Chapter 8

Midnight. Garak sat alone, in secret, reading.

He gathered the last of our people together, the remaining few survivors of the heirs of the flyers, the children of the wanderers sent by the Prophets. He brought us here, and bade us breathe the glory of our past, eat the pages of our literature, drink the blood of our heritage, and write our own epitaph. Then he sealed the vault, and left us to die....

Garak finished the story, glad the human hadn’t been able to read any of the old Cardassian writings, and pleasantly surprised he had been able to decipher one of them. As Bashir had noted, the writing appeared to be in three different languages or styles.

The tale was all too clear, for someone from his vantage point.

“They came,” he said softly. “The Bajora really came here. Some of them survived their crash. They counseled the Hebitian leaders. They took Cardassians as wives and husbands. For some, there were children. For several hundred years, those descendants were honored, their bloodlines traced, as we still do.

“Then the Dumeriks rose....” His voice died away thoughtfully.

The first named Dumerik had been a warlord from the mountains and deserts to the east — not the great leader of the Council that was preserved and idolized in the current history books. Laemen Dumerik had been little more than a bandit with the good fortune to defeat his enemies, destroying the last remnants of the old, already dying Hebitian culture as he expanded his power.

His grandson, the famed Alont, had conquered their world. He had been the one who finally brought all of Cardassia under the rule of what would become the military council. With the scientific knowledge accumulated over the centuries since the Bajoran arrival, he had led his people into space, and brought battle to the Jifrians, a peaceful people, if these descriptions could be believed.

But first, he’d begun destroying all evidence of previous strangers from the stars. He’d buried the Bajoran ship, until then a shrine to the Hebitians. And over the years, he’d murdered those who carried Bajoran blood in their veins, finally bringing the last few to the vault.

He’d buried them alive, without food or water, with only the air around them, mocking them with suggestions that they survive on the relics of the society their ancestors were believed to have created — or that they make use of the only other thing he’d left them: poison.

Grieving, with no hope, they had made the decision to end the children’s fear and pain quickly.

After that, knowing they had only days, each of them had written down what they knew of their own history in the blank pages and spaces of the elaborate texts that had been buried with them, collected those books — then laid down and died together.

Over six hundred years ago. So many lifetimes.

Garak wondered briefly if he would have made the same decision about those people.

For the good of Cardassia, of course he would. What other choice was there ever?

The question was, had that choice been for the good of Cardassia? That, he would have to consider.

He focused again on the book in front of him.

Alont Dumerik had created himself a glorious genealogy, styling his grandfather as a previous leader of the council, as much more than the bandit warlord he had really been. He’d obliterated all references to the Bajora, and labeled their mixed-blood descendants as degenerate cult members and dangers to their society who had to be wiped out for the good of their people.

And to make sure his version of history was the one remembered, he’d destroyed books all over Cardassia, and rewritten centuries of history to reflect the fantasy past he’d concocted. Rituals and tales that were too well known or beloved to wipe out, were given revised, more ancient pasts to ensure they had no connection to the Bajora.

No wonder Cardassian data banks were considered so unreliable by the Federation. They were absolutely false.

Tarmer had probably been one of the last with the courage to fight the new history, in his own fashion, preserving the truth in riddles so that it would survive, albeit in an enigmatic, multi-layered form. But a later Dumerik, or one of their agents, had figured it out. Garak surmised that Tarmer’s name had been too well-known, too highly regarded, to simply disappear, so he’d been carried off to a mental institution, while his reputation was murdered and he was forgotten. Then, he was sure, Tarmer had been killed too.

What was surprising was that Alont had hated the heirs of the flyers so much, that he’d buried an emperor’s ransom with them, rather than use the treasure their ancestors had helped create.

Or perhaps the memory of that treasure had not been forgotten — there were scattered references, in his own extensive reading of history, to the Dumerik family having an incredible, secret fortune at their disposal, and to having built up great wealth. But Alonil, the last of the line, had been weak, a failure as a military leader. He’d ultimately been assassinated, leaving no offspring. And presumably, no information about the secret hoard and its not-quite-voiceless guardians.

It would explain the ease with which they’d penetrated the vault from the surface, that morning, if it had been deliberately made to be accessed, by one who knew its secret.

Not that Alonil’s later failure had been allowed to remain public history. Only the Obsidian Order had retained the truth of that. Assuming their history contained the truth.

