‘For I have known them all already,
known them all;
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons...'
Blinking, the Cardassian emerged onto the concourse. He shivered slightly. The place was colder than he had expected. The architecture, which should have felt familiar, a reminder of home, seemed harsh and unwelcoming under the bright lights.
The journey here had been something of a trial. No passenger shuttles ran directly now from Cardassia Prime to Terok Nor. He had not been tempted to journey first via Bajor, which would have been the quickest route. The trip had therefore been circuitous, involving five separate shuttles, and eating worryingly into his rapidly-diminishing funds. It had also been increasingly stressful. The final flight had been on a Bajoran-owned liner, a mistake he would never make again. The staff had been hostile, pointedly handing him incomplete sets of cutlery - that is, without the spoons. The woman next to him had snarled when he took his seat, and had deliberately turned the air conditioning up high. One young man had spat on him every time he walked past his seat. Tired, shuttle-lagged, chilled to the bone, and with more than a slight persecution complex, he had finally arrived at his destination.
He looked around. Unfriendly, Bajoran eyes seemed to glare at him from all sides down their ridiculous noses. This was something he was going to have to get used to, but the sense of hatred that seemed to pulse around him was almost debilitating, making his movements more nervous than they had been since he was a child. But then, he had hardly been moving around with ease recently at home, either...
He glanced around and saw another pair of eyes looking at him keenly. Not Bajoran this time - in fact, he wasn't sure precisely what this man was. The uniform was Bajoran, but the face was pale and half-formed, like unbaked dough. The man began to move slowly towards him; but he really didn't want to get into a conversation yet with anyone, not until he had found a room, turned down the lights and slept for a week. Particularly as he could almost smell that the man was Security.
He moved sharply towards a desk marked 'Accommodation'. His quick movement wrong-footed the unbaked policeman, whose flat brow wrinkled slightly in dismay.
'Single room', he murmured to the Bajoran man behind the desk - these damn people were everywhere. 'Make it cheap.'
'How long are you staying for?'
Well, that was the question, wasn't it? Until the money or the visa ran out, he supposed - whichever came first. 'A week.'
'ID, please.'
He handed over the card. The man behind the desk raised an eyebrow slightly. The card was unusual, he was well aware of that. It was stamped 'temporary citizen' and would run out in eight days. It was as bad as having 'exile' branded on his forehead. One of his more pressing tasks was to turn it in to the Cardassian authorities and organize some other sort of permit. He had no idea what his legal status was when his Cardassian citizenship was finally revoked. He just hoped there was some way round it. A transitory life did not appeal.
He turned his attention back to the clerk, who was punching in his details with bad grace. 'Is there a problem with the heating?' he asked. 'It seems very cold here.'
The Bajoran sneered back at him. 'We don't run this station for the benefit of your damned people any more, you know.' He slammed a key card on the desk in front of him. 'Welcome to Deep Space Nine, Mr Garak.'
'Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.’
The room was cheap and functional. He turned the heat up and the lights down, but neither went quite as far as he would have liked. He stood and watched the stars for quite some time, lost in thought. Eventually, the content of his thoughts became too much for him, and he lay down wearily on the bed, pulling the blankets tight around him, and calling for the lights to go out.
He longed for sleep, but it eluded him again. Instead, his mind played back, as it had done for weeks now, his final conversation with Tain.
He had waited to see Tain for five and a half hours. Just the previous week he had been able to walk into a meeting Tain had been holding with four Guls and break it up, worthy of Tain's sole and immediate attention. This week, his security card didn't even get him into the building.
And certainly not into his office. He was waiting for Tain in one of the antechambers at the entrance to the building. Grey, soulless, empty. He had sat in many rooms like this, maybe even this very one, for many hours at a time, but he had always been making the running. He wondered if all his interviewees had had the same sour taste in the mouth, the same coldness in the pit of the belly.
Through the window in the door he had watched colleagues come past. Some had feigned nonchalance, some had not been able to hide their curiosity. None had spoken to him. No-one would want to be marked as having given him any sort of assistance. He could almost hear the sound of people arguing over his office space, the whispers of those who were now sidling closer to Tain...
'Garak.'
He opened his eyes at the sound of the familiar tones. Tain's voice was like a drug to him - he craved it. He stood up. 'Tain. I knew you'd come.' Surely now it would be all right, now that he could speak to Tain, put it right?
But Tain was barely looking at him. 'Why have you come here, Garak?'
He was shocked to the core. He had been convinced that this conversation would mark the turning point, that this whole ridiculous mess could be sorted out once and for all, and things could simply return to where they had been before.
He pulled himself together, controlled his voice. 'I wanted to talk to you, Tain. Clear the air. Find out what's going on.'
'That is something which I am extremely keen to ask you, Garak. What is going on with you?'
Garak sat down and stretched his hands out across his knees. 'There appears to have been some confusion over an incident with some Bajoran prisoners...'
'I have all the facts here, Garak. Four days before our withdrawal from Bajor, you headed an interrogation of five Bajorans. You released them without charge.'
'They were children, Tain! They knew nothing about the resistance! Bajor was lost. What purpose would killing them have served?'
