CHAPTER 15

THE UNIVERSE SEETHED, chaotic, and for Garak, there could be no greater pleasure than to study that confusion for the sole purpose of teasing out such random bits of order as the cultivated mind might discover.

The stuff of a sublime opera here. An intricately crafted novel there. The delicate composition of a landscape captured on an unknown artist's canvas. Even the meticulously orchestrated sequence of political upheaval following a flawless assassination.

All order was fleeting, which is why, Garak supposed, it brought such joy to civilized beings. And joy without despair was, of course, utterly meaningless, for one could not exist without the other.

That was why each snick of his scissors was as deeply satisfying to Garak as the pruning he had undertaken in the gardens of Romulus—pruning both that world's indigenous flora and fauna, as it were. To take a formless plane of cloth, each portion of it identical to the rest, and by a precise series of cuts and stitches create a threedimensional structure that would, for a moment at least in the affairs of Cardassians, define his world's epitome of style and culture and civilization, was, for Garak, a way to achieve profound personal peace. Surely the ancient explorers of Cardassia's past could have felt no greater happiness upon first glimpsing the beacon of a lignthouse on the shores of the homeland to which they returned. So it was with Garak and the simple craft, the exquisite art of the tailor.

Thus, it was with contentment that Garak was engaged in cutting a particularly fine bolt of Remarlian wool to make a handsome hunting jacket when the chime of his tailor shop's door sounded, and he rose from his work to meet whatever new visitor, customer, perhaps even appreciator of art, whom chaos had selected to cross his threshold this day.

At first glance, the stranger was commonplace, as from the plain cut of his traveler's robe it was apparent he was a Cardassian civilian of limited means. But that was not surprising, given that fully eighty percent of Terok Nor's inhabitants were of Garak's species. It was only on rare, fortunate occasions that a glinn made arrangements to bring by one of the slight, pale-skinned Bajoran females that the Cardassian command staff seemed to hold in such high regard. It was always a particular challenge for Garak, and one he enjoyed for its novelty, to fashion flattering gowns for beings with such pathetically thin necks, unsettlingly smooth skin, and ill-hued complexions that warred with any reasonable color palette, so unlike the universal harmony of pure Cardassian gray.

“Welcome to my shop,” Garak said with a gracious bow despite the poor amusement value the stranger offered. “May I offer you some refreshment? A cup of Linian tea, perhaps?”

Most delightfully, the stranger did do something quite surprising then. Without removing his hood, he glanced furtively over his shoulder, as if looking out to the Promenade to see if anyone were following him.

Garak felt a flash of anticipation. He did appreciate a day that began with an unexpected touch, and actual intrigue would go a long way to brighten his mood.

Eager to make his mysterious visitor at home, Garak moved quickly past him to lock the door and tune the windows to their holographic display mode.

“As a matter of fact,” he said cheerfully, “I was just going to close for a mid-morning break. Perhaps you might be more comfortable if you knew no one could disturb us. Or see into the shop, for that matter.”

Garak turned his back to the sealed door and smiled in welcome to his visitor. And then it took all his powers of self-control to keep that smile in place as his visitor lifted his hood to reveal his identity.

“You're right,” the second Garak said, “it would be best if we weren't disturbed.”

Garak the tailor paused for the briefest of moments and then asked the most obvious question. “Odo? Is that you? If it is, I am most impressed with your new mastery of fine detail.”

“Alas,” the new Garak replied, “that would be the simplest explanation. Unfortunately, in this case, we are facing something much more complex.”

“And that would be?”

“Exactly what it seems to be,” the new Garak explained. “I am you.”

“If that's the case, then you'll understand my skepticism.”

“Oh, absolutely. I know exactly how I would respond to such a situation, so I am certain that is exactly how you are responding.”

Garak the tailor felt his heart rate increase. It was most unlikely that the duplicate across from him was really himself, but what if he was? What a thrillingly puzzling conundrum that would be.

“If you know how I will respond,” the tailor said carefully, “then you must know what my first suggestion will be.”

The visitor returned the tailor's smile. “In the back room, third shelf, beside the tea jars. There is a dimensional safe with a . . . shall we say, medical kit.”

The tailor beamed. “I am impressed. Though, of course, there is a flaw in what you're proposing.”

“Correct,” the visitor said. “If I know about the medical kit, then it's very likely I have altered its contents in order to return a false DNA match.”

The tailor nodded, entertained beyond measure. “And is there a way out of that difficulty?”

“I believe so. For I am not just you, I am you from the future.”

Outwardly, Garak gave no reaction. But his heart wasn't just racing

now, it was fluttering. “You'll forgive me for taking a moment to try to organize the . . . the . . .”