Of course, Garak reminded himself, this was Cardassia and the early Dumeriks’ story from the perspective of the defeated, who would naturally have another view of the situation than the victors had — and it was not necessarily any more accurate.

A low beep interrupted his musings. It was his hand-built proximity sensor, warning him of someone approaching through the memorial garden. Swiftly, he concealed the book he’d been reading with the others, and re-activated the small force screen, Obsidian Order crafted, that would hide them from any scan.

He waited. He knew who it would be before she entered; Rekel was the only one who could bypass the system he’d set in place around the garden shed-turned-dwelling and the partially restored home, without setting off a number of other security measures.

"Greetings," he said evenly.

"Greetings, Garak."

"What news from our unhappy Directorate leaders?"

“They’re furious about your not having gone to them with the discovery.”

“Somehow, that does not surprise me. What about today’s broadcast?”

“Once you revealed the existence of the vault, and he knew it was out of his immediate control, Parn was eager to see it broadcast. Especially after I pointed out to him that it took public attention away from Limorin’s death.”

“Ah, yes, poor Limorin. He has rather faded into obscurity, hasn’t he,” Garak contemplated the shadows of his humble dwelling.

“The legate hasn’t asked me to learn who did it, or why,” Rekel noted. “I don’t think he really cares.”

“That would be like him,” Garak agreed disparagingly.

“I think he would have liked to have seen the blame laid on Lang, where it could be used to discredit the Reunion movement and stop their momentum. Short of that, for those who would focus suspicions on the Directorate, Mondrig is a useful scapegoat, as he has been all along, someone to distract attention when it is not desired.”

“Indeed.” Garak considered. “Did Parn or one of his people do it?”

“No.”

“Did you?”

Rekel looked a little surprised. “Of course I did.”

“Why?”

“Limorin came to too many people’s attention – you, Mondrig, Parn, Lang. All sought him out. He had become weak, Garak, a liability. The years of isolation and the Dominion destruction of our world had shattered his spirit. He would never have withstood interrogation, especially not by Parn. Parn suspected that you and Limorin had met, and wondered why. If he had taken Limorin before you found the tomb, he would have revealed everything, whatever you discussed. That couldn’t be allowed. He had to be silenced, for the good of Cardassia.”

“I see.” Eyes widened, Garak considered, then nodded. “Yes, you’re right. There was no choice. A pity. He could have been very useful. Ah, well, we will certainly manage without him. And his death has stirred up ... certain things.”

Rekel actually smiled. “That it has.”

“It was, however, a bit ... sloppy. Or was that intentional?”

She nodded once, efficiently, her expression turned business-like again. “Of course. To ensure there would be questions, about who and why. Too neat would have pointed a finger at the military or the surviving Order.”

“Why not have it appear to have been natural causes, or suicide?”

“Parn would have guessed otherwise; it would have put him on guard, and he would have begun to suspect ... too many things.”

Garak leaned back, contemplating. “True, he would have been a fool not to. But now? Where do Parn’s thoughts range?”

“Limorin and the vault have been the topics of conversation and argument today. There hasn’t been anything else to report.”

“I appreciate your keeping me informed.”

“It is my duty. For Cardassia.” She vanished with as little fanfare as she had arrived.

Garak would have resumed his reading, but some instinct told him he could expect another visitor before long — and almost in response, the proximity sensors confirmed that Julian Bashir had entered the garden.

He suspected the doctor would have loved an old-fashioned door, so he could slam it. As it was, Bashir stalked in and took position in front of him, his expression grim.

“What did you do with the recording?” the human demanded bluntly.

“Why, doctor, whatever do you mean?”

“The books. The ones the corpses were clutching. The ones you insisted we had to remove for their own safety. They don’t appear on the images I’ve been seeing all day. Nor do I. What did you do?”

“I edited them out,” Garak replied evenly. “Along with all evidence that you were there.”

Bashir looked taken aback at the honest response. “But ... why?”

“Cardassians customarily don’t show their dead to outsiders, you know that, doctor.”

The human’s eyes narrowed. “Now why do I just know there’s more to it than that?” he challenged.

“I see you have learned from me,” Garak noted with some approval. “And so I would think the answer would be obvious.”

“It’s not obvious to me!” Bashir glared at him, frustrated.

He kept his tranquil expression. “That is ... a disappointment. But very well, doctor. I believe it important for the discovery of this treasure trove of Cardassian history to have been made by a Cardassian. By one of us, not by an alien. I thought sure you could see, at such a time, the psychological value to our people?”