'One of these minors, on the way out, stole a data file from your pocket, hoping it would have some sort of barter value. He sold it later the following day to a man whose brother headed a Bajoran resistance cell, and who had recognized that this was a Cardassian military file format. This man passed the data file on to his brother, who was able to read it. From this file he was able to obtain details of Cardassian evacuation transports. Using this information, the Bajoran resistance blew up one of these transports, killing 97 Cardassian civilians - that, Garak, was the purpose!' Tain's eyes glinted dangerously.
Garak was silent. Tain was right. His duty had been to shoot those children. His duty had been to protect Cardassia and her people. In this instance, he had most singularly failed. But when he thought back to that cold, long night, he could see clearly those pinched, frightened faces, he could remember sharply how futile it all seemed, and he knew that he was glad that he had done what he did.
'Two of those civilians, Garak, were the wife and child of Gul Marat. Gul Marat wants your head on a plate. I am tempted to supply it.'
Tain stood up and paced the room. When he stopped, his tone was different, softer. 'Why, Elim? Why did you do it? I gave you everything, trusted you implicitly... Why did you betray me so badly - so stupidly?'
'I did not betray you, Tain!' It burst out of him, and this time the emotion in his voice was plain, ragged, the desperation clearer than he had ever intended to make it. 'I would never betray you! I made a mistake, that's all!'
'The unwitting failure is the worst sort of betrayal. I taught you better than this, Garak. I thought you were more sophisticated, wiser. I would never have believed that you of all people would throw everything away for the sake of some weeping kids who didn't deserve your sympathy.'
There was a pause, then Tain continued, almost conversationally, 'I hear Lyssa has filed for divorce.'
'That doesn't surprise me in the least. Perfidious bitch.'
'I don't know why you ever married her, Garak.'
Garak's eyes shot up. 'I married her, Tain, because you wanted me to!'
Tain's eyelids flickered briefly, but he didn't respond. 'I hear also that she has moved out of your house.'
Garak suddenly felt very cold. Surely not even Lyssa could be so cruel... 'Where are the children?' he whispered. 'Tain, where's she taken my daughters?'
'I don't know, Garak. Frankly, I'm not very pleased about it. Still, it's up to her now. It's not as if I have any claim on them.'
The silence fell again. The message was unmistakeable. Whatever fatherly assistance Garak had hoped was forthcoming from Tain, he could forget it. Tain had set the boundaries plainly, as he had always done. This was to be a professional exchange only. Once again, Garak was on his own.
He stood up. His felt as if he were moving through glue, as if something were preventing him from reacting normally.
'It seems I've taken up enough of your time,' he said, the bitterness plain.
Tain blinked in agreement.
'Perhaps you could, at least, tell me what you think will happen next?' The courtesy was frosted, and the formal phrasing masked what they both knew was the truth. In this case, as in so many others, Tain was to be judge, jury and executioner.
Tain shrugged. 'You'll be court-martialled and stripped of your command.'
Garak closed his eyes briefly. 'And?' he whispered.
Tain continued, almost impatiently, 'And, I should imagine, your citizenship. Rights are predicated on responsibilities, Garak. It seems you have forgotten many of your earliest lessons.'
'It seems I have.' He tapped the back of the chair. 'Am I to be shot?'
Tain smiled. 'No, I don't think so.' He looked Garak in the eye. 'Go back home, Garak, while you still can. Lyssa's gone, you'll be able to get into the house. The court martial won't take place for a few more days. If I were you, I'd start salting away some funds - before all your accounts are frozen. Exile will be even less fun without any money.'
Garak nodded numbly. So that was all Tain would do for him. His assets should have been frozen already, but something - someone - very powerful was holding it up. He turned to leave the room, but looked back, hoping, as ever, for something from the man behind him.
'I can't protect you, Garak.' It was a lie, they both knew that. Tain's influence was unmatched, his power limitless. He would not protect Garak.
'Goodbye, Tain.'
There was no reply. Tain waved his hand in dismissal, and didn't even look at him.
‘There will be time, there will be
time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create...’
'So, Mr... Garak.' The dough-man sounded as if he didn't quite believe that this was his name. 'What brings you to Deep Space Nine? Business? Pleasure?'
'Business,' he answered, shortly. It certainly wasn't pleasure, being glared at by Bajorans. ‘And please - it’s just plain 'Garak'. ' It was bad enough having lost his commission without being reminded of it every time someone addressed him.
'And how long will your business keep you here... Garak? A few weeks? A month?'
'Oh, indefinitely. I intend to settle here on Deep Space Nine.'
The dough-man would have raised his eyebrows if he had had any, Garak noted with something approaching pleasure. He was glad someone else's day wasn't going according to plan.
'But I hear you are having some problems with your request for residency.'
'You shouldn't believe everything you hear,' Garak responded lightly. It was, of course, true. He was running out of time. Very soon the Bajorans would be well within their rights to deport him. He didn't imagine they would take kindly to him flinging himself on their mercy and begging for sanctuary. The only way round that he had discovered was to apply for permission to start and run a business, but for this he had to prove that he had a trade and was able to provide for himself. He was fairly certain that assassination, interrogation and spying were not skills much in demand on DS9. Nor did he particularly want to draw attention to his past. Being at the centre of a Bajoran witch-hunt was not high on his list of priorities, nor was being detained and debriefed by Starfleet.
