STAR TREK: DEEP SPACE NINE ®

by Andrew J. Robinson

  “Yes. You’re not a murk anymore, are you? But not answering the question tells me what I need to know.” His expression had changed; he had determined my value.

  Light footsteps and female voices suddenly intruded. I realized in the moment of their interruption how intense this exchange with Charaban had been. When I widened my focus I was shocked to see Palandine and a friend emerge from the darkness. She never looked at me. They nodded to Charaban, he nodded back and they disappeared as a desert wind moved noisily through the foliage. A fleeting incongruity. The whole evening was like a dream.

  “Hard, isn’t it, Ten?” Charaban broke in. “To be treated like you don’t exist. Of course she treats everyone like that, not just murks.” He was looking in the direction the two females went as if he still could see them. Was he referring to Palandine? He turned back to me, all business.

  “I’ve challenged Third Level leadership to a Competition earlier than usual, on the grounds that they are inferior. I refer especially to the interns of the Ramaklan Group. It’s my prerogative as leader of the Charaban. Bamarren is neither inspired nor unified by their example, and I am urging a succession by trial.” It was clear from the ease with which this was stated that Charaban was politically astute and organized. And ambitious. I felt that I had been allowed to enter an inner sanctum and been made privy to a revolutionary decision.

  “In order to mount a successful challenge, I need the best team I can assemble. Being Third Levels they have the advantage. Not only does One Ramaklan have the obedience of the most proven interns, but in the Competition itself they are simply required to defend their position, and nothing more. As challengers, we have to devise an attacking strategy that will prove the worth of our accusation of inferiority. This is not a simple matter, Ten.” Charaban engaged me as if I didn’t understand.

  “I don’t think any challenging leader has ever asked a First Level student to accept a planning position . . . and certainly not one with a Ten designation,” he added with a tinge of condescension.

  “I am responsible for my work, not for my designation,” I hotly reminded him. He had touched a sensitive place, and he knew it.

  “Nevertheless, you’re a Ten and until you prove yourself otherwise you’ll always remain a Ten. And I’m not talking about excelling in class or eluding capture, no matter how brilliantly, or settling for second best in the Pit. I’m talking about planning and executing group action that ends in nothing less than total victory, the Cardassian ideal of excellence this school was built upon!”

  The air around us rang with the passionate challenge. Charaban was right; he was offering me an opportunity—and I knew it.

  “What do you want me to do?” I was trembling as if my body were chilled.

  “More than anything, Ten, I want you to banish failure. There’s no longer any room for it in your life. Agreed?” Charaban offered his hand. I grabbed it like a drowning man. I’m sure he felt me struggle to control my shaking body.

  “Agreed.” I was also thrilled. Other than in combat this was the first time I had physically come into contact with another student. We stood for a long moment in the bowered and darkened pathway holding each other’s hand. Aside from Palandine and Eight, this was the only other person I was able to look directly in the eyes. Charaban broke the contact.

  “I’ll communicate with you through Nine Lubak about our planning sessions,” he said. I was surprised. Why Nine?

  “He’s my cousin.” Charaban again read me.

  “Nine?!” I was incredulous. “But he’s . . .” I caught myself before I finished.

  “He’s . . . a true Nine,” Charaban replied with a diplomatic smile. “But he can carry a message, and in war we have to use every soldier according to his strength. We’d better get back. I’ll have you excused from the evening assembly.”

  It wasn’t until Charaban mentioned the assembly I had missed that I realized how late it was. We made our way to the entrance, and he parted without a word. Once I was alone I felt like I could breathe again. I began to doubt this agreement. This Charaban had a powerful presence, but how did I know he was telling me the truth? This could be some kind of test . . . a trap. After all, this was the person who had had me beaten in the storeroom. As I stumbled through the darkness on the edge of the training area I was in a daze. Yes, I wanted to prove that I was not a Ten, and Charaban knew that. What student doesn’t want to make his mark? But my doubts only increased.

