A Stitch in Time stdsn-27

by Andrew J. Robinson

  I moved to the constructed formation that stood in the space formerly occupied by Tain’s study and almost directly above where Mila’s body had been sadly abandoned in the basement. When I was a boy, I had unending dreams that centered around the memorials of Tarlak. As I lay on my pallet in the basement of Tain’s house, I would plan the scenario that would play out when Tolan took me with him to Tarlak. It would always involve me as the hero paying homage to a comrade fallen in a battle where we had both distinguished ourselves. I would tell the gathered assembly of notables every detail of the battle; people would weep, cheer, listen in stunned amazement as I explained how we had saved the Union from certain destruction. When I had finished, Mila and Tolan would escort me through the adoring crowd. What a terrible irony, Doctor, that those forbidding, impersonal memorials to the heroes of the Cardassian Union should ultimately become transformed into these ragged formations on the grounds of my childhood home . . . and that I would sit here, a middle‑aged man, trying to mourn a fallen comrade who was still standing but barely recognizable. And yet, the irony of a Cardassia reborn with the help of a memorial built from the remains of Tain’s home didn’t escape me either.

  “Elim.” The voice was hoarse, strangled, but I knew it was him. He was the only person who could creep up on me like that. I turned, and he stood there–with the help of a walking stick. Behind him was the silent, impassive Nal Dejar. She was obviously his constant companion.

  “Pythas.” The same mocking smile.

  “Get too lost in your thoughts, people can surprise you,” he rasped.

  “Or ghosts from the past.”

  “I came close.”

  “I was beginning to think I had imagined you at Madred’s.”

  “Not very pretty, is it?”

  “What happened?” I asked. He shook his head, his mocking smile tinged with bitterness.

  “Nothing that hasn’t happened to millions of others. I was one of the lucky ones.” I didn’t press him for details; there was another question I wanted to ask.

  “I was surprised to see you at Madred’s.”

  “I could tell,” he replied. Pythas looked at me with his one good eye, amused, I’m sure, by my barely contained curiosity.

  “Are you a member of the Directorate?” I asked.

  “I was.” I waited for him to explain, but I had forgotten that maddening habit he had of leaving questions half answered and hanging. This time I was going to press him.

  “What changed your mind?”

  “Your friends, Elim. Very impressive people . . . and persuasive.”

  “What had you expected?” I asked.

  “The usual amateurs who never understood what was at stake . . . the hard choices that had to be made,” he explained. “To be honest, I had thought your attachment to this Reunion Project was. . . .”

  “Sentimental,” I finished. He smiled knowingly at the reference.

  “But when I heard Ghemor–someone I have always respected–and especially this Dr. Parmak speak, it became clear to me that we were fighting a rearguard action and calling it leadership. Parn and Hadar tried to dismiss what he said as Federation propaganda, but Evek and Ocett were also affected.” With the help of his stick he lowered himself carefully to a sitting position. “As I listened to him speak of the responsibility that we had as survivors to the life that remained, I also realized how bitter and hardened I had become.” He stopped and looked back to Nal Dejar, as if he were making sure she was still there. She met his eyes with a communication I couldn’t decipher, and he nodded. “Nal nursed me back to where I could function . . . part of me wished she hadn’t. Until your doctor spoke about healing . . . on every level. It’s what the body wants, he told us . . . unless we choose otherwise.” Pythas sat with his head bowed for a long moment. “I’d become very bitter, Elim.” I sat on a rock across from him and gently put my hand on his. What was it about this place, I wondered. And I remembered Parmak saying that if we couldn’t mourn, we couldn’t move ahead.

  “Healing on every level,” I repeated. After another long moment Pythas turned and nodded again to Nal Dejar who stepped forward.

  “I’ll be back tomorrow,” he said.

  “To vote?”

  “Whatever you call it,” he replied. Dejar helped him up. I began to understand how difficult movement was for him. Judging from his hands and the way he moved, his entire body was certainly covered with terrible burns.

  “You were in the grounds that night, weren’t you?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he replied. “I wanted to warn you.”

  “But Tain wouldn’t let you.”

