A Stitch in Time stdsn-27

by Andrew J. Robinson

  But this is our problem now (and I can see you ready to pounce, Doctor): What is our new mechanism of choice? A small group of Mondrig’s supporters are attempting to intimidate people, but to engage them with organized opposition would be dangerous. We have several small armies battling each other to fill a power vacuum and end up deeper in the dust and rubble. But that’s what Mondrig wants–a competition. He maintains that the coming inevitable conflict will “revitalize our defeated spirit, and a renewed warrior society will return us to our former glory.” Dr. Parmak, however, is a believer in the democratic principles you and I have spent many hours arguing over (what is it about you doctors?). He and Ghemor want the people of the sector to be able to vote. It’s a new concept for us, but everyone is so weary from the war and its devastation that it’s a serious possibility.

  Yes, I can picture you sitting with your feet up, gloating with that self‑satisfied smile of Federation enlightenment. And perhaps you’re right.

  10

  Entry:

  As I approached the house the door opened. Mother had evidently been waiting for me. I paused at the door.

  “Hello, Mother.” It’d been years since I had said that. A great space had widened between us, and I’d had to call her Mila the few times I’d seen her at the Order. Standing in the doorway, she looked older and heavier.

  “Come in, Elim.” It was also years since I’d been inside this house. The same smell of cooking oil and disinfectant prevailed, and nothing appeared to have changed. Except that Father was ill. I followed Mother down the stairs to the basement with an increasing sense of foreboding.

  “He’s very weak, Elim. Don’t tire him.”

  “How long has he been ill?” I asked. The situation was obviously more serious than I was led to believe.

  “For some time.” Mother was terse, uncommunicative. She stubbornly maintained the distance between us.

  “Why didn’t you call me earlier?” Anger was rising within me, and I had to keep a tight control.

  “You’re so rarely in the city, and when you are I know that Enabran needs you.”

  It was true. The only time I spent on Cardassia was what was necessary to prepare me for my next assignment; any time left was spent in further training that Tain insisted that I have. I had long since shed my probe status. Indeed, judging from the way I was treated, I was regarded as one of Tain’s protйgйs (the “sons of Tain” they called us), and held to a rigorous standard. I was envied and feared, but returning to this house had revealed the true depths of my loneliness. Mother stopped before we entered Father’s room. She wanted to tell me something.

  “He’s not himself. He’s . . . medicated, and sometimes what he says doesn’t make sense. It’s important to leave before he gets to that point.” I nodded and we entered.

  The room was dark, and the smell of decay assaulted my senses. I started to gag and worked to fight back the fear that seized me. When my eyes adjusted, I barely recognized Father. He was the size of a child. His hair was completely white, his face skull‑like. I couldn’t tell if he was sleeping or dead. In either case, death was the dominant presence. I was speechless. This was a man whose body had been lean and hard, and who had worked every day with unflagging vitality.

  “Elim is here, Tolan,” Mother said. “He came to say hello.”

  Father opened his eyes, enormous and glittering dark pools that overwhelmed his gray shrunkenness. What life remained had collected in them. It took him a moment to focus on me, and then he smiled.

  “Elim,” he whispered.

  “Hello, Father.” My voice sounded loud and false.

  “Look . . . Mila. He’s a man,” he said with wonder, as if the intervening years had been mere days.

  “Well, isn’t that what I’m supposed to be?” I tried to joke.

  He started to pull himself up. “Help me, Mila.”

  “No, Tolan. Rest. Elim will be back when you’re feeling stronger.” Mother started to guide me out of the room.

  “No!” The strength of his voice stopped us. “Help me sit up, and then leave.”

  Mother had a stricken look on her face. She looked at me. I didn’t know what to say.

  “Please, Tolan. You need to. . . .”

  “I need to talk to Elim.” He turned to me. “Help me sit up.” His body was nearly weightless, and as I lifted him up and reset his bolster, I wondered what kept him from floating away.