  “Elim,” the voice whispered. I was so wrapped in my competing thoughts that I didn’t see Palandine standing at the edge of the pathway. In the darkness she was more like the apparition I first saw.

  “You have the strangest friends.” I strained to see her face, but I could hear the amused irony in her voice. “It’s not every evening we find Barkan Lokar strolling with a murk through the Grounds.”

  “Lokar? My father buried the Legate, Turat Lokar,” I said without thinking.

  “Did your father kill him?” Palandine joked. But I didn’t laugh. The Lokars were a legendary family, and the old man’s funeral was the largest I had ever seen.

  “Barkan is the grandson and the shining light of our generation. So what’s he doing with you, Elim?” There was a grating quality to her irony.

  “I . . . should get back. It’s late.” I started to leave.

  “It’s the Competition, isn’t it?” Palandine’s question stopped me.

  “How did you know?” Again I wasn’t thinking, only reacting. I winced at how my training evaporated in her presence.

  “Elim, it’s my business to know. That’s why I’m here. That’s why you’re here.”

  “I think I know why I’m here, One Ketay.” There was an energy building up in my stomach that was making me nauseous. I wanted to end this conversation. Palandine looked at me for a long moment with her half-smile, which observed everything and revealed nothing.

  “It’s a great privilege to be recruited by Barkan. He’s as talented as he is ambitious. He’ll most likely get what he wants—he usually does,” she added with a tone of familiarity.

  “I don’t even know if I’m going to do this Competition,” I admitted.

  “Really?” She was mildly surprised. She moved closer to me. Her face, softened by the darkness, was now visible. “Why?” she asked tenderly. “What are you afraid of?”

  “Who said I was afraid?” But as soon as she asked the question I knew that I was.

  “Elim, why do you think we have these ridges?” She stroked the scalloped cords of cartilege and bone that ran along her neck and down her shoulders with a delicacy that stopped my breath. The energy had turned into molten liquid that was now flowing into my groin. The rest of the world was swallowed by complete darkness and I was back inside the tunnel.

  “Because . . . we do,” I replied stupidly.

  “Because we need them. Not to support a weak spine as some aliens assume, but because we’re a warrior race and we evolved these ridges as a defense against predators. But if we relied solely on these ridges to protect us in battle, we’d be no better than Klingons. That’s why we’re here, Elim—to develop our minds . . . and our hearts.” She splayed her long, tapered fingers across her breast. For the second time tonight I was spellbound by another’s passion. In very different ways, Charaban and Palandine held me in their orbit, like powerful suns. “To be a great warrior is to be a great strategist, and Barkan is offering an opportunity.”

  Again that word. But here in this tunnel, with the rest of the world cut off, opportunity had a different meaning. I was learning something new about myself—an emerging desire for power, but a power that had less to do with mastery over others than it did with connecting to them. The way I felt the connection to Charaban . . . and especially to Palandine.

  “You seem to know Charaban,” I said.

  “I know that he can help you achieve your goals here. The fact that he’s expressed interest in you . . .” She smiled and shook her head. “Usually he walks around
here as if he breathes the air of a higher plane.”

  “He said the same thing about you.”

  “Really? What?” She laughed with that sudden delight.

  “That you treat people like they don’t exist,” I managed to remember.

  “Really?” she repeated. “Well, it will do him some good. An oversized head is not attractive on a man.”

  The night horn signaling return to quarters blew in the distance like an ancient call. The walls of the tunnel dissolved; I had reentered a different world.

  “Goodnight, Elim. I know you’ll make the choice that’s right for you.” She ran off. It took me several moments before I could put movement back into my body. When I did, I realized that for the second time in my life I could fly.

  14

  Entry:

  Still no word about the impending invasion. I didn’t want to return to the shop after lunch so I lingered at my Replimat table, strategically placed opposite the airlock doors to watch the comings and goings of the station. There wasn’t much activity, mainly Klingons coming from or going to the war front. I soon grew bored and decided to move to my other observation post, the second level of Quark’s.