  “Does it matter, Elim?” Pythas’s voice was less hoarse and more like his own.

  “Do you know where Palandine is?” I asked. He just looked at me. “Is she still alive?”

  In the darkness, it was difficult to read the expression in his one good eye. The silence that followed my question was broken only by his rasping breath. Behind her mask of disinterest Nal Dejar was studying me carefully. Even when she was a probe I was impressed by the strength of her focus. Pythas was fortunate to have her care and devotion.

  “The group you took her to . . . .” Pythas cleared his throat. “The Oralian Way. Look there.” Slowly they made their way back through the shadowy memorials. Movement was not only difficult for Pythas, it was painful. Had he followed me there as well? Had Tain assigned my friend to be my shadow all these years? And does it matter now?

  “Thank you, Pythas,” I called after their retreating outlines. Without turning, he partially raised his free left arm in farewell.

  I looked up. The Prime Taluvian Constellation and the Blind Moon were barely visible. It was unusual to see any light beyond the dust clouds that still hovered over the planet. I remembered that evening in the Bamarren Grounds. Just enough light, I thought. Just enough light for lovers. I squinted to make out the faint pulse of the Constellation. I tried to measure its rhythm, to decipher the hidden code. Following a sudden thought I put my hand over my heart . . . and the two pulses began to synchronize. As they came together as one, I felt like the child who made no distinction between his dreams and his waking life. For those brief, eternal pulses . . . .

  Cracks of early dawn opened throughout the darkness, and the Constellation and the Blind Moon were absorbed into the growing light. I heard voices, and when I looked in their direction I could see people beginning to gather at the edge of the memorials.

  Just enough light to begin, I thought.

  EPILOGUE

  “. . . it’s just Garak. Plain, simple Garak.”

  My dear Doctor:

  Again, forgive my further tardiness in sending this–I don’t even know what to call it. Memoirs of a Cardassian tailor? I suppose that’s as accurate a description as any. You see, Doctor, I seriously debated whether or not I should send this to you. As I went over it I wondered who this mawkish and self‑serving person was. Grow up! I wanted to tell him. Get on with your life.

  Well, I am; and sending this to you is going to further that cause. As I said, I’m an unfinished man reassembling the pieces of a broken world, and I have asked you to be a witness because you would never judge me as harshly as I judge myself. You would never deny me the opportunity of a second chance.

  Someone once said that democracy was the flawed solution to a perfect mess . . . and I absolutely agree. The Reunion Project won a majority in four of the six sectors, and instead of being able to impose their will on the political situation, everything is discussed endlessly . . . and then put to yet another vote! Is this your vaunted democracy, Doctor? To be subjected to the opinion of any person who has the breath to utter one? How does anything get accomplished? If this is–as some fervently believe–a Federation plot to diminish Cardassian involvement in the quadrant, then it has succeeded ingeniously. We’re much too involved in discussions over power grids and waste disposal to care about anything else.

  But I am getting on with my life. And oddly enough my
home is somehow emblematic of my progress. It ends up being a true memorial to Mila and Tain and Tolan, but the paradox is that I have never felt so free of their influence. Wherever I am along my fateline, Doctor, I no longer feel that my life is a reaction to the choices other people have made for me.

  I live with my orchids, which have unified and softened the increasingly popular grounds of my home. Their beguiling blooms, and the presence of children who come to play among the structures (as I did in Tarlak), help to dispel the somber mood that initially hung like those clouds of dust over our world. The sounds of their voices as they play function as a music that never fails to lighten my work. The children call it the “tailor’s grounds,” and the name has caught on. Yes, Doctor, I continue to work at my “new” profession. As you can imagine, there’s a good deal of mending to be done.