'This is an interesting identity card that you have. Would you care to explain its temporary nature?'
'No, I would not. Do you interrogate all new arrivals to Deep Space Nine, Constable?' Garak asked impatiently.
'Only the ones I suspect of being troublemakers. Which, by definition, includes all Cardassians.'
'Well, Constable, let me assure you that trouble is the last thing I am looking for.' And never a truer word was spoken. 'I'm simply a businessman.
'And just what is your business, Garak?'
Garak cast his pale eyes balefully over the policeman. What a terrible colour his uniform was. Cardassian colours may have been limited to all shades of grey, but they shrieked of power, brutality, authority. This man looked like a mushroom. It was no way to get respect.
His daughters would have enjoyed this, he thought. They had thought it hilarious when they found out that he had once sewn robes at the Brikanian Consulate - 'The Brikani take their ceremonial garb very seriously, my dears' - and they had both nodded wisely, as if he had just imparted some great truth about the nature of things. He had played up to this constantly - without ever really explaining to the two little girls why it was necessary for their father to spend so much time so close to a foreign consul. It was one of their games together. 'Look at that man, my dears,' he would whisper, as they sat together on the subway, indicating some unfortunate stranger. 'How can he think that green goes well with purple? And look at the cut of the neckline...'
'Garak? I asked you what your business is?'
Inspiration suddenly hit him, and Elim Garak smiled the first real smile to cross his lips in weeks. 'Why, Constable Odo!' he replied. 'I'm a tailor!' This time he was able to watch Odo's consternation with pure, unalloyed pleasure.
'A tailor?'
‘And I have known the eyes already,
known them all...
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase...’
So the residency permit was issued, much to the dismay of the Bajoran authorities. A property was rented on the Promenade, and a small room on one of the Habitat rings. Garak sunk most of his remaining latinum into stock and equipment, and offered up what passed for a Cardassian prayer for good fortune.
Business was slow to start with, and at first he found himself spending the afternoons watching the traffic on the Promenade. It was, he consoled himself, a good way to learn about the station and its residents. Twice a day, the good Constable passed by and peered in. Garak, who had until only very recently been privy to detailed knowledge of most information that passed around the Cardassian military, had now recalled that the man was a shapeshifter. No chance of business there, he thought, but always smiled genially at the policeman as he strolled past - mainly because he knew it annoyed Odo a great deal.
Watching the swell on the station one particularly quiet afternoon, about a week after the shop opened, Garak's eye fell on a small Bajoran girl, surely no more than six or seven years old. She looked bewildered and he could see tears were starting to prickle in her eyes. She was clearly lost. He stepped to the front of the shop and caught her eye.
'Are you lost, my dear?'
She nodded, then said, 'My mother told me never to talk to strangers.'
'Your mother is a very sensible woman. But I don't think she would want you wandering around the station by yourself, would she?'
The little girl shook her head and the tears looked as if they were a little closer.
'So why don't you wait for her here, at the front of the shop where she can see you, and I can contact the policemen and tell them where you are?'
She looked at him fearfully. 'My mother says that all Cardassians are monsters.'
He inwardly cursed the woman. 'Not all Cardassians,' he replied.
She looked as if she hadn't thought of that, but was still suspicious.
'If you stay near the front of the shop, everyone outside can see you, and I'll stay there, behind the counter.' He pointed back into the shop.
She frowned. 'OK,' she decided, and plonked herself down at the entrance of the shop. Garak went back inside and sent a message through to the Security office. 'What dizzy heights of excitement my life reaches,' he murmured to himself, and started to flick uninterestedly through his accounts.
'This is nice.'
He looked down, and saw the little girl next to his elbow, stroking a roll of velvet. The lure of the treasure chest inside the shop had clearly made her overcome her fears.
'Isn't it?' he said. 'I know another little girl who would have thought just the same,' and his heart nearly broke as he thought of his younger daughter, who was the same age.
Suddenly, there was a yell from outside. 'Keep your hands off her, you filthy murdering lizard!' A Bajoran woman was running into the shop, closely followed by Odo. 'Keep your hands off my little girl!'
'Madam, I...'
'Shut up, you monster!' She grabbed her daughter's arm. 'Zeya, did he hurt you? Are you all right?'
Confused by her mother's reaction, already very upset, and sure now that she had done something wrong, the little girl burst into tears. 'You swine!' hissed the mother. 'I'll have you locked up for this.' She turned to Odo, 'Well, arrest him!'
Looking past Odo, Garak was horrified to see a small crowd was gathering on the Promenade, peering into the shop, starting to talk.
'I shall do nothing of the sort,' said Odo, to Garak's profound relief. 'Garak contacted my office as soon as he found your daughter. If anything, you should be thanking him.'
