Nine, were also unaware of me and conversation turned into an argument over whether or not Three should inspect my compartment for illegal contraband. Six, to his credit, pulled his head out of his studies long enough to remind Three that such a search was forbidden on any pretext. Three sneered at Six’s objection and reasoned, with the logic of a bully, that his search was in the service of the group and that our section leader would support the action. Nine, another mental giant, agreed.