  And what of Paladine? I went to the Oralian Way in a state of anxious expectation. As we filed into the makeshift meeting room, I tried to be discreet as I searched for her face. The ceremony began and a young woman, whose eyes and strong features looked disconcertingly familiar to me, stepped onto the dais and began to read form the Hebitian Records. It was her voice, Doctor. It wasn’t Palandine, but it was her voice.And then I realized–it was Kel. She had grown into a powerful young woman with a sturdy beauty that was a harmonious blend of both parents. I was totally disoriented, and when the meeting was over I didn’t know what to do. It was clear from her behavior and conversations with the other people that she was deeply involved with both the Oralian Way and the rebuilding process. I wanted to introduce myself and ask her about Paladine–but I didn’t dare. I was afraid that if she knew the truth, she’d only be able to see me as the man who killed her father and destroyed her family.

  I’m sure it doesn’t come as a big surprise, Doctor, when I tell you that I attend the Oralian Way meetings on a regular basis. Now that the group is no longer outlawed, the meetings have become quite popular with the people curious to learn about the Hebitians and their culture. Kel has become one of the Guide’s assistants, and her work with the recitation mask is deeply moving. Palandine, however, is nowhere to be seen, and all my attempts to gather information about her are fruitless. Kel would be my only source, but there’s a distance between us I don’t know if we’ll ever be able to bridge.

  So, for the moment, I am satisfied to witness her spiritual growth . . . and to hear the echo of a lilting voice that long ago drew me out of my pain and self‑pity in the Bamarren training area.

  I have expanded my shed in the never‑ending quest to find my place. I feel that I’m getting closer, Doctor, especially as I continue to refine the structures. One, which began as a memorial to Tolan, has a crude but effective representation of the winged creature from the Hebitian sun disc–turned toward the radiating sun, reaching, striving, while the sun‑fed filaments stream down from the body and connect with the bodies of people standing on a globe and looking up to the creature for this divine connection . . . . I’ve attached the recitation mask he gave me to the creature’s face, and somehow it has become my personal totem. I hope that someday you’ll have the opportunity to see it. Nothing would please me more. You’re always welcome, Doctor.

  Prologue quote from “The Wire.” Written by Robert Hewitt Wolfe.

  Part I quote from “In Purgatory’s Shadow.” Written by Robert Hewitt Wolfe & Ira Steven Behr.

  Part II quote from “Cardassians.” Story by Gene Wolande & John Wright. Teleplay by James Crocker.

  Part III quote from “In the Pale Moonlight.” Story by Peter Allan Fields. Teleplay by Michael Taylor.

  Epilogue quote from “Past Prologue.” Written by Kathryn Powers.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Gratitude begins with Rick Berman and Ira Steven Behr, who hired the actor who didn’t know a Cardassian from the man in the moon: Thank you for your trust and support.

  Thanks also to Peter Allan Fields, who created the character, and to the writing staff (especially Robert Hewitt Wolfe) who nurtured and guided Garak’s progress, under Ira’s sharp and unerring eye. If it ain’t on the page. . . .

  Thanks to Denise and Michael Okuda, whose Star Trek Encyclopediawas my constant companion; to Matthew Lesher, my hard‑working and enthusiastic manager; to Lolita Fatjo and the Stillwells, Eric and Debra, for Trekguidance and wisdom; to Armin Shimerman and David George not only for encouraging me but for leading the way; to John Ordover of Pocket Books, who first said yes; to Gayle Stever for her Herculean efforts on behalf of fandom and our chosen charity, Save the Children; to the amazing cast, crew, and staff of Star Trek: Deep Space Nine,a show that dared to walk on the wild side; and to the fans, without whom there would be no Trek.

  Thanks, finally, to Margaret Clark, my intrepid and thoroughly informed editor who not only gave me the kind of creative guidance that helped me find the book’s spine, but who knew that hasperatwas a Bajoran not a Cardassian dish–thereby saving me from eternal Trekinfamy.

  OUR FIRST SERIAL NOVEL!

  Presenting, one chapter per month . . .

  The very beginning of the Starfleet Adventure . . .

  STAR TREK ®

  STARFLEET: YEAR ONE

  A novel in Twelve Parts ®

  by

  Michael Jan Friedman

  Chapter Ten

  Hiro Matsura had retrieved his pod and was about to break orbit when his navigator notified him that the Maverickwas in the vicinity.

  Matsura hadn’t expected any company at Oreias Seven. “On screen,” he said, settling back into his center seat.

