“Thank you.” I was genuinely grateful for his approval.

“Did you see him?” he asked.

“Who?” I looked around.

“One Charaban was watching our strategem. He left at the end.”

“Charaban watching us?How do you know it was him?” This made me nervous. The last time we met at the Central Gate he told me he’d be watching me.

“It was him.” His confidence dispelled all doubt.

“But why?” I asked.

“I don’t know. But I think we should be careful.” I nodded in agreement. We stood in silence for an awkward moment. “Are you going back to the section?” he asked.

“No . . . uh . . . I’m going to stay here awhile and . . . do some forms,” I managed to say. Eight remained for a few more minutes. I had the feeling that he wanted to say something more to me. Suddenly he turned and disappeared behind a barrier. The air was filled with whatever went unsaid. He was as shy as anyone I had ever known.

As I waited to see if Palandine would come, I was true to my word and worked the kick‑spin forms that Eight had danced through while I stumbled. Just as I decided that she wasn’t coming and prepared to leave, I heard approaching steps. I turned in their direction expectantly and found myself face to face with One Charaban. I immediately tuned into my Pit focus, with the altogether different expectation of self‑defense. Charaban saw this and began to laugh. His reaction completely disarmed me. Was this the same person?

“Don’t worry, Ten. I left my murking stick back in the storeroom.” Only his gruff voice revealed it was indeed the same person; everything else about him had changed. His tall, wiry body was relaxed, and his smile seemed genuine. I began to relax as well, and then I reminded myself that as a One designate he was most likely a skilled Pit warrior. I maintained my focus.

“And I only came to watch, not to engage,” he said, accurately reading my adjustment. “You and your mate put on a fine exhibition. That’s a difficult strategem. Calyx must think highly of you both.”

“Eight said that you were watching us.”

“He noticed–and you didn’t?” he asked with his smile.

“Nobody is stronger than Eight in the Pit,” I admitted.

“Nobody? That’s quite a claim.”

“Nobody in our group and probably in the First Level,” I boasted for Eight.

“Is that because he can beat you?” Charaban exposed my boast. There was truth in his question. “Well, I certainly want to speak to him as well . . . when the right time comes. Please, Ten, walk with me. I have a proposal.” I stood there, mystified by his offer. His smile widened and he motioned me to follow.

Charaban led the way toward the Bamarren Grounds, which were hidden by perimeter barriers. Inside was another world, planted and maintained like the public grounds at home. I could almost see Father’s work here, and the reminder stabbed at my carefully defended homesickness. Walkways led through soft ground cover and flowering bushes that reached up and met above our heads. It was my first time inside–First Level students aren’t allowed except in the company of upper students–and I was amazed by its softness and serenity, especially in the darkness, punctuated by glowing lamps spaced along the way. It was dramatic relief from the prevailing Bamarren harshness. Charaban stopped at a bench and invited me to sit. In this setting I couldn’t help but relax, but at the same time my mind was trying to work out the meaning of his invitation.

“Do you know about the Competition?” Charaban had read me correctly again.

“The simulated battle at the end of term,” I managed.

“Simulated in that no one is killed, but it can get rough,” he said. “And the one coming up will be rougher than most because we have an unusual leadership succession this time. Has anyone spoken to you about this?” he asked.

“No.” I waited for Charaban to explain why anyone would, but his mind was following its own logic. He looked at me as if he were appraising an inanimate object for its value.

“You’ve impressed a number of people here. My second, who’s the strongest hunter in our Level, wouldn’t believe that you got past him that night. He insists that you didn’t abide by the rules,” he challenged. I understood that this was another way of asking how I had eluded capture. When I didn’t respond, Charaban laughed with that same disarming grace.

“I didn’t expect you to answer . . . and you shouldn’t. Not yet. This brings you power and opportunity. Like the one I’m about to offer. Just tell me one thing: have you told anyone about your methods?” he asked with his easy smile.

I was about to respond when something told me not to. It was the voice that Calyx had been urging me to listen for. The voice that can be heard only when fear and fantasy are not in control of the moment. When I didn’t answer I could see that Charaban was surprised. This time he didn’t laugh; he merely nodded.

“Yes. You’re not a murk anymore, are you? But not answering the question tells me what I need to know.” His expression had changed; he had determined my value.

Light footsteps and female voices suddenly intruded. I realized in the moment of their interruption how intense this exchange with Charaban had been. When I widened my focus I was shocked to see Palandine and a friend emerge from the darkness. She never looked at me. They nodded to Charaban, he nodded back and they disappeared as a desert wind moved noisily through the foliage. A fleeting incongruity. The whole evening was like a dream.

“Hard, isn’t it, Ten?” Charaban broke in. “To be treated like you don’t exist. Of course she treats everyone like that, not just murks.” He was looking in the direction the two females went as if he still could see them. Was he referring to Palandine? He turned back to me, all business.

“I’ve challenged Third Level leadership to a Competition earlier than usual, on the grounds that they are inferior. I refer especially to the interns of the Ramaklan Group. It’s my prerogative as leader of the Charaban. Bamarren is neither inspired nor unified by their example, and I am urging a succession by trial.” It was clear from the ease with which this was stated that Charaban was politically astute and organized. And ambitious. I felt that I had been allowed to enter an inner sanctum and been made privy to a revolutionary decision.

“In order to mount a successful challenge, I need the best team I can assemble. Being Third Levels they have the advantage. Not only does One Ramaklan have the obedience of the most proven interns, but in the Competition itself they are simply required to defend their position, and nothing more. As challengers, we have to devise an attacking strategy that will prove the worth of our accusation of inferiority. This is not a simple matter, Ten.” Charaban engaged me as if I didn’t understand.

“I don’t think any challenging leader has ever asked a First Level student to accept a planning position . . . and certainly not one with a Ten designation,” he added with a tinge of condescension.

“I am responsible for my work, not for my designation,” I hotly reminded him. He had touched a sensitive place, and he knew it.

“Nevertheless, you’re a Ten and until you prove yourself otherwise you’ll always remain a Ten. And I’m not talking about excelling in class or eluding capture, no matter how brilliantly, or settling for second best in the Pit. I’m talking about planning and executing group action that ends in nothing less than total victory, the Cardassian ideal of excellence this school was built upon!”

The air around us rang with the passionate challenge. Charaban was right; he was offering me an opportunity–and I knew it.

“What do you want me to do?” I was trembling as if my body were chilled.

“More than anything, Ten, I want you to banish failure. There’s no longer any room for it in your life. Agreed?” Charaban offered his hand. I grabbed it like a drowning man. I’m sure he felt me struggle to control my shaking body.