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Imperfect Solids

KIRA: I believed in you. A lot of people did. You were special. You were the one man who stood apart from everyone else, the one man who stood for justice. Now what?

ODO: Now I’m just another imperfect solid.

—‘Things Past’

“All that is solid melts into air, all that is holy is profaned, and man is at last compelled to face with sober senses his real conditions of life, and his relations with his kind.”

—Karl Marx, ‘The Communist Manifesto’

***

On the fifth morning of his confinement, Garak woke in a cold sweat gasping for air. Staring up at the rivets in the grey ceiling, taking deep breaths, he came to the conclusion that this situation could not continue. Not that he was going anywhere – Sisko had been quite clear on that score, and, in truth, Garak did not blame him. The female Changeling had made her intentions perfectly plain, and the only option now was a pre-emptive strike. But how exactly did one launch such a strike from a holding cell?

Yes, Sisko knew his business. Presumably he was hoping that a little time behind bars would allow Garak to cool down. And it was true that the temptation to break out, commandeer a runabout, and take whatever firepower he could lay his hands on back to the Great Link and do as much damage as he possibly could before he was blasted into pieces was overpoweringly strong. It was, however, impossible. But if Garak was going nowhere, then his present difficulty must. It was unfortunate, to say the least, that Sisko had settled on this particular solution to his perennial Cardassian problem, but Garak had hardly gone around advertising his distaste for enclosed spaces. He wondered whether that might have made a difference. Sisko was not, according to his observations, a cruel man, although he did tend more towards justice than mercy. Garak suspected that he might, if pushed, have a vengeful streak. He did not, however, intend to push. One day, perhaps, but not now.

Garak contemplated the ceiling. He reminded himself, several times, that he was safe and that the walls were staying precisely where they were. Eventually, his breathing settled. From beyond the force barrier, he heard someone clearing their throat. He turned his head. Odo was standing there, holding a tray.

“Good morning, constable,” he said, pulling himself up to sit on his bunk. “And what I can do for you today?”

“Breakfast,” said Odo, lifting the tray slightly. “Could you move to the left hand side of the cell, please?”

Garak leaned his head back against the wall. Were they going to go through this ridiculous routine for every meal for the entire six months? It was already becoming tiresome. “I’m not going to attack you, Odo,” he said. “I’ve only just woken up.”

“Just move over to the left, Garak.”

Wearily, Garak got up. He moved over to the side of the cell, resting his back against the wall, and stood, arms folded, waiting until Odo had made his delivery. The force barrier dissipated, Odo came into the cell, and put the tray down on the bunk. “Garak,” he grumbled, “I’ve told you before – make sure that I can see your hands the entire time I’m in here.”

Garak held up his hands, which were completely empty.

“Better,” said Odo, and left the cell. The barrier came down again. Garak sat back on his bunk and examined the contents of the tray, which were becoming drearily familiar. Scrambled pritha eggs, two slices of toasted matha bread, and a cup of gelat. All replicated. At least it was Cardassian. Six months of groatcakes would drive anyone to distraction. He put the tray on his knee and made a start on the eggs. He’d had a few mouthfuls when Odo, tone bland, said, “Were you having a nightmare just now?”

Garak looked up. “Excuse me?”

“You were… you seemed distressed.”

In lieu of answering, Garak picked up one of the pieces of toast and took a bite.

“I wondered if it was a bad dream,” said Odo.

“Cardassians don’t dream,” Garak lied.

“That’s not true.”

“Well then, I don’t dream.”

“I don’t believe that’s true either.”

“Do you dream now, Odo?” said Garak. “Since your…” He gestured with his slice of toast. “Your change of circumstances.”

“No,” said Odo, too firmly. So Garak was not the only one telling fibs this morning.

“Dreaming can have its uses,” said Garak.

“I thought you didn’t—”

“Or so I’m told.” Garak turned back to the eggs. “You know, you should join me for breakfast. These eggs are slightly too runny, but they’re by no means inedible.”

“I’ll mention that to Palara.”

“Palara? So you didn’t ask the delightful new proprietor of the Celestial Café to supply my meals?”

Odo scowled at him.

“I’m guessing from your expression that you haven’t yet furthered the acquaintance.”

