“I run a small export business, mainly arranging shipments of Borlan’s bloodworm silk,” I explained to the official.
“Very expensive stuff,” he noted, carefully studying me as he consulted his padd, which he skillfully blocked from my sight.
“I have a particular clientèle, monsieur, willing to pay for only the highest quality material,” I replied with an appropriate Gallic hauteur that seemed to come naturally.
“Welcome home, monsieur.” He stamped my carte and motioned me on. As I passed through the gate that led to the main terminal, a group of people stood with small boards flashing different names. I saw one flashing my new name in a garish green light and approached the young woman who held it.
“M. Tranger?” she asked. I nodded. “Please follow me.” She swiftly led the way through the crowd that was a mixture of just about every racial type ... except Cardassian. As it had struck me on my previous visit to Earth, it was reminiscent of another place where I was the sole Cardassian. But here, I was the only one who knew it. Or was I?
“I hope you don’t mind, monsieur, but the fastest way into town is the Métro,” my guide informed me as she gracefully wove her way through the crowd. “I’ve arranged for your baggage to be picked up and delivered to your apartment.”
“What is your name?” I asked.
“Mila.”
I involuntarily stopped, not knowing what to say.
“Are you alright, monsieur?” Mila asked.
“Yes. For a moment ... I thought ... I’d forgotten ...” She watched me as I pretended to look for something in my vest. “No, it’s fine. I have it.” I patted my pocket and we started walking again. Of course it was only a bizarre coincidence, but the fact that this young woman had the same name as my mother ... and my pet regnar who was perhaps my first guide ... unsettled me.
“We haven’t met before, have we?” I regretted the question as soon as it came out of my mouth. She gave me a sideways look without responding or slowing down. “Perhaps it’s just that you remind me of someone,” I hastily added. “It’s been a while since I’ve made this trip.” I couldn’t believe how clumsy I was. It was like I’d never been on an assignment before where something unexpected had happened. Political life had made me obvious and stupid.
We spoke very little during the brief journey into the central city of Paris and the Gare du Nord, an old and stunningly filthy terminal filled with what looked like the refuse of the human race. I was appalled at the chaos and the rude jostling of bodies rushing in every direction. The gravitational heaviness of Earth’s atmosphere had already made me feel as if I were carrying twice my weight, but the damp heat of the day and the smells and the undisciplined behavior of the crowd brought on a wave of nausea. I was determined, however, to follow Mila closely as she calmly sliced a passage through this seemingly impenetrable mass of flesh and noise. She was quite short and I marveled at how she could even see where she was going.
Suddenly, I was nearly knocked off my feet by a man who returned my outraged look with an insult in Arabic, something to the effect that if God gave me eyes, why wasn’t I using them to look where I was going? My blood was boiling as I answered, in flawless Arabic, that if God gave him a life, he had best value it more dearly. The man laughed at my threat and actually waved good-bye to me as the crowd swallowed him. Was this a common Parisian interaction?
“I see you’re a man of the world, monsieur,” Mila observed with a wry smile. Before I could answer I was hit from the other side by some kind of basket on wheels that contained a human baby. The woman pushing the basket didn’t even bother to look at me. I realized how dangerous it was to stand in one place; people resented any stoppage to their flowing chaos. I was sweating profusely and breathing in desperate gulps. Ah yes, being a human didn’t alleviate the claustrophobia.
When we got outside to the “taxi stand,” the sight that greeted me was unlike any I could ever have imagined. The stand was connected to a magnetic power grid that pulsed in a faintly discernible blue light above the street level. Hundreds of these small taxis moved in all directions along the pulsing grid like blue and black insects.
As above, so below where a mass of people and conveyances again somehow moved in several directions without colliding or even obstructing each other. It seems that as long as everyone agrees to move, this mysterious and sluggish flow is maintained. If anyone stops suddenly, as I had done inside the terminal, they are bumped and cursed without mercy until they rejoin the flow. I knew that Earth was a heavily populated planet, but I hadn’t known that everyone lived in Paris. If Cardassians lived this tightly packed, we would have self-destructed long before now. The thought filled me with an unbearable sadness. Mila noticed my reaction to the intense activity of the city.