“Possibilities?”

“My thought exactly. The possibilities of the situation that has brought you here. If —”

“What I'm saying is true.”

“Of course.”

“Naturally.”

The tailor regarded the visitor with narrowed eyes, secretly hoping

that he truly was who he said he was and not some tired psychological gambit initiated by the—

“And no,” the visitor said, “this has nothing to do with the Obsidian Order.”

The tailor grinned as he held up a finger. “Which is precisely what someone from the Order would say!”

“Which is why I must insist you check my DNA and my chroniton

levels. And in the meantime, I can think of a few questions which only I could answer, and I suggest you ask them.”

Finding the visitor's suggestion to be reasonable, Garak the tailor led the way to the back room of his store. He paused on the threshold of the doorway. “But then, if you're me from the future, you must already have a memory of this meeting.”

Garak the visitor shrugged. “That is, shall we say, where things might get confusing.”

“I certainly hope so,” Garak the tailor replied. Then he entered his back room and went directly to his dimensional safe, withdrew the interrogation implements which could also, in a pinch, double as a fairly complete emergency medical kit, and began the analysis of his visitor's molecular and temporal structure.

During the procedures, the two Garaks continued to test each other. They began with the memories of a certain young upperclassman at the Bamarren Institute who had been most generous in her enthusiastic initiation of Garak into certain adult pleasures. Then, on a more somber note, there were the hurtful contents of the final encrypted communication from his father. And on the professional side of things, the exact and inspired molecular modification to the untraceable poison used on the Gentleman Usher to the Romulan Assembly.

Before ten minutes had passed, Garak the visitor was rolling down the sleeve of his tunic, having not complained about any of the necessary tissue excisions. “I would be convinced by now.”

Garak the tailor nodded, even as he struggled to think of any detail or additional test he might have overlooked. “Transporter accident?” he asked. “I have heard such things are possible.”

“But would that explain the chroniton levels showing I am from six years in your future?”

Garak the tailor sighed, accepting defeat—for the present.

“That's the right decision,” Garak the visitor said. “Reserve final judgment, but go along with the moment, see where it leads.”

“I must say I find it tremendously refreshing to speak with someone—”

“—who understands exactly how you think?”

Garak the tailor offered his visitor a chair as he took one himself. “As your host, you must allow me to begin,” he said. “Frankly, I must admit, as I try to think of what might possibly inspire me to travel back into my past and speak to myself, I can only imagine the most grave of events.”

Garak the visitor nodded, his mood now one of deep sadness.

“The survival of Cardassia?” Cardassia's defeat was the gravest event Garak the tailor could imagine. Nothing meant more to him than his world and his people, despite the flawed leadership that currently blighted both.

“Even graver, I'm afraid,” the visitor replied. “Though I have seen . . . I have seen Cardassia Prime laid waste and our people . . . our people erased from existence.”

The tailor leaned forward, eyes wide. “All this in six years?”

“Longer than that,” the visitor allowed. “But six years from now, I—you—we will be afforded a chance to look even further into the future. And it is a future that cannot be allowed to come to pass.”

“And the answer is here?” the tailor asked, greatly curious. “In this time?”

“In a sense.”

“Do you have any memory of this meeting in your past?”

The visitor shook his head.

“I'm no expert in such things,” the tailor said, “but does that not mean that you are setting in motion an alternate timeline?”

Now the visitor leaned forward and lowered his voice conspiratorially. “There are those with whom I am working today—my today,” he added, “who have despaired of saving the . . . the universe—”

Garak the tailor felt the unfamiliar thrill of shock at that first mention of the catastrophe that lurked in his future.

“—without changing the timeline.”

“But you have not despaired of that?” the tailor asked, matching his visitor's low voice and intense manner.

“As long as I see that I have a choice in the matter,” the visitor replied. “For example, I'm sure that if you think of it, the very fact that I have returned to you from six years in the future informs you that you will survive the next six years.”

The tailor nodded, grateful. “I have taken heart from that.”

“Not that there haven't been a few close calls,” the visitor warned.

“Then I will have survived and not have been bored,” the tailor said with a smile.

“And six years from now, our Cardassia is not in the finest state it could be.”

“War?” the tailor asked, not the least bit surprised.

“Several, I'm afraid.”

“With what you know, couldn't we stop them before they start?”

“But that's my quandary,” the visitor said with a slight frown. “I know how the next six years transpire. I know that if I am successful in undertaking an extremely difficult task in this time, the next six years won't change, yet the future I have seen beyond that will. And Cardassia and the universe will be saved.”