“Have you finished, Garak?” Odo cut in. “Only I have better things to do with my morning than watch you eat breakfast.”

“Nearly,” said Garak, serenely, and took another leisurely bite of toast. Why hurry, indeed? He wasn’t going anywhere and there were hours in the day to kill. “But, really, how about breakfast tomorrow, Odo?” he coaxed. “We used to have such enjoyable chats when we met on the Promenade. I rather miss them.”

Odo looked uncomfortable. “I… haven’t eaten in front of anyone yet.”

“I see,” said Garak. “Well, I’m hardly in a position to judge anyone’s table manners at the moment. I’m eating prison food off a tray on my knees.”

“This could have been a lot worse, Garak.”

Garak looked round the tiny cell. Doubtfully, he said, “I suppose Sisko could have assigned me counselling.”

“There’s still time.”

“Are you seeing a counsellor, Odo?”

“What?”

“I would have thought it would be the first thing our friends in Starfleet would suggest.”

“I speak to Doctor Bashir,” said Odo, then caught himself. “Garak, this is none of your business!”

“No,” Garak agreed, pleasantly. “I suppose not. But I would sincerely appreciate it, Odo, if you joined me for breakfast. It is rather isolated here. And I do make a good dining companion. Ask Doctor Bashir. When you next speak to him.”

Odo nodded at the tray. “Are you done?”

Garak ate the last piece of toast. “Can I keep the gelat? I haven’t finished it yet.”

Odo hesitated. And while Garak was prepared to cut him some slack – Odo must, after all, be acutely aware of his physical vulnerabilities at the moment – Garak did have his limits, and he wanted to drink his gelat in peace.

“I’m not going to throw it in your face, Odo, if that’s what you’re worried about. I’m going to sit here and drink it. It’s not particularly good gelat but it’s not bad. You can tell Palara that too if you’re passing on messages—”

“All right, all right! Put the cup on the bunk and move over—”

“To the left side of the cell, I know.”

Garak took the cup off the tray and put it down as instructed. Then he went over to the side of the cell and held up his hands, palms out. The barrier lifted, and Odo entered the cell. As he retrieved the tray, Garak said, softly, “There’s no judgement in this room, Odo. We’re both accommodating to our new situations, in one way or another.”

Odo left the cell. The force field went back up.

“You and I,” said Odo, firmly, “are not the same.”

And since only one of them had subjected the other to torture, and only one of them had attempted to eradicate the other’s species, Garak was in no position to disagree. Still, the following morning, after the usual formalities had been observed, Odo stood outside for a while with a cup of raktajino. By the end of the second week, there was a table set up beyond the barrier for him and his own breakfast, and the pritha eggs were less liquid.   

***

“Well, well, well,” said Quark, “if it isn’t everyone’s favourite felonious tailor.”

Garak, who less than ten minutes ago had been sitting on the wrong side of a force barrier and now wanted nothing more than a quiet drink to mark his release, eased himself into his old seat at the far end of the bar and readied himself for a round of repartee. “Nice to see you too, Quark. You know, I was starting to think you’d left the station.”

“What?”

Garak reached out to tweak Quark’s collar straight. “You didn’t come and visit me once in my dungeon. I could take that personally, you know.”

Quark snorted and pushed Garak’s hand away. “The less time I spend near the holding cells the better. Odo’s gotten mean since he turned solid. Any excuse to lock people up.”

Well, quite. Politely, Garak asked, “How’s business been?” 

“Not bad. Sales of kanar have been down. Can’t think why.”

Garak looked round the bar. He’d never particularly liked the place, but in the weeks running up to his confinement he’d been here most nights. Rallying round the station’s latest exile. Putting a little latinum his way. The place hadn’t changed much in six months, so far as Garak could see. The dabo wheel was still spinning. The waitresses were still badly dressed. Morn was still in full flow. No, nothing had changed along this particular stretch of the Great River. Including, presumably, its proprietor, who was watching him with a sharp and calculating eye.

“So, Garak,” said Quark. “What are you drinking this afternoon?”

Beyond the doors of the bar, Garak could see the yellow lights of the Promenade. In his mind’s eye, he pictured the scene. The security office, where he’d spent the last six months, was slightly to the right of the entrance to the bar. To the left was the Replimat, site of many an inconclusive lunch, then the florist’s, and then there was the shop… A few steps there; a few steps back. How did one go about celebrating replacing one prison cell for a slightly larger prison cell?

