“Just tell him . . . you did the best you could.” The bark this time shocked me. It was loud and mocking and had a concussive effect. I backed up, fully expecting him to attack. Instead, he walked to the door, opened it and left. I didn’t follow him; I was too stunned by the last grotesque image he’d presented. I went to the eyepiece, but he didn’t return to his room. I didn’t know what to do. Somehow the fiction, created in a moment of need, had become blended in with an awful reality, and I felt that once again I’d been the unwitting instrument of Maladek’s abysmal failure.

“Come in, Elim.” Tain had his uncle smile working today. I entered the office, which was more cluttered than ever. There was barely room for me to stand.

“We did very well on Tohvun.”

“I hope my contribution. . . .”

“Yes, we were able to scuttle those misconceived talks. We complained that the Federation was more interested in harassing our embassy people than they were in bargaining in good faith.”

I nodded. There were so many questions. How I had managed to function during that mission, when I never knew what it was about or what I was supposed to do, I’ll never know. This was my first experience with Tain’s working methods. For him it was all a puzzle, and we were the separate pieces he put together at his pleasure. I had to accept that the final result–destroying the talks–was the one he wanted. But there was one question I needed to ask. Maladek’s final look haunted me still.

“What is it, Elim?” Tain asked.

“What happened to Maladek?”

“You didn’t hear?” He seemed surprised. “A terrible thing really. He killed himself.”

I didn’t move a muscle. I felt my throat begin to constrict. Tain watched me.

“Very upsetting. It was the reason the talks were cancelled. We had no idea he was so unstable.”

That was the word the Federation had used when they sent him back. And while I believed that Hans Jordt had decided that Maladek was too much of a liability, Tain’s unblinking look made it clear to me that this was a far more complicated world than that of Bamarren and the Competition. For one thing, the penalty for losing could be final. For another, we can never be certain what purpose we are serving. At least Maladek didn’t have to worry about what he would say to his father now.

9

The city is rising from its ashes. From reports coming in, it seems that cities and communities all over Cardassia are digging out and establishing a new life. But it’s difficult, Doctor. We have so few natural resources (which dictated our expansionist policy to begin with), and our infrastructure has been ravaged. So the Cardassia that’s emerging is splintered and primitive. And dangerous. Each sector is attempting to organize so that food distribution can proceed in an orderly manner. I must say that the Federation has been prompt and generous in its response. However, I don’t know how many more of these “ready meals” I can stomach. Give me the Replimat any day.

One of the problems with the reorganization is the quality of person who is answering the call for political leadership. The previous leadership structure has been discredited; people are aware that the military was the most influential group, and their agenda was to keep the mechanism for conquest and expansion well oiled. As long as they brought back the spoils of this policy, they were able to hold on to their power. And while I think most people now understand that direct responsibility for our current circumstances has to be placed at the door of the military, there are still many who believe otherwise.

In our own sector, a man by the name of Korbath Mondrig is attempting to take political control by appealing to our fears. He maintains in public speeches that a return to our former glory is the only way we will be able to protect ourselves from our ancient enemies, who now see us as easy pickings. But what pickings? We have nothing left. However, people are believing his idiocy, and his organization is growing.

Another man from our sector, Alon Ghemor, the nephew of Tekeny Ghemor, the legate who believed that Colonel Kira was his daughter, is organizing based on the political belief that we have to rebuild a new society administered by civilian leadership, one that lives in what he calls “creative harmony” with the rest of the Quadrant. What’s interesting is that I went to school with Ghemor. I saw him at a rally that was held here (yes, my little Tarlak has become a focal point for the sector). When he appeared I yelled, “Five Lubak!” He didn’t recognize me at first, but then his eyes widened, and he answered, “Ten!” He seemed genuinely pleased to see me. Dr. Parmak, who’s an ardent supporter of Ghemor and organized the rally, was quite impressed. It’s encouraging to see that my old schoolmate has remained a decent man.

But this is our problem now (and I can see you ready to pounce, Doctor): What is our new mechanism of choice? A small group of Mondrig’s supporters are attempting to intimidate people, but to engage them with organized opposition would be dangerous. We have several small armies battling each other to fill a power vacuum and end up deeper in the dust and rubble. But that’s what Mondrig wants–a competition. He maintains that the coming inevitable conflict will “revitalize our defeated spirit, and a renewed warrior society will return us to our former glory.” Dr. Parmak, however, is a believer in the democratic principles you and I have spent many hours arguing over (what is it about you doctors?). He and Ghemor want the people of the sector to be able to vote. It’s a new concept for us, but everyone is so weary from the war and its devastation that it’s a serious possibility.

Yes, I can picture you sitting with your feet up, gloating with that self‑satisfied smile of Federation enlightenment. And perhaps you’re right.

10

Entry:

As I approached the house the door opened. Mother had evidently been waiting for me. I paused at the door.

“Hello, Mother.” It’d been years since I had said that. A great space had widened between us, and I’d had to call her Mila the few times I’d seen her at the Order. Standing in the doorway, she looked older and heavier.

“Come in, Elim.” It was also years since I’d been inside this house. The same smell of cooking oil and disinfectant prevailed, and nothing appeared to have changed. Except that Father was ill. I followed Mother down the stairs to the basement with an increasing sense of foreboding.

“He’s very weak, Elim. Don’t tire him.”

“How long has he been ill?” I asked. The situation was obviously more serious than I was led to believe.

“For some time.” Mother was terse, uncommunicative. She stubbornly maintained the distance between us.

“Why didn’t you call me earlier?” Anger was rising within me, and I had to keep a tight control.

“You’re so rarely in the city, and when you are I know that Enabran needs you.”

It was true. The only time I spent on Cardassia was what was necessary to prepare me for my next assignment; any time left was spent in further training that Tain insisted that I have. I had long since shed my probe status. Indeed, judging from the way I was treated, I was regarded as one of Tain’s protйgйs (the “sons of Tain” they called us), and held to a rigorous standard. I was envied and feared, but returning to this house had revealed the true depths of my loneliness. Mother stopped before we entered Father’s room. She wanted to tell me something.

“He’s not himself. He’s . . . medicated, and sometimes what he says doesn’t make sense. It’s important to leave before he gets to that point.” I nodded and we entered.

The room was dark, and the smell of decay assaulted my senses. I started to gag and worked to fight back the fear that seized me. When my eyes adjusted, I barely recognized Father. He was the size of a child. His hair was completely white, his face skull‑like. I couldn’t tell if he was sleeping or dead. In either case, death was the dominant presence. I was speechless. This was a man whose body had been lean and hard, and who had worked every day with unflagging vitality.