Nolen Hobart: Old Glories

[Nolen Hobart]

The antique clock on the wall ticked on, without a care in the world about what was to become of it. A long, black pendulum hung down and swished back and forth, as bulging cartoon eyes mirrored in sync above. In the orange light of a Georgia sunset that poured through the paned glass window of his office, Nibar watched flecks of dust swirl with each tick and tock.

The last box of files had long since been packed, and the plush, green leather furniture sold. The smell of them lingered, earthen and worn. He'd had to toss his old textbooks, though. No takers. Without the shelves here to display them, he had nowhere to put them. He was surprised most, however, that his cherrywood desk had been the hardest to offload. There was still a faint outline of its place in the wax of the floorboards.

As Nibar's green eyes took in the empty room, the door jingled behind him. For a brief moment, the stifling cold of the room, set to accommodate Terran preferences, was dulled by a welcome puff of midsummer heat. The cicadas outside scratched out their ear-piercing call as a familiar scent infiltrated the room’s air.

“Slipped your minders, did you?” Nibar asked before turning around to face his visitor. “Hmm? If so, I'm sorry but I'm no longer accepting clients.” His lips flattened and spread into a smile beneath his gray, scaly nose.

“They're across the way,” the older woman replied, matter-of-factly, “pretending to enjoy the park.” She looked up at him and in the light, the blue painted into the canyon of her curved ridge seemed a deep purple. “Pretending they're not listening,” she added with a wink.

“Ah! In that case…” Nibar cleared his throat, stretched out his frilled neck and spoke vaguely upwards: “Glory to Cardassia, gentlemen.”

His visitor gave him a disapproving look. Not for the phrase, of course; it was how she ended every conversation they’d ever had. Sometimes in earnest. Sometimes in exasperation. Sometimes, just to punctuate an exit. But she never said it in mixed company, real or imagined. Terran sensibilities around them were tetchy enough without giving them greater room for doubt.

“Dukul, they're going to turn you right around as soon as you step off the shuttle,” she admonished.

“Ah, yes, the whole of San Francisco—off limits.”

“You joke.”

“Yes,” he confirmed, “I joke. If your friends out there didn't kill my application when I sent it in, why wait?”

She looked at him disapprovingly. It was her hope, Nibar knew, that he wouldn't go. That he'd change his mind. That they'd reject him. That someone, somewhere, might intervene. The fact that it was impossible to sustain a law practice without clients mattered not, to her. The whispers that they were spies for whatever Obsidian slivers or shards might lurk in the dark corners of outer space only tickled her, whereas they chafed him unbearably.

“To see if you'd really go through with it,” she finally replied. “To see the sort of man you are.” Her words were cold, but he saw through them. He always could.

Nibar gripped his mother's shoulders tightly, clad in the finest Terran garb she could obtain. A purple number, with green-shouldered sleeves. He leaned in and planted a gentle kiss on the crown of her gray-haired head, before stooping down to meet her eyes.

“Then I suppose,” he beamed, “I should show them exactly the sort of man you made me.”

When she rolled her eyes, he took the opportunity to fetch the last remnant of his old life. The wagging pendulum protested as Nibar deftly lifted the clock off its nail and took it down. Turning to leave his old office for the last time, he paused to admire his prize.

“I thought you were going to throw that ugly thing away!” the woman screeched.

“This? This is a classic, mother,” he rebuked, “a genuine artifact of ancient Earth culture. I could never throw it away.”

“You'll not put it in my home.”

“I wouldn't dream of putting it anywhere your eyes would find it,” he smiled at her. She opened the door for him, and took her own last look as he stepped out into the refreshing sauna of the summer’s eve. He inhaled deeply and sighed, satisfied. “Not right away, at least.”

As her son, her only living family, mocked her right there on a public sidewalk for everyone in town to hear, the old woman steadied herself on the doorknob. She closed her eyes, as if in pain, and gathered her strength.

“Glory to Cardassia,” she cursed as she shut the door.

Edited May 25 by Ens. Nolen Hobart

[Karrod Niac]

Lovely piece and it raises an important question - do Cardassians hate Mondays and love lasagna?