A Stitch in Time stdsn-27

by Andrew J. Robinson

  “I was on Bajor a short time to interrogate possible Resistance members. The occupation was a strictly military affair and they brought in . . . my group. . . .”

  “What group?” she interrupted.

  “It’s not important–it no longer exists. We were given children to interrogate. They were starving, dressed in rags. It was a disgrace, beyond the usual incompetence of the military. The guls were out of control, grabbing anyone they thought was Resistance. I took one look at them and saw that they were just angry rock throwers. I gave them latinum and threw them back onto the streets. We told the military that either we do things our way. . . .”

  “Which way is that, Elim?” she sneered. It was one of the few times that I found her unattractive.

  “The right way, Remara. Find the right people, get the right information that can be used effectively against the Resistance. But that meant the military had to give up control, and of course that was out of the question. So we were sent home.”

  “You were seen at the shuttle!” she insisted.

  “We were at the terminal when the Bajoran prisoners overwhelmed their captors and took over the shuttle. They had hostages and wanted to negotiate. I could see that Gul Toran was over his head–making ridiculous threats to people who had nothing to lose.”

  “They had everything to lose,” she said, shaking her head at my assessment.

  “In that situation, my dear, they had everything to gain and nothing to lose,” I wearily explained. “The trick is to give up as little as possible and make them believe that they’ve won a great victory, but that was beyond Toran’s ability. I volunteered to negotiate. The people inside seemed reasonable. The fact that they hadn’t tried to escape immediately or begun executing prisoners told me they were looking for a way out. An exchange. . . .” I stopped. What’s the point, I thought. All the stories were beginning to run together and they all had the same ending.

  “What happened?” she asked softly. The sneer was gone; she, too, was probably weary of the burden of these stories.

  “You know what happened, Remara. Gul Toran wasn’t going to let me negotiate. And he certainly wasn’t going to do it himself. ‘Never with terrorists,’ he announced; but the truth was that he didn’t know how. They had no choice but to try to escape.”

  “And they were all killed,” she said even more softly.

  “End of story, Remara.” I considered telling her how I had exacted my own revenge upon Toran, and that my only regret was that his death hadn’t come sooner . . . but what was the point? Another treacherous opportunist dies after tearing another hole in the fabric. What’s gained except the potential for more damage? I rose. The station’s gravity felt like it had increased threefold.

  “If you’re going to kill me, get it over with. One way or the other I’d like to go to sleep.”

  “Who gave the order?” she asked.

  “What difference does it make? I did, if you like.”

  Remara just looked at me. She lowered the phaser. Part of me was deeply disappointed. “I was at the terminal,” she said in that soft voice. “I was in line to get on the Taklan,but I was delayed and got separated from Karna and Berin. We had been assigned as a family to Terok Nor. I was just a few people from the door when the guards were overwhelmed and dragged inside. The door closed, and I was left behind. I panicked. I screamed and banged on the door along with the others. Cardassian soldiers started beating us away, and I was thrown to the side, where I hid behind a barricade, hoping that the door would open and I could rush inside. It was from there that I watched you and Toran argue. I couldn’t hear you, but it was clear what was happening. You knew each other from before, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” I replied.

  “I could tell you hated each other. When you walked away I knew that they were all going to die.” Remara walked to the window and looked out. How much of my life, I thought, had been spent at that window, longing for release from this sad and deadening place.

  “Tahna Los told us you were here. He’s still in a Bajoran prison, and believes that you were somehow involved in his capture. It certainly wasn’t a secret, but nobody knew who you were or why you stayed after the Cardassian Withdrawal. You were very low on the list for termination.” She turned and smiled apologetically. “It wasn’t until I came here and saw you . . . and recognized you. When I went back and told the others, they put you at the top of the list, and I was assigned.” She shook her head sadly and slipped the phaser inside her tunic. She moved away from the window to where I still stood.

  “You’re going to have to leave this station. They’ll keep coming after you until someone succeeds. Good‑bye, Elim.” She put her hand against the side of my face, and I felt the heat coming through. Perhaps her passion was a curse as a terrorist, but she was a whole person . . . and she had found redemption.

  “Why does Kira think you were a traitor and a thief?” I asked as she moved to the door.

  “Because I was.”

  “Did you collaborate at the refugee center?”

  “Nerys told you about Singha.” Remara sighed and looked past me as if seeing something that only deepened her sadness. “Her father, Taban, let me live with them in their part of the cave. In return I betrayed him.” She looked at me with that distant smile I found so attractive when we first met. “No, I didn’t collaborate, Elim. I thought Taban was the collaborator. I discovered that the reason he was able to take me in was because he received extra food and medicine from the Cardassian authorities. At the time I had a friend in the Resistance. When I told him about the supplies, I was instructed to keep an eye on Taban’s activities . . . and to steal whatever I could to pass on to people who were in need. One day, Taban caught me in the act. I think if I’d just admitted what I was doing and why, he would have forgiven me. He was that kind of man. Instead, I accused him of betraying our people and ran away.” Her voice trailed off, and we stood in the vibrating silence of the station.

  “You were very young,” I observed.

