The death toll rises every day. We are now over the one billion mark. This is a numbing, dry statistic. I’m certain that when you read this, Doctor, you will have a disturbed reaction. Others will rationalize that the figure is commensurate with Cardassian complicity. And a third group will simply shrug: it’s not their problem. My reaction would probably have been a combination of the latter two. Like most people, I want to get on with the business of my life and what’s done is done and doesn’t warrant any further loss of sleep or appetite.

Our med unit has been converted into a burial unit. It’s a logical progression; the survivors have all been accounted for and only the dead remain unclaimed. More immediate, of course, is the potential for decaying corpses to spread disease. So every day now I am engaged in the hardest work of my life; I find that nothing has prepared me for this. My feelings are spent, my moral rationalizations are empty, and I can’t say it’s not my problem when I’m pulling and lifting and throwing bodies of people who once only wanted to go about the business of their lives.

A Federation official suggested that we simply vaporize all corpses. Underneath the suggestion was the judgment that our burial customs are archaic and morbid. At first I became angry and wanted to berate him for his lack of sensitivity as well as for his own culture’s morbidity in representing death as sanitary and disassociated from life. But I realized that we were no better. We created technologies that dispensed death efficiently and from a distance; we never took responsibility for our personal actions because we were in the service of a greater good–the Cardassian state. Colonel Kira once told me how many Bajorans died during the Cardassian Occupation, and my mind rejected the figure like a piece of garbage. We’d been in the service of the state, I had told myself, and the state had determined what was necessary. But now I understand why she hated me. More important, I now understand that constant burning, almost insane look in her eyes.

Most of us who are left, Doctor, are insane. We have to be in order to survive and emerge from our isolation. It’s the only way we can live with the pain of what we did. Or didn’t. Each of us accepts the amount of responsibility we are capable of bearing. Some accept nothing, and these people are quickly swallowed by their isolation, their insanity transformed into a rationalized evil. A smaller group accepts total responsibility, and their insanity is an unbearable burden that cripples and eventually grinds them down. The rest of us carry what we can and leave the rest. For myself, Doctor, when a corpse is too heavy to bury I try to remember to ask someone to help me.

18

Entry:

“Was he a member?” Palandine asked.

“I don’t know. I’ve often wondered myself. I suspect he probably was. He was a simple man.” The sun was going down and we were completely immersed in the shadows cast by the foliage.

“You make his simplicity sound like a defect,” she observed.

“Tolan was . . . somewhat gullible . . . superstitious. . . .” My feelings about the man had become conflicted, and Palandine picked up on this.

“Was he your real father?” she asked.

“Why do you ask?” Ever since Lokar had reported our encounter on Romulus to Palandine there’d been any number of questions she’d tried not to ask.

“I don’t know. I suppose I’m just trying to reconcile statistical analysis with Romulan gardens.” We lapsed into a long, stony silence. Usually she knew better than to expect a real answer when she did ask about my working life. We both tried not to venture into certain personal spaces; often the attempt functioned as a barrier. I’m sure she knew that I was more than a data analyst at the Hall of Records. She also understood that the less she knew about what I did the more chance our relationship had to survive. For the same reason I never asked about Lokar. The less information, the less damage if either one of us was betrayed.

“What do you hear from Kel?” I asked, trying to find a way around the barrier. She was completing her first Level at the Institute for State Policy.

“She may transfer,” Palandine said.

“Really?” I was surprised. Everything I had heard indicated that she was doing well. “To another discipline?”

“She doesn’t know. She’s not happy with the course orientation. She feels that the political education she’s receiving has been reduced to learning how to serve the military. She feels that it should be the other way around.” I could see that Palandine was concerned.

“A radical idea, but many people feel the same. How does her father feel?” I asked.

“I’m afraid she won’t get much support from that side of the family,” she replied carefully. I wasn’t surprised. Besides knowing the close alliance between the Lokar family and the military, I was also aware of a group called the Brotherhood, which was made up of elite Cardassian families traditionally associated with the aristocracy and the military. The Lokars were a mainstay of the Brotherhood; Barkan’s father, Draban Lokar–a venerable member of the Detapa Council–made little effort to hide his contempt for the civilian‑led government and fully supported the autonomy of the military’s Central Command. The Brotherhood claimed to be a friendly organization engaged in sporting and social events. As it turned out, I was alerted that at any moment I’d be assigned to investigate the Brotherhood and rumors of a conspiracy to disrupt the current tenuous balance between the Civilian Assembly and the Central Command.

“What about your family? Do they have any advice on the matter?” I asked. Palandine laughed.

“My parents are older people, Elim. When I enjoined with Barkan and gave up my career they felt that their work was done. They hold the Lokars in such high esteem that whatever old Draban decides is just fine with them.” The darkness and rising chill weren’t helping the mood. I stood up.

“Kel’s a very resourceful young lady. I’m sure. . . .”

“Have you been to one of their meetings?” Palandine suddenly asked.

“What?” I thought she was referring to the Brotherhood.

“The Oralian Way. Have you been?” Her heaviness was replaced by active curiousity.

“Yes . . . once,” I replied.

“Well? What did you think?” she pursued.

“I . . . it was a mistake. I shouldn’t have been there,” I struggled.

“Why not? Because they’re outlawed?”

“No . . . although . . .”

“What, Elim? Just tell me.” She was growing impatient with me.

“I’m of two minds. I know, that’s just another way of saying that I’m confused. One mind says these people are as deluded as Tolan Garak in thinking the Hebitians were a spiritually advanced civilization. They couldn’t adapt and they died–that’s the lesson, and I think we’ve learned it very well!” Very rarely did my emotions race so beyond my control. I was almost breathless. It was more than just anger at what I believed to be the weakness and delusion of these people. I suddenly wanted to throw a tantrum.

“And the other mind?” she asked quietly. I shook my head.

“I’m sorry,” I managed. I couldn’t even begin to put the other thoughts into words. Palandine smiled.

“Yes. What if they’re right? What if they couldhelp us reclaim something noble in ourselves? Where does that leave us?” We stood looking at each other. The night wind gusted through the foliage and I wondered where I’d be if I didn’t have this woman’s friendship.

“Do you remember where they are?” she asked.

“What? Now?” I began to panic.

“It’s either that or a meeting of the Bajoran Occupation Support Group,” she laughed with a delight I hadn’t heard in a long time.

“It was a while ago, Palandine. I don’t know if they’re in the same place . . . or if they even meet tonight.” Her enthusiasm rendered me as helpless as it did when I first met her.