“What I amembarrassed about,” I said too loudly, “is my lack of control at our last luncheon. It was inexcusable.”

“It’s one of the reasons I stopped by today. I hadn’t seen you since and I wanted to make sure you were all right,” he said.

“That’s very kind of you, Doctor. I’m fine.” This took me by surprise. Perhaps this was not such a chance encounter after all. He waskind–perhaps the kindest person I’ve ever known. His courtesy, his consideration, indeed, his willingness to put himself at risk for people he didn’t even know often astonished me. But I found his present concern about my welfare grating. I renewed my determination to rise above my irritation.

“You seemed quite upset when you left,” he began, knowing full well how crotchety (as he put it) I could become at these ministrations of his. “Have you been taking those pills?”

“No . . . well, yes, but I don’t think they’re doing much.” After the incident when the Doctor removed the cranial implant and saved my life I had terrible headaches. They have lessened considerably, but during moments of stress my head can sometimes feel like it’s coming apart.

“You should have told me,” the Doctor admonished in that parental tone he took with his disobedient patients. “I’ll reconfigure the formula and have some new pills for you tomorrow.”

“That’s very kind of you, Doctor,” I repeated, attempting to control my growing impatience.

“What is it, Garak? What’s going on?” he asked with the disarming directness of his profession.

“Other than waiting for this invasion to take place? I’ll be an old man when the Federation finally gets organized. Is it really necessary to get everyone’s input? Romulans and Klingons need to be toldwhat to do, not consulted or persuaded!” The expression on Bashir’s face told me that I was working myself up again. “As you can see, my patience is being strained.”

“Are you afraid of what you’ll find there when the invasion happens?” he asked.

“Perhaps of what I won’tfind there,” I replied. He nodded. Silence returned as we sipped our cooling teas. Even if I had wanted, how could I even begin to explain to him?

“Quark has a new, rather interesting holosuite program,” he said, changing the subject–or so I thought.

“Let me guess. It has to do with some epic battle pitting the beleaguered British against some Cardassian‑type implacable foe,” I needled.

“No, no,” Bashir laughed. “I’m afraid now’s not the time for that. Reality has overwhelmed fantasy. No, the new program enables one to revisit his past. To pick a time, a pivotal incident.”

“For what purpose?” If I wasn’t sure, my returning irritation alerted me to where this was going. I knew I had to be careful.

“With a minimum of programming–time, place, key people–you can recreate a scene where you feel something happened that . . .” Bashir paused, looking for the word.

“. . . that was negative, injurious, a wrong choice,” I prompted.

“Yes,” he conceded.

“So you can change it,” I added.

“Well, not actually,of course . . . but psychologically, physiologically. . . .” He also was treading very carefully. I took a deep breath.

“And you think this is something I should do?” I asked bluntly.

“Honestly? Yes, I do,” he replied, relieved that it was finally said.

“I see.” The tea was cold now, but I kept sipping. “But you wouldn’t need a program like that, would you, Doctor?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I have moments in my past. . . .”

“No,” I interrupted. “I mean that with your enhanced genetic capacity you are able to revise your personal history just by sitting in a room and rethinking those ‘moments’ from your past.”

Bashir said nothing. With a faint smile, he looked down into the mug of tea he was holding between his hands, as if trying to keep it warm.

A Bolian client came down the steps outside the door and was about to enter the shop, but for some reason he stopped at the threshold. He looked at us, turned, and went back the way he came.

“I’m keeping you from your business.” Bashir stood up. “I won’t take up any more of your time.”

“I’m pleased you stopped by.” I was about to escort him to the door.

“No, you’re not,” he said quietly.

“Excuse me?”

“Garak, I come from a culture that has perfected the ‘stiff upper lip,’ ” he explained with the same faint smile.

“What does that mean?” It was a genuine question; there was a change in his attitude.

“It means that we never complain, never admit to our feelings, never ask for help. It’s just not done,” Bashir explained. “And those people who ‘lack character’ and insist on airing their needs–especially in public–are subject to ridicule . . . and worse. Does this sound familiar?”

“Perhaps,” I replied softly.

“But I’m also a doctor, Garak. And I know which group of people suffers the most. I really won’t take up any more of your time.” He extended his hand, which he rarely did, and I took it. “Thank you for the tea.” He turned and went out the door.

I stood there for a long moment, deeply upset. I felt trapped within myself, knowing what I had to do to get out but unable even to begin. Yes, Doctor, it does sound familiar. But as to the question of which group suffers the most. . . .

21

Entry:

At the end of three years, a review process was customary, to determine whether or not a student would progress to the next Level and if so, with what designation. It was a nerve‑racking time for all of us. If you didn’t progress, you were sent back home in disgrace. And if you did, you were given your position in the group commensurate with your evaluated performance of the past three years.

After Charaban’s betrayal I became as withdrawn and solitary as I had been when I first came to the Institute. I tried to spend time with Palandine, but it never quite worked out; between her regular duties and the recruitment and planning for the female Competition, she had little time for anything else. But there was something else, a distance that had crept between us that I didn’t understand. I felt ashamed, that somehow I had failed and it was my fault, but I found it difficult to discuss. This was probably the loneliest I had ever been.

On my way to the review hearing I felt conflicted. The lonely, betrayed part of me desperately wanted to go home and happily follow in Father’s work. I hadn’t seen my family in three years. And yet was it possible, after what I’d experienced here at Bamarren–the taste for success and recognition and, yes, power that I’d developed–to spend the rest of my life cleaning up after parades and tending gardens? The childish fantasies had been replaced by real accomplishment and real friendship. No–I wanted to stay.

And the moment that I came to this decision I realized that I wanted to achieve two goals: to beat Charaban in the next Competition and to win Palandine’s love. The conflict dissolved, and I knew why I wanted to be here. All I had to worry about now was my designation. I was certain that I would progress, but to achieve these goals I needed a high place in my group. I began as number Ten because I came from the lower orders of society. To remain at Ten would mean that I had made little or no impression–which I didn’t for a moment believe would happen. It was clear to everyone that family and social standing count at the beginning, but after that advancement was solely dependent upon performance. Even Charaban’s betrayal could be overcome.

By the time I arrived at the Prefecture I was ready for my hearing. I walked into the anteroom, where other students–including my section mates–waited in varying degrees of anxiety. One Lubak was pale; it was almost certain that he would be demoted. Nine wore a sneering smile and looked at me from his superior height. Ever since he was made Second Level liaison he truly believed it was because of merit. He couldn’t even deliver a message. I smiled back. Three had been sent home; his disability made him unfit for further education. Two fidgeted, preparing, I’m sure, a complicated presentation designed to tell the review panel exactly what he thought they’d want to hear. Why he never went to the political Institute I’ll never know. Four was his relaxed self. He had nothing to fear; he would move through Bamarren from beginning to end on a straight line. He always knew how to take care of himself. Five would no doubt move up; he was an asset in every area, and except for Eight the most decent one in the group. Six had long since gone home. He wanted to succeed so badly, but his body couldn’t withstand the constant assault of the training. I’m sure he found an academic situation. Seven was amazingly calm. Ever since the Competition he was a new person. Even his ridges looked stronger. He was sure to advance. Eight was the only person who deserved number One as much as I did–maybe more. My solitary behavior was not always in service to the group. Eight and I exchanged encouraging looks. The support of my one constant friend was all I wanted. I sat there and shut out everything else.