A Stitch in Time stdsn-27

by Andrew J. Robinson

  “Barkan is ambitious. I wanted you on the council, but he felt that it would only give you an advantage when you–inevitably–challenged him for the leadership. He couldbe your friend someday, Elim.” I laughed, too loudly, and she flared in response. “You’re so naпve. You still don’t know what this is all about, do you?”

  “I wonder if you’re not the one. . . .” I stopped. I was afraid that once I started to relate the details of his treachery I wouldn’t be able to contain the rage that was spreading to every part of my body like a deadly disease.

  “I love him, Elim. And I’m also ambitious. I want what he wants. You’ll understand this when you find someone to share your. . . .”

  “I have to go.” I shut myself off like a closing worm‑hole. “Good‑bye, Palandine.” I turned and left. I am number One, I kept reminding myself.

  * * *

  Eight, who was now designated the number One of Lubak, helped me clean my area. We said very little. When everything was done, I stood in front of my compartment.

  “Let me show you something,” I said. He moved next to me. I took Mila from her sandy home. At first he didn’t see her, but when I brought my hand close he reacted.

  “So that’s what it was,” he said as Mila’s skin rippled and changed coloration to find a suitable disguise. “We knew you had something in there, but after what you did to Three nobody was going to try to find out again.”

  “He’s the reason I succeeded in the Wilderness,” I said.

  “And in the Competition,” Eight added. He understood what I meant.

  “You can beat Charaban.” I lowered my voice to a fierce whisper.

  “We’ll see.” Eight replied.

  “No, you can. Because you have the very quality that goes right to his weakness. I had to have Mila to learn how to cover my thinking, but even then I walked into his traps. You won’t, and he’ll be forced to make assumptions about you–and they’ll be wrong.” We watched Mila ripple and change. “My name is Elim Garak. I don’t know where I’m being sent, but I hope you’ll remember me as your friend.”

  “When I was told today that I was One Lubak, I was honored . . . and afraid that I’d lose you as a friend. Thank you. My name is Pythas Lok.”

  Neither one of us ever took our eyes off Mila, who was still trying to blend into his surroundings.

  * * *

  I had just enough time to complete my last mission at Bamarren. I returned to the Mekar Wilderness with Mila and to the rock formation that was his original home. I found the escarpment where I had hidden myself that first day, and put Mila on the ground in front of the opening. He stood poised and still, various shades of desert playing across his skin. Something powerful was stirring deep inside me, and I began to shake. Mila snapped his head to the side, the way he does when he senses light or heat change. Convulsive waves pushed up from my center and tears filled my eyes, blinding me. I had absolutely no control over what was happening to me. By the time the convulsions subsided and my eyes cleared, Mila had disappeared into the rock‑and‑sand home he came from.

  As I hiked back to the Institute, I had the thought that maybe somebody was doing the same thing for me and bringing me back home.

  PART II

  “Truth is in the eye of the beholder, Doctor. I never tell the truth because I don’t believe there is such a thing . . .”

  “You’re not going to tell me.”

  “But you don’t need me to tell you, Doctor . . . if you’ll just notice the details. They’re scattered like crumbs . . .”

  1

  Entry:

  I’m afraid that the “invasion” was not all I had hoped for. The Dominion’s grip on Cardassia is as tight as ever, and it’s going to require another, greater concerted effort on the part of the Federation and its allies to loosen that grip. The most significant change is that the wormhole is closed . . . and so is my shop.

  And Jadzia is gone. The station is a sadder and grayer place without her. I’m surprised at how keenly I feel her absence. Even though I know that her symbiont has been “joined” with another person . . . well, it’s not the same, is it? Indeed, knowing that Jadzia’s personality is somehow contained along with several others within this other person, I wonder how I would react if we were ever to meet. It would take some preparation on my part. Trills are such a unique race.

