“It’s over, Lubak!” This time I recognized Charaban. “It’s over.” Or I thought I recognized him. This was yet another Charaban, but this one was a slightly distorted image of the original. It’s a mask, I thought. Then I remembered what had happened to me underneath Two Charaban’s massive bulk, trying to draw breath. And I realized that the moisture on my face was my tears.
“Get up, Lubak,” he said with a hearty and somewhat wooden jocularity. It’s a new mask; it didn’t have his usual grace. “We’re heroes.” He turned to the gathering crowd. “We’ve broken all records for the Competition!” he announced. “Victory!” He thrust his fist to the sky.
“Victory!” the crowd repeated.
“For the Empire!” Charaban thrust again.
“Victory!” They responded even louder. It was astounding. The mask was softening and integrating into the rest of Charaban. As he interacted with the crowd of students, as he accepted their adulation and fealty, I could see that he was taking ownership of this new persona with increasing confidence. Could anyone else see this? I looked around. I was surrounded by masks. I looked at Eight. His mask was stoic, but his eyes were always there, constant. Did he see what I saw? Palandine would laugh at such a question. How could he, I answered myself—he has his own eyes. I struggled to my feet, with Eight’s help. My body felt broken beyond repair.
“Breathe. Don’t stop breathing—no matter how much it hurts,” Eight instructed. I tried to follow his directive, and gasped as the air turned into broken glass as it entered my lungs. I desperately wanted to share in the joy of victory I saw on the faces surrounding me, but the moment was so mixed with physical pain—and with another, more complicated feeling. I didn’t like what had happened to me when fat Charaban’s body had nearly swallowed me—being overcome by the fear of never drawing breath again. I was also disturbed by what I saw in Charaban’s face, and somehow, vaguely, the two were related. I tried to shake off these feelings and thoughts and join in the celebration. And with Eight’s help, I was able to pull myself back into this moment of triumph.
19
Entry:
There was an almost surreal quality to Bamarren the next day. The Institute looked like a clean and orderly outpost harboring the sick, wounded, and disfigured from some horrific war. With the help of a cane, I walked with a painful, crouching limp; my right leg and back were just short of being broken. Others were not so fortunate. The infirmaries were overflowing with serious cases like Three, who had lost his eye, and worse. Those races who accuse Cardassians of being nothing better than mindless predators would rest their case if they saw the elite of our youth on the morning after the Competition.
At a special assembly in the outdoor arena, the Bamarren students gathered as Charaban and One Ramaklan stood on the sunken stage waiting for us. I sat with Eight and the other Lubaks, and we dedicated our lives and loyalty to the Empire in a rousing version of “Cardassia Forever.” Unity was the stated theme of the rally, but the actual business was the transference of power from Ramaklan to Charaban, a ritual that was performed by the opposing factions after every Competition to legitimize the new order.
With a brittle dignity, Ramaklan handed the Bamarren Saber, the symbol of student leadership, to One Charaban, who graciously accepted it. In his speech, he praised the Ramaklan side for their “courageous and well-planned opposition” and we all cheered, knowing that never in the history of the Competition had a side capitulated so quickly. As I watched him speak, I tried to remember that moment the day before when I had clearly seen him assume the mask of leadership. What was it I saw in that moment that continued to nag at me? Could I even trust what I saw, given the state I was in? But his mastery was so complete now, his speech and carriage so elegant and reassuring, that I let the memory of that moment go and joined the others in acceptance and adulation.
I scanned the audience from my vantage point, looking for Palandine. This was one of the few occasions when males and females were brought together. The females had their own Competition and leadership structure, but we all participated in any major group ritual. I finally located her sitting down near the front. She was strongly focused on the ritual transfer and on Charaban. I understood that she’d soon be preparing for her own Competition, and that whatever transpired here today would have special meaning for her.
And then it happened. The irony, of course, was that I had gotten past my mixed feelings of yesterday and was basking in the glow of our victory. I even enjoyed the aches and pain of my body as evidence of my participation. I accepted Charaban’s patronage and leadership, and was prepared to serve as a member of his council. At one of our last planning sessions, Charaban had told me that after we’d won the Competition he was going to ask me to join the council as his Second Level liaison, a prestigious position that would consolidate my own base of power. I was about to become a member of the inner circle of Bamarren leadership.
As Charaban introduced each member of his council, with his title and a brief description of his duties—Two Charaban would coordinate and organize the council agenda, Drabar would oversee all school training programs—I was becoming increasingly intoxicated with a nervous excitement. As a young boy playing in the Tarlak Sector, my dreams and fantasies had been fueled by a desire for this kind of recognition. I grabbed hold of my cane, determined not to stumble as I made my way down to the front.