“It’ll be alright, monsieur. It’s the beginning of a holiday and everyone wants to get away.”
Mila finally secured a taxi, an odd, cramped conveyance that I had to squeeze my body into. Once the doors were shut and the “driver” had programmed our destination into the taxi’s computer, fresher air filled the interior and I began to breathe again. Except for the driver’s occasional complaints about the circulation, the traffic, and the government that, according to him, no one seemed to like, we rode in silence within this network of pulsing blue lines.
From my narrow seat behind the driver I watched-this strange world pass by; a motley collection of old stone buildings and modern designs of floating glass and metal. Streets, or boulevards, straight and seemingly organized according to a rational plan, suddenly broke off into branches of directional chaos (that word again). Even the smallest rues were crowded with people, some of whom were walking four-legged beasts that left their urine and feces for others to step in. Yet somehow, the slanting sunlight of the late afternoon, a filtered and roseate hue I had never seen before, cleansed the city of its filth, and these seemingly disparate and dissonant elements came together in a way that both attracted and saddened me, and awakened in me a mysterious yearning for something or someone. I could sense Mila discreetly watching me.
“It’s not the same as you remember it?” she asked.
“Yes. For the most part,” I answered. “I’m always surprised at how different it is from ... other places.”
“The Americans and the Germans think we’re recalcitrant. They call Paris the ‘museum city’ because we won’t make the changes they’ve made in their cities.” She was looking out the window.
“But they keep coming here, don’t they?” the driver snorted. “And do you know why?” He was looking directly at me.
“Uh ... because they like a museum?” I ventured.
“Au contraire, monsieur!” he snorted again. “The Americans and Germans live in sterile boxes, but they don’t want to forget what real life is like. So they come and eat our real food and walk our real streets with their guidebooks and begin to feel real feelings again. They remember what it is to be a human being. Why do you think the Federation chose us to build their headquarters?”
“Uh ... because they want to be in a real city?”
“Voila!” I passed his test and he went back to his “driving.” Mila continued to look out the window with a faint smile. It was clear that I was being introduced to a part of Earth, a diehard culture that wasn’t featured in Federation propaganda. I vaguely remembered something Julian had said about the French being “different.”
The “apartment” was not far from the Gare du Nord in an even older section called Menilmontant in the city’s “20th Arrondissement.” It was a small and cramped space with sleeping quarters and windows that opened onto a courtyard, a central and shared open space the apartment house was built around and that gave tenants access to the air outside before the building was retrofitted with climate control. It also gave tenants access to what was going on in their neighbors’ apartments. Even with modern climate control, most tenants’ windows were open, and the noises and smells of their lives drifted out onto the courtyard and up to my top floor. T
he building was long overdue for demolition, but because of the “historical” value of this section of the city, demolition was a legally complicated process. I was to find that my taxi driver wasn’t the only person in Paris who wanted to keep it “real.”
As I stood in the main room, the salon, and listened to the echoing conversations of my lower neighbors, and smelled their pungent food preparation, I wondered how long I had to stay in this relic. My understanding was that this would be a temporary lodging until I found accommodations that would include space for a tailor shop.
“Who arranged for these living quarters?” I asked Mila after she had explained the domestic details. She looked at me with a puzzled expression. Again, I felt like a fool.
“M. Sharib. I thought—” she began to ask.
“I know who my contact is,” I interrupted, a bit too brusquely. “I just want to know who he used as an intermediary.”
“Ah, an estate agent, you mean.”
“Yes. Whatever you call him.” I was losing my control; I had to be more careful. I could see Mila was somewhat confused by my confusion.