  But are they? We all–to some degree–contain the memories, traits, fragments of those personalities that came before us. Indeed, perhaps we are even “joined” on a deeper, more spiritual level. The first Hebitians believed this. Each generation is not only succeeded by the next, it is subsumed by it, so that the past is always present and actively involved in creating the future. So in a sense there is no past and future; there is only the present. And I must say that Jadzia’s spark and vibrancy reflected this immediacy.Which is why we were all drawn to her–like moths to a flame.

  I must say, however, that Commander Worf’s manner of mourning has completely baffled me. Entombing himself in that ludicrous holosuite program with Vic and his incomprehensible human gibberish . . . those maudlin songs. . . . The doctor has reminded me that these are personal choices, and it’s not for us to judge how one chooses to mourn. Quite so. Who can even begin to understand another’s grief?

  “Do you judge people by the clothes they ask you to make?” the doctor asked once. I bit back my response, but the point was well taken. Besides, I’m not making anyone clothes these days. I now spend my time decoding Cardassian military transmissions, some of which are prototypes of codes I created for the Order. Ironic . . . and disturbing. Odo has been charged with the task of gathering the intercepted transmissions and bringing them to me. One day I asked if he wasn’t ever disturbed by the fact that he was at war with his own people. Did he feel a sense of betrayal? As far as he’s concerned, the Founders conducting this war are betraying everything the Great Link stands for, and therefore they must be defeated. I nodded and agreed . . . but I’m still disturbed.

  And I hate this work! I’d much rather be sewing.

  “What does Tir Remara want with you?” Colonel Kira demanded, ignoring my offer of tea. Immediately an entire picture formed in my head of the scenario her abrupt question suggested: Tir Remara–a spy, perhaps even a changeling, preying upon a lonely Cardassian who was working for the Federation and engaged in top‑secret work.

  “She wants to have my children,” I replied with a serious look.

  “You can’t be serious,” she managed.

  “I’m not. Now do you want this tea or not?”

  “No . . . thank you,” she allowed. It was so difficult for her to muster even a sliver of civility with a member of my race.

  “Remara and I are friends. Not terribly close. We get together occasionally. We’re curious about each other.” I sipped at my tea. Kira watched me with a cold expression, waiting for me to continue.

  “We found we had a mutual friend, and we have come to . . . enjoy each other’s company.”

  “What mutual friend?” Kira was puzzled; who or what would a Bajoran and a Cardassian have in common?

  “Ziyal,” I replied.

  Kira nodded. “Yes, of course.” The mention of her former protйgй’s name reminded her of what weheld in common: a great affection for Ziyal.

  “Why are you asking, Colonel?”

  “Because Remara has been making inquiries about you, Garak.”

  “Really?”

  “And if you arefriends, I don’t know why she wouldn’t be asking you directly.”

  “Yes.” My mind was racing. “My thoughts as well.Unless, of course . . .”

  “What?” Kira asked.

  “She’s planning to write a book about me.” Kira didn’t think that was humorous. “Watch her,Garak. And be careful what you tell her.” She left as abruptly as she entered. I smiled at the irony of being told to watch my mouth. What was going on here? Was it Kira’s concern about a possible breach of security? A friendship between a Bajoran and a
Cardassian? And if Remara wasn’t writing a book, what did she want this information for?

  2

  Entry:

  “Careful, Elim. These plants have delicate tendrils. Lower them slowly, so they find the holes.”

  I took the Edosian orchid from Father and slowly lowered the pale, dangling feelers over the prepared soil. These orchids were his favorite flowers, and somehow he was able to make them grow in this section of the Tarlak Grounds.

  “Just hold the plant for a moment directly above–the tendrils will align themselves.” His voice was almost a whisper. “Now watch closely.”

  As if they had eyes, the tendrils swayed until they found the openings Father had dug and paused above them.

