“Who are you?” another voice asked from the rock.

“One Lubak!” I lied. “Ramaklan flank. The Charaban probe was attacked by honge.”The hongehad been driven off by the phaser fire, and Three was now eerily silent. He turned to me, and the right side of his face was covered in blood. When I looked closer I could see that the eye socket was empty. He was in shock, and totally disoriented. I aimed my phaser and stunned him into unconsciousness.

“What are you doing, Ten?” Four cried out.

“He’s under control!” I yelled to the rock.

“Bring him in!” the second voice ordered. I wondered if this was One Ramaklan.

“We’re coming!” I answered. I started to lift Three, but his dead weight was impossible. “Help me, Four.”

“You’re not going to bring him to them?” He was incredulous.

“No, weare. Now help me!” I ordered. Four hesitated. “We have no choice. We use him as cover to get there and then begin our attack. That’s our assignment. Now help me or you’re on report!”

Four got up, looked around fearfully for any remaining hongeand then helped me lift the huge body. It was then he saw Three’s right eye was missing. He nearly lost his hold.

“Steady, Four!”

“His eye!”

“We’re coming,” I yelled. “Let’s go,” I said to the horrified Four. As we struggled to the rock, trying to keep the body in front of us–to mask our Charaban‑green uniforms as opposed to the Ramaklan black–I detected movement to my right. Let it be Eight,I thought.

“As soon as we get close enough, we have to force our way inside before they can use their phasers. Use Three as a shield.” I was almost breathless with effort, and Four could only grunt in response.

Just as we approached the rock, I could see that three or four Ramaklan soldiers were massed at an opening, waiting for us. About twenty paces away, sunlight suddenly beamed straight past us and lit up their bodies and faces as the sun came over the horizon behind us. The timing couldn’t have been better.

“Steady, Four. On my signal,” I whispered with what little breath I had left. We came closer; there were four of them, very distinct in their identifying black vests, shielding their eyes and training their phasers on us.

“Stop,” one of them said. We were five paces away. “Put the body down,” he instructed.

“Of course,” I replied. “Don’t let go,” I whispered to Four. I began to stumble toward them as if I had lost my balance.

“Stop!” the voice repeated.

“I’m sorry. I lost my footing,” I apologized. We were two paces away.

“Wait! He’s not . . .” one of them began to say.

“Now!” I cried, and using Three as a barrier, Four and I pushed through the opening and knocked at least two of them over before they could use their phasers. We were inside–and the fight had begun in earnest.

“Here they come!” I heard someone yell, and in the chaos that followed I couldn’t be sure if he meant us, Eight’s team, or the main force. All I know is that Four and I immediately moved into a shifting tandem strategem, and we fought like we were possessed by the spirit and strength of many. The advantage of surprise was ours. Fear and pumping fluids fueled us. It became a blur of action and reaction, parry and blow, shift and stand, attack and defend; there was no space in between, no moment of thought or pause. I was hit several times, but I felt nothing. At one point, I saw Seven fighting like a screech crake and I fought even harder, encouraged by his ferocity of heart, which I had doubted.

“Over here, Ten!” I followed the call for help without hesitation. I had lost Four, but by now the main force had joined the fray, and the fighting was scattered over the entire area. It was fat Charaban being pummeled by three Ramaklan soldiers. He was doing his best and moving with surprising agility, but to no avail. I grabbed one and threw him off, but before I could turn back I was picked up from behind like I was a baby and tossed hard against a rock face. The air was crushed out of me, and I was on my hands and knees desperately trying to draw it back in, but before I could fat Charaban was thrown on top of me, and I began to suffocate. This was my worst fear. Besides the memory of Tain’s punishment, I was tortured by nightmares in which I was buried alive. A red, insane surge of energy came from somewhere inside me, and with a scream I threw Two Charaban off me, grabbed the closest Ramaklan–who was twice my size and was probably the one who’d thrown me against the rock–and used every skill I had learned in the Pit to punish him for bringing me face‑to‑face with my nightmare death. The expression on the big Ramaklan was one of shock and incomprehension as I hit and kicked and elbowed and gouged. The action had become suspended in another reality. Everything else dropped away as this student became the focus for all my rage and fear. Suddenly I felt hands all over my body and I was pulled away.

“That’s enough, Ten!” I heard a familiar voice say.

“No, it’s not enough!” I didn’t recognize my voice; I thought someone else had spoken for me. It wasn’t until the hands had gotten control of me that my anger began to subside and I came back from wherever I had gone. The faces of the people holding me back began to look familiar. The first one I saw was Eight.

“Didn’t you hear the signal? We’ve won.” He was looking at me with real concern. My face felt wet, and I wondered where the moisture had come from. I wanted to ask him–I wanted to ask him what had happened. I knew, looking in Eight’s eyes, that he would always tell me truth. But I didn’t ask. I felt ashamed.

“It’s over, Lubak!” This time I recognized Charaban. “It’s over.” Or I thought I recognized him. This was yet another Charaban, but this one was a slightly distorted image of the original. It’s a mask, I thought. Then I remembered what had happened to me underneath Two Charaban’s massive bulk, trying to draw breath. And I realized that the moisture on my face was my tears.

“Get up, Lubak,” he said with a hearty and somewhat wooden jocularity. It’s a new mask; it didn’t have his usual grace. “We’re heroes.” He turned to the gathering crowd. “We’ve broken all records for the Competition!” he announced. “Victory!” He thrust his fist to the sky.

“Victory!” the crowd repeated.

“For the Empire!” Charaban thrust again.

“Victory!” They responded even louder. It was astounding. The mask was softening and integrating into the rest of Charaban. As he interacted with the crowd of students, as he accepted their adulation and fealty, I could see that he was taking ownership of this new persona with increasing confidence. Could anyone else see this? I looked around. I was surrounded by masks. I looked at Eight. His mask was stoic, but his eyes were always there, constant. Did he see what I saw? Palandine would laugh at such a question. How could he, I answered myself–he has his own eyes. I struggled to my feet, with Eight’s help. My body felt broken beyond repair.

“Breathe. Don’t stop breathing–no matter how much it hurts,” Eight instructed. I tried to follow his directive, and gasped as the air turned into broken glass as it entered my lungs. I desperately wanted to share in the joy of victory I saw on the faces surrounding me, but the moment was so mixed with physical pain–and with another, more complicated feeling. I didn’t like what had happened to me when fat Charaban’s body had nearly swallowed me–being overcome by the fear of never drawing breath again. I was also disturbed by what I saw in Charaban’s face, and somehow, vaguely, the two were related. I tried to shake off these feelings and thoughts and join in the celebration. And with Eight’s help, I was able to pull myself back into this moment of triumph.

19

Entry:

There was an almost surreal quality to Bamarren the next day. The Institute looked like a clean and orderly outpost harboring the sick, wounded, and disfigured from some horrific war. With the help of a cane, I walked with a painful, crouching limp; my right leg and back were just short of being broken. Others were not so fortunate. The infirmaries were overflowing with serious cases like Three, who had lost his eye, and worse. Those races who accuse Cardassians of being nothing better than mindless predators would rest their case if they saw the elite of our youth on the morning after the Competition.