  When I entered, I was surprised to see Rom serving the lugubrious and lumpen Morn at the bar. A spirited dabo game involving several Klingons and a serious-looking dabo girl I hadn’t seen before caught my attention. If Quark had been present he’d be giving her one of his congeniality lectures. I truly sympathize with the young woman; if I had to spend all day with these drunken dolts. . . .

  “Can I help you, Garak?” Rom asked.

  “What brings you back to Quark’s? Don’t tell me you miss being abused by your brother.”

  “N-no,” he replied blushing. “He’s away on business and I agreed to look after things while he’s gone.”

  “Ah, how kind of you,” I nodded. “If I could have some kanar upstairs.”

  “Certainly,” Rom replied. I smiled at Morn and moved past the dabo game, which was heating up. The new dabo girl, however, maintained an appealing coolness and calm.

  My favorite table was occupied, as were most of the tables on this level. I was evidently not the only one taking a break from work. Finally, I found one from where I could observe the first level as well as the upper Promenade. Rom soon appeared with a small container of kanar. He was wearing an outfit I had made for him.

  “H-here you are, Garak. I hope you enjoy it.” Ever the gracious host.

  “Thank you, Rom. And please, try not to let your collar lie there like a dead targ.” I adjusted the offending fabric, and Rom sweetly tolerated my fussing.

  Rom returned downstairs, and I realized as I took a sip of my drink that I was in a dangerous mood. Drinking in the middle of the day. The Doctor would be quite disappointed with me. When I’m unable to immerse myself in work my mind becomes occupied by an invading army of thoughts intent upon conquering all equilibrium and peace. Kanar is a valuable if unreliable weapon I employ against this army. The pills the Doctor gives me are a poor substitute.

  Ever since the Romulan business and Captain Sisko’s near breakdown (outside of the Doctor, whom I told shortly after the incident, no one knows about this, but one recognizes the symptoms), I’ve been obsessed with memories of Bamarren. Somehow, in the convoluted recesses of my mind, my years there are related to my exile on this floating prison. Yet no two places could be more dissimilar.

  The Klingon commotion from the dabo table momentarily distracted me. I took another sip of the bitter-sweet liquid.

  Three Lubak was right—I did think I was smarter than anyone else. And at the same time, I hadn’t felt that I belonged at the Institute. I’d been an outsider with no pedigree, and there were those students who’d never let me forget it. One Lubak and his inbred clan. But I had been just as taken with the quest for power at Bamarren as anyone else, and determined that I would make my mark in the Competition. I laughed to myself, and a few heads turned. I nodded and smiled back. Another drunk talking to himself.

  A scream cut through my thoughts and the bar. I looked down and saw Rom flying over a table and Morn scurrying out. There was only one Klingon left in the bar, a giant who had the terrified dabo girl by the arm. Without thinking, I threw the container of kanar down and it crashed at the giant’s feet. He looked up, and I immediately knew two things about him: he was inebriated beyond reason and he was one of their shock troopers, a callused veteran of hand-to-hand combat. I took a deep breath; as dolts go he was quite impressive. My spirits were suddenly and immeasurably lifted.

  “You spoonhead!” he growled at me. I hated that word.

  “And you . . . a great warrior who brings down dabo girls with a single blow.” He looked at me trying to decide if I had insulted or complimented him.

  “P’tak!” I shouted, “I mean that you’re the biggest coward in the Klingon Empire.” He released the dabo girl, and as he moved to the narrow stairway I thought that he was also the biggest Klingon in the Empire.

  I looked for my advantage. This was not an equal match, and my gigantic friend was in the full flush of a berserker blood lust. I sighed. I’m too old for this, I thought. I needed to slow him down and find better ground than this. As his head appeared coming up the narrow circular stairwell I charged, grabbed hold of the stanchion, swung my body around, and kicked the side of his head with both feet. This just made him angrier. I made for the upper Promenade—and wondered if Calyx might be enjoying this spectacle from wherever he was. The giant’s roar caught the attention of the people on the upper Promenade, one of whom was Chief O’Brien, who emerged from an alcove where he had been doing some repair work on a panel.