  “Now lower the plant slowly.” I did. When the root ball had settled in the depression, Father immediately filled in the sides with his special mixture, which he claimed was the secret. People would come from distant places to see the Grounds and especially the miracle of Father’s orchids, which had no logical reason to exist in this climate. When someone asked how he was able to grow them in an outside environment, he’d gauge how serious the questioner was and answer accordingly. To those few he judged to be sufficiently patient, he gave a soil sample and some instructions; to the rest he’d smile and say that Tarlak had a secret ideal quality. And it did–but only because Father had made it that way with his care and unlimited patience.

  The Grounds was Father’s passion, and when I returned from Bamarren I worked as his assistant while waiting for my next placement. At first it felt odd to be working at these simple and mindless tasks. But I began to notice that Father was now talking to me more, telling me about the various plants and shrubs and flowers. We spent very little time among the monuments and tombs. Gradually, I began to accept the change and even to enjoy the pace of this work. This was probably Father’s intention.

  When I first arrived home, Mother and Father accepted the fact that I was no longer a boy. They looked older to me, especially Father, and the changes I had undergone at Bamarren had created a distance between us that we all found awkward.

  During this period I never saw Tain. Once I asked Mother how he was, and she replied that as far as she knew he was fine. I occasionally heard footsteps above us and wondered when he’d come back into my life–a question tinged with some anxiety–but Mother and Father never mentioned him, and I went about my own business.

  I spent very little time at home. I found a training area nearby where I practiced my sets of martial forms. I was determined not to lose the fine edge of my conditioning.Occasionally, I would be challenged by someone, usually an ex‑soldier or martial student, but they were never strong or accomplished enough to give me a true match. In a short time I found myself conducting an informal class, where I taught a variegated group the rudimentary forms. These classes were far more valuable than fighting outmatched opponents.

  Otherwise, I reverted to a solitary existence, waiting for my life to find new purpose and constantly wondering what my friends . . . and enemies . . . were doing at Bamarren. I had ideas about the coming Competition that I wished I could communicate to Pythas, ideas that would ensure Barkan’s humiliation. And there were feelings I had no words for that I wished I could make known to Palandine.

  “That’s who he is now, Tolan. He’s a man.” I heard mother’s voice as I approached the opened door to our housing unit after a training session.

  “He’s hard, Mila,” Father said.

  “He has to be,” she replied.

  “But to the point where he’s unreachable?” Father asked. “Where nothing penetrates? How can he express even his basic needs if he’s trapped inside a shell?”

  “It’s better this way, Tolan. I know what’s in store for him,” Mother interrupted. There was a momentary silence.

  “More Bamarren,” Father said, almost to himself. There was another silence indicating the discussion was over. I decided to take a walk.

  The next day, Father and I were weeding and pruning across from the children’s area where mothers and caretakers bring children to play. The adults talked among themselves, worked, or read while the children’s voices created a constant background of musical chatter. We had been working quietly and steadily, but I knew Father wanted to speak. I didn’t know why he hesitated.

  “Elim, have we ever spoken about the first Hebitians?” Father broke the silence with a question so strange it almost made me laugh.

  “No,” I carefully answered.

  “What do you know about them?”

  “They were . . . the first peoples . . . before the climatic change.” Our school histories never spent much time talking about the Hebitians. “They had primitive solar technologies. When the rain forests and grasslands were taken over by the deserts, they died off. They couldn’t adapt.”

  “That’s what you were taught.” Father barely shook his head. “That’s not what happened, Elim.”

  I said nothing. We continued to work as I listened to the children’s voices punctuated by the clipping and raking and digging.

  “The only thing that was primitive about the Hebitians is the way we’ve treated them in the historical record.” I stopped working and looked around. This was the first time I had ever heard him challenge received orthodoxy, and my first concern was that no one was listening. Father noticed this and smiled.

  “I see your Bamarren education has taken hold. Fertile ground for young minds.” Slowly and painfully, I thought, he raised himself to his full height, stretched, and picked up his bag.