  “It was later when I found out why Taban received extra supplies. His wife, Nerys’s mother, was a comfort woman for the Cardassians. Did Nerys tell you that?”

  “No.”

  “In fact, she was the mistress of your old friend, Dukat, before she died.”

  “Dukat,” I repeated softly.

  “So they gave up their extra rations. Either that, or be hounded as collaborators. I don’t blame Nerys, Elim. In her position, I’d be just as unforgiving.”

  She turned and went through the opening door. A part of me wanted her to stay, but in my weariness I could only watch her leave.

  16

  Entry:

  Gray, humid, and lush. Sometimes I’d stand up from my gardening work and feel my head bump against the low Romulan sky. Tain told me this was an ideal assignment for me, and when I disembarked on Romulus I partly understood why. Vegetation thrives in this climate. Everywhere you look, shrubs, trees, flowers all grow in a profusion I’d never seen before. And it’s that very sight that produces the most amazing reversal of expectation. At first I was convinced there was something wrong with my eyesight: instead of being predominantly green, Romulus is gray.

  My cover at the Cardassian Embassy was master groundskeeper. The regular groundskeeper was sent back to Cardassia for an extended leave, during which time I would introduce Cardassian plantings. Tolan had prepared me very well for this cover. My name was Elim Vronok, and my deep mission was very clearly stated: eliminate Proconsul Merrok, Tain’s nemesis in the Romulan Empire. No one knew–or would say exactly–why this antipathy between Merrok and Tain existed, but it was fierce and abiding. I knew that part of the reason was that Merrok had previously urged a Romulan alliance with the Klingon Empire to contain the Cardassians, and he had even gone so far as to share cloaking technology with the Klingons. It was this technology–arguably Romulus’s most important scientific achievement–that we still coveted; specifically, the improved interphase generator that
rendered the interphase scanner (the device developed by Federation scientists to detect cloaked phenomena) virtually impotent. Romulans and Cardassians were tentatively exploring an exchange–cloaking technology for advanced Cardassian weaponry–but any progress in those negotiations was constantly thwarted by Merrok, the prime defense minister.

  But there was something else: the rivalry between the Obsidian Order and its Romulan counterpart, the Tal Shiar, an intelligence organization led by the implacable Koval and sponsored by Merrok. The rivalry had become so intense that a virtual state of war existed between the two organizations.

  “Vronok!” And my biggest surprise on Romulus was the identity of the embassy’s first secretary: Nine Lubak, the instrument of my Bamarren betrayal in the hands of his cousin Barkan Lokar. Krim Lokar had obviously been left in the dust of Barkan’s rapid rise, and had found another liaison position, this time dispensing appropriate and carefully prepared “information” to the Romulan Bureau of Alien Affairs. He was a puppet: his mouth moved whichever way it was pulled. When I first saw him, I thought the mission was compromised. Only the ambassador and my contact knew who I was. But thanks to Lokar’s arrogance and self‑involvement (which had deepened over the years) he didn’t recognize me.

  “The ambassador wants to see you,” he announced from his lofty position.

  “I’ll be right in,” I assured him with all due deference.

  “Make sure you clean yourself before you do,” he instructed me, as if I were a child.

  “Certainly.” I bowed my head.

  “First Secretary!” he corrected.

  “Excuse me?” I knew what he wanted.

  “You will address me as First Secretary,” he explained. He was convinced that because I was a gardener I was also a dolt.

  “Of course . . . First Secretary.” I smiled.

  “Do people know what you’re doing here?” he asked with distaste.

  “I beg you pardon, First Secretary?” I felt a slight twinge. He’s not supposed to know anything.

  “Out here. The grounds,” he gestured impatiently to the plot I was preparing. “Do you have permission to do this work? It seems rather excessive. The grounds were perfectly acceptable with Kronim,” he said, referring to the former groundskeeper.

  “I assure you, I have the authority . . . First Secretary.”

  “Well, hurry up!” He actually clapped his hands. “We haven’t all day.” He turned and entered the building. I marveled how the years had turned him into a fussy middle‑aged androgyne. I wondered if anyone would really mind if I put him on the list after Proconsul Merrok.

  When I entered the ambassador’s office, he was sitting at his desk with an older Romulan woman. Neither of them rose.

  “Elim Vronok, this is Senator Pelek.” I bowed and waited respectfully to be addressed. The senator completely ignored me, and the Ambassador continued. “The senator has created a renowned arboretum, and she’s curious about the native Cardassian plantings you are introducing to the Romulan climate. Especially the Edosian orchid.”

  I nodded. My expression betrayed nothing, but here was my “contact”: a Romulan senator. That Tain managed to turn such a high‑ranking official was a feat, considering the hermetic nature of Romulan society. These people regarded aliens as lower forms of life, and the condescending attitude all Romulans reserved for the outsider was never covert. Indeed, as I stood there in a work uniform identifying me as an Embassy service drone, the senator looked right through me. I wasn’t even worthy of her disdain.

  “Send him to my residence,” she commanded the ambassador as she rose. “My groundskeeper will meet with him and get the necessary information.” The ambassador started to bow, but Senator Pelek was already on her way out the door. I began to wonder if she was indeed the contact. Could her interest in my orchids be a coincidence? This felt more like indentured labor than an undercover assignment.

