The Captain nodded and turned back to the diagram. I almost added that, in between, we perfect this awareness at places like the Bamarren Institute.

6

Entry:

Males and females of the First and Second Levels were kept separate at Bamarren. While we shared certain docents and outside training areas, each group had its own living quarters and facilities. It was explained to us that until we became disciplined in our relations with the “complementary gender” we would make better progress this way. When I asked One Tarnal how we would learn this discipline without interaction between the sexes, he blinked and mumbled something about “distractions.” When I asked what that meant I was told that I had a loose mouth and given five days of hygiene‑chamber maintenance as punishment.

“You don’t know enough to ask so many questions.”

I started to ask him how could I learn without asking questions when he pulled out his murking stick (so named because they are used to beat “murks”–that’s what First Level students are called) and gave me a whack on the leg and told me to get to the storeroom for cleaning implements. When the pain passed through me, I looked around for group “support.” You can be sure that this time I wanted to be accompanied by as many of my mates as possible. There were five students in the room, but when I made my request four of them gave excuses ranging from barely plausible to outright suspicious. Three Lubak, the biggest in our section and the one I most wanted to go with me said, “The section leader’s right. You talk too much.”

Unfortunately, the only student left was quiet Eight Lubak, who kept completely to himself. He agreed to accompany me and quickly moved to the door. He was short and slender, and his dark eyes and long lashes made him look younger than the rest of us. He was almost too delicate for a Cardassian. I was not encouraged . . .but I had no choice. I went through the door, unconsciously imitating the Gruff Voice from my previous experience.

“All I need is an extra pair of eyes. Just keep them open, and let’s get the job done!” Eight said nothing and followed me out.

The trip to the storeroom was uneventful, and we received our supplies without incident. On the way back, however, we noticed that an intersection of two corridors was much darker than before. Eight, who was walking behind, touched my shoulder.

“I think we forgot something,” he said with uncharacteristic loudness. He motioned for me to follow him. We backtracked to the previous intersection, made a right turn and continued down another corridor until we came to a third intersection. He stopped and took the cleaning implements from me and carefully put them down. He chose one that was attached to a pole and handed it to me. He took a shorter implement, looked around the corner down the darkened corridor and quickly moved to the other side. I started to follow him, but he made it clear that I should stay where I was and wait. All during this, Eight was quiet and controlled–and as sure of himself as if he’d done this many times. How did he know where he was going? How did he . . . ?

We heard footsteps coming down the corridor from the direction Eight had anticipated. He held up two fingers indicating how many people. We kept out of sight on either side of the corridor as they approached. His face was dark, intense with concentration; his brow ridges, which were unusually pronounced, cast shadows over his eyes. My heart began to pound when I realized what Eight was planning. These were certain to be older students, but he expressed no hesitation, no doubt.

Just as the two unsuspecting students passed, the one closest to me caught sight of me, but it was too late. We were on them, and we both knew exactly what to do. First we disarmed them of their murking sticks with blows to their hands and arms. Then we laid into them with such ferocity that they fled down the corridor.

“I’ll show you who’s pudding!” I started to follow.

“No!” Again the strength of his voice shocked me. I stopped, and before I could ask why, we heard a high‑pitched whistle screech out the emergency signal for immediate assistance we had just learned in a field‑training class. We grabbed our implements and ran as fast as we could all the way back to our section.

We burst through the door, flushed and out of breath. Most of the group was present and wanted to know what had happened. In my excitement I started to tell the story when Eight dropped a pail with implements and grabbed my attention. He looked sharply at me.

“W‑what?” I stammered.

I followed his nod to the door where One Tarnal was giving me a hard look. Eight moved to his sleeping area and quietly busied himself in his private compartment. I immediately shut up, gathered the implements and took them into the hygiene chamber.

Shortly after, when we were alone, I asked Eight how he knew about the corridors. He didn’t answer. He turned away and picked up his orientation chip and punched a code. I was about to comment on his rudeness when he turned back and handed it to me. It was a diagram of the rooms and corridors on the storeroom floor. We had all been given the schematics of the Bamarren spaces. I assumed that no one paid any attention to them.

I didn’t know then if I could ever call Eight a friend. Something about him was strange and impenetrable. But it didn’t matter. At least I knew there was one person in my section I could trust. How I had misjudged him. It was obvious that Eight had what Cardassians call a ferocious spirit–and that I could learn a great deal from him.

* * *

Much of the focus of Cardassian education, especially during the early years, consists of exhausting and merciless physical training. The training area on Deep Space 9 always amused me. People struggling by themselves with weights and machines in front of a mirror. The results seem more about strengthening the appearance of the body rather than the fiber of the character.

Our training centers on trials of one person’s skill matched against the skill of another. But where Klingons regard physical combat as the primary test of mastery, we beginat that level and then progress to the subtler methods of confrontation. There are enough levels of expertise for two lifetimes, but a student has to master each one before moving on to the next. It was during these trials that we came to know each other.

We assembled in the burning sands of the “Pit,” where each day we had long “eye, hand, and foot” sessions. The Pit was the most feared training area at Bamarren; it truly took the measure of each student. These initial sessions were the fundamental underpinnings of all subsequent training. Basically, the concept was to teach the eyes, the hands, and the feet to operate independently, in order to function in countless combinations called “strategems” controlled by the brain. The strategems ranged from simple fight combinations of kicks and punches to complicated dances that resembled religious trance.

Calyx, our martial docent, was a gnarled old man with one glass eye. It was rumored that he was an infantry gul who’d been demoted because he’d refused the privilege of executive status and had put himself in danger along with his men. It was after his demotion that he dedicated himself to mastering the strategems. Of course we called him Calyx behind his back, since that was the name of the whirling muscular beast‑of‑many‑appendages in our childhood stories. Like the fabled Calyx, our docent was capable of blinding displays of fighting prowess, yet at rest he was about as remarkable as a rock.

On the first day in the Pit, we stood in formation for what seemed like hours while he simply stared at us. I was drenched in my fluids, nauseated by the baking sun. Six Lubak fainted, and when Five made a move to tend to him Calyx spit in his face. As with humans, this is a humiliating, demeaning gesture. We were stunned.