“Look at them. With young minds you can plant anything and it grows into ideas and beliefs.” We watched one child begin to explore beyond the play area until she was intercepted by the caretaker who, judging by her gestures, was explaining why the toddler mustn’t stray.

“The first Hebitians had an advanced culture that was sophisticated on every level, Elim. Yes, it was solar‑based, but they were able to support themselves, and this is what most of the planet looked like.” He waved his tea container to indicate the Grounds. The idea was almost too outlandish for me. Soft and green places are rare on Cardassia.

“It’s hard to imagine, isn’t it? We live in constant struggle with the land. We’ve become as hard and dry. . . .” Father trailed off and sipped his tea. I thought of my favorite place at Bamarren, and almost told Father about it–but how could I describe the enclosure without speaking of her?

“What were they like?” I asked, giving my full attention to him.

“Do you remember, Elim, when I took you to the Hebitian remains outside Lakarian City?”

“Yes.” I was just a boy then, and we had walked around the crumbling walls and piles of stone and pulverized tile. I had enjoyed the trip more for its novelty than for anything else, but I remembered one carving on the side of a wall. It was of a winged creature with a Cardassian face that was turned toward a sun disc. Extending down from the creature’s body were several tentacles that divided just before entering the bodies of people who were standing on a globe and looking up to the creature. The tentacles went through the people and into the globe itself. I told this to Father and he laughed.

“You remember that?”

“And you said that it should be preserved before it eroded.” I remembered his indignation.

“I did. When I went to my superior and suggested that what was left of the entire city be preserved, he told me that it had already been taken care of. What was salvageable was sold to Romulan art dealers, who in turn placed the pieces in various museums and collections throughout the quadrant. All that’s left now is dust.” Father was silent again.

“What were they like?” he muttered, repeating my question. “They valued the soul, Elim. They were organized–they had to be, they had determined enemies–but their energy wasn’t devoted to the conquest of others, to accumulating resources they couldn’t produce themselves. They were able to support themselves, and this self‑sufficiency allowed them to nurture and celebrate their group soul with art and culture.”

“Who were their enemies?” I asked, fascinated and somewhat uneasy with what Father was saying.

“We were.”

The paradox stopped me. “But . . . how is that possible? We . . . we are descended from those people.” I remembered that Calyx had called me an “air man” and wondered if I didn’t get it from Father. Mother often complained that he didn’t have a grasp of what she called our “power‑driven reality,” and he would reply that his reality was driven by the same power that grew his plants and shrubs. These arguments always left the house feeling divided and cold.

“I know this is hard for you to understand, Elim. Our racial policies forbid enjoining with subjected peoples. The Hebitians were the envy of the surrounding planets, what we now call the Cardassian Union. As long as their planet, this one we call Cardassia Prime, was healthy and self‑sufficient, they were able to withstand any attempts at conquest. But when the climate began to change and resources dwindled, the ‘group soul’ weakened. People lost their faith in the old ways . . . disease killed millions . . . it was just a matter of time. The ones who were left surrendered to the invaders, who brought their organization based on military conquest and expansion and blended with them. We come from both these peoples.”

Father fell silent again. A howling child caught our attention. I was grateful for the distraction from Father’s very different version of our past. I’d been taught that the first Hebitians were a primitive people and had died off in the climatic catastrophe; that the survivors had built a new civilization that became superior in all ways.

“I love this place, Elim. And it means a great deal to me that we’re able to spend this time with each other working here.” Father smiled and put his hand on my shoulder. He rarely touched me, and the contact embarrassed me . . . and sent a warm feeling through my body. I felt like one of his plants. He kept his hand on my shoulder and stared at me with an intensity that made me afraid of what he was going to say next.

But he said nothing. We finished work and packed our things in silence. The silence continued throughout the trip home on the public transport. Just before we entered the house, Father stopped and looked at me.

“I want to show you something, Elim.”

He led me into his private chamber, where he kept everything from cuttings to work records. He put his bag down and unlocked a huge compartment. After a moment of moving things I couldn’t see, he pulled out something that looked like a face that was made from stone‑like material. He held it out to me. It was the same creature’s face as on the carved mural I had remembered earlier.

“What is it?” I asked.

“It’s a recitation mask. Hebitian poets wore it at festivals that celebrated Oralius.”

“Was he . . . their leader?” I asked.

“In a spiritual sense.”

My confusion must have been apparent, because Father nodded his understanding. “I know this is difficult. Oralius was not a corporeal being, Elim, he didn’t live as we do. He was a presence, a spiritual entity that guided people toward the higher ideals they were encouraged to live by.” Father was working hard to describe something for which I had absolutely no reference point.

“How did this ‘encourage’ them?” I asked.

“At the festival, the poet would put the mask on before he’d recite. In this way, he was no longer Elim or Tolan or any of ‘us.’ He was a conduit . . . a connector who with the help of his poetry brought the higher power of Oralius down to those of us who were there . . . who wanted this . . .” Father searched for the word.

“Encouragement? “I ventured.

“Yes.” Father was pleased with my interest.

“Was this your . . . ‘power,’ which makes the plants and flowers grow?”

Father’s face broke into a beaming smile, and I thought he was going to grab me. He had never looked at me like this, and I felt somehow proud that my question had gotten such a reaction. Suddenly he looked past me, and his expression–so open and so animated with the attempt to explain what essentially was unexplainable–became as unreadable as that disembodied mask.

Mother was at the door. I don’t know how long she had been there, but she was not pleased.

“Oh, Tolan,” was all she said.

“Get cleaned up, Elim,” Father said. I was aware of a strong forcefield that I had been caught in the middle of many times before. It always made me feel helpless, and this time was no exception. I gladly complied. As I was about to leave the room, however, I saw Mother’s eyes as she looked at Father. Intimate was not a word I would ever have used to describe their relationship–efficient or collaborative, perhaps–but I had never seen how much distance actually existed between them until this very moment.

I hurried past Mother and out of the room.

3

Entry:

“Is it too hot for you?” I asked.

“It’s hot.” Remara tentatively arranged her long body along the surface of the smooth rock. “But I think it’s bearable.”

Remara had asked several times if she could join me in the holosuite program I frequented, but I had never taken her seriously. I was convinced that only Cardassians could bear the heat of the rocks. Finally I agreed, but I was prepared to end the program immediately, anticipating that she’d change her mind after the first blast. But somehow she not only survived it but managed to find a position on her rock that looked almost comfortable. I must confess that her lithe body pressed against the rock presented a vision of feminine sensuality that added to my enjoyment.