  “I’ve been posted here for two cycles and I still can’t get used to their arrogance.” Ambassador Bornar was a massively overweight man who appeared to be constantly falling asleep. This time, however, when I looked at him he was awake and very present. I wondered how much he knew about my mission. When he saw me studying him he quickly went back to sleep.

  “Thank you, Vronok,” he rumbled. “Why don’t you clean up and I’ll have you transported to the senator’s residence.”

  “Yes, Ambassador.” As I left I heard him call for Lokar, who was waiting outside the door. He sniffed at me as we passed. First Lackey would be a more appropriate title, I thought. But he didn’t concern me. After weeks of nothing but the daily manual labor of reorganizing and maintaining the embassy grounds, finally contact had been made. But the time hadn’t been wasted. I had worked hard, lived simply, and gotten myself in excellent physical condition. I’d studied the sketchy information on Merrok provided to me by Prang, but I’d been able to pick up little more on my own. It was going to be a challenge to get to him; he was a careful man, and devoted to his family, and if he had any vices they were effectively masked. A man who kept his habits to himself no doubt organized his life with the practiced attention of an experienced security operative. It was a closed system. But that’s why we had contacts: they were supposed to know the way in.

  I also spent the time with my poetry, an interest that had revived along with my relationship with Palandine. It not only enabled me to express my passion, it was also the most effective way to alleviate the pain of our separation. Before Palandine came back into my life I had embraced these long assignments. Now all I wanted was to complete my work and return to her company.

  “You will wait here,” the elderly Romulan groundskeeper instructed me. I barely noticed him leave: the massive outbuilding where I was told to wait was a controlled environment containing the most impressive collection of flora I have ever seen. The technology that allowed for such diversity to exist in one space was ingenious and visionary. I understood why the senator’s arboretum was renowned. The grayness that permeated the rest of Romulus was held in abeyance, and various shades of red, purple, green, yellow and blue flashed and vibrated with an energy–an awareness–that quickened every time I moved or changed focus. As I scanned the vast enclosure and the dense growth of shrubs, trees, flowers, and vines I shivered with the recognition that I was also being watched. Besides the visual beauty, there was an overwhelming sense of intelligence . . . and danger.

  “Step back!” the voice sharply ordered. I turned and saw the senator standing at the entrance.

  “Excuse me?” I didn’t understand.

  “Unless you desire a stinging experience you won’t forget for days, I’d advise you to step back from the Romiian striker.” I followed her look, and saw a quivering vine snaking along the ground toward me and displaying sharp spikes along its spine. I stepped back, and it immediately retracted to the concealing bush where it obviously lived.

  “It can attach itself to small creatures attracted by its scent and quickly drain them of fluids,” she said, as she examined me with a scientific detachment that made me feel like one of her new exhibits. Her sharp features accentuated the clinical attitude.

  “We have a similar plant that. . . .”

  “The Mekarian sawtooth, yes,” she interrupted. “There’s one just behind the Terran gum tree. But it actually breaks down the flesh of its prey. The striker leaves a desiccated husk.” Her speech was as precise and lean as her trim, ascetic body. “Other than the initial puncture, the dead creature looks untouched. Your Mekarian sawtooth leaves a very messy corpse,” she said with disdain.

  I made no response, but all my awareness was in play. This was a dangerous woman, and it occurred to me that this dense collection of botanical life from every part of the quadrant was an instructive outpicturing of her own mind. My voice warned me to use my wits every step of the way. I wanted to turn around, to see what else was creeping toward me.

  “I was assured that you know what you’re doing,” she said, breaking
the humid silence.

  “I’m honored by the generosity of that assurance. . . .”

  “How quickly can you bring Edosian orchids to maturity?” Conversation was not at the top of her agenda. I looked around.

  “I’ll have to bring in some specially prepared soil . . . early morning light is essential. . . .”

  “How quickly?” she repeated with a sharper edge.

  “To full bloom . . .” I made some rapid calculations . . . “it would take . . . six months at least. Unless . . .”

  “Unless what?”

  “We were able to trick them.” The Romulan gravity is heavier than ours and her constant pressure made it even more oppressive.

  “By accelerating the cycles of light and dark,” she stated. She was no novice.

  “Yes, if we could compress two cycles into one . . .”

  “Three months.” She nodded, confirming something to herself and looking through me in that maddening way. I felt more and more like a holographic display. She suddenly walked past me.

  “Come with me,” she ordered. I followed her down a central aisle, careful to step exactly where she did. I recognized some plants and shrubs either as Cardassian natives or ones I had encountered on other assignments. At one point I stopped when I saw a ground creeper–the indigo sunsearcher–also from the Mekar. It was like seeing an old friend, and brought back a flood of memories. Regnarsestablish their colonies next to the sunsearcher’s roots, but I decided not to share this with the senator. Finally we came to a cleared space, where a common‑looking plant with small white flowers and oval oily leaves tinged with an iridescent green was isolated from its neighbors. I looked to the senator for an explanation.