“Learn your stories, follow orders, and serve Cardassia,” Limor had admonished the two “brothers.”

* * *

Tohvun III is a pleasant if somewhat damp and cold planet on the Federation frontier. It’s mainly an outpost for traders and those tourists interested in trekking the forested slopes of Mandara, an enormous volcano that’s been inactive for two centuries. The Cardassian Embassy compound, a bare‑bones operation, consists of a main administration building and several attached residences, which were built as temporary shelters and over time became permanent.

Maladek and I were assigned adjoining residences; because of the shoddy construction, each of us could hear everything the other was doing or saying. The circumstances made me self‑conscious, and I tried to live quietly, but Maladek thrashed about as if he was unaware or just didn’t care. Odd behavior even for a novice security operative. His attitude toward me was guarded, but proper; neither one of us talked about anything unrelated to our work–least of all Bamarren. Even with the recognition that had passed between us at the first meeting, I was uncertain if he remembered me and, if he did, whether he knew of my contribution to the outcome of the Competition. This uncertainty kept me off‑balance.

We were invited to all the social functions, and the reception at the Federation Embassy on the eve of the talks afforded me my first contact with humans. Before this evening, I had only seen them once from a distance, many years before when a delegation of Federation officials had attended the Tarlak funeral of Councilor Erud, who had been a leading proponent of a peaceful solution to the frontier wars, and whose name was invoked several times during the evening. Maladek seemed to be familiar with human ways, and when he expressed the strong judgment that they were a stupid race, I assumed that he knew what he was talking about.

“Look at the Vulcan,” he directed me to a tall man with sad eyes. “They haven’t the spine of a sandworm, but at least they’re intelligent. They can grasp the complexities of a given political situation. I just hope Oonal is equal to the challenge,” he said as he changed his focus to our “father,” who was speaking with a short, graying Human.

“You mean Krai,” I corrected. We were strictly instructed to use our story names.

Maladek looked at me with the expression he usually reserved for humans. “I think I’ll try to have an intelligent conversation tonight.” He moved off in the direction of the Vulcan, who was now standing alone. He does remember me, I thought, and he knows the role I played in the Competition. I decided at that moment that I had to watch him as much as the enemy.

“Hello.” I’d been so focused on Maladek that I hadn’t heard anyone approach. Standing next to me was a young human whose hair was as white as mine was black. I just stared at him. I’d never been this close to one of them.

“My name is Hans Jordt,” he said carefully, not sure if I was on another communication level.

“My name is Alardig Ra’orn,” I finally was able to reply. His insignia indicated that he held the rank of lieutenant, junior grade. He was solidly built, for a human, and his eyes were a shade of pale blue I’d never seen before.

“Forgive my ignorance,” Hans began, “but what sports do Cardassians play?”

“Sports?” The question was so odd that I thought we might indeed be on different levels.

“Games. Contests.” Hans attempted to be helpful, but it only got worse. I suspected this was obviously a clumsy attempt to cover a deeper intent.

“Perhaps I should explain,” he bravely continued, in the face of my utter incomprehension. “A few of us are attempting to organize a game of football. Have you heard of it? Some people call it soccer.”

“I’ve heard of it, but I’m afraid I wouldn’t be of much help. Cardassians don’t play.”

“Ah–then perhaps you’d like to learn. We could play among ourselves, I suppose,” he indicated the other humans in the room. “But I thought it might be interesting to get the other groups involved.”

Hans looked at me with such intense, blue‑eyed openness that it was difficult to maintain any kind of distance. He was a junior member of the Federation delegation, and certainly an intelligence probe. But that wasn’t the problem–I welcomed this contact–it was the football. We don’t play sports, at least not the team sports that Federation people have been trying to popularize throughout the quadrant. I could accept boxing and wrestling, which were primitive forms of pit competition, but basketball was mindless monotony and games like cricket and baseball were completely incomprehensible.

“I’d be pleased to participate,” I replied, “but how could I possibly contribute? I know nothing about the game.” As much as I wanted to establish contact with these people, I certainly didn’t want to make a fool of myself.

“Yes, of course,” Hans nodded in agreement. “But there is one position that does not require skill so much as athletic ability.” He then gave me a lengthy and rather boring description of the game: defenders, midfielders, strikers working together to push a ball they were not allowed to touch with their hands or arms into an opponent’s goal. Hans suggested that I participate as a goalkeeper.

“You see, all you would have to do is prevent your opponent from putting the ball into your goal.”

“And I can’t use my hands?” I asked.

“No, the goalkeeper can use any part of his body,” Hans replied with the widest grin I have ever seen on a face. Children and their games, I thought. I had no idea of what I was getting into, but I agreed to defend one of the goals. It was at least a concept I understood.

After the reception, as I was laying out what I was going to wear for the next day’s football match, I could hear Maladek in his residence. He was talking as he moved about. His voice was too soft for me to tell if he was talking to himself, into a recording device, or to someone else. I realized that I had lost track of him after I’d made contact with Hans, and I didn’t see him for the rest of the evening. At one point, he laughed–a loud bark, really–and what sounded like a bottle crashed against the wall. There was a long silence punctuated intermittently by a sound I could only describe as a painful moan. A strange person, I thought as I fell into a disturbed sleep.

“Cut off his angle, Alardig!” I heard Hans instruct me as the “striker” broke through the defense with skillful control of the ball. I was all that was left between him and the goal. It was happening with the speed of a dream. The striker–a short, wraithlike Starfleet officer they called Mahmoud–feinted to my left, and my inexperience followed him. Just as my weight committed, he easily cut back to my right and kicked the ball into the back of the goal net. Ah yes, I thought, I understand now. That won’t happen again.

And it didn’t. For the remainder of the match I calculated distance, angle, and speed in such a way that Mahmoud’s goal was their last. Hans was quite impressed with what he called my “uncanny anticipation,” and suggested that I should pursue the game and introduce it to Cardassians. I smiled and imagined what would happen to this game if we adopted it. If they give “yellow cards” as warnings for slight infractions, and expel a player for the hard bump, kick, or trip, then a group of Cardassians would be gone in a matter of minutes. Even in today’s game, there were complaints about the vigor of my defense, and I was trying to be “sporting” (to use the Federation expression). In our “games” you win by eliminating your opponents–or at the least severely limiting their ability to compete.

Still, it was quite instructive, especially during the time (which was most of the match) when the action was away from me and I was able just to observe. There is undoubtedly a skill to the game, and most people play to win (indeed, humans are capable of being every bit as aggressive as Cardassians), but they exhibited such a childlike joy and enthusiasm as they played that I came to understand another meaning of the word “game.” What was more puzzling, however, was watching those people who played the game for no other reason than to . . . just play. If they or one of their teammates made a mistake, if the opposition scored . . . they didn’t seem to mind. Some even laughed it off. And at the end, every one actually shook hands and congratulated each other.They’re not stupid–Maladek has dangerously underestimated them. But there’s something we don’t understand about these humans that limits our effectiveness in dealing with them.