  “Now leave us, Mila,” he commanded.

  I thought Mother was going to cry. She gave one last pleading look, but realized that it was useless. She turned and left.

  Alone with Father, I didn’t know what to say. He motioned me to come closer. I knelt down on the floor so that my face was level with his.

  “I’m dying, Elim.” He could see the distress in my face as I tried to stammer something. “No, no, no. I’m old, and this is what’s supposed to happen now.”

  “And all this time. . . .” I tried, but my voice choked off. “I’m sorry, Father.”

  “You have nothing to apologize for, Elim. I’m the one who’s sorry.”

  “Please, Father. . . .”

  “I’m not your father.”

  I studied his face to make sure that he wasn’t drifting away. His eyes were clear and present; if anything, the glitter had intensified.

  “Of course you are.” I spoke to him as if he were a child or a simpleton.

  “Elim, there’s no time to waste. I have always loved you like a son. I wished with all my heart that you weremy son. But you’re not.”

  Now I felt like the child. “Then . . . I don’t understand. Who is?”

  Tolan sighed. “Your mother is the one to tell you. I made a promise. . . .” and his voice trailed off.

  “I don’t understand,” I repeated. “Why?”

  “Oh, my dear Elim. The soul of a poet, and look at you . . . your closed face . . . all those secrets. . . .” A spasm rippled through him like a sudden wind over still water. “Too many secrets . . . it’s like poison.” He brought his trembling, clawlike hand up to my face. “Too many secrets poison the soul.” The spasm came again, this time accompanied by a racking cough. When his body relaxed he pointed to a table.

  “The red box. Open it.” I saw what he was pointing at, and rose and went to it. For some reason I was afraid to touch it.

  “Open it, Elim.” He endured another racking cough.

  It was an old lacquered box made from some kind of organic material. I lifted the simple latch. Inside it was the Hebitian recitation mask. I picked it up and felt the coarse material. The neutral face of the mask stared blankly back at me.

  “Celebrate Oralius. However you can. The bag also.” His voice was barely audible.

  A white fiber bag was at the bottom of the box. I picked it up and opened it. Inside were dozens of Edosian orchid tuber cuttings. I looked at Tolan, who was smiling faintly.

  “However you can,” he repeated with as much energy that remained. “Now take them and go.” He closed his eyes and went completely still. I stood there a long time. Thoughts, images, feelings swirled through me, collided, lingered, dissipated–and I did nothing but observe them. I had no choice. To identify with any one of them meant certain chaos. I maintained my detachment as I repacked the red box. A part of me stood off to the side and watched the rest of me pick up the box, go over to Tolan, and press my open palm against his cold, dry forehead.

  “Good‑bye, Father.”

  Mila was waiting for me when I came out. Her face was as neutral as the Hebitian mask.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “It was necessary.” She was unapologetic, almost defiant. She looked at the red box I was carrying and sighed.

  “Necessary to live this deception for all these years?” She just looked at me. It was a stupid question. In our society, having a child without an enjoined mate marked both mother and child as outcasts. The child needed both parents, otherwise he or she was designated an orphan and taken away to a service i
nstitution. The mother was publicly vilified, and the father of the child, if he was ever identified, was severely punished.

  “Why didn’t you ever enjoin with my real father?” I asked.

  “It wasn’t possible, Elim.”

  “And Tolan agreed to this deception?” It was a dangerous arrangement. The Cardassian family is a strictly defined unit, and any corruption of this unit is considered a real threat to our society.

  “Tolan is a good man.”

  “But you had another man’s child!” I was angry; I wanted to punish her. She knew this but wasn’t going to back down.

  “His loyalty was stronger than his disapproval,” she answered pointedly. Was this the formality, the distance that had always existed between them? And had there ever been any love between them?

  “Who is my father?” For the first time she broke our contact and looked away.

  “I’m sorry, Elim.” Mother moved to the bottom of the stairs as if she were ushering me out. “Will you come back tomorrow? I don’t know how long it will be. . . .”

