STAR TREK: DEEP SPACE NINE ®

by Andrew J. Robinson

  One day I was stretched out on my bed after a grueling training exercise. A few of the other section mates were in the room and I didn’t want to be included in their idiotic conversation, so I employed my “disappearing” technique. I was working on some calibrating equations from engineering class when I heard Three exclaim, “Ten has something in his compartment.” Three had that winning combination of arrogance and stupidity, and he spoke as if I were not in the room.

  “Why else does he spend so much time staring inside?” Three demanded. The others in the room, Six and Nine, were also unaware of me and conversation turned into an argument over whether or not Three should inspect my compartment for illegal contraband. Six, to his credit, pulled his head out of his studies long enough to remind Three that such a search was forbidden on any pretext. Three sneered at Six’s objection and reasoned, with the logic of a bully, that his search was in the service of the group and that our section leader would support the action. Nine, another mental giant, agreed.

  “Ten thinks he’s smarter than anyone else. We’ll see how smart he is.” Three never liked me, it’s true, but his attitude stemmed more from the old belief that since his ridges were more developed than anyone else in the Group he was entitled to lord it over us. His ideas of racial superiority, backed by his size and strength, made him quite dangerous. As Three moved to my compartment I slipped deeper into my trance-like breathing, and my energy liquified and became part of the pallet cover I lay upon. Just as he was about to open my compartment, I “returned” to the room and sat up. His magnificent ridges nearly fell off.

  “I can certainly understand if you want to borrow my mouth freshener, Three, but you need my permission.” I jumped up, fully expecting the inevitable physical confrontation that was an integral part of our communal life. We were all constantly defining and redefining our boundaries. But Three just looked at me—stared, really, as if he had seen the Mogrund itself, a phantasmal creature from Cardassian myth that occasionally returns from the spirit world to correct the moral balance of our world. As children, we were warned that our bad behavior would guarantee a visit from the Mogrund.

  I looked from the pale, frozen face of Three to the others. They all looked like statues commemorating fear. And I was pleased. I realized at that moment that they were in my control, and that I would no longer have any trouble with them. Especially Three. I felt the power like a drug surging through my system. I also felt the increased distance between us that their fear created. I accepted this shift in our boundaries. The increased isolation was a fair price to pay for Mila’s and my inviolability. We had gained greater freedom to enjoy each other’s company.

  13

  Entry:

  After my success in the Wilderness, I briefly encountered Palandine a few times after our initial meeting. The one time we could have spoken together (again in the training area near the Pit) I made an excuse and hurried off. That such meetings were against the rules was how I justified my abrupt behavior. As a Level Two student she should be more responsible. I didn’t know what she wanted from me, but I found her presence threatening and disorienting.

  Docent Rilon gave me permission to do some research at the Archival Center on wormhole phenomena. First Level students were not allowed in the Center without special dispensation, but I had proven myself a serious student, and became one of Rilon’s favorites. When I entered my permission chip at the entrance, I was instructed by a disembodied voice:

  “Attend to your business in section three, row eight, monitor five. You have two units of time.”

  The door opened and I entered. I proceeded to my designated area and punched in my request for specific information as to the spatial conditions that alert us to wormhole activity. I prepared my recording chip for notes and settled in for a quiet and pleasurable investigation of one of my favorite subjects, the wormhole funnel that connects the here-and-now to seeming infinity. The mystery always fascinated me, and those people who dedicated their lives to its exploration were among my heroes.

  There was Joran Kine, who had camped outside the Prime Moon Wormhole in an old Galor-class shuttle and waited for the next turbulent opening. He believed that he had decoded a cyclical regularity and that the next opening would give him time to enter the wormhole, move through to the other side, do some exploration, perhaps collect some samples, and return before it closed. It was like saying that you could come back from death. Everyone thought he was on an insane suicide mission. They didn’t believe he could succeed. And when he did and he reported his findings, the scientific community didn’t want to believe him. His description of the journey thrills me even today. But when others tried to use his cyclical calculations and were lost, Kine was discredited; he eventually died in disgrace.

  “Elim.”

  I heard my name, and thought it was coming from the Barzan Wormhole I was studying.

  “Elim!”

  This time I turned around—and there was Palandine, sitting next to me.

  “You must be very special if they let you in here,” she said without irony.

  I looked around to see who else was in our row.

  “There’s nobody here. I waited until you were alone. Why are you avoiding me?”

  The directness of the question stopped me. I didn’t know how to respond.

  “Did I insult you? You were positively rude to me the last time we met.”

  “I’m not . . . comfortable . . . calling me Elim. Nobody does that,” I struggled to explain.

  “How much time do you have left?” she asked. I looked at the screen.

  “Less than half a unit.”

  “Come with me,” she said as if it were a simple request.

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not? Who’s the docent who gave you permission?” she asked.

  “Rilon.”

  “Ah, yes,” she said with recognition. “And of course you’re serious enough to be his prize student.” Now the irony was creeping into her tone. “Whatever you have it’s going to be enough for your report. Come on, I want to show you something.”

