“Seven,” he replied.

“He’s too raw. His ridges have barely emerged. We need fighters,” I protested.

“He has great heart, and he’s loyal. I’ll make sure he’s ready to fight,” Eight assured me. “I’ll take him on my team and you take Three. That’ll be the challenge. If you can get Three past their flank undetected. . . .”

The signal to stop working interrupted Eight, but I knew what he meant. Stealth requires the kind of sustained patience that’s almost totally missing in Three. If there’s no room for failure, then there must be a solution to every problem. I wanted very much to believe that that indeed was so.

16

Entry:

During the period leading to the Competition, my only respite from the preparations was when Palandine and I managed to spend some time together. Besides the training area, we would meet in the secluded study nooks of the Archival Center and in sections of the Grounds she knew would be safe. Tonight we were in an enclosure of the Grounds that was made impenetrable by the thick surrounding foliage. This was the place she had wanted to show me before we were interrupted by the intern at the Center.

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 youbelieve? 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 isa 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 theirtruth, 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.