Garak pointed at the shelf behind Quark’s left lobe. “Why don’t we start with that bottle of teliskt up there, and move along the row?”

“That’s how it is, huh?”

“That’s how it is.”

Quark retrieved the bottle and a glass, and poured out a double measure. Garak took a sip of liquor, closed his eyes, and breathed out. Six months. What a waste…

“How's the shop looking?” said Quark.

“Would you believe me,” said Garak, “if I told you that this was my first stop?” He opened his eyes wide. “I’m quite serious. I walked out of Odo’s office, crossed the Promenade, and walked straight in here.”

“If this is your first stop, Garak, your head needs examining.”

Garak took another sip of his drink. Had the quality of Quark’s teliskt improved in the intervening period, or was it simply enforced sobriety making it taste so good? “Sisko refrained from insisting I had counselling.”

“He missed a trick there.” Quark leaned towards him. “So. What’s your game plan?”

Whatever it was, the edges were now softening nicely. Garak thought he might soon be able to face walking further along the Promenade. Maybe even as far as the turbolift. “My what?”

“Your plan!” said Quark. “Your business plan! The shop’s been shut for six months. Zuhe Dita’s taken nearly all your customers—”

“Zuhe Dita?” Garak waved his hand, untroubled. “I’m a much better tailor than Zuhe Dita. They’ll be back—”

“You think? I remember what it was like when the Federation took over,” said Quark, shaking his head. “You didn’t have anyone come through the doors for months. It’s taken you years to build up that client base! And what about the rent on the unit? Not to mention your quarters. How you’ve covered all that while you’ve been locked up at Sisko’s pleasure I have no idea—”

So much for a quiet celebratory drink. “Remind me,” said Garak, icily, “what’s the status of your business licence these days?”

Quark pulled back. He gave a low whistle. “Now that is a low blow. I’m only trying to help!”

“You’ll help,” said Garak, “by refilling my glass and keeping it refilled.”

“And who’s paying for these drinks, huh?”

“You’ll get paid, Quark!” Garak snapped. “Just… pour me another drink.”

Quark obliged. Garak stared into the see-through liquid. It wasn’t as if these things hadn’t been preying on his mind for weeks now. There really were only so many times that he could start over… He looked out again at the Promenade. So the other tailor had stepped into the breach? A courageous choice, on Zuhe’s part…

“I mean,” Quark was saying, “there aren't that many people living here. I’m amazed the place supports two tailors anyway. I guess you can count on Bashir coming back for his holosuite costumes. And the Chief will go wherever the Doctor goes, path of least resistance, as ever… Oh! Maybe Molly O’Brien has a birthday coming up! You could do a party dress or something, whatever it is kids want these days…”

Garak sighed. Molly O’Brien’s birthday was ages away.

“Dax will come and buy something,” ran on Quark. “Dax always comes good. Or so you’d hope. Worf...? Huh. Not so much. ”

Garak drained his glass and pushed himself up from his seat. “I should make a move.”

“But hope doesn’t keep the lights on,” said Quark. Rule of Acquisition number 108. “No, you need a quick injection of funds, right now…” He shook his head and whistled through his teeth. “But where’s that coming from, exactly?”

“Can I get the bill, Quark?” He’d planned to get much further down that teliskt bottle, but two rounds was probably enough, particularly if Quark was charging for double measures.

Quark, however, wasn’t listening. “I suppose there’s still that contract we had,” he said, doubtfully.

Garak sank back into his chair. “Contract?”

“You know. We, er, had that contract. Remember? I hired you. For, um… Services.”

Oh yes. That preposterous approach he’d made, asking Garak to assassinate him. He’d only gone along with the whole charade for some idle fun. “So you did,” said Garak.

“And I never paid.”

“Presumably, Quark, because I never delivered—”

“Well, no,” said Quark, looking down at his still living self.

“And I’m assuming you’re not anxious for me to complete the job.”

“Well, no…”

“So?”

“So…” Quark was tugging at his right lobe. “Well, you’ve been on retainer, haven’t you?”

“Have I?” Garak eyed him suspiciously.

