Just before dawn I strolled up to the Central Gate. The two sentries were shocked and speechless.

“Ten Lubak returning from the field,” I announced. A tall and graceful figure quickly emerged from the darkness behind the sentries and into the harsh floodlight.

“There’s nothing to smile about, murk.”

My blood froze. It was him. Unfortunately, my self‑satisfied smile also froze. So much for my newly discovered power to adjust to changing circumstances.

“Pleased with yourself, aren’t you?” the Gruff Voice asked. “Were you also pleased after your great victory in the storeroom corridor?” Obviously he knew it had been Eight and me, and it wasn’t a forgotten incident. I continued to smile.

“We’ll see about that . . . and about your idiotic smile. Get back to your section!”

“Yes . . . uh . . .” I didn’t know how to address him.

“One Charaban, murk!” He wheeled away back into the darkness.

“Charaban?” I weakly repeated as I watched him leave. Thedominant Level Two group. “They were assigned to this hunt?” I asked the two sentries.

“All Level Twos were assigned. It happens once a year. How did you elude them?” The younger sentry was violating all protocol and rank distinction with the question.

“That’s enough, Six!” the other sentry snapped. “You heard One Charaban, murk. Get back to your section.” He pushed me in the direction of the gate.

As I walked among the buildings just beginning to come alive with dawn activity, I tried to piece together what had happened. The Gruff Voice was the leader of the Charaban, which meant he was the leader of male Levels One and Two. Small wonder he was not pleased with me. The failure of a Bamarren elite cadre to capture all the murks would not polish their reputation, and it certainly wouldn’t help One Charaban’s quest for the ultimate leadership position in Level Three. While I understood that I would have to watch my step with One Charaban, I also acknowledged that I had never been in a manlier or more attractive presence. It was like encountering an ideal that I’d only dreamed about. As I walked back to my section and accepted the congratulations of my mates, I was baffled not so much by the appearance of this new and commanding person in my life as by my recognition of his strong connection to me. But what connection? Did it have anything to do with the vision I’d had that first day in the Pit with Calyx?

From that point on, no one at Bamarren ever captured me again. And it was not for lack of trying. I became a bit of a legend. Other students constantly asked me about my evasive techniques. When I wasn’t forthcoming, they grudgingly agreed that giving up this information would make me vulnerable in future hunts. I maintained, with a certain amount of truth, that with docents like Calyx such information was accessible to all Bamarren students. Of course I couldn’t tell them the truth. How could I? Then I would have to tell them about Mila. Pets were strictly forbidden, and anyone caught with one was punished, and the pet destroyed. How could they accept that Mila taught me the lessons that had enabled me to crawl out of the Wilderness undetected?

And how do you explain those lessons? I struggled to explain them to myself: cultivating stillness and silence; relying less on sight, sound, and physical touch and developing the finer senses to gather intelligence. So much of what we see and hear is not the truth of any given situation; sometimes it’s necessary to close the eyes and be still, to extend our awareness beyondwhat we’ve been conditioned to believe is our field of sensory operation. Only then can we learn the patience to trust that allthe information that we need will come to us. This is some of the wisdom of the regnar. The wisdom that helped me hold my place for the first time. And for better or worse, it was this wisdom that set the unexpected course of my life.

11

Entry:

The other day, the Doctor, Odo, and I were at the Replimat having lunch, an event that Odo, after our conversation, had taken it upon himself to organize. The station grows more tense each day the invasion is put off. The fabric of community interaction is wearing thin, and flaring tempers are no longer confined to Quark’s. Indeed, after my “situation,” the Promenade witnessed several such incidents. Each day we look for signs that might indicate who will be assigned where, for what duty, and when. Each day we’re disappointed, and the tension is further bloated with rumors that range from the plausible to the wildly fantastic. As the casualty figures mount, some of us attempt to keep the prevailing sense of doom at arm’s length with what the Doctor calls “gallows humor.”

“The one I heard this morning was about you, Garak.” It was clear from Odo’s expression that he’d been looking forward to this moment. “I was warned that not only were you a changeling, but that the reason you spent so much time in the Replimat was that you had found a way to slowly poison us all.”

“I’m sure the Replimat is quite capable of doing that without my help.” I was only half‑joking.

“That must be the same person who came to me and accused you of sewing a deadly toxin into his shirt,” the doctor said.

“Yes, I remember him. He didn’t want to pay for the shirt.” And I did remember him–another Bajoran who thought he could alleviate his troubles by targeting the Cardassian tailor.

“When I did an analysis of the shirt,” the Doctor went on, “I found nothing but traces of his own bodily fluids.”

“Which were toxic only to the people in his immediate presence,” I added just before a fight broke out in the food line. Two Romulans had decided that waiting in line was beneath their dignity, and the others were vigorously disagreeing. Odo did not appreciate the interruption and gave our new allies a blunt lesson in station etiquette. They left with sneering disdain. With friends like that. . . .

Odo sat down and gave me a look.

“It was Captain Sisko’s idea to get the Romulans involved, Odo. Not mine,” I answered the look.

“Humph,” was his only reply.

“But what about you, Doctor?” I asked, returning to the business at hand. “It seems there’s a movement afoot to have you replace Captain Sisko.” The doctor winced.

“Is this true?” Odo asked. We both looked to the doctor for confirmation. He sighed.

“There’s a group of . . . genetically enhanced people who feel that one of their own should be guiding the station during this emergency, and they’ve petitioned the Federation Council, but it’s Jack and his group, and no one takes them . . .” Exasperated, he broke off. “Garak, how did you hear about this?”

“My clientele talk and I listen.” This was also true: an idiot savant who wears his presumed genetic superiority like a badge of privilege walked into my shop and never stopped talking. Of course I encouraged him, and by the time he left I had heard all about some organized attempt to elevate Dr. Bashir to the leadership position. I could see that the doctor was upset that I’d divulged this information. Clearly this genetic business was not his favorite topic of conversation.

“Is this something we should keep an eye on?” Odo asked, studying us carefully.

“No, not at all,” the Doctor assured him. “It’s just Jack’s people. This was nearly a year ago, and I’m afraid they have too much time on their hands–like some other people I know.” He pointedly looked away from me as Odo continued to study us, trying to decode the undercurrent of this last exchange between us. No wonder he was such a capable security operative. Odo registered every change in tone and temperature and tracked the change down to its cause.

“Tell me something, Garak.” It was clear that he had found an opening for one of those deferred questions he kept on a prioritized list somewhere in his changeling head. He was still a basically shy and tactful person, especially when it came to other people’s business, but lately he’d become more openly inquisitive. I wondered if it was Major Kira’s influence.