  “Let’s have some tea.” He laughed because he knew that the tea he drank, which was brewed from the roots of some shrub, had made me gag the first–and only–time I’d tried it. I had a separate container of the common chobanvariety. We took our containers and settled in a shady place that faced the playing children.

  “Look at them. With young minds you can plant anything and it grows into ideas and beliefs.” We watched one child begin to explore beyond the play area until she was intercepted by the caretaker who, judging by her gestures, was explaining why the toddler mustn’t stray.

  “The first Hebitians had an advanced culture that was sophisticated on every level, Elim. Yes, it was solar‑based, but they were able to support themselves, and this is what most of the planet looked like.” He waved his tea container to indicate the Grounds. The idea was almost too outlandish for me. Soft and green places are rare on Cardassia.

  “It’s hard to imagine, isn’t it? We live in constant struggle with the land. We’ve become as hard and dry. . . .” Father trailed off and sipped his tea. I thought of my favorite place at Bamarren, and almost told Father about it–but how could I describe the enclosure without speaking of her?

  “What were they like?” I asked, giving my full attention to him.

  “Do you remember, Elim, when I took you to the Hebitian remains outside Lakarian City?”

  “Yes.” I was just a boy then, and we had walked around the crumbling walls and piles of stone and pulverized tile. I had enjoyed the trip more for its novelty than for anything else, but I remembered one carving on the side of a wall. It was of a winged creature with a Cardassian face that was turned toward a sun disc. Extending down from the creature’s body were several tentacles that divided just before entering the bodies of people who were standing on a globe and looking up to the creature. The tentacles went through the people and into the globe itself. I told this to Father and he laughed.

  “You remember that?”

  “And you said that it should be preserved before it eroded.” I remembered his indignation.

  “I did. When I went to my superior and suggested that what was left of the entire city be preserved, he told me that it had already been taken care of. What was salvageable was sold to Romulan art dealers, who in turn placed the pieces in various museums and collections throughout the quadrant. All that’s left now is dust.” Father was silent again.

  “What were they like?” he muttered, rep
eating my question. “They valued the soul, Elim. They were organized–they had to be, they had determined enemies–but their energy wasn’t devoted to the conquest of others, to accumulating resources they couldn’t produce themselves. They were able to support themselves, and this self‑sufficiency allowed them to nurture and celebrate their group soul with art and culture.”

  “Who were their enemies?” I asked, fascinated and somewhat uneasy with what Father was saying.

  “We were.”

  The paradox stopped me. “But . . . how is that possible? We . . . we are descended from those people.” I remembered that Calyx had called me an “air man” and wondered if I didn’t get it from Father. Mother often complained that he didn’t have a grasp of what she called our “power‑driven reality,” and he would reply that his reality was driven by the same power that grew his plants and shrubs. These arguments always left the house feeling divided and cold.

  “I know this is hard for you to understand, Elim. Our racial policies forbid enjoining with subjected peoples. The Hebitians were the envy of the surrounding planets, what we now call the Cardassian Union. As long as their planet, this one we call Cardassia Prime, was healthy and self‑sufficient, they were able to withstand any attempts at conquest. But when the climate began to change and resources dwindled, the ‘group soul’ weakened. People lost their faith in the old ways . . . disease killed millions . . . it was just a matter of time. The ones who were left surrendered to the invaders, who brought their organization based on military conquest and expansion and blended with them. We come from both these peoples.”

  Father fell silent again. A howling child caught our attention. I was grateful for the distraction from Father’s very different version of our past. I’d been taught that the first Hebitians were a primitive people and had died off in the climatic catastrophe; that the survivors had built a new civilization that became superior in all ways.

  “I love this place, Elim. And it means a great deal to me that we’re able to spend this time with each other working here.” Father smiled and put his hand on my shoulder. He rarely touched me, and the contact embarrassed me . . . and sent a warm feeling through my body. I felt like one of his plants. He kept his hand on my shoulder and stared at me with an intensity that made me afraid of what he was going to say next.