  “Who is he?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “I have a right to know!” I demanded.

  “And I have a right. . . .” She cut herself off and made a wide gesture with her arms that seemed to include everything around her. And then it hit me . . . and simultaneously we both heard his footsteps upstairs. A chill went through me. Of course. I went to the stairs and looked at Mother. Her face was softer, younger. For this one moment the distance between us had dissolved. The footsteps were now directly above us. My entire life had been dominated by his presence. So had Mother’s . . . and Tolan’s. I nodded and started up the stairs.

  “Elim. . . .” I stopped and looked back down at her. I could see how handsome and strong her face must have been when she was young.

  “What, Mother?”

  “Be careful,” she finally warned.

  “There’s nothing to worry about. I’m just going to say hello to ‘Uncle’ Enabran.” I turned and continued up the stairs.

  Tain opened the door. Although I hadn’t been here in many years he wasn’t surprised to see me.

  “Elim. This is like the old days. Come in.” And it was like the old days. He led me through the same dark hallway into the same cluttered study, the focus of his home life. Except there were even more scrolls made from the hide of the brangwa,the extinct mountain canid. Early Cardassians from the mountainous region of Rogarin used these hides to record the poetry and stories of their culture. Tain was proud of his collection and was very much involved in a network with other collectors.

  “That’s an old box, Elim.” He pointed to the red box I had forgotten I was clutching. “May I see?” I hesitated. “I don’t blame you. It shouldn’t be handled by just anybody. Where did you find it?”

  “Tolan gave it to me.” I never called him Tolan, but if Tain noticed the change he didn’t indicate it.

  “Ah, yes. How is he? I understand he’s quite sick.”

  “He’s dying.”

  “Oh dear. Such a good man.”

  “That’s what Mother said.”

  There was a long silence and we just looked at each other. I felt disconnected. What was I doing here?

  “Sit down, Elim. Just put that stack on the floor.” I cleared the chair he had pointed to and sat holding the red box protectively in my lap. Tain sat in a deep chair that was obviously his favorite.

  “I’m glad you’ve come to me here. We can . . . express ourselves in a way that’s not possible elsewhere.”

  Indeed, the dark room with the piled scrolls and their musky smell, the artifacts and ancient wall hangings with their glyphs and symbols–was any of it Hebitian, I wondered?–was a world far removed from the cold efficiency of the Order. We were sealed away in an ageless cavern.

  “Tolan and I shared a love of classic beauty, the old aesthetics that guided and revealed. He was a visionary, Elim. All those designs at Tarlak, the way the green‑swards and plantings contained the monuments, never allowing them to brutalize us with death. Mothers and children are as welcome there as the guls and legates. All were based on classical designs. Oh, yes, he was a dedicated man. You were fortunate to be able to work with him.”

  I sat in the chair, holding the red box as if afraid it would fly apart. I wanted to cry, to speak from a deep place, to reveal my dreams and desires to this smiling older man who was my father. But I could only sit there and hold the box tighter.

  “You’re at a crossroads, Elim. You’re no longer the young probe we threw into the fray with almost no preparation to see how you would think and react. You’re a skilled operative, and ready for the next stage–if you’re willing.”

  I remembered one of the few times Tain had taken me outside the city, when he’d put me on a Cardassian riding hound. He’d held the bridle and walked me around the course. Then he’d given me the bridle and had walked next to me as the hound panted and slobbered. Then he’d said, “It’s time.” He’d slapped the hound hard, and it had taken off at full speed. But I’d hung on, though frightened by the sudden speed and surging power beneath me. Gradually I’d begun to adjust and learn to roll with the hound’s concussive undulations.

  “I was never happier in my life,” I said out loud. “I turned around to wave to you, and I fell.”

  Tain studied me for a long moment and nodded. “And you pulled yourself up and continued to ride. I remember.”

  “But why the secrets?” I asked.

