A Stitch in Time stdsn-27

by Andrew J. Robinson

  Merrok watched me carefully as I transplanted the orchids. He intuitively knew to suspend his questions while I performed the delicate operation. I could see that he was enchanted by them.

  “Tomorrow you might give them a supplement I’m going to leave with you. Four parts water, one part supplement. That will aid the transplant.” Obviously it was vital to our plan that he be near the orchids on the first day, but I recognized from his fascination that he didn’t need any encouragement.

  “Not today?” he wondered.

  “No, I don’t think so. They have enough to adjust to already. By tomorrow they’ll be receptive,” I explained as I put on the finishing touches. He nodded approval at my logic. I rose to make sure that Crenal was placing the White Star far enough away from the orchid. The seeds had already been sent and accepted; there was no point in establishing this lethal fertilization as a periodic event.

  “What is he planting?” Merrok inquired.

  “I believe the senator said it was called Starlight Sweetness,” I replied.

  “Women,” he chuckled. “Where’s it from?”

  “Somewhere in the Klingon Empire, I believe,” I answered.

  “At least my grounds will live in political harmony,” he laughed, enjoying the irony. If only he knew how deadly the irony was. But his pleasant company made me curious as to why Tain harbored such antipathy for the man.

  When he finished, the proconsul invited us in for a refreshment. I politely declined, but he insisted.

  “I’ve never had a Cardassian in my home before, Vronok, and I’d like you to be the first.” There was no way I could wiggle out of this. Crenak and I obediently followed him, brushing our hands against our clothes.

  “Don’t worry about that. It’s honest work and honest soil,” he said as he led us inside. A young man dressed in the black uniform of a high‑ranking Tal Shiar officer watched me coldly as I entered. I could feel Crenal shrink away from the young man’s presence. The proconsul proudly introduced him as his son, Colonel Merrok. The colonel looked at me and shook his head with hostile disbelief. Obviously the rank of proconsul would be far beyond his diplomatic prowess. I was sorry he wouldn’t be around to help his father tend to the orchids the next day.

  “Tameenar!” Merrok called, and a liveried servant immediately appeared. “Bring some ale.” The servant soundlessly disappeared. The room was cavernous–Romulans, it seemed, valued large spaces–and simply but elegantly furnished. As he continued to stare at me, I knew it was only a matter of time before the colonel expressed his disapproval of my presence. Romulans wore their rudeness like a badge of honor.

  “Was this necessary, Father?” He referred to me as if I were a mute display. “This passion for your plants seems to attract other lower life‑forms as well.” The gesture was so outrageous that I began to laugh. Crenak was shocked at my reaction, but Merrok laughed even harder. The old proconsul was not making me feel too terribly pleased about my mission. I was genuinely liking this man.

  “Our friend Vronok is not only an accomplished floriculturalist, Toral, but he is the bringer of an exquisite creation whose cultivation few people in the quadrant have mastered.” The Colonel snorted. “Besides, he’s part of the good senator’s reconciliation gesture,” he added with heavy irony. At that both men laughed. Ah yes, I thought, another case of fatal underestimation.

  The servant returned with the Romulan ale, and we each accepted a glass. The proconsul proposed a toast.

  “Here’s to the success of the plantings. . . .” He paused, and just as I was about to drink he continued with a twinkle in his eye. “. . . And to the spoonheads staying within their own borders.” I smiled, and without hesitation drank from the glass. Lokar was right, Romulan ale was a foul drink. But I must confess that the toast proposed by proconsul Merrok left me feeling much better about the whole affair.

  “So you spent some time with him, Elim. I hope it was edifying,” Tain said at the end of my report.

  “At first I couldn’t think why you hated him,” I confessed.

  “I don’t hate anyone, Elim,” he carefully explained. “I have a job to do–and sometimes it’s necessary to eliminate those enemies who can’t otherwise be dissuaded. And he was determined to block our interests at every juncture.”

  “Was?” I queried.

  “Oh yes, you did your job. With the help of a farsighted Romulan patriot like Senator Pelek, we were able to significantly slow down their anti‑Cardassian faction. Merrok was found two days after you left in a tool shed. By then there was no way to trace the cause and it was determined that he died of complications due to age.” I had never seen Tain so animated. He radiated glee.

  “It was reported that a few other people decided to smell the flowers that day,” Tain chuckled. I hoped it hadn’t been the children. “Oh yes, my boy–yes, you did excellent work. A job well done.” He had never complimented me with such unconditional enthusiasm. It was almost a demonstration of paternal pride.

  “You see, I had this planned for a long time, Elim. But Tolan wouldn’t agree. He wouldn’t take on the assignment, and he wouldn’t pass on the information. But thankfully he trusted you, Elim.” Tain patted me on the shoulder, which meant I was dismissed.

  As I walked to my rendezvous with Palandine in the Coranum grounds I felt empty. What remained of the pride that filled me was nausea and a bilious taste in my mouth. I was the one poisoned. Perhaps by the pain that Tolan refused to suffer.