The woman snarled, grabbed her daughter's hand, and pulled her out of the shop. Odo looked at Garak. 'Not a troublemaker, hmm, Garak? Try to live up that claim. And please - stay away from the Bajoran population.' He left the shop, turning his attention to the crowd. 'Move along, please. There's nobody guilty of anything here other than a bout of naivety and a fit of bad temper.' The crowd dispersed, still chattering.
Garak watched them leave, then realized there was still one woman there. A Bajoran, in uniform, with very short hair and angry brown eyes.
'A Cardassian arrives on the station and within just a few days Bajoran women and children are in tears. It must feel like old times again.'
Garak sighed. 'I did not touch that little girl.'
'That doesn't matter. You're not welcome here.'
Now Garak started to get angry. 'I've had enough today of accusatory Bajoran females, Major, so if you will excuse me, I've got a lot to do.'
'How do you know my rank?' The woman shot the question at him, and Garak cursed himself for his lack of concentration. He knew her rank because until just a few weeks ago he had been a senior member of Cardassian intelligence. He knew her rank, her name, and quite a fair amount of information about her background. 'Recognizing my insignia's pretty esoteric knowledge for a civilian,' she continued.
'I know your rank, Major,' he extemporized, 'Because I made it my business to know the people who run this station.' A terrible answer, but he was badly flustered.
'Is that right?' she murmured, the menace still clear. 'Well, why, I wonder, would a Cardassian 'civilian' want to bother himself with the command structure of a Bajoran station? Perhaps because he's a spy?'
Garak laughed long and hard at that one. 'Oh, Major! I don't think you could possibly be more wrong!'
'Well, I don't find much to laugh about when I look at Cardassians. And I've got my eye on you.' She turned and left.
‘...We have lingered in the
chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.’
Garak awoke with a start from a dream of happiness, of blissful and uncomplicated pleasure. He sat up and gazed around the bare room. In his dream, he had been in a better place, a bare room once again, but not alone this time. Two Tal Shiar officers had been leaning over him, one in the process of breaking the fingers on one of his hands. Garak had been laughing. Tears of joy streamed down his face, his sobs of laughter had rendered it impossible for him to answer any of the questions being thrown at him. The crack of each bone sent shivers of pure rapture through his body.
He closed his eyes again, as if to clear his head of the memory, but instead he trembled as he recalled the thrill of that experience, the sense of invulnerability it had engendered in him. When the four Order agents had burst into the room and blasted the Romulans into pieces, he remembered that he had been almost disappointed. Mission accomplished, no information lost, and the legend of Garak, the man who laughed as the Tal Shiar tortured him, was cemented.
The computer chimed softly. 'It is 0700 hours.' He snapped his eyes open, his concentration on the moment and the thrill now broken. It was morning on Deep Space Nine, and his shop opened in an hour. A wave of self-pity, deep and bitter, washed over him. He gazed in panic and despair around the miserable room, his home, and the walls began to press in on him, his old trouble in moments of stress...
And then it cleared. He felt the rush of endorphins, and his shoulders relaxed, his breathing lengthened. Garak smiled, pulled himself out of bed, and started the day.
He turned the corner on the Promenade, and saw Odo waiting outside of the shop. He sighed to himself. Surely this was approaching harassment?
Odo frowned as Garak came near. 'I'm afraid your shop has been visited during the night.'
Garak looked at his property for the first time. The front was covered in graffiti, mostly exhorting him to return to Cardassia - in rather less than elegant language. His mouth opened in dismay.
'We have security cameras trained along this entire section of the Promenade,' continued Odo. 'It's simply a matter of checking through them. We'll have the perpetrators picked up by the end of the day.' He nodded politely, the matter effectively closed from his point of view, leaving a disconsolate Garak behind him.
'That'll take a lot of work to clean off,' Garak turned from looking unhappily at the front of the shop to the Ferengi standing next to him.
'I know.'
'Nasty business. They've written some pretty unpleasant things about you.'
'I'm sure it's something I'll learn to live with.'
The Ferengi leaned in conspiratorially. 'My nephew's a dab hand at cleaning. I could send him round...?'
'For a price, I suspect.'
'You read my mind.'
'It wasn't difficult.'
'My name's Quark. I run the bar.'
'Your fame comes before you.'
'I also represent the Promenade Merchants' Association. Looking after all our interests, so to speak.'
'Am I to infer from that that you run some sort of protection racket?' Garak's eyes glinted.
Quark was offended. 'For a man with few friends on this station, you're not going out of your way to keep the handful you have.'
A misjudgement. 'My sincere apologies.' Garak inclined his head. 'I seem to have been more than a little rattled by this... unpleasantness.'
Quark shrugged. 'No hard feelings. Tell you what. I'll send Nog round - at a reduced rate - and you come to the bar. I've had a stock of kanar cluttering up the place since the Occupation, and you'll be doing me a favour drinking some of it up. At a reduced rate, of course.'
'Of course.' Garak smiled. 'However, it is a little early for me to start drinking, even on a day like this. I shall, however, be delighted to join you later.'
Quark nodded. 'See you later then. And keep an eye on Nog. He's a slacker.'
Garak unlocked the shop door and went in. A few minutes later he saw another Ferengi appear, this time with a bucket and mop, and start mournfully washing down the front of the shop.
