“If you ask ten people, you’ll get ten opinions. Would you like to hear mine?” Tain asked politely.

“Yes. . . .” I still didn’t know what to call him.

“We get what we need, Elim. We listen to everyone’s opinion, but in the end we get what we need. What do you need?”

“I never . . . asked myself.”

“Most people don’t. They’re led by instinct to satisfy the basics. What they don’t realize is that if you don’task, other people will answer for you, and then you never discover who you are.”

“Is that what you’re doing? Answering for me?” The anger in my voice surprised me.

Tain smiled. “You learned what you needed from Bamarren. If you had stayed longer you would have developed . . . habits . . . useful for other organizations. We’re different, you see? I’m not even sure the First Prefect understands.”

“But what am I here for?” I now felt bolder.

“You’re here to find out who you are. And to create your own story.”

“Story?”

“Your history. Up to this point you’ve been defined by other people’s needs. Mila’s. Tolan’s. Your docent’s.”

“Yours?” I asked. Tain laughed.

“Perhaps. But here you have the opportunity to change all that.”

Opportunity. The word clung to me like my shadow. Tain touched his comm panel. “Limor, please come in.”

“The Obsidian Order?” I asked.

“What do you know about us?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s a good start.”

“What will I do?”

“To begin with, you’ll learn how to gather and process simple information.” As Tain said this, a tall, wiry man of indeterminate age entered the office quietly. Tain rose to meet him.

“And Limor Prang will get you started. This is Elim Garak, our newest junior probe,” Tain said to Limor, whose facial expression appeared permanently set to reveal nothing. Tain turned back to me; the smile was gone. “You will no longer live at home. Visits to your family will be limited to holidays and name days. You are never to say anything to anyone about your work other than your designation as a research analyst in the Hall of Records. When you see your mother, she is ‘Mila’ and you are to treat her like any other service worker.” He held my look to see how I would react to the last order. “You will receive all information and assignments from Limor. Thank you.”

Tain returned to his desk and Limor started to lead me out. We were dismissed. Just like that, my life had changed again. Tain noticed my hesitation.

“You have a question, Elim?”

I had nothing but questions. “I . . . don’t know what to call you now,” I managed.

The smile returned. “My name is Enabran Tain. Have you forgotten?”

“No . . . Enabran.”

In all my life I had never met a man who communicated so much with so few words as Limor Prang. Everything about him was as lean and spare as his body. He always looked like he was obscured by a shadow. In the brightest room one had to look twice to see that he was there. I thought that I was good at erasing my presence, but Limor made me look like a clumsy exhibitionist.

At the end of our first session Limor gave me my personal comm chip. “This has your schedule and data. It will answer all questions. Run the first program before you leave the building.” I looked down at the chip, which was smaller than the tip of my thumb, and when I looked back up Limor was gone. I sat down in the only chair and activated the chip.

“Elim Garak: code name, regnar;grade, junior probationist. Place chip in right ear,” the recorded voice instructed. I did, and the orientation program explained that communication is run once and not repeated. This is where the mnemonic training at Bamarren would be invaluable. I was given the location of my living quarters and the time and place of my first cell meeting. I was instructed where and when my training would begin. The program then rattled off a number of codes that would serve me in a variety of situations, from adjusting time and place coordinates to describing degrees of danger.By the time the program finished, my head was throbbing with the effort to hold on to this plethora of vital data.

5

As I moved building debris and arranged them into piles of different shapes and sizes, I came to realize that the ground floor of Tain’s house had been constructed strongly enough to withstand the destructive blast and hold the weight of the collapsed material. This left the basement undamaged. It was now just a question of clearing a way to the opening that led to the basement. But I hesitated: I knew what I would find down there, Doctor.

Most people, when I began this work, assumed that I was going to rebuild the house. After all, that was going on all around me. Cardassians are nothing if not industrious, and from the dust and rubble another, though more primitive, city was emerging. Each time the rudimentary shape of a house began to take shape, the morale of the sector was raised as well. At first people were confused by my efforts. Many assumed that I was unhinged and needed to do something, anything, to stay busy. Some even offered helpful advice about rebuilding, but when they realized that I wasn’t receptive they left me alone. After a while, as the shapes formed, they became curious, and their attitude changed. Many, like Doctor Parmak, were respectful, even reverent. One evening I came back from work and encountered a small group that had surrounded one of the constructed piles close to the walkway. As Parmak had done, they were calling out names in the traditional chant for the dead.

It was at that moment that I decided that not only was I not going to open up the basement, I was not going to rebuild the house of Enabran Tain. Instead I constructed the largest and most ambitious formation of material where the center of the house–Tain’s study–had formerly been located. This was my memorial to Mila, who remained entombed in the basement. If the people need a place to mourn their dead, to mourn a way of life that will never return, then I offer the home of Enabran Tain, the man most responsible for provoking this destruction. Parmak is right: otherwise, how can we ever move ahead?

6

Entry:

The first cell meeting took place in an empty, cold warehouse in the Munda’ar Sector that was almost entirely comprised of storage facilities for the foodstuffs and other goods that kept the city alive. I walked into the echoing, cavernous space, and saw that no one was there. I placed the comm chip in my right ear and was directed to a hidden ladder that took me down into a dark room, where ten chairs were arranged in a semicircle facing one chair isolated in a pool of light. Two of the chairs were empty, and it wasn’t until I took one that I noticed Limor Prang in the chair facing us. The eight people who preceeded me sat quietly in the shadow at the edge of the pool. Even though no one was encouraged to make contact we tried, sneaking surreptitious looks at each other, until we were interrupted by the last person descending the ladder. By then my eyes had adjusted, and when I stole a glance at the latecomer taking the last chair, I was struck by the familiarity of his face. I knew him–probably from Bamarren–but couldn’t precisely place how.

“Don’t ever be late again.” It was stated quietly, but everyone in the room got the message.

It was a short meeting. This was a new cell–Limor said little and made sure that we introduced ourselves with code names only. The person who was eluding my memory was called Maladek. Limor told us to put the names together with the faces and voices as best we could. This would be the only meeting like this our cell would ever have. If we saw each other again it would be “on assignment.” The clear implication was that we had better remember each other, even though we were given no opportunity to go beyond the faintest of first impressions.