 “Yes,” said Quark, and snapped his fingers. “Yes! That’s it! All this time, you’ve been on retainer. What is it now – six months? Probably nearer seven. What do you think that comes to?”

“You’re the entrepreneur,” said Garak, cautiously. “Far be it from me to—”

“All right. You’ve twisted my arm,” said Quark. He reached for a padd and tapped up some figures. “Does that look about right?”

Garak looked at the number and blinked. “Quark, that’s—”

“I know, I know, but that’s all that’s on offer.”

“But—”

“Good,” said Quark, and put the transaction through. “There. Settled. Nice doing business with you.”

Garak shifted uneasily in his chair. What was this? A loan? Was there going to be interest? He really couldn’t take on more debt; Quark knew that. And yet, somehow, money had flowed between them, and Garak was left with the distinct impression that he’d just been scammed. “Quark,” he said, in a warning tone.

But Quark had turned away, and was fussing with the glasses on the shelf. “You know, they’ve missed you in here,” he said. “Leeta, Broik, the rest of them. You’d become something of a fixture. Four or five nights a week, wasn’t it? After I lost my license.”

As quickly as it had flared, Garak’s anger subsided. He looked down at the padd. He honestly hadn’t thought Quark had noticed. But one had to step up when it came to a fellow exile. After all, there really was nobody else to fall back on.

“Anyway,” said Quark. “They’ll be glad to have you back. The rest of them, that is.”

“That’s very kind of them, Quark.”

“Yes, well. As long as you keep out of trouble from now on.”

“Trouble?”

“Well, really! Getting into fights with Starfleet officers?”

“Getting into fights with—?”

“That’s what you were locked up for, wasn’t it? Punching Worf?”

“Oh yes,” muttered Garak. “That. I’d almost forgotten.”

“Not that I don’t sympathize. I mean, who wouldn’t punch Worf, given the chance? But there’s the reputation of the Promenade Merchants’ Association to think of. Not to mention my own reputation…” Quark nodded meaningfully down at the padd, still lying between them on the bar.

Garak reached out to take the padd, but his hand hesitated for a moment. “You know, Quark,” he said, “you can always buy back a lost reputation.”

“Rule of Acquisition number 37,” said Quark approvingly. “But I like Rule 191 too. Let others keep their reputation.” He pushed the padd towards Garak. “You keep their money.”

Garak pocketed the padd so quickly it was like it had never been there. Quark was pouring out drinks for both of them.

“And once you have their money,” said Garak, “you never give it back.”

The first Rule. “Now we’re talking,” said Quark. He tapped his glass against Garak’s, and drained it, noisily. Garak took a little more time. The world was softened considerably now. He thought he could even face the shop. As Quark readied the bill, Garak ran his fingertip down Quark’s collar.

“I wish you didn’t do that,” muttered Quark. “It sends chills down my spine.”

“Well, if you will buy from inferior craftsmen,” said Garak. “Come to the shop tomorrow, Quark. I’ll undo everything Zuhe Dita’s done.”

***

“Let me get this straight,” said Quark. “The four of you went into some version of the Great Link and experienced Odo’s memories of the Occupation. Only you all looked like Bajorans and Odo’s memories weren’t exactly what happened.”

“That’s what Doctor Bashir says,” said Garak, absently. He was hunting through the button box for a set that he intended to use on a shirt for Sisko. Half of them seemed to be missing. Garak had some suspicions about where they’d gone. Efe Ronia from the gift shop had come in for a fitting at the start of the week, and had brought her eight-year-old son with her. On the whole the boy been well behaved (one look from the tailor had been enough), but Garak was still discovering tiny pockets of chaos which he thought were likely attributable to this particular small visitor. Not everyone on this station was a Molly O’Brien.

Quark snorted. “Doesn’t sound very likely, does it?”

Garak glanced up from his search. “Are you casting aspersions on Doctor Bashir’s expertise?”

“You think I’d walk in here and do a thing like that?”

Garak went back to his hunt. He’d found eight buttons so far, but he wanted to be sure of a few more. He could replicate them, he supposed, but he liked dressing Sisko (a handsome man if ever there was), and if a job was worth doing, it was worth doing properly. Besides, given the last few months, he thought he should probably go the extra mile.

“So what did Odo get wrong?”