  “Garak, what have you got yourself into now?” he asked as I approached.

  “Get security, Chief, and tell them to prepare the biggest cell they have . . . or a smaller coffin for me,” I said as I moved into the alcove and squeezed through the opening where the panel had been. I had an idea. I could hear the Chief behind me try to reason with the berserker, who just pushed him aside.

  I came out into a Jeffries tube. I wasn’t sure which direction to take, but I had to choose quickly. My pursuer was struggling with the small passage, but he was not going to be deterred.

  “Go left, Garak,” the Chief kindly directed, “and take the third opening on your right!” I think he understood my plan. The massive Klingon followed me as I crouch-ran up the tube. One, two, three openings. Could I fit in? No time to debate. I squeezed in on my belly and shimmied forward. The giant grabbed hold of my left foot and started pulling me back. I strained against his vise-like grip . . . and my boot came off in his hand. I managed to shimmy beyond his reach and thankfully out the other end and into a larger parallel Jeffries tube.

  I turned back to see if the Klingon was foolish enough to follow. It was such an obvious trap. His anguished roar answered me. Somehow he had managed to squeeze himself far enough into the passage to get thoroughly stuck. He couldn’t go forward or back. And I recognized the look on his face. He was suffering from a claustrophobic attack. The more he struggled, the worse it got.

  “Don’t move, it’ll only get worse,” I warned him. His look was a mixture of wanting to kill me and desperately needing my help.

  “Don’t move!” He calmed down. “Keep breathing, deeply. Deeply. That’s right.”

  “Help me,” he croaked. I was touched by the giant’s childlike surrender. I knew the feeling well.

  “I will,” I replied and immediately wondered why I had agreed. I’m getting soft, I thought. However, I needed to find someone who could help me help him.

  “Don’t leave me!” His voice was on the edge of panic. The tables had indeed turned.

  “I won’t. But you must promise me that you’ll behave once you’re extricated.” His eyes flashed with impotent anger. I decided that I might as well get something for my trouble. “I’m not going to help you unless you promise me that you’ll behave like a gentleman.”

  “I promise.”
Claustrophobic anguish won out over Klingon pride.

  “And you must promise me one more thing.” I wasn’t finished.

  “What?”

  “That you’ll never call me or any member of my race a spoonhead again.”

  “But you are a spoonhead,” he reasoned. The request was incomprehensible to him.

  “I’m warning you, unless you make a solemn warrior’s promise, I will desert you.”

  “I promise.” The poor creature was nearly in tears. I almost felt sorry for him.

  The day after the incident, Odo called me in to take my statement. As I approached his office, the giant, accompanied by two security people, was coming out. He stopped when he saw me, and I braced myself for trouble, as did the two guards. Instead, he solemnly thanked me for staying with him until O’Brien and Odo arrived.

  “I wouldn’t have expected that from a . . . Cardassian—you see, I haven’t forgotten my promise,” he assured me. They moved off, and I must admit that I was quite taken aback. Evidently there is honor among dolts.

  Odo was his usual thorough self. After my version of the incident, he reckoned that since the damage was minimal and the Klingon was returning to the front the case could be closed.

  “What about the dabo girl?” I inquired.

  “She’s not pressing charges.”

  “How magnanimous of her.”

  “Magnanimity has nothing to do with it. Quark won’t let her,” Odo said with disgust.

  “Ah—let me guess: Bad for business.”

  “Yes. But she seems quite interested in seeing you to express her gratitude,” Odo said with no irony.

  “Well, that’s not necessary.”

  “As you wish. Her name is Tir Remara.” The name rang a bell.

  I was about to leave when Odo asked about the designs for his “new” sartorial look. I could see that he was masking his concern, so I assured him that the sketches were some of my finest creations, and would be ready within the week. He grunted his thanks and I stepped out onto the Promenade. Love does make fools of us all.