“I think I understand,” the tailor said slowly. “On the other hand, you could take drastic measures now, change the outcome of the next six years, and by your knowledge of the future make Cardassia stronger and more secure than it ever has been before. Yet if you choose that course of action, you can't be certain that the disaster you saw even further in the future might not come to pass through some other means.”

Garak the visitor nodded appreciatively. “I couldn't have said it better myself.”

Then both Garaks laughed lightly, together, in perfect synchronicity.

The moment passed. Then the tailor asked, “Six years from now . . . are we happy?”

The visitor folded his hands, looked down. “When have we ever been?”

“But we do live in hope, do we not?”

The visitor nodded. “Always. How can we do anything else?”

“A final question, then,” the tailor said. “If we make no changes in this time, six years from now, as best as you can see the new future you'll create, will Cardassia survive?”

The visitor studied him before answering, truly considering the question.

“Yes,” he said at last. “Our people face a most challenging set of circumstances, led by rulers who have lost their way, who have chosen the path of expediency. But . . . over the next six years, we will make many new friends. And . . . quite unexpectedly, in their way, they will care for Cardassia's fate as well. With the help of those friends, I do believe that Cardassia will return to her rightful glory in time. Though at great cost. Great cost.”

The tailor studied the visitor, carefully considering him and his story, then got to his feet, his decision made. “So what may I do for you—for us?” the tailor said. “Bearing in mind that I trust your judgment as much as if it were my own. Above all else, Cardassia must survive as a great world, not merely survive.”

The visitor got to his feet, his decision apparently made as well. He reached into the open interrogation kit, withdrew an ampule of straw-colored liquid, and held it out to the tailor.

The tailor understood at once. “I had already guessed that was the other possible reason you have no memory of this meeting. Not because it takes place in an alternate timeline but because . . .” The tailor accepted the ampule from the visitor—from himself. “. . . because the memory of it no longer exists.”

“But you're not to take the inhibitor yet,” the visitor said. He slipped a hand into his robe and withdrew a padd. “I've recorded a series of instructions I would like you to follow in the next few days.”

The tailor studied the padd, didn't like what he saw. “This is Klingon, is it not?”

“I arrived here from a stolen vessel,” the visitor explained. “One makes do with the tools at hand.” He pressed the padd controls that accessed his instructions. “Try your best to accomplish everything, but whatever else happens, take the inhibitor before the Withdrawal begins.”

“So we do withdraw?” The tailor had seen the signs of Cardassia's unrest, but to his understanding, those signs might just as well have foretold a further escalation of the noble attempt to bring peace to the fractious Bajorans.

“We withdraw,” the visitor confirmed. “Very soon, now.”

“And what happens then? The Bajorans destroy themselves?”

“Let us just say that your life—our life—will become more interesting than you could possibly imagine. For the first year, I promise you, you will live in a state of perpetual delighted surprise.”

“How pleasant.” The tailor looked at the ampule. “Tell me, six years from now, will the technique exist to reverse the inhibitor? I would enjoy having some memory of this encounter.”

The visitor seemed never to have considered that possibility before. “I'll look into it. You will come to make a very good friend in the weeks ahead. A human, of all things.”

The tailor rocked back in surprise. “A human? A friend?”

The visitor held up a cautioning hand. “Now, now. He has been genetically engineered to enhance his intellect. I assure you he is the equal of any Cardassian—a condition which I must say puzzled me for the first few years of our acquaintance, until I learned the truth. However, he is quite clever in medical matters, so I shall put the task to him. I, too, share your desire to remember this meeting.”

“How fascinating to remember it from both sides.” The tailor started for the door, then stopped as he saw that his visitor did not follow. “Am I wrong to assume that you will have to leave soon?”

“I'll take my leave another way,” the visitor said.

The tailor guessed his counterpart referred to a transporter of some kind. “Soon?”

“Any minute, I think. Neither the process nor the timing is completely under my control.”

The tailor nodded. “I look forward to the day I will understand what you mean.”

“It's well worth the wait,” the visitor assured him. “I envy you your—”

And the visitor was gone. Simply and abruptly. Without so much as a flash of quantum dissolution or even subtle harmonic hum.

“How absolutely fascinating,” Garak said. Whatever had happened, it was not a transporter that was responsible.

He looked down at the padd he held. He pressed the activate control.

On the small device's display, an image of himself appeared. An image that spoke to him.

“There is a hidden laboratory on Terok Nor,” his future self said calmly, “and within it is a most remarkable artifact. An artifact that represents the gravest of dangers to our world and our people . . .”

Once again, Garak the tailor sat down to listen in his empty back storeroom. He had his own complete attention. Six years from now, it was obvious, he still knew how to tell a story.

But what Garak was about to find out from himself was whether that story could have a new ending.