  I didn’t know what to do. My body was twitching with discomfort.

  “You’re still not having fun, are you, Elim?”

  “No, I’m not. Especially with you bothering me. Will you leave me alone. And stop calling me Elim. I’m Ten Lubak!”

  She just looked at me as if seeing someone she didn’t expect. I could see that I had hurt her.

  “I’m sorry . . . Ten Lubak. I won’t bother you again.” All the brightness, the airy ease was now shaded with genuine disappointment, almost sadness. She smiled with her mouth only and walked away.

  Why? I asked myself. Why?! For the life of me I could not understand why it was important to her that I respond. Why should she—so beautiful, so alive—be disappointed if I didn’t return her . . . what? What did he want from me? Friendship? Why me?

  I was in turmoil. Her grace and manner, the way she tilted her head and half smiled when she listened, as if everything amused her . . . it was like a forbidden dream of the unattainable. The attraction was painful because I instinctively knew that while my life would be simpler and more controllable without her, it would also be as drab as my Bamarren uniform.

  I knew I wasn’t going back to the wormhole today. I withdrew my chip, got up, and followed without thinking in the direction she had taken. There were several rows in the area separated by barriers. I was quickly lost, and began to panic that I wouldn’t find her. I was now operating on some emotional level that no amount of rational thought could stop. Where was she? I turned a corner and nearly ran her down.

  “I’m sorry.” My nervous energy and anxiety left me short of breath. “I don’t mean to be unfriendly. I just don’t know why you . . . I mean, I’m not very . . . I’m trying my best to get along here and follow the rules and be . . . and you . . . confuse me.” Her head was tilting and her whole face began to form that maddening smile.

  “I’m just a murk!” I nearly s
houted. She was delighted and began to laugh.

  “Are you making fun of me?” It was at that moment, when I asked the question, that I realized just how afraid I was of being the object of her ridicule. She stopped laughing and for the first time she was speechless. Something behind me, however, caught her attention and her expression instantly changed.

  “No, you’re not supposed to be here, murk. You’re obviously lost. Follow me!” The change was stunning. She brushed by me, and I indeed followed. Then I saw the reason for her change. Approaching us was a Third Level intern. At this last Level you were no longer called a student.

  “Good day to you, sir.” She bowed her head slightly as he stopped in front of us. He nodded to her and looked at me.

  “Who’s this?” he asked as if I was a specimen.

  “A murk who’s lost, sir.” Her personality was totally submerged.

  “Your permission chip,” the intern demanded. I held it out to him, but he never took his eyes off mine. I began to sweat.

  “Who’s your docent?”

  “Rilon . . . sir.”

  “This is not the technical section. Why are you here?” His eyes were tightly locked into mine. There was no wobble room with this intern; he knew his business.

  “I thought I was going out the way I came in. I’m sorry, sir.”

  “Sorry for what?” he asked.

  “For my loss of direction.”

  “Yes,” he agreed. “You need more work in the Wilderness. Who’s your superior?”

  “One Tarnal, sir.” If he ever finds out that the Wilderness is the one place I don’t need work. . . .

  He turned to Palandine. “One Ketay.”

  “Sir!” she responded with vigor. I was not as familiar with the female Levels, but Ketay struck me as familiar.

  “See that his section leader is informed of his need for Wilderness experience.”

  “I will, sir.”

  “And make sure he leaves the Center now.”

  “I will, sir.” Palandine bowed her head again and motioned me to follow her. He was still looking at me like a specimen, but now one with a bad smell. I followed as we made our way back to the entrance, entered our chips, and left the building. We continued along a walk-way that led behind the Archival Center.

  “I’ll take you another time,” she said, looking straight ahead. I assumed she was talking about whatever it was she wanted to show me.

  “Elim.”

  “Yes?”

  “Call me Palandine.”

  I hesitated.

  “Elim, when I first met you I knew that you could become a good friend. Don’t ask me why, that’s my business. Unless you’re a total idiot you don’t go about making friends by ridiculing them . . . unless they ask for it,” she added with a sidelong glance. “Am I clear?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, what?”

  “Yes . . . Palandine.”

  She stopped and pointed to the pathway on the right with a gesture I thought slightly larger than necessary. “You go that way, murk.” She winked at me and took the left pathway. I watched her departure until I looked back and saw that the intern was watching us from a window in the Center. I turned and headed back to the First Level Study Center feeling that if I had dared, I could have flown there.

  Ketay! It came to me just at the moment Eight kicked out my right leg, spun me around, and sent me sprawling into the Pit sand after a motionless standoff that had lasted well into darkness. Six had fainted, Three had fallen asleep twice and Seven’s hallucinations had been severe enough for Calyx to intervene. As I rose, spitting grains of sand from my mouth, I was not so much embarrassed by my lapse as I was excited by my realization that Ketay was the elite female Level Two group, and Palandine’s designation as One put her on an equal footing with One Charaban.