“He put Thrax here, for one thing.”

“Ugh, Thrax,” said Quark, with a shudder. “Do you remember Thrax?”

“I do not, Quark. He was long gone by the time I arrived.”

“Yes, of course… I forget you were a relatively late arrival. Feels like you’ve been here forever.”

That, Garak thought, was too true. “But he was a familiar type.”

Quark eyed him sharply. “The Occupation turned out to be less fun than you remembered, huh?”

Garak did not, as a rule, dwell upon his activities during the Occupation but under no circumstances would he have ever described them as ‘fun’. He wasn’t Dukat. “Let’s say that the Occupation was a little more complicated than even Odo remembered.”

“Now I’m interested,” said Quark, perching on the side of the workbench, licking his lips in anticipation. “Go on! What happened, Garak?”

As Garak was considering what he should tell and what he should hold in reserve, the door to the shop opened, and Efe Ronia marched in, her son trotting unwillingly after her. Odo was glowering behind. Ronia dragged the boy up to the workbench. Never mind Odo; Ronia looked absolutely livid.

“Hold out your hand, Dinne,” she said. “Show Mister Garak what you’ve got there.”

Dinne looked up at Garak and blanched.

“Open your hand, Dinne!” ordered his mother. A small hand opened, rather shakily, revealing the missing buttons.

Garak knelt down in front of the boy. “Ah,” he said, picking them out, one-by-one, until they all lay in his palm. “That’s where they got to.” He sighed, and straightened up, and put them on the workbench with the rest. “Well, thank you for bringing them back, Dinne. They do have a tendency to stray.”

“I’m sorry, Garak,” said his mother. “And so’s Dinne.” She nudged her son. “Aren’t you, Dinne?”

“Sorry,” whispered the boy.

“A handsome apology,” said Garak. “Put it out of your mind, Dinne. We all make mistakes. Ronia,” he said, turning to the mother, “I appreciate this.”

Ronia nodded, and she and her son went on their way. Odo, however, lingered. Garak, pushing Quark from the workbench, lined up the buttons. Two by two; three by three; four by four. He didn’t need this many. If Dinne had only filched a couple, Garak probably wouldn’t even have noticed. “Constable,” he said, “I was just telling Quark about the experience we shared on the way back from the conference.”

Odo folded his arms. “Were you?”

“Just the gist,” Garak added.

“Well,” said Odo, after a moment or two. “It was… a complicated time.”

“Huh?” said Quark, looking between them. “Since when?”

Garak put the buttons to one side for later. He laid out the fabric on which the pieces of the pattern for Sisko’s shirt were pinned.

“Garak,” said Odo. “I assume you don’t want me to take things further with Efe Dinne?”

“Because I thought you had that whole beacon of sanity thing going on,” said Quark. “The only just man in an unjust world—”

“Take things further?” said Garak, reaching for his shears.

“Or did even you cross a line or two, Odo?”

Garak, looking up from his workbench, saw a glitter of something liquid in the corner of Odo’s eye. “Did I mention, Quark,” he said, “that we had the misfortune of working a shift for you?”

“Huh. You were lucky to find anything.”

“So you said at the time,” Garak replied. “But that experience was certainly not one that I would call ‘fun’. Even by the standards of the Occupation. With which I am sure we were all, in our own small ways, intimately familiar.”

Quark looked at the shears, then up at Garak, then down at the shears again.

“There is, in fact,” said Garak, shears in hand and addressing the room, “much to be said for my current condition of self-employment.” Then, as Odo and Quark watched, he cut out the pieces for the shirt. He worked swiftly, with confidence and precision. Measure twice, he thought - and cut once.

“That takes some nerve,” observed Quark, once Garak was done.

“Yes,” agreed Garak. “It does.” But then nobody had ever accused him of lacking nerve.  

“So you’re happy with how it’s turned out with Efe Dinne?” said Odo. He was staring fixedly at the buttons.

“I think he’s learned his lesson,” Garak replied.

Quark put his hand on Odo’s arm. “Let’s leave the man to his scissors, Odo,” he said. “Come over to the bar. I’ll buy you a drink.”

Garak watched them go. “Try the root beer, Odo,” he called after them. “I’m curious to know what you make of the taste.”

***

12^th-13^th October 2024