Garak turned his attention to his counter. The soft leather packet with his sewing kit in sat in the centre of the desk, but he didn't even touch it. He glanced to the front of the shop. The Ferengi boy was hard at work. The Promenade was quiet. He reached under the counter, and pulled out another leather packet. This one contained a small toolkit.
Garak wasn't intending to do any sewing
today. He intended to work on another task. Garak was thinking of
his health.
'Here I am, an old man in a dry month,
Being read to by a boy, waiting for rain...’
‘He’ll come.’
The doctor lowered the old man’s arm, from which he had been taking a pulse, and gently pulled the blanket around his shoulders. He was beginning to fade. A week, perhaps, at most.
‘You have a lot of faith in him, doctor. I can’t understand why.’
‘I have a lot of faith in people full stop.’
‘Then you’re a fool. An ignorant, dreaming fool, who has put his trust in a liar, a murderer and a cheat.’
‘Please don’t distress yourself,’ he murmured.
‘A naïve, young fool.’
‘I’m not the one that spent months stuck in a crawlway to send a message.’
His mouth twisted bitterly. ‘And I am an old fool. And a desperate one.’
‘My house is a decayed house...’
‘Garak?’ The doctor knelt down, and touched the other man’s hand. It was icy cold. ‘Why are you sitting out here? You should be sleeping.’
‘It felt somehow... constraining in there. I wanted to breathe. I didn’t want to disturb the others. Commander Worf needs his sleep.’
The doctor pulled himself down to sit next to Garak on the floor, resting himself against the steel wall. Garak’s head was leaning back, his face shrouded in shadow.
‘Was there something in particular you wanted, doctor?’
‘I want to make sure that you’re all right.’
‘Why should I not be?’
‘Oh, I don’t know, Garak: capture by the Jem’Hadar, the death of your father, a claustrophobic panic attack that immobilizes you for a day and a half... Or am I overstating the events of the past few days?’
‘Maybe a little.’ Bashir caught the ghost of a smile.
A silence settled in, then Bashir ventured, ‘Tain knew you would come.’
‘Did he?’ Garak’s voice dripped acid amusement. ‘If I know Tain, he’ll have spent the last month telling you that I am worthless, treacherous liar, who would most likely leave him to rot.’
‘But you came.’
‘Of course I came. Tain controlled me. He knew that, I knew that. Whatever he may have said, he knew his hold on me was unbreakable.’ He leaned forward, touched Bashir’s arm. ‘Doctor, whatever you think you can say to help, don’t bother. You can’t even begin to understand the complexity of the relationship between Tain and me.’ His voice was almost kind. ‘You’re not capable of offering comfort, and I don’t want you to try.’
Bashir swallowed, his head dropped. ‘I’m sorry, Garak.’
Garak leaned back into the shadows. The silence deepened. Bashir brooded over the Cardassian’s words. The hold a father had over his son was something that had troubled him for many years. Suddenly, Garak’s voice cut through the quiet.
‘It seems to me sometimes, doctor, that following Tain has brought me nothing more than a lifetime of enclosure. I’ve spent years in tiny grey rooms, face to face with traitors and dissenters, sucking them dry, making them talk. Six months in jail here, eight months there, covering up secrets, protecting interests, accepting punishment for smaller crimes so that the larger ones would go undetected. And finally, here, at the end of it all, another grey room, another cell. And Tain is dead, his body’s dumped into space - and everything is finished.’
‘Everything, Garak? But our escape...?’
‘Escape to what, doctor? Another prison - only this time one of banality and tedium, with no hope of anything again.’
‘Garak, Tain’s death has left you free, freer than you have been in years, perhaps ever.’
‘Doctor, you misunderstand completely. Tain was my life. We weren’t children, playing at politics. This was our existence, it defined us. We shaped the nation, we shaped the Empire. Our hopes and our dreams were bound together; our plans and our schemes: it’s what gave us meaning. And now,’ he snapped his fingers, ‘It’s all gone. Exiling me from Cardassia was Tain’s biggest mistake. His power base is destroyed, his line is dead. And me? Without Tain, I am nothing on Cardassia. I’m a man of many enemies, and no friends. That is my inheritance, doctor.’
Bashir took a deep breath, and the words came tumbling out. ‘Garak, however bad it seems, it’s surmountable. We’ll get out of here, we’ll get back to the station. Think about Ziyal, how much it means to her that you get back. I know you’re going to dismiss this, but there’s always hope, Garak, however bleak it appears to be. You have to live in hope.’
‘My dear doctor, has anyone ever told you that you are a naïve and trusting fool?’
Bashir smiled. ‘Your father. About a week ago. When I said you’d come.’ He heard a sharp intake of breath, and thought, God, I’ve overstepped the mark this time.
And then he felt a hand clutch his arm, shaking slightly, and a dry sound. Garak was laughing.
‘...I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.’
The sound of someone entering the shop made Garak look up. He was startled to see that the young woman who had entered was a Cardassian - very few Cardassians came through DS9 these days. The girl approached him.
