And I hate this work! I’d much rather be sewing.

“What does Tir Remara want with you?” Colonel Kira demanded, ignoring my offer of tea. Immediately an entire picture formed in my head of the scenario her abrupt question suggested: Tir Remara–a spy, perhaps even a changeling, preying upon a lonely Cardassian who was working for the Federation and engaged in top‑secret work.

“She wants to have my children,” I replied with a serious look.

“You can’t be serious,” she managed.

“I’m not. Now do you want this tea or not?”

“No . . . thank you,” she allowed. It was so difficult for her to muster even a sliver of civility with a member of my race.

“Remara and I are friends. Not terribly close. We get together occasionally. We’re curious about each other.” I sipped at my tea. Kira watched me with a cold expression, waiting for me to continue.

“We found we had a mutual friend, and we have come to . . . enjoy each other’s company.”

“What mutual friend?” Kira was puzzled; who or what would a Bajoran and a Cardassian have in common?

“Ziyal,” I replied.

Kira nodded. “Yes, of course.” The mention of her former protйgй’s name reminded her of what weheld in common: a great affection for Ziyal.

“Why are you asking, Colonel?”

“Because Remara has been making inquiries about you, Garak.”

“Really?”

“And if you arefriends, I don’t know why she wouldn’t be asking you directly.”

“Yes.” My mind was racing. “My thoughts as well.Unless, of course . . .”

“What?” Kira asked.

“She’s planning to write a book about me.” Kira didn’t think that was humorous. “Watch her,Garak. And be careful what you tell her.” She left as abruptly as she entered. I smiled at the irony of being told to watch my mouth. What was going on here? Was it Kira’s concern about a possible breach of security? A friendship between a Bajoran and a Cardassian? And if Remara wasn’t writing a book, what did she want this information for?

2

Entry:

“Careful, Elim. These plants have delicate tendrils. Lower them slowly, so they find the holes.”

I took the Edosian orchid from Father and slowly lowered the pale, dangling feelers over the prepared soil. These orchids were his favorite flowers, and somehow he was able to make them grow in this section of the Tarlak Grounds.

“Just hold the plant for a moment directly above–the tendrils will align themselves.” His voice was almost a whisper. “Now watch closely.”

As if they had eyes, the tendrils swayed until they found the openings Father had dug and paused above them.

“Now lower the plant slowly.” I did. When the root ball had settled in the depression, Father immediately filled in the sides with his special mixture, which he claimed was the secret. People would come from distant places to see the Grounds and especially the miracle of Father’s orchids, which had no logical reason to exist in this climate. When someone asked how he was able to grow them in an outside environment, he’d gauge how serious the questioner was and answer accordingly. To those few he judged to be sufficiently patient, he gave a soil sample and some instructions; to the rest he’d smile and say that Tarlak had a secret ideal quality. And it did–but only because Father had made it that way with his care and unlimited patience.

The Grounds was Father’s passion, and when I returned from Bamarren I worked as his assistant while waiting for my next placement. At first it felt odd to be working at these simple and mindless tasks. But I began to notice that Father was now talking to me more, telling me about the various plants and shrubs and flowers. We spent very little time among the monuments and tombs. Gradually, I began to accept the change and even to enjoy the pace of this work. This was probably Father’s intention.

When I first arrived home, Mother and Father accepted the fact that I was no longer a boy. They looked older to me, especially Father, and the changes I had undergone at Bamarren had created a distance between us that we all found awkward.

During this period I never saw Tain. Once I asked Mother how he was, and she replied that as far as she knew he was fine. I occasionally heard footsteps above us and wondered when he’d come back into my life–a question tinged with some anxiety–but Mother and Father never mentioned him, and I went about my own business.

I spent very little time at home. I found a training area nearby where I practiced my sets of martial forms. I was determined not to lose the fine edge of my conditioning.Occasionally, I would be challenged by someone, usually an ex‑soldier or martial student, but they were never strong or accomplished enough to give me a true match. In a short time I found myself conducting an informal class, where I taught a variegated group the rudimentary forms. These classes were far more valuable than fighting outmatched opponents.

Otherwise, I reverted to a solitary existence, waiting for my life to find new purpose and constantly wondering what my friends . . . and enemies . . . were doing at Bamarren. I had ideas about the coming Competition that I wished I could communicate to Pythas, ideas that would ensure Barkan’s humiliation. And there were feelings I had no words for that I wished I could make known to Palandine.

“That’s who he is now, Tolan. He’s a man.” I heard mother’s voice as I approached the opened door to our housing unit after a training session.

“He’s hard, Mila,” Father said.

“He has to be,” she replied.

“But to the point where he’s unreachable?” Father asked. “Where nothing penetrates? How can he express even his basic needs if he’s trapped inside a shell?”

“It’s better this way, Tolan. I know what’s in store for him,” Mother interrupted. There was a momentary silence.

“More Bamarren,” Father said, almost to himself. There was another silence indicating the discussion was over. I decided to take a walk.

The next day, Father and I were weeding and pruning across from the children’s area where mothers and caretakers bring children to play. The adults talked among themselves, worked, or read while the children’s voices created a constant background of musical chatter. We had been working quietly and steadily, but I knew Father wanted to speak. I didn’t know why he hesitated.

“Elim, have we ever spoken about the first Hebitians?” Father broke the silence with a question so strange it almost made me laugh.

“No,” I carefully answered.

“What do you know about them?”

“They were . . . the first peoples . . . before the climatic change.” Our school histories never spent much time talking about the Hebitians. “They had primitive solar technologies. When the rain forests and grasslands were taken over by the deserts, they died off. They couldn’t adapt.”

“That’s what you were taught.” Father barely shook his head. “That’s not what happened, Elim.”

I said nothing. We continued to work as I listened to the children’s voices punctuated by the clipping and raking and digging.

“The only thing that was primitive about the Hebitians is the way we’ve treated them in the historical record.” I stopped working and looked around. This was the first time I had ever heard him challenge received orthodoxy, and my first concern was that no one was listening. Father noticed this and smiled.

“I see your Bamarren education has taken hold. Fertile ground for young minds.” Slowly and painfully, I thought, he raised himself to his full height, stretched, and picked up his bag.

“Let’s have some tea.” He laughed because he knew that the tea he drank, which was brewed from the roots of some shrub, had made me gag the first–and only–time I’d tried it. I had a separate container of the common chobanvariety. We took our containers and settled in a shady place that faced the playing children.