STAR TREK: DEEP SPACE NINE ®

by Andrew J. Robinson

  Our conversations covered all the areas that were forbidden—names, personalities, family backgrounds, and most important, the true power structure of Bamarren. The Institute was a microcosm of Cardassian society, and the adults—prefects, docents, and custodians—controlled from a distance. The idea was that students would become more effective citizens of the greater culture if they learned how to administer the microcosm themselves. There was a constant striving upwards at Bamarren, just as there was in the greater society, and at the highest levels that striving was transmuted into imperial expansion. The students of Bamarren were the future guardians of Cardassian security; we would become the eyes and ears of the military, the diplomats and the politicians. In these meetings Palandine was teaching me how to use my eyes and ears in a manner that complemented the teachings of Calyx and Mila.

  “And you have to use that wonderful smile of yours more often, Elim.”

  “What’s that got to do with listening?” That was the subject, and Palandine had typically made a jump in logic I couldn’t follow. She also forgot that I was a Cardassian male and smiling was not one of our strong features.

  “If they feel comfortable with you, people will tell you stories about themselves that will reveal their deepest secrets.”

  “But what if the stories aren’t true?” I challenged. “I could smile till my cheeks hurt, and you could tell me any kind of story you wanted—and what would I know about you except what you invented?”

  “You would know, if you were truly listening, the kind of story I use to define myself,” she asserted.

  “But it’s not the truth!” I maintained.

  “Why not? Because it’s not what you believe? Or it doesn’t fit a definition of the truth that someone taught you? Look at people, Elim.” Palandine gestured as if the enclosure were filled with people. “Observe them. The way they walk and talk, the way they hold themselves and eat their meals. That’s what they believe about themselves. Is it the ‘truth’? Are they really that way? I don’t know. Perhaps it is a lie. But what people lie about the most are themselves, and these lies become the stories they believe and want to tell you.”

  “As long as I’m smiling,” I mumbled. This conversation had started when I complained that others—especially Palandine—seemed to have information that was inaccessible to me. It progressed into one of our heated discussions relating intelligence gathering to the nature of truth itself.

  “Truth, as we’ve learned to define it, is not only overrated,” she went on with a controlled passion, “it’s designed to keep people in the dark.”

  This last statement stopped me.

  “You mean the way we’ve been taught?” I asked.

  “Of course.”

  “What about our government?”

  “They tell us the stories that we need to know in order to be good citizens,” she replied carefully.

  “They don’t tell us the truth, is what you’re saying,” I concluded.

  “There you go again. They tell us their truth, Elim, and we are here to learn how to listen.” Palandine paused and gave me one of her looks that went to the back of my head and made me shiver. “You’re so serious, Elim, so glum that even before you open your mouth you’re telling a story. But the nonverbal stories are the most dangerous, because they can be interpreted any number of ways. You have to smile, because you have power. If you listen to people with the look you have on your face right now, they’ll suspect that you’ll disapprove or criticize or—even worse—laugh at their stories. And there’s nothing worse than being ridiculed. You know that.”

  And I did. Perhaps that was why I was so resistant to the idea of smiling. It made me feel vulnerable to others, the way I had with Charaban that night at the Central Gate.

  “Let the ones without power scowl and make fierce faces. You smile. It’s an invitation to connect with another person. And once the invitation is accepted, relax and listen . . . you’ll come to know as much as you’ll ever need to about that person,” she said with a smile that I greedily accepted.

  * * *

  Palandine also introduced me to poetry, particularly the work of Maran Bry, who was notorious for being critical of the Bajoran occupation.

  Ghosted light, colored by the gas and

  dust of the Corillion Nebula

  Dances in my dreams and descends

  like a shimmering wave

  Where it fills the space between sleep and waking

  And clothes my loneliness with your naked birth.

  She opened her eyes and the light from the Blind Moon, the third and weakest in our system, reflected the excitement she felt in his poetry. At that moment I could have died and gone to the Hall of Memories if I’d been able to take this moment with me.

  “Yes, ‘Solar Winds,’ ” a voice said behind me, so soft as to be almost unrecognizable. “I also enjoy his ‘Paean to Kunderah.’

  The price they paid in blood is returned

  by your healing kiss,

  My matriarch, keeper of the mysteries and companion

  To those heroes who stood between us

  and eternal night.

  It was Charaban; and as stunning as his sudden presence was the choice of poem. “Kunderah” unfavorably contrasts the celebrated victory against the Klingons with the Bajoran Occupation. He stood there, watching us with a bemused expression, framed by the narrow opening of fendle leaves that connected the pathway to our green and muffled enclosure. With his easy grace and smile, it was as if he’d always been here.

  “I didn’t know you liked Maran Bry, Barkan.” Palandine behaved as if she expected him.

  “You never asked . . . Palandine,” he replied, amused by this use of their names. “And what kind of example are we setting for Elim Garak?” This was the first time I had heard my full name since I had left home, and it suddenly made me feel self-conscious. I stood up awkwardly.

  “No, no, please,” Charaban motioned me back down. “I didn’t mean to disrupt your . . . poetry reading.