'Can I help you?' he asked. 'I don't have many Cardassian customers. It would be a pleasure to help you choose something.'
The girl looked at him as if he were insane. Garak frowned. One reason he had chosen DS9 for his exile was so that Cardassian visitors would stand out. Garak knew that his name was on the lips of many people who wanted revenge. Outcast and vulnerable, he had to be cautious - especially now that Dukat was back in power.
'Are you all right, my dear? You seem somewhat distracted.' He moved round from behind the counter, but not until he had picked up a small but powerful weapon that looked like nothing more than a tool of his trade.
'You don't recognize me, do you?' the girl whispered.
'Should I?' he smiled warmly, but he was starting to get a very bad feeling. His ceaseless, ever-scheming mind worked out some of the possible routes that this conversation could take - and some of the potential outcomes. She might attack him, then he would be forced to defend himself. This might well result in her death. He wrinkled his nose in distaste. Assassinating young women in broad daylight was not likely to keep him out of trouble with the station authorities. He could let her attack and do nothing about it, but this didn't appeal either. When he was her age - what, seventeen? - he was fast and sharp, if a little inexperienced. Underestimating the talents of the young simply because of their age was one sure way to end up dead. And Garak was resigning himself to the fact that his reflexes were slowing after more than five years in exile; that he was getting older.
The girl stood and watched him, then said. 'I didn't expect that. But then I don't know what I expected. Do you really not recognize me?'
He looked more closely at her. There was something about the eyes, very pale, very blue, something about the set of the mouth that seemed achingly familiar... Realization dawned.
'Peyta?' He whispered the name in shock.
The girl nodded. He reached out a hand slowly, towards her cheek, but she flinched away. He pulled his hand back as if the fingers had been burned and clutched at the weapon even more tightly, a reflex which instantly horrified him.
'Garak?'
The Cardassian looked round guiltily. Dr Bashir was standing in the doorway of the shop. 'Are you ready for lunch? I'm rather late, I'm afraid. I imagine Ziyal will be getting impatient...' He stopped talking at the sight in front of him: the tailor standing very close to a Cardassian girl, one hand raised as if to touch her, the other clutching what was transparently a weapon.
'Is everything all right, Garak?' asked the doctor.
The tailor swallowed and looked at the girl for confirmation. She nodded slowly.
'It rather seems that it is, dear doctor.' He roused himself, and smiled his charming, utterly unreadable smile. 'Please accept my apologies. I shall have to cancel our lunch today. Another... matter has arisen.'
Bashir nodded slowly. 'What shall I tell Ziyal?' he asked, glancing back at the girl.
'That I very much look forward to seeing her, very soon.'
'All right,' said Bashir, clearly showing that he would like more of an explanation, and keeping his eyes on the pair just a moment longer.
Two sets of very pale, very blue eyes looked back, two faces set in inscrutable masks. Unnerved, Bashir turned and left.
Bashir followed Ziyal into the holosuite. Inside, Garak and Peyta
were waiting. Garak greeted them both gravely, with a slight bow
of the head. 'Thank you for coming,' he murmured.
Bashir looked round. The holo-room was small, no bigger than it would be with no programme running. The lights were very dim, the heat high, but not unbearable. Bashir suspected that this was a concession to him, the only non-Cardassian there, and that Garak would gladly have set the temperature much higher.
At the centre of the room a small fire was burning. Next to the fire lay a white cloth. On the cloth was a grey bowl, and two beautiful flowers. On each, many, many scarlet petals furled around a centre that blended to white.
Garak began to speak, 'Peyta and I are here to remember our dead. This memorial is not as grand as I would like, bearing in mind those whose memory we are here to honour.' He held the gaze of both Bashir and Ziyal in turn. 'But there are no two people that I would want here more.'
Garak knelt down in front of the fire. Peyta knelt beside him, briefly clasping the man's hand. Then she reached out and handed Garak one of the red flowers. Slowly, he crushed it in his hands over the flames, scarlet dye staining his fingers. From where Bashir stood, it looked like blood.
Garak brushed the remnants of the petals from his hands into the fire, and cleared his throat.
'In memory of Enabran Tain,' he said. 'My father, whom I loved.' He held up his right hand, in the Cardassian gesture of farewell, and Peyta did the same.
Ziyal started, and looked up at Bashir, the mouth opening in the silent question, 'Father..?' Bashir nodded slowly.
Garak dropped his hand slowly, then turned to Peyta. She handed him the remaining flower, and Garak repeated the process, crushing the delicate petals so slowly, watching them crumble into the fire. This time Peyta spoke.
'In memory of Carissa Garak,' she paused, then choked out, 'Sister...' She began to cry.
Garak touched her face briefly, then spoke. 'In memory of Carissa Garak, my daughter, dearer than life itself.' Again, they held up their hands in farewell.
Ziyal turned to Bashir again, but this time even the doctor was shocked. 'I had no idea...' he whispered.
There was a long pause, then Peyta wiped her eyes, and held up the bowl to Garak. He took a handful of the contents, which seemed to be ash, and threw it on the fire, then another, then another, until the flames were almost dead, murmuring some words Bashir could not quite hear. Then he reached into the embers, and wiped the fire out with a few swift movements of his hand.