Bashir flung out his arms as if in surrender. “All right, you’ve decided you’re not going to reveal that I was there because it would too much of a blow to the Cardassian psyche. But what about the books? What are you going to do with them?” His eyes widened in alarm. “My god, you didn’t destroy them, did you? Think of the history they could—“

“Relax, doctor.” He held up his hand restrainingly. “I have not destroyed them! And I know, better than you, their value to our history. What I also know, better than you, is the fulcrum upon which Cardassia now balances, and how easily she could tilt one way or the other, to the detriment of us all.”

“And you fear what’s in those books could tilt the balance.”

“It could do worse than that.”

The human finally eased down onto a bench. “Elim Garak,” he asked somberly, “what is in those books?”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that, doctor.”

“Why not?”

“The good of Cardassia dictates otherwise.”

There was a long silence. Garak watched the other’s face, following his thoughts, preparing an answer before the human could even speak.

“What if I denounce you, reveal I was there, and tell everyone about the books?” Bashir finally asked.

“Some would call you a liar, trying to tarnish the glory of a Cardassian discovery, claiming you are trying to insert a Federation presence where there was none, or trying to add to history what was not there,” Garak commented thoughtfully. “Some will believe you, even if they will not admit it publicly — but I assure you, doctor, you will put more than our lives in danger if you try to reveal your presence and what you saw. And the books will be no safer, nor their secrets any more revealed.”

The doctor seemed to search for words. The Cardassian waited for him to find them.

“Will you reveal them?”

“Yes. In good time. When our world is ready for them.”

“When will that be?”

“Truly, doctor, I wish I knew.”

Another silence.

“How? How can you announce them later and not have them challenged as forgeries? Or avoid the inevitable questions?” Bashir asked, still upset.

“I promise you, doctor, they will be discovered in the vault — and with a reasonable, unquestionable explanation for their not having been found earlier.”

“I’m sure you could come up with an explanation.” The human’s tone seemed colder.

The following silence lasted a hundred heartbeats. Garak counted every one.

“I feel used, Garak.” Bashir stood up. “But I can’t think of anything to say that would make any difference to you. So I guess I might as well go.”

“Good night, doctor. You are welcome to return any time.”

Garak watched him go. He wondered how this would affect his relationship with the human. It was obvious Bashir felt betrayed as well as used.

But that which had been written in those books, all those centuries ago, by Cardassians with Bajoran blood in their veins, would shake the foundations of a world uncertain of its direction. His world might not survive. He couldn’t risk letting those books be revealed now. It was regrettable, but if the friendship with Bashir did not survive because of this, well, it wouldn’t be the first sacrifice he had made for the good of Cardassia.

Nor, he thought with conviction, would it be the last.

Historic Discovery on Cardassia Prime

Jake Sisko Federation Press Service

CARDASSIA CITY, CARDASSIA PRIME — The city was amazed this morning at news of the discovery of a vault of what may be Hebitian relics, perhaps half a millennia old. The vault also reportedly contained thirty-two mummified bodies of Cardassians of varying ages, in what appears to be an ancient tomb. The sheer number and quality of artifacts revealed thus far suggests this may be the largest discovery of its kind on Cardassia Prime in the last century.

This find means many things to the Cardassian people.

“Cardassian history of this period is so murky — this could reveal so much about our past, and its discovery now means what we learn will be available to all our people, as well as the rest of the galaxy,” noted Natima Lang, a professor at the Cardassia City University and a former member of the Cardassian Information Bureau, who is deeply involved in the reconstruction efforts.

“The value of this discovery is incalculable. Its excavation must be carefully monitored and controlled, to ensure it is not misused, historically or economically, by any one person or group,” stated Koltim Parn, a well-known military officer who is also a leading figure in the Directorate, one of the rising political parties.

“To call this a mere historical find is to rob it of its vital significance — it is a source of truth about who we are, and a symbol of the rebirth of Cardassia, built on the spiritual values of the past, which offers up its treasures at this moment in time, to enable us to create a better future,” commented Tarat Beremi, a Cardassian citizen.

Archaeologists will no doubt spend decades determining the significance of the recovered artifacts and the importance of its silent guardians. Free of the acknowledged dominance and propaganda of the military government of the last few centuries, this discovery has the potential for amazing revelations about the end of the Hebitian Age and the dawn of the current stage of Cardassian history.

For the present, a team of experts from around the planet continues to catalog the find, and has begun conservation efforts to preserve the frailer and more delicate items.

The End