  ” Palandine’s laugh was more delighted than ever.

  “ ‘No, no,’ said the Mogrund, ‘I didn’t mean to take the bad children to the subterranean city,’ ” she said with Mogrund ferocity.

  “I hope you’re not comparing me to the Mogrund,” Charaban said with mock outrage.

  “Well, I suppose you’re a little better looking than that,” Palandine allowed. (The Mogrund was a spiky lump with several frightening red eyes.)

  “Unless there are some wrongs here I need to right.” Charaban imitated the creature’s voice—which was easier for him since his own voice was already halfway there. I knew they were enjoying the banter but I felt caught in the middle, and vulnerable. According to the rules, I was in a place I did not belong, with a female student, indulging in “personal excesses.” But if the two of them were concerned, they certainly didn’t show it.

  “I never would have guessed the two of you shared a love of poetry,” Charaban said with genuine surprise.

  “Who exposed us?” Palandine asked.

  “Drabar. I asked him to do a security check on Ten Lubak. You’re not a Ramaklan spy, are you, One Ketay?” he asked with the same lack of concern. Her answer was another laugh and a provocative look that challenged any and all assumptions he dared make about her. I jumped up.

  “I swear,” I began, trying to overcome a very dry mouth. “I’ve told her nothing of our plans, One Charaban, and she has never asked.” It was true; we talked about everything except our work.

  “Why not? Aren’t they worth talking about?” he asked with a serious face. I had no idea how to respond.

  “You’re confusing him, Barkan. That’s not very nice.”

  “My apologies. Believe me, Ten, I would have been surprised if you had.”

  “But Drabar thought he had,” she said.

  “No, actually, it was Two Charaban,” he replied.

  “So this ‘security check’ is now common knowledge,” she wryly observed. I
had the same thought.

  “This is as far as it goes,” he assured her. Palandine nodded in response, giving him a last careful look. Charaban smiled back with an openness that seemed to answer her concern. He sat down on a rock, gave me a look that was more a reappraisal, and then looked away. In the ensuing silence, each of us became involved with our own private thoughts. In the corner where she sat cross-legged, Palandine studied her exquisitely shaped hands. Now, with the three of us, the dynamic in the enclosure had changed, and we were all adjusting. I no longer had Palandine to myself—but surprisingly, I didn’t mind, in fact I was pleased that Charaban was here. His stillness, like everything else about him, had grace and strength. I sneaked another look in his direction and marveled that this was the same person I had first encountered in the storeroom. He returned my look, and in the next few moments a bond grew between us that I had never thought possible. The whooshing flap of a night bird pulled our attention up to the section of glimmering sky that was visible.

  “I love the Blind Moon,” Charaban said softly.

  “Why is it called that?” I asked, deeply relieved by the mysterious change that had come over us.

  “It’s the time for lovers’ assignations,” Palandine answered. “The moon will give them enough light to meet, but not so much for them to be discovered.”

  “So if you and Elim were true lovers I wouldn’t have been able to find you,” Charaban teased.

  “That’s right, Barkan,” she said with a direct look. I shifted position in the ensuing silence and tried to hide my disappointment with Palandine’s reply, but at the same time, the pleasure I felt in the company of these two people kept growing.

  “See?” Palandine suddenly addressed me. “You can do it.”

  “What?” I was startled by her delighted burst.

  “Smile. Look at that, Barkan. Wouldn’t you tell someone with that smile everything he wanted to know?” she demanded.

  “The first time I met him—well, the second . . .” he corrected himself, “he had a smile that I wanted to wipe off his face.” He was referring to that early morning in front of the Central Gate.

  “But it wasn’t that smile,” Palandine insisted.

  “No,” he conceded. “Definitely not that one.” And the truth was that I could feel this smile throughout my entire body.

  We settled into another silence that lasted until the Blind Moon disappeared behind the foliage. I was certain at the time that for each of us this silent gathering was a precious respite from the relentless strivings of Bamarren ambition. There were other such gatherings, but this was the one that I will take with me to the Hall of Memories. If I could have stopped time . . .

  17

  Entry:

  Today I thought I’d have lunch at the recently reopened Klingon establishment in honor of my new friend from the Jeffries tube, who turns out to be a nephew of General Martok. As I made my way through the Promenade—which gets more congested every day—I thought of the dabo girl, Tir Remara, and wondered why her name was so familiar. Odo said she wanted to see me to express her gratitude, and I laughed at the irony: a Bajoran wanting to thank a Cardassian. On a sudden impulse, I redirected myself to Quark’s.

  When I entered the bar, Quark smirked at me. “The savior of dabo girls. You know, Garak, you used to have a wonderful reputation as someone who minded his own business. What happened? Was it a bad brand of kanar?”

  “No worse than usual,” I smiled. A master of compassion, our friend Quark. But judging from the large and loud group of Klingons present, he needn’t have worried about a drop in business.

  Remara saw me, and we made eye contact. She finished paying out latinum from the last spin of the wheel, motioned to another girl to take over the table, and approached me. Quark was not pleased.

  “Make it fast, Remara. The Klingons are here for you—not Byla.” Quark stayed as if to monitor our conversation, but Remara just looked at him with a level, clear expression. He blinked.

