A Stitch in Time stdsn-27

by Andrew J. Robinson

  “Are you all right?” It was Pythas, but I couldn’t see him.

  “Yes,” I lied. I wanted to weep for happiness that I had found him.

  “This way.” I moved in the direction of his voice, and just as I wondered how I would follow him, I noticed that he had placed an illuminating mark on his back. At that moment I truly appreciated his obsession with detail. After a tense but steady march, we came to a trail that took us up along a steep ridge. It was a hard climb, but at one point the forest discernibly thinned out and I felt I could breathe again. Even though my body ached with the strain of carrying Dukat to the top, I was relieved that I was no longer being slapped in the face by malevolent vegetation. Once we reached the top of the promontory, it was a short distance to the house.

  “Who I am is not important,” I said as I raised the level of the enhancer. “It’s all a dream and as soon as you answer my questions you’ll wake up and return to your beloved forest.”

  It was an advantage, I realized, to have connected him before he regained consciousness. Along with the drug and the light containment field, the suggestion of a dream reality was more threatening to a soldier like Dukat than the familiar context of a hostile interrogation. He sat on a chair with a low back in the middle of an intense cone of light while I remained in the outer dark. His squinting eyes told me that it was difficult for him to see me with any clarity. But his eyes also revealed that he would match the power of his mind with anyone who dared. My best chance with such an experienced and proud adversary was to press my advantage.

  “PROCAL DUKAT!” I screamed harshly. He winced and tried to follow me as I receded deeper into the darkness of the room and moved around behind him. His head stopped and snapped to the other side where the containment field also prevented him from turning around to follow me.

  “Why did you come here?” I whispered. He tried to shift the weight of his body to stand up and when he realized that he couldn’t, that even the range of his arm movement was limited, he rested his hands in his lap and tried to move into a deep relaxation. In a way it was touching: the old man reverting to the mind control exercises he had learned as a child. I remained still and let the silence extend as I very gradually raised the level of his subliminal anxiety.

  “Why was it necessary?” I asked softly.

  The silence continued to the point where I had to fight my own impatience. Usually the effectiveness of an interrogation is assured by its sense of timelessness; the maddening possibility that it could go on forever. In this case I was acutely aware that we had to finish by first light when Pythas would have to contact the compound and inform the others of Dukat’s “disappearance.” And yet I had to wait for his response, for some kind of reaction, before I could continue. To force the procedure would only betray my limitations. His breathing had a maddening regularity, and I wasn’t even sure if he was still conscious. I had modulated the enhancer to the upper end of level three, far past the point of no reaction. I wondered if I had attached the filament at the base of his skull correctly.

  Suddenly he caught his breath in a ragged gasp that sounded like fear. His body shivered violently, and he held his breath longer than I thought possible. Whatever he was experiencing was terrifying and only his bedrock discipline enabled him to contain it. To admit that fear would have any effect on him was the equivalent of an act of cowardice to a man like him, and I began to suspect that he would literally go mad or die before he’d give me the cue I needed.

  “Get inside! Get inside their appendages!” he yelled. “It’s your only chance! You’re going to die–at least die with honor not running away with your backs exposed to their death and ridicule–get inside! Use your hands, your teeth whatever is left is nothing but the last knowing that you died not running like gutted cowards but get inside!” he babbled on one long breath, his face turning red with the effort to control a horror that was uncontrollable. He began to cough and flecks of blood appeared on his lips. “Get inside! Embrace them your lives are not important nobody cares if you live but how you die in the face. . . .” His coughing turned to gagging and choking. He was apoplectic, and tears began to appear. His rage was impotent, and he knew it. He was crying like a little boy whose tantrum was having no effect whatsoever on the outside world. “You cowardly bastards!” he sobbed in a hoarse whisper. His voice was going. “Why won’t you die like men?”

  I made the decision to modulate down to the lowest level. I knew the risk I was taking–this might give him the respite he needed to outlast the night–but his threshold was high, and he was perilously close to snapping into insanity or worse. I had to reinsert myself in his process somehow. He would try to match his will with anything I imposed from the outside and fight to the death; I had to become involved, even at the risk of imprinting my identity on his memory. I moved back around into his purview. His eyes were closed, his body clenched as if trapped by the horror of his last image. I came to the edge of the cone of light.

  “Why are you frightening me like this? What have I ever done to you?” I asked simply.

  He opened his eyes and squinted at me. “You.” Was there recognition?

  “Yes, it’s me.” I squatted so that I was at eye level. I tried to soften myself, round off all the sharp edges. “Why are we here? Why have you brought me? I was asleep and safe.”

  “There is no safety. You saw them!” he whispered fiercely, his eyes burning with his vision. “We can never sleep. How many times have I warned you? They even invade our dreams and we have to fight them there.” He was feverish, but there was definitely a look of recognition. I had a sudden intuition.

  “But what can we do?” I asked like a child. “We’re asleep. How can we defend our dreams?” The clenched muscles of his face began to slowly give way to a smile. I was right.