“I only know about M. Sharib. His information is on the apartment’s data padd. He told me to tell you welcome, and he’ll be in touch,” she calmly explained. I nodded understanding, trying to repress my anger at being so inept. I knew that Mila was picking up everything—she was too good to just be a “tourist guide”—and she was too careful to reveal any kind of reaction to my ridiculous behavior.
“Well, if there’s anything else, monsieur?” I could see that she wanted to leave.
“No. Thank you, Mila. You’ve been very kind.” She nodded and went to the door. “How do I find you ... if I need you for some reason?” I asked, again feeling clumsy. She stopped at the door and looked at me with her dark and steady eyes. The more time I spent with her, the more I was impressed by her grace and control.
“That information is also on the padd.” She pointed to the table. She was about to say something else, I’m certain, but she just smiled and quietly left, shutting the door behind her.
I continued to stand, my feet rooted to the worn floor covering, and listened to the faint sounds of Parisian apartment life drifting up to my new home. Mila said that the building was nearly 500 years old. A conservative estimate, I think. Never in my life did I imagine I would be living in an alien culture’s ancient history. The dreamlike circumstances surrounding me ever since I arrived collided with the sensory realness of it all, and I wondered if I hadn’t died and been transported to some bizarre afterlife.
And then a more frightening question took shape: What if I had come to this place to die? I shivered, uprooted myself from these thoughts, and walked over to the padd on the table. Sharib. Why was the name familiar? I had to get busy and find out who this M. Sharib was before my disorientation turned my ancient Parisian apartment into something worse.
I picked up the padd and this is when the bottom literally began to fall out from under me. As I punched in the code Timot gave me, my hands and the padd began to liquefy. Everything—the apartment, the furnishings, the atmosphere—was flowing in a counterclockwise direction and being swallowed by a single black point. The code had activated the dissolution of my body and the surrounding space, and my consciousness, crystal clear and totally aware of what was going on, immediately surrendered to this unraveling of my Parisian reality. Rivers of energy, like great tributaries suddenly emerging from hidden sources, broke through the façade, joined the flow and swirled and roared around me flashing familiar images that dissolved before I could identify them. The whirling wormhole engulfed everything, and my dissolution into noncorporeal consciousness was complete; the “I” experienced an unattached lightness and equilibrium that was able to witness this furious process of matter returning to energy from a still, calm center.
“I” was pure feeling, and the feeling was an ecstasy of loving and knowing acceptance. The yearning that I felt in the Parisian taxi was somehow being fulfilled. I saw who “he” was: Elim Garak, a Cardassian creation of such narrow and meager dimensions it was a wonder he could even sustain himself on the most primitive level. Yes, “he,” a starved cave dweller groping in the dark with countless other cave dwellers, all reacting fearfully to the occasional shaft of light that briefly illuminates and blinds.
The ecstasy was Light. Every shadow dissolved, every dark corner revealed, every secret flushed out and exposed as an agent of the death and decay the cave dwellers worshipped. A fleeting thought connects this experience to death, but as the center expands and the Light becomes more familiar, the I understands that the concept of death is as narrow as the three-dimensional concept of life the cave dwellers have accepted. Yes, the I remembers that there were promises, intimations of this Lighted Reality; the blending hues of the Mekar Wilderness at twilight, the gentle healing light that cleansed and unified a filthy Paris, the moonlight that contained Palandine in the Bamarren grounds. Where did he end and she begin? Yes, there were premonitions, a foresight and foretaste of this journey to ... ?
A structure assembles ... elements of color, line, and texture make shapes that begin to move like ... Yes, the first shadows pierce the light, and the center contracts into a box that presents a vision of life from the other place where Elim Garak lives. It still exists! The vision plays out and a shudder rocks the center as Elim Garak walks out of Pythas Lok’s office with Dr. Parmak. I am now a Witness.
“What do we do with him?” Nal Dejar asks Pythas. The answer is dearly in the question.
“He can never come back,” Pythas agrees.
“I’ll arrange it,” Prang says, completing the agreement, but before he can leave, Pythas stops him.
“I want him to live.”