Both he and Peyta stood up, and he stretched an arm around her. Slowly, they headed for the exit. 'Computer,' said Garak, 'end program.' The room was empty again. The Cardassians left.
After a few moments, Bashir roused himself. 'Such a bare ceremony,' he murmured. 'Do Cardassians really do so little to remember their dead?'
Ziyal shook her head. 'On Cardassia, Tain's funeral would have stretched over a week. A funeral to mark the death of a child would last two or three days. But, "beyond the State there is no succour, beyond the Family, no life".'
Bashir looked thoughtful. 'And when you're cast out from the State and from your family..?'
Ziyal frowned, perhaps thinking of her own situation. 'I think we've just seen what happens.'
Garak stood in the departure bay, watching the girl as she left.
Their public goodbye had been restrained, both conscious of the
prying eyes of other station residents.
The real goodbye had been emotional on both sides. Peyta had wanted to stay, Garak had forbidden it. The consequences of his exile were more salient to him now than they had been in years. He would not allow his daughter to be included. She must return to her mother, in Lakarian City, and take all the opportunities that were available to her there.
She turned round and raised her hand one last time. He did the same, and smiled back. Then she was gone. Garak stood still for a few moments.
'Garak.' He turned to see Major Kira.
'Major,' he replied, with only a faint sigh.
'I hear there's been a death in the family.'
'More than one, Major. I suspect Ziyal can give you the details.'
She looked uncomfortable. 'For what it's worth, Garak, I'm sorry. I know we haven't been the best of friends, but, well... I'm sorry,' she ended, feeling it was somewhat lame.
Garak bowed slightly and smiled benignly. 'Why, thank you, Major. I am truly most touched.'
She thought briefly that he was mocking her, then caught his eyes.
'Please pass on my regards to Ziyal. I hope
to see her very soon.' He had a feeling that it was a standard
gambit for closing a conversation, one that he’d relied on
before. He didn’t particularly care.
‘Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night,good night.’
‘I thought you’d make the effort to be there.’ There was a hint of reproach in Bashir’s voice.
‘Enter the Bajoran temple? My dear doctor, I am sad enough about Ziyal’s death without being forced to listen to the incoherent mumblings of a superstitious and self-deluded people. Besides, I wasn’t invited.’
‘It was very moving.’
‘It would only have made me angry.’
‘You might have found some solace in it.’
‘In some mumbo-jumbo claims that her spirit is somehow walking free, at peace in some ill-defined never-never land? Tora Ziyal is dead, doctor. All that remains is the grief of those who knew her and loved her, and the desire for revenge upon those who killed her.’
‘"I am the Resurrection and the Life..."’ murmured Bashir, sadly.
‘I beg your pardon?’
Bashir sighed. ‘It’s some words from a service for the dead from an Earth religion.’
Garak put down his fork. ‘Why am I unsurprised to hear a human burial ceremony talk about resurrection and life? It typifies the unbounded and ill-founded optimism of your race.’
Bashir raised an eyebrow. ‘It’s about sacrifice, Garak. Many Earth religions are based around the idea of a god who gives up his own life in order to bring life back to the land. It reflects the changes of the seasons, it symbolizes the cyclical nature of life and death and rebirth... Garak, are you listening to any of this?’
‘Doctor, I’ve heard it all before. Religion, superstition, children’s stories. I am perfectly adept at constructing my own tall tales.’
‘You are angry that you weren’t able to attend the service, aren’t you?’ Bashir said softly.
Garak’s eyes flashed. ‘Ziyal was a Cardassian as well, doctor, something people are apt to forget. Her people have their own way to remember the dead. I thought you knew that.’
They ate on in silence for quite some time.
‘We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece made of straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats’ feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar...’
Garak took one look at Kira’s face, rigid, tight, her hand moving food into her mouth slowly and automatically, and sat at another seat.
A profound weariness had overcome all the survivors of the mission to steal the Breen weapon. Only Odo had an obvious, physical reason. For the rest, it was a paralysis born of too extended a contact with the underbelly of disappointment and grief.
Kira stood up and left to see Odo. They were due to leave for the station within a few hours. Garak started to eat.
‘May I sit here?’ It was Damar.
Garak hesitated briefly, then nodded, and continued to eat. There were things unsaid between him and Damar that he had suppressed for the sake of harmony, for the sake of giving this rebellion the slightest chance of success. He had not allowed himself to think of Tora Ziyal since his return to Cardassia. Personal integrity demanded he tear Damar’s throat open - but Garak was used to striking bargains with his conscience.
He found himself gazing at the face of the soldier sadly, watching the transparent intellectual and moral struggle that was tearing Damar apart. It must be hard for a man bred to obedience to abandon those rules - and then be put in the position of rewriting the rules. This was not something that had troubled Garak much across his life.
‘What Kira said...’ Damar hesitated.
‘Go on.’
‘It had not occurred to me before.’ He took a mouthful of food.
Garak waited. Damar was a man of few words, usually brief, but increasingly to the point. It was a rare talent for a Cardassian.
