“I think he was more threatened by the fact that you were intimate with his weaknesses,” I pointed out.

“Well, certainly his physical infirmities,” he admitted.

“Which are also a man’s weaknesses,” I reminded him.

“The paranoia, the secrets, the power he held. . . .” The doctor shook his head. “He must have been a difficult man to work for.” I smiled at his understated tact.

“He once tried to have me killed,” I said.

“Really? What did you do, Elim?”

“I survived.” The Doctor gave me a confused look.

“Survived . . . what?” he asked.

“Working for my father,” I replied. The Doctor stopped and just looked at me. His former fear of my eyes was long gone.

“A father who would murder his own son?” The idea horrified him. We were in the Barvonok Sector, where the tall structures of business and finance once dominated. “Oh, my dear Elim,” he said, this time with an empathy that stripped me of any illusions I had about Enabran Tain as a father. Surrounded by the piles of debris, oppressed by the low leaden sky, I finally began to surrender to the loneliness and loss that has preyed upon my dreams ever since I can remember. Even nothing is better than the ideas that have brought us here.

“Perhaps there’s a way I can help your project, Doctor.” As much as I tried to deny it, there was another “assignment” for me. Tain would have been amused by the irony.

3

Entry:

My life has taken on a rhythm and a routine I would never have anticipated when I was exiled to Terok Nor. Once I made the decision to pursue my new profession vigorously, and had set myself up with the proper tools, I was working all day and well into the night. Being the only tailor on the station meant there was never a shortage of garments to be mended and altered. As I became more proficient I found that unless I challenged myself, I would soon suffocate in the monotony of repeating the same basic actions. Again I went to Quark with a proposal: I would gladly make a new outfit for him, if he’d be willing to spread the word that I was also a designer of clothing. He countered my offer with the suggestion that if I would also design and build outfits for his waiters, he would make sure that any visitors to the station in need of clothing would be directed my way. I explained that such a project would leave me with little or no time to deal with the backlog of repair work I had. We compromised, and I agreed to create outfits for him and his brother Rom. (I later discovered from Rom that Quark had charged him for the outfit. When I expressed outrage, Rom assured me the price he had paid was reasonable.) Quark also got me to agree that for every client who came to my shop on his recommendation I would pay him a percentage of the agreed price. He was true to his word, and with his help I began to build a clientele for my designs.

Entry:

One day a human woman came into the shop. She was in a state. It turned out that she was a member of the Federation’s negotiation team that was working out the details of the Terok Nor transfer of power from the Cardassians to joint Bajoran/Federation administration. The garment carrier containing her uniforms had been lost or stolen in transit, and the first negotiating session was to begin the next day. Here was an opportunity. Not only was I deeply curious about these negotiations for my own personal reasons, but this might be useful information I could pass on to interested parties at home.

I calmed her down with some tea and the assurance that she had nothing to worry about. We specified the type of uniform, discussed various details, and when she was ready I took her measurements. She, of course–in that endearingly literal‑minded way humans have of assessing others–assumed that a tailor was always a tailor and would never be anything else. Consequently, she revealed more to me than just her bodily measurements. In fact, she was more protective and shy about her body than she was about vital state information. Why the Federation doesn’t train their people better I’ll never know. I suppose it’s the arrogance of believing that no one is smart enough to outsmart you. In any case, this was an opportunity. Silence, exile, and cunning.

Entry:

“I’ll deliver the information,” the nameless contact said after I had made my report.

“I trust you’ll find it useful. . . .” He cut me off before I could finish. I rescrambled the signal, to make doubly sure the transmission wasn’t picked up. I expected that Entek would use a subordinate to receive my offering. And I expected no promises or “news from home” in return. They must have somebody from the Order on the station monitoring the meetings, but obviously my information was more interesting than what they were gleaning. I wondered if they would try to make contact with me. In the meantime, however, I was determined to press my unique advantage and keep them interested.

I was also determined not to overvalue the information and congratulate myself prematurely. I had to make sure that Iwasn’t the one being used. The woman is a charming and clever conversationalist, and she’s providing something I have deeply missed since being exiled to this floating arachnid. She told me that she has never met anyone who listens as attentively as I do. I would dismiss this as gross flattery, except that she responds to my silences as if they were words; I sometimes feel that she’s able to read my mind. All the more reason to be careful. She’s either a skilled operative who has enough information about me to manipulate an ingenious strategem . . . or a lonely woman who needs to talk to someone who will listen. And if it’s the latter, why would such an attractive person, even for a human, not already have a mate or a confidante?

Careful, Elim. You know perfectly well that the surest way to your heart is through conversation.

Entry:

Over the last several days we’ve been meeting every day, ostensibly to furnish her with a new wardrobe. Quark’s going to be very pleased with his commission. We pretend that the time spent together is necessary. I know why I’mpretending, but as for her. . . . At one point yesterday I nearly made a childish mistake. Her personality sketches of the Cardassian negotiators (most of whom I know) are wonderful, but when she mentioned that one in particular was most definitely making sexual advances I blurted out, “It’s probably Gul Dukat.” She was surprised by my immediate response. How did I know? I told her that his behavior in these matters was notorious. And indeed it was. The imperious manner in which he exercised sexual sway over the Bajoran women laborers was disgusting. When she asked why I seemed so disapproving, I controlled my response and explained that on Cardassia we value the integrity of the family, and that married men were held to certain standards. Of course I was aware of the irony of my current circumstances as I explained Cardassian sexual morality. She accepted my explanation and became thoughtful, almost sad. At that point I had to bring our session to an end.

After she had left, I realized that it was becoming increasingly difficult to maintain my professional silence. I, too, was filled with a sadness . . . and an inexplicable desire to share feelings that had lain dormant since my banishment. Her openness invited my exploitation, but it also tempted me to reveal the pain and the bitterness of my current circumstances.

Entry:

“All I can tell you is that the authorities are satisfied with your intelligence,” the officious young contact informed me. I had to admire how his mask revealed nothing about my present status, or whether or not I would be allowed to participate in the almost certain Cardassian withdrawal from Terok Nor.

“I appreciate your help, but if you could pass on a message to Pythas. . . .” Once again I was rudely disconnected. I slammed my hand against the console in frustration. How dare he treat me like a common drone! This child. I poured myself a glass of kanar. I could not allow the tenuous truce I had arranged with the circumstances to be compromised. It was too easy for me to slip back into despair. I then made a decision. I had to have an answer to my question, and it meant using a resource I’d been saving. I punched a long code into the computer. I waited. When I read the response, it was just as I had suspected: the personal codes I had created and rarely used when I was active were still in place. I rescrambled and punched in another code. I waited again, and the response told me there was no danger of being intercepted. Then I punched in the final code. I waited, praying that Pythas would be accessible. A face appeared; but it was Corbin Entek.