  17

  Fear and isolation, Doctor. You can’t have one without the other. Fear isolates and isolation is fear’s natural home. Just as my orchids need carefully prepared soil to protect them against disease and pests, fear needs the isolated circumstances to deepen and grow without connective or relational interference. When fear is allowed to flourish in its dark and lonely medium, then any evil that can be conceived by the fearful imagination will emerge.

  The death toll rises every day. We are now over the one billion mark. This is a numbing, dry statistic. I’m certain that when you read this, Doctor, you will have a disturbed reaction. Others will rationalize that the figure is commensurate with Cardassian complicity. And a third group will simply shrug: it’s not their problem. My reaction would probably have been a combination of the latter two. Like most people, I want to get on with the business of my life and what’s done is done and doesn’t warrant any further loss of sleep or appetite.

  Our med unit has been converted into a burial unit. It’s a logical progression; the survivors have all been accounted for and only the dead remain unclaimed. More immediate, of course, is the potential for decaying corpses to spread disease. So every day now I am engaged in the hardest work of my life; I find that nothing has prepared me for this. My feelings are spent, my moral rationalizations are empty, and I can’t say it’s not my problem when I’m pulling and lifting and throwing bodies of people who once only wanted to go about the business of their lives.

  A Federation official suggested that we simply vaporize all corpses. Underneath the suggestion was the judgment that our burial customs are archaic and morbid. At first I became angry and wanted to berate him for his lack of sensitivity as well as for his own culture’s morbidity in representing death as sanitary and disassociated from life. But I realized that we were no better. We created technologies that dispensed death efficiently and from a distance; we never took responsibility for our personal actions because we were in the service of a greater good–the Cardassian state. Colonel Kira once told me how many Bajorans died during the Cardassian Occupation, and my mind rejected the figure like a piece of garbage. We’d been in the service of the state, I had told myself, and the state had determined what was necessary. But now I understand why she hated me. More important, I now understand that constant burning, almost insane look in her eyes.

  Most of us who are left, Doctor, are insane. We have to be in order to survive and emerge from our isolation. It’s the only way we can live with the pain of what we did. Or d
idn’t. Each of us accepts the amount of responsibility we are capable of bearing. Some accept nothing, and these people are quickly swallowed by their isolation, their insanity transformed into a rationalized evil. A smaller group accepts total responsibility, and their insanity is an unbearable burden that cripples and eventually grinds them down. The rest of us carry what we can and leave the rest. For myself, Doctor, when a corpse is too heavy to bury I try to remember to ask someone to help me.

  18

  Entry:

  “Was he a member?” Palandine asked.

  “I don’t know. I’ve often wondered myself. I suspect he probably was. He was a simple man.” The sun was going down and we were completely immersed in the shadows cast by the foliage.

  “You make his simplicity sound like a defect,” she observed.

  “Tolan was . . . somewhat gullible . . . superstitious. . . .” My feelings about the man had become conflicted, and Palandine picked up on this.

  “Was he your real father?” she asked.

  “Why do you ask?” Ever since Lokar had reported our encounter on Romulus to Palandine there’d been any number of questions she’d tried not to ask.

  “I don’t know. I suppose I’m just trying to reconcile statistical analysis with Romulan gardens.” We lapsed into a long, stony silence. Usually she knew better than to expect a real answer when she did ask about my working life. We both tried not to venture into certain personal spaces; often the attempt functioned as a barrier. I’m sure she knew that I was more than a data analyst at the Hall of Records. She also understood that the less she knew about what I did the more chance our relationship had to survive. For the same reason I never asked about Lokar. The less information, the less damage if either one of us was betrayed.

  “What do you hear from Kel?” I asked, trying to find a way around the barrier. She was completing her first Level at the Institute for State Policy.

  “She may transfer,” Palandine said.

  “Really?” I was surprised. Everything I had heard indicated that she was doing well. “To another discipline?”

  “She doesn’t know. She’s not happy with the course orientation. She feels that the political education she’s receiving has been reduced to learning how to serve the military. She feels that it should be the other way around.” I could see that Palandine was concerned.

  “A radical idea, but many people feel the same. How does her father feel?” I asked.

  “I’m afraid she won’t get much support from that side of the family,” she replied carefully. I wasn’t surprised. Besides knowing the close alliance between the Lokar family and the military, I was also aware of a group called the Brotherhood, which was made up of elite Cardassian families traditionally associated with the aristocracy and the military. The Lokars were a mainstay of the Brotherhood; Barkan’s father, Draban Lokar–a venerable member of the Detapa Council–made little effort to hide his contempt for the civilian‑led government and fully supported the autonomy of the military’s Central Command. The Brotherhood claimed to be a friendly organization engaged in sporting and social events. As it turned out, I was alerted that at any moment I’d be assigned to investigate the Brotherhood and rumors of a conspiracy to disrupt the current tenuous balance between the Civilian Assembly and the Central Command.

  “What about your family? Do they have any advice on the matter?” I asked. Palandine laughed.

  “My parents are older people, Elim. When I enjoined with Barkan and gave up my career they felt that their work was done. They hold the Lokars in such high esteem that whatever old Draban decides is just fine with them.” The darkness and rising chill weren’t helping the mood. I stood up.

