Ever since the Romulan business and Captain Sisko’s near breakdown (outside of the Doctor, whom I told shortly after the incident, no one knows about this, but one recognizes the symptoms), I’ve been obsessed with memories of Bamarren. Somehow, in the convoluted recesses of my mind, my years there are related to my exile on this floating prison. Yet no two places could be more dissimilar.

The Klingon commotion from the dabo table momentarily distracted me. I took another sip of the bitter‑sweet liquid.

Three Lubak was right–I did think I was smarter than anyone else. And at the same time, I hadn’t felt that I belonged at the Institute. I’d been an outsider with no pedigree, and there were those students who’d never let me forget it. One Lubak and his inbred clan. But I had been just as taken with the quest for power at Bamarren as anyone else, and determined that I would make my mark in the Competition. I laughed to myself, and a few heads turned. I nodded and smiled back. Another drunk talking to himself.

A scream cut through my thoughts and the bar. I looked down and saw Rom flying over a table and Morn scurrying out. There was only one Klingon left in the bar, a giant who had the terrified dabo girl by the arm. Without thinking, I threw the container of kanardown and it crashed at the giant’s feet. He looked up, and I immediately knew two things about him: he was inebriated beyond reason and he was one of their shock troopers, a callused veteran of hand‑to‑hand combat. I took a deep breath; as dolts go he was quite impressive. My spirits were suddenly and immeasurably lifted.

“You spoonhead!” he growled at me. I hated that word.

“And you . . . a great warrior who brings down dabo girls with a single blow.” He looked at me trying to decide if I had insulted or complimented him.

“P’tak!”I shouted, “I mean that you’re the biggest coward in the Klingon Empire.” He released the dabo girl, and as he moved to the narrow stairway I thought that he was also the biggest Klingon in the Empire.

I looked for my advantage. This was not an equal match, and my gigantic friend was in the full flush of a berserker blood lust. I sighed. I’m too old for this, I thought. I needed to slow him down and find better ground than this. As his head appeared coming up the narrow circular stairwell I charged, grabbed hold of the stanchion, swung my body around, and kicked the side of his head with both feet. This just made him angrier. I made for the upper Promenade–and wondered if Calyx might be enjoying this spectacle from wherever he was. The giant’s roar caught the attention of the people on the upper Promenade, one of whom was Chief O’Brien, who emerged from an alcove where he had been doing some repair work on a panel.

“Garak, what have you got yourself into now?” he asked as I approached.

“Get security, Chief, and tell them to prepare the biggest cell they have . . . or a smaller coffin for me,” I said as I moved into the alcove and squeezed through the opening where the panel had been. I had an idea. I could hear the Chief behind me try to reason with the berserker, who just pushed him aside.

I came out into a Jeffries tube. I wasn’t sure which direction to take, but I had to choose quickly. My pursuer was struggling with the small passage, but he was not going to be deterred.

“Go left, Garak,” the Chief kindly directed, “and take the third opening on your right!” I think he understood my plan. The massive Klingon followed me as I crouch‑ran up the tube. One, two, three openings. Could I fit in? No time to debate. I squeezed in on my belly and shimmied forward. The giant grabbed hold of my left foot and started pulling me back. I strained against his vise‑like grip . . . and my boot came off in his hand. I managed to shimmy beyond his reach and thankfully out the other end and into a larger parallel Jeffries tube.

I turned back to see if the Klingon was foolish enough to follow. It was such an obvious trap. His anguished roar answered me. Somehow he had managed to squeeze himself far enough into the passage to get thoroughly stuck. He couldn’t go forward or back. And I recognized the look on his face. He was suffering from a claustrophobic attack. The more he struggled, the worse it got.

“Don’t move, it’ll only get worse,” I warned him. His look was a mixture of wanting to kill me and desperately needing my help.

“Don’t move!” He calmed down. “Keep breathing, deeply. Deeply. That’s right.”

“Help me,” he croaked. I was touched by the giant’s childlike surrender. I knew the feeling well.

“I will,” I replied and immediately wondered why I had agreed. I’m getting soft, I thought. However, I needed to find someone who could help me help him.

“Don’t leave me!” His voice was on the edge of panic. The tables had indeed turned.

“I won’t. But you must promise me that you’ll behave once you’re extricated.” His eyes flashed with impotent anger. I decided that I might as well get something for my trouble. “I’m not going to help you unless you promise me that you’ll behave like a gentleman.”

“I promise.” Claustrophobic anguish won out over Klingon pride.

“And you must promise me one more thing.” I wasn’t finished.

“What?”

“That you’ll never call me or any member of my race a spoonhead again.”

“But you area spoonhead,” he reasoned. The request was incomprehensible to him.

“I’m warning you, unless you make a solemn warrior’s promise, I will desert you.”

“I promise.” The poor creature was nearly in tears. I almost felt sorry for him.

The day after the incident, Odo called me in to take my statement. As I approached his office, the giant, accompanied by two security people, was coming out. He stopped when he saw me, and I braced myself for trouble, as did the two guards. Instead, he solemnly thanked me for staying with him until O’Brien and Odo arrived.

“I wouldn’t have expected that from a . . . Cardassian–you see, I haven’t forgotten my promise,” he assured me. They moved off, and I must admit that I was quite taken aback. Evidently there is honor among dolts.

Odo was his usual thorough self. After my version of the incident, he reckoned that since the damage was minimal and the Klingon was returning to the front the case could be closed.

“What about the dabo girl?” I inquired.

“She’s not pressing charges.”

“How magnanimous of her.”

“Magnanimity has nothing to do with it. Quark won’t let her,” Odo said with disgust.

“Ah–let me guess: Bad for business.”

“Yes. But she seems quite interested in seeing you to express her gratitude,” Odo said with no irony.

“Well, that’s not necessary.”

“As you wish. Her name is Tir Remara.” The name rang a bell.

I was about to leave when Odo asked about the designs for his “new” sartorial look. I could see that he was masking his concern, so I assured him that the sketches were some of my finest creations, and would be ready within the week. He grunted his thanks and I stepped out onto the Promenade. Love does make fools of us all.

15

Entry:

The days of preparation for the Competition were exhilarating. They started when Nine approached me as I sat alone in our quarters reading the first part of Cylon Pareg’s Eternal Stranger,a saga spanning several generations of a Cardassian family during the early and middle Union. Spellbound by its magic, I tried to avoid the interruption until I saw the expression of demented awe on Nine’s face as he stood waiting. I then understood why he was there.

“Charaban One says that the first meeting . . .”

“Should you be telling me this here, Nine?” I interrupted. Perhaps he could carry a message, but he didn’t know how to deliver it. At that moment Eight appeared and paused in the doorway to register Nine and me before going to his area. Nine was nonplussed; he didn’t know what to do. I put my padd back in my compartment, stroked Mila–who was visible only to me–and quickly walked out. After a confused moment, Nine followed.