  “Tell me, Father. Please.” A hint of the real son’s overenunciated and ponderous diction began to creep into my voice. I even tried to lengthen my neck. I was summoning up the image of Dukat’s son as much as I could from just that one meeting on Romulus.

  “You have to be strong on every level. Cowardice is like a disease and these people will infect you any way they can. Look what happened at Kobixine. They said negotiate with the arachnids. I said no.” The voice was harsh, whispered, but he was going to communicate at any cost. “We have the advantage. Exterminate them. That’s what they want to do to us. We’re outnumbered, but we have the element of surprise on our side. We have to use it!” The old man began to cough again and flecks of blood and spittle flew into my face. “Gul Karn caved in. He became infected. We lost our advantage and the arachnids slaughtered us.” The memory was fresh and bitter. “That’s why Karn had to die, son. That’s why we need the Brotherhood. They must not be allowed to infect us!”

  I began to breather easier. Now we were getting to the crux. “Who are they, Father? Tell me so I can recognize them,” I pleaded.

  “You know them!” I could feel the heat of the old man’s anger. “How many times have I warned you? Only fools don’t listen!”

  “I’m sorry, Father,” I whispered.

  “They’re the same people who now want to kiss the Federation’s ass and sign treaties that turn us all into women. Again, we have the advantage and the civilians and the traitors are pissing it away.” His disgust was corrosive. “We have two implacable enemies, son. How are we going to fight them if we turn our warriors into women? That’s what the Assembly wants to do!”

  “The Federation . . . yes,” I said. “They only understand power . . .”

  “And the Klingons, boy! Don’t forget them!” he commanded as if they were surrounding us. “They understand power, too, and if they think we’d rather talk than die. . . .” Dukat trailed off.

  “I won’t forget them, Father.” I started to modulate the enhancer up. I didn’t want to lose him. His eyes widened with a new thought.

  “Did you go to Romulus?” he asked.

  “Yes, I did. With Barkan,” I added.

&
nbsp; “He’s good. He’s good, son,” the old man nodded. “But watch him. He’s like his father. If a better deal can be made. . . .” I modulated higher. He was seized by a spasm and his face contorted into a rictus. “That’s what they look like!” he screamed. “That’s what they really look like when you strip away. . . .” His breath ran out and he began to choke in an attempt to refill his lungs. I chose not to modulate down. “We have to . . . kill them. Carriers . . . they carry the disease. Every one of them. Surround the Assembly . . . let everyone watch so they never forget. Ghemor . . . Lang . . . the guls who stand with them . . . especially the traitors!” Dukat was energized and tried to rise as if he were exhorting his troops. The frustration of not being able to poured into his words.

  “The Brotherhood has to move now! The families must take their rightful place. Support the Directorate or die. And no exile! Exile is just deferred treachery. Those who were meant to rule must rule. End these negotiations with the Federation. Use the Romulans to drive the wedge! What did they say?” he suddenly asked me. “Will they move with us against the Klingons?”

  “They said . . . yes. Yes, they will.” I didn’t know if this was the right answer, but I had to keep moving. Dawn was breaking.

  “Good. Cripple the Klingons and then we can move against the disease itself.”

  “The Federation,” I said.

  “Yes, boy. The Federation. But first we have to root it out here . . . we have to purify Cardassia before. . . .” His breathing was becoming increasingly tortured, and his voice was reduced to a painful rasp. I was afraid that the sustained exertion would seriously injure him to a point that aroused suspicions. I shut the enhancer down. His eyes closed and his ashen face relaxed. I left the containment field in place and stepped outside to clear my head. No matter how objective I tried to remain, I could never remain totally unaffected by another man’s horror. Fear was a contagious disease. It was nearly full light now, and I knew that I had little time to bring him back before the others arrived.

  When I stepped back inside he appeared to be sleeping. I turned off the containment field and hid the enhancer and the recording devices which would document Dukat’s “confession.” I prepared a lighter dose of the plaktartoxin and reattached the sling to my body. When I turned back I was shocked to see him standing and looking at me with a clear and level expression.

  Suddenly he attacked me, and as I stumbled back to avoid his furious rush I nearly spilled the toxin on myself. I slammed him into the wall and he sagged. He had no reserves with which to maintain his advantage. I twisted his right arm around to his back and administered the toxin. As I was attaching him to the sling he turned his head and faced me.

  “Who are you?” he asked for the second time, fighting against the toxin’s effect. This was one tough old warrior.

  “Your worst nightmare,” I replied.

  “Ah,” he croaked. “Then Tain sent you.” He gave me one last murderous look before he lost consciousness. In a flash I realized that I hadn’t got him to name any members of the Brotherhood. But I was more concerned about his associating me with Enabran Tain.

  19

  Entry:

  Hands yanked and ripped the clothes off my body. I was unable to make any effort to stop them and couldn’t make out their faces.

  “Strip him completely. He’s dead.” It was Doctor Bashir’s voice. But I’m not dead, I wanted to say. I couldn’t form the words to voice them. I was absolutely helpless as they lifted my naked body and threw me into the deep pit on top of the other bodies.