  “Kel’s a very resourceful young lady. I’m sure. . . .”

  “Have you been to one of their meetings?” Palandine suddenly asked.

  “What?” I thought she was referring to the Brotherhood.

  “The Oralian Way. Have you been?” Her heaviness was replaced by active curiousity.

  “Yes . . . once,” I replied.

  “Well? What did you think?” she pursued.

  “I . . . it was a mistake. I shouldn’t have been there,” I struggled.

  “Why not? Because they’re outlawed?”

  “No . . . although . . .”

  “What, Elim? Just tell me.” She was growing impatient with me.

  “I’m of two minds. I know, that’s just another way of saying that I’m confused. One mind says these people are as deluded as Tolan Garak in thinking the Hebitians were a spiritually advanced civilization. They couldn’t adapt and they died–that’s the lesson, and I think we’ve learned it very well!” Very rarely did my emotions race so beyond my control. I was almost breathless. It was more than just anger at what I believed to be the weakness and delusion of these people. I suddenly wanted to throw a tantrum.

  “And the other mind?” she asked quietly. I shook my head.

  “I’m sorry,” I managed. I couldn’t even begin to put the other thoughts into words. Palandine smiled.

  “Yes. What if they’re right? What if they couldhelp us reclaim something noble in ourselves? Where does that leave us?” We stood looking at each other. The night wind gusted through the foliage and I wondered where I’d be if I didn’t have this woman’s friendship.

  “Do you remember where they are?” she asked.

  “What? Now?” I began to panic.

  “It’s either that or a meeting of the Bajoran Occupation Support Group,” she laughed with a delight I hadn’t heard in a long time.

  “It was a while ago, Palandine. I don’t know if they’re in the same place . . . or if they even meet tonight.” Her enthusiasm rendered me as helpless as it did when I first met her.

  “We’ll find out, won’t we?” She started to leave. I had no choice but to follow.

  “What is this . . . support group?” I asked.

  “Abandoned women whose children are either grown or away at school. We’re supposed to support our heroes, but we end up supporting each other.”

  “To do what?” I asked naively.

  “You don’t want to know, Elim,” she replied. As we left the grounds, I thought I heard a snapping sound. When I looked back all I could see was the shadowy outline of the foliage dancing with the gusting wind against the dying light.

  It was no trouble finding the house again, but as we stood on the walkway everything was quiet and dark.

  “Is this the entrance?” Palandine asked.

  “No, it’s along the side,” I pointed. She moved quickly along the building and stopped in front of the door. As I caught up with her, the door opened and the Guide was standing there as if she’d been expecting us. I couldn’t tell if she remembered me, but she reacted warmly to Palandine’s delighted look.

  “Come in, please,” she offered, and without hesitation led the way down the narrow stairs. This time instead of turning left into the main room we passed through a curtained entrance to the right. We then followed her into a dark hallway that opened up into a small room with a few low cushioned chairs and soft indirect lighting. The Guide invited us to sit. Palandine immediately complied, and for a moment my discomfort was so acute I wanted to bolt. Although we were the only people in the room, I was aware of movement all around me. As my eyes adjusted, and I reluctantly and awkwardly settled into the low seat, I saw that the walls were covered with a frieze, and that this was the source of the movement. It began at the bottom of one corner and ran continuously around the room, moving gradually higher until it finished at the top of the same corner. It depicted what looked like the daily activities of another time and culture, performed by half‑naked people who were Cardassian, but leaner and somehow more refined. My discomfort with this unaccustomed low style of sitting and with the Guide’s smiling silence was replaced by fascination with the frieze. As I studied the figures I realized how heavy and restricting my clothes were. How protected we were, I thought. And from what? I tugged at my pants to cross my legs.
There was nothing salacious about these people, but they were all attractive. The limbs and torsos of both young and old were exposed as they went about their duties of growing, hunting, gathering, building, communing, raising their families in postures and attitudes that were similar to our own but different enough to be considered archaic. The sequence of these rites and activities began with the miracle of birth and ended with the mystery of death. Palandine and I were spellbound as we followed their sensuous movement along the frieze. It was clear that these people had embraced their lives with vitality and joy.

  “Hebitians,” Palandine murmured.

  “Celebrating the cycles,” the Guide added.

  “I want to get up there and join them,” Palandine said. “But we’re a little late, aren’t we?” Sadness passed like a cloud over her radiant face.

  “For them, yes,” the Guide laughed. “But not for us. Look at the way the frieze spirals up as it moves around the room. Because it ends at the top only means that their cycle has ended. What you can’t see is that another cycle begins at a higher spiral appropriate for the next age. Our age.” Palandine and I looked at the place where the visible spiral ended, and we tried to imagine the next.

  “You seem less careful this time,” she suddenly said to me. She did remember. Somehow I wasn’t surprised. The threat I had felt years before in this woman’s presence–the fear–had evaporated.

  “What’s your name?” Palandine asked.

  “Astraea,” she replied.

  “Elim says that you’re a guide.”

  “Sometimes.”

  “My name is Palandine. Can you help me?”

  “It would be my pleasure, Palandine.”

  “What do I do?” Palandine was unashamedly childlike in her openness.