‘The Occupation,’ he eventually continued. ‘I had only seen it ever in terms of what it meant for Cardassia, for our homes and our families. But our actions then...’
Again the pause. ‘You don’t have to justify your actions to me, Damar.’
‘It becomes different when... when it is your own family that suffers. Your own children.’
‘You don’t have to explain the loss of a child to me either.’
The soldier frowned, trying to compute what Garak had said, and then took another mouthful, chewed, swallowed. ‘I regret that I killed Tora Ziyal.’
‘I wasn’t thinking of her,’ Garak said, faintly, wondering as he spoke. The life and death of Tora Ziyal was a story that gained its tragic proportions through its uniqueness - but it was over, it was the past. What mattered now - what alone provided meaning - was the future. ‘But I accept your apology.’
Damar nodded curtly, and continued eating.
‘We are putting our faith in you, Damar,’ Garak said softly. ‘If Cardassia is to be anything after this war is over, it’s you that will need to give her direction, give her back her soul.’
The man nodded again, this time more slowly.
This has occurred to him already, thought Garak.
Damar cleared his throat. ‘I will need good colleagues,’ he said, and his mouth twisted into something that could have been a smile. ‘How did it feel to be back in uniform, Garak?’
The man even had a sense of humour. Garak’s own smile was sudden and undisguised. ‘Much too comfortable..!’
‘Those who have crossed
with direct eyes, to death’s other Kingdom
Remember us - if at all - not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.’
‘This is the dead land
This is cactus land...’
His eyes opened to a grey sky, with a smattering of cloud bone-white against the ashen backdrop. He sat up and surveyed the land around him, bleak and barren. He raised his hand and touched his face, as if to persuade himself that he was in fact still alive in the middle of such devastation.
The land around him seemed to be holding its breath in expectation... or hanging on to its final gasp before exhaling for the last time. He wasn’t sure which it was.
The people he had seen as he walked had seemed to be caricatures, actors on a stage. Weeping mothers, enraged fathers, bewildered children. He felt disconnected from them, as if their troubles were not his, as if he were a spectator at some grandly-conceived, elaborately-executed drama, a tragedy of epic proportions.
Some had approached him, recognizing his face. ‘We saw you with Damar. What has happened to him? What will happen to us?’
He told them all the same thing. Damar was dead. He did not know what would happen next. Some people said that this was not enough, that he had to help them, that they were his responsibility. He looked back blankly, and then walked on. He wasn’t sure he understood what they meant.
O my people what have I done unto you...
A gentle breeze caressed his face, swinging his attention back to the here and now. He frowned. Something was troubling him, something unfinished, as if a piece in a puzzle were not in place.
That was it... one was meant to remember the dead. He picked up a handful of debris and threw it into the distance.
Tain, Carissa, Peyta; Ziyal, Mila, Damar.
He waited, but there was nothing. It was as he had always suspected. Tradition brought no solace. It was an illusion, like everything else. Mythology was constructed to stave off the insanity of isolation, it was valueless, sterile. He blinked, then picked up another handful and threw it anyway.
Life is very long...
This time, the dust fell over a wide area, a dry rain. After it settled, there was the expectant hush. The world waited. Garak stood up.
He had been walking for days now through the land, like a king surveying his realm. He had walked through towns and he had walked through countryside. He had watched the dead being buried and the living cry out in lamentation. Everything lay in ruins. He began to walk again.
And after this our exile...
He came to an abrupt halt. He was standing on the edge of what appeared to be a cliff. On closer inspection, he realized he was at the lip of a giant crater, formed by some mighty bomb blast. Teetering on the edge was a single tree, its roots half visible, the rest gripping at the ground.
This could be a metaphor, thought Garak. The tenacity of life in the face of destruction. It clings to the edges, it doesn’t give up.
He looked round, licked his lips. A few yards away, sitting in the burnt-out wreckage of a house, sat two small children. They were holding hands, watching him closely.
Garak walked over. The children remained motionless, but their eyes followed him as he started to search through the detritus that had once been their home.
It took him a little while, but eventually he found something he could use. Torn and dirty, a sheet. He pulled it out from underneath some rubble.
The eyes of the older child narrowed, focused on the sheet. I suppose he wants to protect his property. This is what passes for currency now.
But the children were no threat to him. He began to tear at the sheet. His movements were deliberate, methodical, ritualistic. I really am a very good tailor, he thought, irrelevantly, as he worked. In a short time, six long, thin strips lay in front of him, and he started to plait them in pairs. A natural feel for material, for the cut of cloth. Even without the requisite tools. He stopped briefly, scratched his nose. That could be another metaphor, he thought. We are back in the stone age. He bent back down to his work. I appear to be thinking purely in abstractions.
The two children watched him as he finished his work on the cloth, and then as he climbed the tree.
Garak tightened the knots at each end. Survival skills, he thought. The tying of a good knot is essential in the wilderness. He edged out along the branch, paused only to steady his breathing, and then jumped.
Two pairs of eyes looked dispassionately at the figure swinging from the tree.
‘This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang, with a whimper.’
Una McCormack, November 1999
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