  “Without them there’s no security. It’s as simple as that.”

  “But that’s our work,” I protested. “Why the other secrets?”

  “It’s allour work, Elim. To be effective our lives must be the most closely held secrets of all. We’re the night people. While the rest of our compatriots sleep that’s when we’re working the hardest, dealing with the anxieties and fears that would otherwise destroy us. We have to keep the secrets, and store them, and hold them tightly–just like you’re holding your red box.”

  I realized that my hands were cramped from holding the box. I wanted to relax them, but they wouldn’t move.

  “It requires sacrifice. And each stage of the work requires a renewal of that sacrifice. We have to give up our lives, bit by bit, to these secrets so that people will feel the security to go on with theirs–and do their work. If we tell them everything, if we give them all the information about the threats and dangers that surround us, they’ll hate us for disturbing their peace and their ability to function. This requires great strength of character on the part of the operative–to be able to hold these secrets and not let them overwhelm us.”

  This was the first time I had ever seen Tain possessed by a passion. His eyes were open and alive with his desire to communicate. His facial muscles were unguarded, working naturally as they registered the meanings of his words.

  “The truth is, Elim, these secrets must become the source of our strength, the strength that enables our people to withstand their fears, the strength that enables Cardassia to withstand its enemies. Every citizen deserves security, and it’s up to the night people to provide it.”

  I continued to sit for a long time, listening to the sounds of the house. I heard nothing from downstairs, nothing from the outside. I rose and looked at Tain. His face had returned to the controlled half‑smile. His jowls seemed to grow larger every time I saw him, and I wondered if I would ever look like that. He remained in his chair as I walked out of the room. I walked out into the night with my red box and all the way to the Tarlak Sector. I went to the children’s area and sat across from where Tolan and I had planted the Edosian orchids. At some point I opened the box and took out the mask. I studied the eyeless face and half expected it to talk to me, to explain why my life had become so complicated, so beyond my control. But it was obviously another “night person,” guarding its secrets. There were hooks that went over the ears, and I attached the mask to my face. I sat there and waited . . . but nothing was revealed. Finall
y the tears came.

  11

  Entry:

  “According to my contact on Bajor, Mr. Garak, this woman is not just another pretty face.” Quark had that conspiratorial gleam in his eyes, and his voice was ripe with the potential drama. “I should charge you double for this information.”

  “Really? What have you found?” I tried to minimize my interest, but Quark knew better.

  “Why are you so interested in Remara?” He was going to squeeze everything he could out of this situation. I sighed and looked around.

  “Will you solemnly promise you will keep this to yourself?”

  “Absolutely. You have my word.” As children, we were taught that such a bald‑faced lie was an occasion for the Mogrund to appear and punish the offender.

  “As you know, I lead a solitary existence, and I’ve been looking for a mate to share my humble existence.” Quark’s eyes had reached nova intensity; he could barely control his quivering body. “Of course,” I continued, “you can’t be too careful these days, can you?”

  “You certainly can’t.” Quark slammed his hand against the bar. “You’ve just given me an idea!” He was positively hopping up and down. “I could broker pairings, Garak. I’d have dabo girls who were looking for mates and match them with clients here on the station who agreed to pay me upon a successful pairing.” He looked around to see who could be signed up immediately. “Of course, since you helped me form the idea, this one’s on the house.”

  “That’s very generous of you, Quark. Now what about that information?”

  “Ah, yes . . . let me see.” He punched his padd. “Yes, it seems that she was an art student from Dahkur Province . . . sent to the capital to study . . . married her teacher Tir Karna. . . . They had a child–a son, Berin. . . . Ah, this is where it gets interesting: Tir and the boy were killed when Cardassians destroyed the shuttle they were in as it was taking off. . . .”

  “What shuttle was that?” I asked.

  Quark punched the padd. “The Taklan. . . it was one of their own, bound for Terok Nor. Why would the Cardassians destroy their own shuttle?” Quark asked.