  A moment later, Connor Dane’s face filled the forward viewscreen. He didn’t seem pleased.

  “Tell me you had better luck than we did,” said Dane.

  Matsura shook his head. “My team didn’t find anything of significance.”

  Dane scowled. “Maybe we’ll figure something out when we compare notes with Shumar and Cobaryn.”

  Matsura couldn’t keep from smiling a little. “You really think so?”

  Dane looked at him. “Don’t you?”

  “With all due respect,” Matsura told him, “I think we can sit and compare notes until the last days of the universe, and we’ll still just be groping in the dark.”

  Dane’s eyes narrowed. “And you’ve got a better way to dope out what happened?”

  “I think Captain Stiles had the right idea,” said Matsura. “The only way we’re going to find the aliens is by going out and looking for them.”

  “It’s not that big a system,” Dane responded. “We don’t allhave to be looking for them.”

  “It would speed things up,” Matsura noted.

  “Or slow them down,” said Dane, “by putting all our eggs in the wrong basket. Depends on how you look at it.”

  Matsura was surprised at the man’s attitude. “I didn’t know you had such deep respect for research scientists.”

  Dane’s mouth twisted at the other man’s tone. “You mean butterfly catchers, don’t you?”

  Matsura found himself turning red. “I don’t use that terminology.”

  “But your buddies do,” the other man observed. “And don’t insult my intelligence by claiming otherwise.”

  “All right,” said Matsura, “I won’t.”

  That seemed to pacify Dane a bit. “At least you’re honest,” he conceded.

  “Thanks. Now, I’m sorry you took the trouble to fly all the way over here, but I’m leaving to try to hook up with Stiles and Hagedorn. You’re welcome to join me if you’d like.”

  Dane snorted. “I’ll put my money on Shumar and Cobaryn.”

  “Suit yourself,” said Matsura. “I’ll–”

  Suddenly, his navigator interrupted him. “Sir,” said Williams, her face drawn with concern as she consulted her monitor, “we’re picking up a number of unidentified vessels.”

  The captain saw Dane turn away from the viewscreen and spit a command at one of his officers. He didn’t look happy.

  For that matter, Matsura wa
sn’t very happy either. “Give me visual,” he told Williams.

  A moment later, Dane’s image vanished from the viewscreen, to be replaced by that of three small, triangular vessels. They were gleaming in the glare of Oreias as they approached.

  The aggressors, Matsura thought. It had to be.

  “Raise shields,” he announced. “Power to all batteries.”

  “Raising shields,” Williams confirmed.

  “Power to lasers and launchers,” said his weapons officer.

  “You still there?” asked Matsura over their comm link.

  “Yeah, I’m here,” came Dane’s response. “But I’ve got to tell you, I’m not much of a team player.”

  No big surprise there, Matsura told himself. “I’ll try to work with you anyway. Leave your comm link open. If I see an alien on your tail, I can give you a holler.”

  “Acknowledged,” said Dane.

  Then the enemy was on top of them. Or rather, the triangular vessels were plunging past them–so intent on the colony, it seemed, that they were ignoring the Christophersabove it.

  Matsura took the slight personally. “Lock lasers on the nearest ship,” he told his weapons officer.

  “Targeting,” said Wickersham, a fair‑haired man with a narrow face and deep‑set eyes.

  “Fire!” the captain commanded.

  Their electric‑blue beams reached out and skewered the enemy vessel–failing to disable it, but getting its attention. It came about like an angry bee and returned fire, sending out a string of scarlet fireballs.

  “Evade!” Matsura called out.

  But they weren’t fast enough. The energy clusters plowed into the Yellowjacket,sending a bone‑rattling jolt through the deckplates.

  The aliens packed a punch, the captain realized. He had made the mistake of judging their firepower by their size.

  “Another one on our port beam!” said Williams.

  “Split the difference!” Matsura ordered.

  At the helm console, McCallum worked feverishly. What’s more, his efforts paid off. The Yellowjacketsliced between the two triangular ships, preventing them from firing for the moment.