At the end of the Promenade I was led down some steps into a dreary workshop littered with articles of clothing, uniforms, and bolts of rotting fabric. Everything was covered with the same patina of oily muck that encrusted the entire Bajoran section.

“What is this?” I asked.

“This is where you will carry out your assignment.” It’s bad enough when a toady assumes the behavior of his superior, but when the superior has the rhetorical grace of a Tarlak monument . . .

“And what is my assignment?”

“This is a tailor’s shop,” he announced.

“That’s keenly observed,” I said. He accepted my remark as a compliment. The type of toady who gives all Cardassians the reputation for having no sense of irony. “But do you want me to clean it, to burn it, to turn it into the Terok Nor information center . . . ?”

“This is where members of the occupation force brought their garments to be mended.” It was a challenge for the boy to get to the point, but I remained silent so as not to confuse him any more than he was. “The station has been without a tailor since the last one–a Bajoran–decided one day that he would no longer mend our garments.”

“I’m sure you gave him a more ennobling position,” I said.

“He was executed,” the toady replied.

“A promotion of sorts,” I muttered. “Certainly in this place.” I could see that he was growing more uncomfortable in my presence. As much as he wanted, he was unable to assume Dukat’s sneering superiority. A natural‑born toady. “And I have now been given the privilege to mend the holes in your uniforms.”

He nodded in agreement. “You will be providing a vital service to the Cardassian effort on Terok Nor.”

“A stitch in time, eh?” I smiled at him. I’m sure I must have looked positively demented. He shuffled nervously, mumbling something about quotas and standards and filthy Bajorans. I continued to smile and to calculate the dozen or so ways I could end his miserable life in an instant. Finally he made an awkward exit, leaving me alone in the middle of this pile of rags and filth.

Yes, I thought, this is more than punishment; this is humiliation. I am the first Cardassian slave on Terok Nor. My new life. My place.

Entry:

Cardassians design everything carefully. Nothing is left to improvisation or chance. Everything has a function, and every function serves a purpose that fits into what the Bamarren prefect called the mosaic of the state. Just study the architecture of Terok Nor, for example. The diagonal angularity impels the inhabitants, workers and overseers alike, to move on to their next duty. There are no ninety degree angles, certainly no enclosed squares to capture one’s thoughts and energy in any kind of meditation. Everything is designed to guide and direct subliminally so that conscious choice is kept at a minimum in our daily lives.

But exile changes all that. You can only be subliminally controlled when there is a rationale, a meaning to your existence. A tailor. On Dukat’s Terok Nor. Is this Enabran Tain’s sense of humor? The punishment that fits the crime? He must be very angry with me indeed, not only to deny me the dignity of a summary execution but to bury me on this death station and render me as useless as one of these filthy rags.

Don’t surrender to the appearances.

I shook my head as I began to sense the stirring of feelings I didn’t want to emerge and slipped the device from a hidden pocket that eluded the fools who’d searched me. I had ignored Mindur Timot’s warning never to tamper with my wire, and had devised a control that allowed me to activate the mechanism myself. I had become quite devoted to the wire’s anesthetic power, and as I stood in my new home I could feel the endorphins rush through my nerve nexus and into and throughout my perceptual body. Suddenly I was standing outside of my body, watching my reactions–and marveling at how much I had aged.

Entry:

The doors opened, and a soldier walked into the shop holding a bundle. I had my head buried in the innards of the computer, where I was rerouting the circuitry in order to connect it to the station terminal, and I only saw his outline. I was at a delicate point and I didn’t want to lose my focus.

“Just put it in the corner with the other uniforms,” I said without looking up. Before I could react, the bundle hit me with force on the side of my head. It was Dukat.

“What is this?” he demanded as he looked around the shop and saw the pile. “Are you mending these garments or collecting them?”

“I will begin the repair process once my workshop is in order,” I replied as I stood up.

“And how much longer will that be?” he asked.

“When I have the tools I need,” I answered. Dukat looked at me with his mean and deadly smile. He knew that I’d been taking my time “cleaning” the shop. The pile of garments waiting for my ministrations was growing bigger every day, and there had been numerous complaints. One soldier walked in and threatened me with bodily harm when I told him that I didn’t know when his uniform would be ready. The truth was that I had neither the expertise nor the will to launch my new career, and when I wasn’t sleeping I was rebuilding the neglected computer that appeared to have been damaged by the Bajoran’s pathetic attempt at sabotage.

“If I wanted a computer engineer, Garak, I would have given you the assignment. I want a tailor. Do you know the difference?” he asked with overdone sarcasm. “Get this operation going in two days or you will become the first Cardassian to work in the ore‑processing center,” he warned. “I’m sure the Bajoran workers would enjoy your company.”

“Yes, you’ve certainly won their hearts and minds with your benign administration,” I observed pleasantly.

“Two days, Garak, or you can find out about their hearts and minds yourself. I’m afraid there’s not much call for a gardener on Terok Nor,” he said with disgust. Instead of leaving, Dukat moved to the panel where I was working and picked up one of the disconnected circuits.

“Who gave you permission to do this work?” he asked, inspecting the circuit as if he understood what he was looking at.

“You did.”

“When?” He arched his brows in a manner that told me he’d worked long and hard in front of a mirror.

“When you assigned me to rehabilitate this sad shop. Beside tools, I need instruction and information. Where do you expect me to go? My Bajoran predecessor, I believe, is now with his Prophets.” Dukat snorted, and dropped the circuit on the floor at my feet. His eyes were cold, almost dead.

“Your life means nothing to me. Just as my father’s meant nothing to you.”

“I beg your pardon? Do I know your father?” Dukat made a move to grab me and immediately stopped himself. I was impressed by his self‑control; I knew how much energy fueled his hatred.

“No offense,” I went on, further testing his control. “Of course, Procal Dukat was a famous military figure. We all mourned his passing. But I never had the pleasure personally. . . .”

“Two days,” he repeated with deadly emphasis. “Get what you need–clear all purchases through my aide, Hadar–and begin work in two days. There’s a point beyond which you won’t be protected.” He nodded. “You’ll get to that point . . . and I’ll be there, waiting for you.” He turned and strode out of the shop.

Entry:

I have been taught ever since I was a child to believe that every event, every circumstance, every action and reaction in my life is an intertwining thread in my fateline, and that each person’s fateline is just another piece of that carefully designed Cardassian mosaic. In my current circumstances, the more I try to deny the past and the history that has informed me the more it overwhelms me. Even the wire can’t let me forget that this exile has a meaning: otherwise life on this station is even worse than death.