  “Do some of your best daydreaming here, eh, Ten?” Calyx wryly observed. Eight had the look of someone who’d been given an unexpected gift. This had been a grueling session for everyone, and there was much relief that it was over. But even with my lapse this was probably my best showing in the Pit, considering the advanced strategem and the quality of my opponent. Nobody out-lasted Eight. Whatever I had found in the Wilderness, he had found in the Pit.

  “Even one thought that takes you out of the moment is fatal here, Ten. There is no recovery, no second chance.” Calyx concluded his critique and walked away. Class was over. There were no beginnings and ends for him—only the continuum.

  I was always the last one to leave the Pit. I told myself it was because I was slower than the others, but the truth was that ever since my first encounter with Palandine here I secretly hoped to see her again—especially after our last meeting. This time, however, Eight uncharacteristically lagged behind with me. What was even more unusual was that he apparently wanted to talk.

  “You were good today,” he said.

  “Thank you.” I was genuinely grateful for his approval.

  “Did you see him?” he asked.

  “Who?” I looked around.

  “One Charaban was watching our strategem. He left at the end.”

  “Charaban watching us? How do you know it was him?” This made me nervous. The last time we met at the Central Gate he told me he’d be watching me.

  “It was him.” His confidence dispelled all doubt.

  “But why?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. But I think we should be careful.” I nodded in agreement. We stood in silence for an awkward moment. “Are you going back to the section?” he asked.

  “No . . . uh . . . I’m going to stay here awhile and . . . do some forms,” I managed to say. Eight remained for a few more minutes. I had the feeling that he wanted to say something more to me. Suddenly he turned and disappeared behind a barrier. The air was filled with whatever went unsaid. He was as shy as anyone I had ever known.

  As I waited to see if Palandine would come, I was true to my word and worked the kick-spin forms that Eight had danced through while I stumbled. Just as I decided that she wasn’t coming and prepared to leave, I heard approaching steps. I turned in their direction expectantly and found myself face to face with One Charaban. I immediately tuned into my Pit focus, with the altogether different expectation of self-defense. Charaban saw this and began to laugh. His reaction completely disarmed me. Was this the same person?

  “Don’t worry, Ten. I left my murking stick back in the storeroom.” Only his gruff voice revealed it was indeed the same person; everything else about him had changed. His tall, wiry body was relaxed, and his smile seemed genuine. I began to relax as well, and then I reminded myself that as a One designate he was most likely a skilled Pit warrior. I maintained my focus.

  “And I only came to watch, not to engage,” he said, accurately reading my adjustment. “You and your mate put on a fine exhibition. That’s a difficult strategem. Calyx must think highly of you both.”

  “Eight said that you were watching us.”

  “He noticed—and you didn’t?” he asked with his smile.

  “Nobody is stronger than Eight in the Pit,” I admitted.

  “Nobody? That’s quite a claim.”

  “Nobody in our group and probably in the First Level,” I boasted for Eight.

  “Is that because he can beat you?” Charaban exposed my boast. There was truth in his question. “Well, I certainly want to speak to him as well . . . when the right time comes. Please, Ten, walk with me. I have a proposal.” I stood there, mystified by his offer. His smile widened and he motioned me to follow.

  Charaban led the way toward the Bamarren Grounds, which were hidden by perimeter barriers. Inside was another world, planted and maintained like the public grounds at home. I could almost see Father’s work here, and the reminder stabbed at my carefully defended homesickness. Walkways led through soft ground cover and flowering bushes that reached up and met above our heads. It was my first time inside—First Level students aren’t allowed except in the company of upper students—and I wa
s amazed by its softness and serenity, especially in the darkness, punctuated by glowing lamps spaced along the way. It was dramatic relief from the prevailing Bamarren harshness. Charaban stopped at a bench and invited me to sit. In this setting I couldn’t help but relax, but at the same time my mind was trying to work out the meaning of his invitation.

  “Do you know about the Competition?” Charaban had read me correctly again.

  “The simulated battle at the end of term,” I managed.

  “Simulated in that no one is killed, but it can get rough,” he said. “And the one coming up will be rougher than most because we have an unusual leadership succession this time. Has anyone spoken to you about this?” he asked.

  “No.” I waited for Charaban to explain why anyone would, but his mind was following its own logic. He looked at me as if he were appraising an inanimate object for its value.

  “You’ve impressed a number of people here. My second, who’s the strongest hunter in our Level, wouldn’t believe that you got past him that night. He insists that you didn’t abide by the rules,” he challenged. I understood that this was another way of asking how I had eluded capture. When I didn’t respond, Charaban laughed with that same disarming grace.

  “I didn’t expect you to answer . . . and you shouldn’t. Not yet. This brings you power and opportunity. Like the one I’m about to offer. Just tell me one thing: have you told anyone about your methods?” he asked with his easy smile.

  I was about to respond when something told me not to. It was the voice that Calyx had been urging me to listen for. The voice that can be heard only when fear and fantasy are not in control of the moment. When I didn’t answer I could see that Charaban was surprised. This time he didn’t laugh; he merely nodded.