  “Ah, Elim,” the body next to mine said. “You, too.” It was Tain.

  “Sooner or later we all end up here,” the body beneath me observed. It was Tolan. All the bodies in the pit were murmuring.

  “But we’re alive,” I protested above the babbling drone. “What are we doing in here?”

  “This is the final strategem, Ten Lubak.” It was Calyx. “If you can master this one, you’ve found your place.”

  “But this is horrible. This can’t be my place. How can I master this?” I pleaded.

  “This isyour place,” Lokar’s voice informed me. “And you must never forget it.”

  “Just tread lightly, Elim. Use the silences,” Pythas’s voice advised me. I tried to move so I could see him, but I couldn’t.

  “Accept, Elim,” Mila told me. “Stop fighting who you are and then you can move ahead.”

  “But why? Why are we here? And where’s Palandine?” Before anyone could answer I felt a load of soil and rocks fall on my body.

  “That’s the last one,” Doctor Bashir called above me. “Cover them up and seal off the pit. For the good of the quadrant they must never be allowed to return.”

  “But why?” I cried. “Calyx, how do I master this?” My questions were answered by the falling soil and the murmuring babble. “How? Tell me! How?”

  I pushed myself away from the desk, bathed in sweat and gasping for breath. I stood up and looked around the room. Slowly, I came back to the station and the night silence. I had fallen asleep working at the desk. I rubbed my head where it had rested fitfully against the hard surface. This was probably my last night on the station. Perhaps forever. I had so much work I wanted to complete. It was late, but I punched a code on the station comm.

  The voice cleared a passage in the throat to be able to speak. It was exactly what I couldn’t do in the dream. “Yes?” the Doctor asked.

  “Doctor, forgive me, but I need to see you,” I said as calmly as I could.

  “Garak?”

  “I do apologize, but it’s important.”

  “What’s wrong?” the Doctor asked, trying to gauge the level of importance.

  “It’s not a medical emergency. Please, I realize this is an imposition.” There was a silence and I heard another voice in the background. Ezri Dax. A muffled conversation. The Doctor cleared his throat again.

  “I’ll be right over,” he said.

  “Thank you, Doctor.” I turned to the window, and the eternal night of space. My beloved stars. Only a nightmare as terrible as this could make me so grateful to be alive on this station. How ironic that I would be leaving it in a few hours.

  “It’s the anxiety of going back to Cardassia,” the Doctor assured me. “And it’s a very dangerous mission. Does one ever become inured to the possibility of death?” the Doctor asked.

  “Not really,” I answered as I served the Tarkalian tea. “If we lose our fear of death, we lose an important ally.”

  “I don’t know, Garak.” The Doctor sipped his tea. “Perhaps you should talk to Ezri about this. I don’t know how much help I can be.”

  “Ezri, with all due respect, wasn’t in the dream.”

  “Neither was I,” the Doctor replied.

  “On the contrary, my friend, you were.” He gave me his puzzled look, which wrinkled his brow. I was always amazed at how deep the furrows were for one so young.

  “I trust you don’t mean that literally.”

  “You were in my dream,” I maintained.

  “Garak, you can’t believe. . . . Look here.” The Doctor took a deep breath. “My . . . persona . . . my symbolic representation was in your dream to . . . serve a purpose devised by your subconscious mind to satisfy some . . . need. It had nothing to do with me other than how your psyche used me . . . the way a . . . play‑wright uses a character.” The Doctor paused and shook his head. The idea of his participation in my dream had ruffled his science. “This area has always been a great mystery. If I had a dream about . . . Hippocrates, you can’t believe that this ancient Greek healer actually showed up,” he challenged.

  “We exist on many levels at the same time, Doctor. This level. . . .” I gestured to the room and its objects. “. . . the space/time continuum, I believe you call it, is perhaps the narrowest and least dimensional of all. But it’s the one in which we choose to relate to each other as corporeal beings in a defined material space measured by units of time. It serves a purpose, yes, but
it’s a purpose that’s been determined by our interaction on otherlevels, deeper and more complex than this one.”

  “What’s the purpose of this one then?” he asked impatiently.

  “To consummate the agenda created by our more dimensional selves!” A passion had crept into my voice, and the Doctor just looked at me.

  “ ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’ ” he quoted.

  “Who’s that?” I asked.

  “Shakespeare,” the Doctor replied.

  “Hmmh.” I nodded in agreement, surprised that for once the author of the politically misguided Julius Caesarmade sense.

  “I’ve never heard you talk like this before,” he said. “ I had no idea Cardassians held such ideas.”

  “Most don’t. But we once did.”

  “So you’re saying . . . what? That this level is the concrete manifestation of . . .” he stopped.

  “Of who we are, Doctor. Our being. Human being. Cardassian being. But we have become these beings– arebecoming, always in the processof becoming–on these other dimensional levels that are not limited by the measures of time and space. And the great determining factor of our becoming is relationship. Unrelated, I become unrelated. Alienated. Opposed, I become an antagonist. Unified, I become integrated. A functioning member of the whole.” The Doctor was thoughtful; his previous agitation had dissolved.