“I don’t understand.” Prang understands and is annoyed.
“Let him live, Limor. Just as long as he never comes back,” Pythas explains carefully to reinforce the decision.
“Where is this possible?” Prang asks. His face has turned to stone.
“The Vinculum.”
“Listen to me, Pythas Lok. Garak has many enemies. It would be a simple matter to just kill him. To spare his life is no solution. And it’s not mercy. His life has run its course!”
Yes, we (I am not the only Witness) can even hear Pythas thinking: For Limor this is an oration, and he’s right. Elim is exhausted, he no longer has any resources to draw upon. The inability to give the speech shows how depleted his morale is. Perhaps it is a kindness to kill him. And Prang thinks: This is the sentimentality that Enabran allowed to come into the Order, and that nearly destroyed us. I taught Pythas to be harder. But the chain of command must be preserved, and Pythas is our only chance. So be it.
But the weakness galls Prang. Nal is so devoted to Pythas that she meshes in every way to the contours of his thinking. The harmony between them is powerful and Prang accepts the decision.
“Arrange it with Timot Mindur so that Elim will go to the Vinculum and never return,” Pythas orders. “Parmak assures me that the controls are on this side.”
“Should we worry about Parmak?” Nal Dejar asks.
“He’ll never find out, Nal,” Pythas replies. We’re going to send Elim to Earth, he’ll disappear, and it will be revealed that he was assassinated as he was attempting to make some kind of deal with the Federation. I don’t think I have to explain to you how this will work to our advantage.”
“I’ll arrange it with Mindur.” Prang’s mind has gone blank. The Elim Garak problem has now been resolved, and there’s nothing more to be said or thought on the matter.
Without thought the scene fades. The being called Elim Garak is disposed of in his father’s former office by his oldest and closest friend, but he continues to exist in some dimensional fold as long as I keep him in my thoughts. I live in a paradox of motion and stillness. I can think, I can let go of my thinking. It makes no difference here. In the narrow, dimensional world of Elim Garak, the fear of death is the motivation for action and reac
tion; in the ecstatic world, the death of the ego is the starting point for all creative thought. But that doesn’t mean that the ego can’t be reborn. Anything is possible if creative thinking is supported by desire.
3
My dreams receded to that delicate area between sleeping and waking, and as I tried to assemble the remaining jumble of faint imagery into a coherent order, they disappeared completely. I opened my eyes and a soft, bluish light and utter calm greeted me. My first thought was that only death could be so peaceful. I couldn’t remember where I was. Perhaps it was still a dream. I lifted myself up from the pallet into a sitting position, but the effort made me momentarily nauseated. I had to put my head down between my knees and breathe deeply to stem the anxiety. When I looked back up, there was a full-length mirror on the wall in front of me. Was it there before? And why was I relieved to see the image of myself looking back?
In the mirror, I saw a door slide open behind me. Somehow I knew I had to walk through the door and into the corridor beyond. I got to my feet and moved to the door, my head feeling light-years away from my feet. I stopped at the threshold and stared down the long corridor that receded into a blackness that brought back the memory of the blackness that had swallowed me. It was not fear that prevented me from crossing the threshold, but the uncertainty of what was real and what was a dream. I couldn’t tell.
“Does it make any difference, Elim Garak?”
“Palandine?”
“Because if you’re going to get out of here, my little regnar, you’re going to have to learn to live in both places.”
Shards of light swarmed out from the blackness and collected at a single point to create the radiant image of ... Kel.
Before I could even form a question in my mind, I was crossing the threshold without any physical effort and following Kel, who was moving down the corridor toward a brightly lit opening. There was still no effort involved, and judging from how quickly we were nearing the now-lighted end of the corridor, it was almost as if we were riding on some kind of lightspeed conveyance. As we approached the end, the light engulfed us with such intensity that I couldn’t keep my eyes open. I sensed the presence of shadowy figures all around me and the murmur of several conversations.
STAR TREK: DS9 - Prophecy and Change Page 42