  “You heard me.” And he moved away. When she turned those clear, gray eyes to me, I immediately understood why so many people wanted to play dabo when she was spinning the wheel.

  “Thank you. For yesterday,” she said simply.

  “Well, I . . . I don’t think. . . .” I was astounded—I couldn’t get a clear sentence out of my mouth. But she knew what I was going to say.

  “He was very drunk and he was going to hurt me. He’s not a bad man, but he’s the type who’s dangerous past a certain point.”

  I could only nod in agreement. She was older than I had originally thought, and clearly more intelligent than the usual dabo girl. Girl. She was as much of a girl as I was a boy. Other than Leeta, this was the first dabo woman I had ever seen. I’m sure her popularity among the Klingons must be immense, otherwise Quark would never allow such intelligence and maturity to spin the wheel. As I stood there, I totally forgot that she was wearing that silly skimpy outfit. Her poise, the directness of her gaze . . . I also forgot that she was a Bajoran.

  “I have to return to work, but I’d like to talk with you. We had a mutual friend. I’m done after the second shift—is that too late for you?”

  “N-no. No, not at all.” My lips were betraying me. I sounded like Rom. “Shall I meet you here?”

  “No. The observation lounge on the second level.”

  As she went back to the table I noticed Major Kira sitting in the corner. She was giving me the same look she had used whenever I had been in the company of Ziyal. Because of those hard, impenetrable eyes, I can only imagine what she thought of this exchange. I nodded and . . . smiled.

  It was late, and there were few people on the second level. As I waited in the observation lounge it came to me why Remara’s name was familiar—she’d been a friend of Ziyal. I remembered now Ziyal saying that Remara was some kind of teacher on Bajor, and that she occasionally worked as a dabo girl to support her family. When she’d made enough latinum she’d return to her life on Bajor. Quark put up with this arrangement because her statuesque beauty attracted many people—not just Klingons, and not just men—to the dabo table. Even those who never played.

  “Thank you for coming.” Her voice came from behind me. I jumped up from my chair, surprised. She was standing there in a tasteful but modest frock. Without her dabo-girl shoes we stood eye to eye. Her face was scrubbed clean of the makeup and her hair was unpinned, falling below her shoulders. It was somewhat darker now, and I wondered if she lightened it somehow when she was working. There was also a distance in her look which, coupled with her directness, created an odd dynamic. The distance challenged you to work yourself closer—if you had the courage.

  “You surprised me,” I said, reminding myself to breathe. “I expected you to come from the other direction.”

  “I wanted to get out of my child’s costume. I hope you’re not disappointed.”

  “Please,” I laughed. “I’m relieved. To be truthful, I’m not terribly comfortable around those outfits.”

  “Really? Are they too revealing for you?” she asked.

  “Not at all. The design puts my teeth on edge.” It was her turn to laugh.

  “Amazing, isn’t it? People seem to love the way they look.”

  “I don’t think it’s the way the costume looks that they love,” I offered.

  “Well,” she smiled modestly, “I’m not complaining. It keeps the dabo wheel spinning.”

  “Which pleases Quark to no end,” I added.

  “Indeed.” She took one of the chairs, and I sat in one across from her.

  “Elim, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. Elim Garak.”

  “Ziyal spoke well of you. She was particularly grateful for your kindness. This always intrigued me.”

  “Why?” I asked, knowing full well what was coming.

  “You’re a Cardassian.”

  “There’s nothing I can do about that, I’m afraid.” We looked at each other for a long moment, and the distance felt even greater. I wond
ered if anyone had ever made the crossing.

  “I think Ziyal once mentioned that you were a teacher.” I shifted the focus onto her. “

  In a manner of speaking. I’m a counselor. When I’m not being a dabo girl, of course. My work here is to counsel people out of their latinum.”

  “And on Bajor?” I asked.

  “I counsel people out of their nightmares from the Occupation,” she said, without any inflection.

  “Ah,” I replied, with as genial a smile as I could muster.

  “And you’re a tailor.”

  “I am.”

  “Have you always been a tailor?”

  “Has anyone always been anything?”

  “Were you trained as one?”

  “In a manner of speaking. For that and other things.”

  “Like?”

  “I worked as a gardener for a period,” I replied. She was unapologetic about her questions. Either she had a great appetite for information about other people . . . or something else was going on.

  “I love to garden,” she said.

  “Really? You’re very fortunate then. Bajor has a salubrious climate for growing things.”

  “Oh. So you’ve been to Bajor?” she asked.

  “No. Not really.”

  “ ‘Not really’?” she repeated with a bemused look.

  “I stopped over . . . once. On the way here actually. Just long enough to transfer to a shuttle. But your climate is well known.”

  “In Cardassia,” she added.

  “Yes. Among other places, I’m sure.” A game was in full operation now, and I felt excited and challenged to find out just what the game was.

  “What’s your favorite plant?” she asked.

  “The Edosian orchid,” I replied without thinking.

  “Yes,” she nodded. “It has an extraordinary blossom.”

  “Have you grown them?” I asked.