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This is one reason why I am addressing this recollection to you. Fate lines are converging, like memories to a dying man. I needto write this, Doctor, and you’re the only person on this station who will understand. The invasion of Cardassia is momentous. Many will die. If I don’t survive, I want you to deliver copies of this to some people I will name at the end.
There’s another reason. I know that we have grown apart and that’s as it should be. We learn what we can from certain people, then we move on after we’ve taken what we need. When we learn nothing new about ourselves in a relationship that’s when the relationship is over. Or it’s over the moment when we’re afraidto learn something new about ourselves. But what I have been learning about myself . . . whatever it was inside me that was sparked and challenged when I first met you . . . is deeply co
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Entry:
When I was at the age of emergence, I was sent to the Bamarren Institute for State Intelligence to begin my education as a security operative. This kind of education is usually reserved for children of the current ruling elite, but sometimes a child from the service ranks is identified as promising. I was one of those children.
My father was a maintenance foreman in charge of the grounds, monuments, and memorials of the Tarlak Sector, a majestic and ghostly place that commemorates the heroes of the Cardassian state. My mother was housekeeper to Enabran Tain, the man who owned the house we lived in, who worked at the Obsidian Order, the mysterious agency responsible for “state security.” We lived in the basement apartment of “Uncle” Enabran’s house, and my parents proudly identified themselves as servants of Cardassian public ritual and cleanliness.
It was always assumed that I would become apprenticed to my father. Many of my earliest memories are of preparing for and cleaning up after state funerals and dedication ceremonies. I was a serious little boy, assiduously carrying out my duties and responsibilities. I had to. Father was much older than Mother, and he never said much, but what he did say was always clear and to the point. Anyone who worked for him understood that if he had to repeat himself you would very quickly be demoted to maintaining the city’s sewers.
Mother not only maintained Tain’s house but also worked with him at the Obsidian Order. He was particular about who cooked and cleaned for him, and depended upon Mother for all his personal needs. I was never sure what it was he did; I just assumed he was important enough to afford a house and a servant. The Obsidian Order was housed in those days underneath the Assembly building, and it was years before I even knew where the entrance was. As a child I would go to the Tarlak Sector with Father, and while he supervised his crews I’d play by myself amid the black‑and‑white angularity of the monuments, imagining myself a great gul or legate giving the funeral oration for a fallen comrade. There was nothing about the Obsidian Order that inspired or excited my childish fantasies. Nothing but silence and mystery.
But Tain at home was anything but mysterious. It was not unusual for Uncle Enabran to appear and take me away on some excursion that involved a long walk through a section of the city. During these walks he’d test my awareness, and challenge me to describe a house or a person we’d just passed. If I hadn’t been paying attention and couldn’t remember the details, the walk was over and we’d silently return home under the oppressive weight of his disapproval. He also seemed to know how I was performing at school, and if he wasn’t satisfied with my progress or behavior he’d punish me. I was a hard worker but I had a mischievous streak, and I enjoyed getting others involved in questionable activities and arranging it so they were found out and took the blame. On those rare occasions when I was caught, Tain would somehow find out and punish me–not for my misdeed, but for having been caught. And after he discovered my fear of small, dark spaces, his favorite punishment became keeping me in one until I had convinced him that I had analyzed and fully understood how my mischievous scheme had gone wrong. I found it odd that Mother and Father never had anything to say about these punishments.
One day, shortly after the emergent ceremony at school where I was acknowledged as a man, I came home ready to assist Father at the dedication of the Boltar War Memorial. I was surprised to find my parents at home with a stranger. They were never at home at this time of day, and we rarely entertained guests. They were very private people, and even discouraged me from bringing any of my schoolmates home. Both were clearly ill at ease with this man whom they introduced to me as an official from Institute Placement.
At first I thought I was in trouble, and my face must have reflected this fear because Father attempted to reassure me with a forced smile. But the uncharacteristic falsity of his behavior and his barely concealed agitation only made the situation worse. I had never seen him like this. Mother’s face was a mask; it revealed nothing. She spoke as if I needed to clean off the day’s work before we ate.
“Elim, it seems you have a sponsor. You are going to be placed at a prestigious institute. You leave today.”
Just like that. Any kind of response was beyond me–I had no idea what this meant. I stood there, looking at the three of them looking at me and expecting some kind of reaction on my part.
“The Bamarren Institute,” Father added, as if this was the vital and missing piece that would enlighten me. Oh I knew about the institutes. What student didn’t? I knew that each student needed a sponsor, someone high up in the government or military who would recommend the student and guarantee his or her performance. And I knew that I had reached the age when students were moved on to their next educational level, the level that would determine their working lives. But those schoolmates of mine who had been identified and assigned to an institute had known well in advance that they were going. And who the sponsor was. When I began to ask who mine was, Father cut me off.
“That’s not your business, Elim. Your business is to get cleaned up and ready to go.”
“His business is to serve Cardassia and the Empire in thought, word, and deed,” intoned the official. “Your childhood is over, Elim Garak.”
I was stu
“This is a great honor, Elim!” she said with a passion that startled me and belied her mask. I felt that it was anything but.
It was a long time before I learned the truth about my “sponsor.”
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You will be pleased to hear, Doctor, that I have volunteered to work with an emergency med unit in the City. Whenever people are found alive in the ruins, we are called in to administer aid and make sure that they can be moved to a medical facility. It’s a miracle how some have survived for days, even weeks, buried under to