“. . . and last, for the important position of Second Level liaison, which requires someone who is able to represent his entire Level in such a way as to assure their voice in all policy matters. . . .”
All First and Second Level business would funnel through me before it reached the council. The power of the position was self-evident. I positioned my good leg, so that I could rise without wobbling. Eight, anticipating that I would be called, was ready to assist if necessary.
“. . . Nine Lubak!”
I started to rise, expecting a correction. I had heard the words, but my body was programmed to go. Eight, however, grabbed my elbow and prevented me from making an even bigger fool of myself. Nine Lubak? But there was no correction. Nine, sitting almost directly in front of me, rose to the cheers and applause that rightfully belonged to me. Nine Lubak!? I had a violent urge to vomit. Eight turned to me. I thought he was going to instruct me to breathe again, but he knew better. I retreated inside and put on a neutral mask. At the end of the ceremony we rose and chanted the Ten Obligations and ended with—
“Victory!”
“For the Empire!”
—three times. Eight, I knew, wanted to speak, but I remained behind the mask and hobbled off. I didn’t want to speak to anyone . . . and I didn’t, for days following the ceremony. I simply disappeared.
20
Entry:
The truth is that I have come to enjoy tailoring. The problems of measuring, choosing a fabric and design suitable to the person and the occasion, cutting and putting the pieces together in a comfortable and attractive fit can keep my mind away from those realities over which I have no control. And the more difficult the problem, the more peace of mind I am able to maintain. Designing something for Odo, for example, is a unique challenge. He appeared in my shop one day and began to inspect the mounted displays as if there were hidden messages in the designs and arrangements. When I asked if there was something I could help him with, he replied that he was looking for some “ideas.”
“Changing style, are we?” Odo shrugged, trying to appear unattached to such frivolous concerns. But I knew what this was all about—it was only a matter of time before he decided to make himself more attractive to Kira. Yet as I tried to elicit the specific details of what he wanted, he became shy and reticent—almost irritable.
“Something that’s not so . . . baggy,” he said as he impatiently gestured to his drab constable uniform. I could understand his concern. Major Kira’s tightly wrapped figure made us all look baggy.
I looked up from Odo’s designs, stretched, and felt a twinge of stiffness in
my lower back. I had lost track of time, and decided that a short walk would relieve the tension that had accumulated from holding the same physical position for so long. As I came through the doors I nearly ran into Dr. Bashir.
“Doctor. What an unexpected surprise.” And it was . . . for both of us.
“Hallo . . . Garak. . . .” I realized that his breeziness was a cover for the awkwardness of this chance encounter. Was he passing by? Coming in? Standing here debating with himself?
“Can I offer you some tea?” I asked, perversely ignoring his discomfort.
“I don’t want to be a bother. I’m sure you’re busy,” he gently demurred.
“No bother. Your timing’s impeccable, as always. I was just taking a break. It’s that time of day, isn’t it?”
Bashir smiled and accepted the invitation. I led the way back into the shop, and while I coaxed two teas—one red leaf and one Earl Grey—from my ancient replicator in the back, the doctor strolled about as if he were genuinely interested in the various sartorial displays. He was clearly ill at ease, and I wondered how the gulf between us had widened to such an extent. I was determined to narrow it.
“Who was this Earl Grey person?” I asked, as I cleared a space for us at the counter and positioned two stools.
“I don’t really know. Probably a rich man in our nineteenth century who came up with this blend,” he speculated.
“More money than taste,” I replied. The smell of the tea always put my teeth on edge.
Even with his discomfort, Bashir’s laugh had an ease and charm that reminded me of someone else. We remained silent as we sipped our respective teas. Sounds from the Promenade drifted in.
“I understand that you were quite the knight in shining armor the other day,” he said, breaking the silence, obviously referring to my escapade with the Klingon giant.
“Please, Doctor, it’s an incident best forgotten by everyone,” I replied.
“Why? You behaved honorably not only toward the dabo girl, but with the Klingon soldier as well. Staying with him like that when he was suffering was well beyond the call of duty,” the Doctor said sincerely. “Are you embarrassed by what you did?”
“I’m embarrassed by the attention it’s brought me. Please, let’s say no more about it,” I requested. The Doctor shook his head and went back to his tea. We drifted into another silence.
“What I am embarrassed about,” I said too loudly, “is my lack of control at our last luncheon. It was inexcusable.”
“It’s one of the reasons I stopped by today. I hadn’t seen you since and I wanted to make sure you were all right,” he said.
“That’s very kind of you, Doctor. I’m fine.” This took me by surprise. Perhaps this was not such a chance encounter after all. He was kind—perhaps the kindest person I’ve ever known. His courtesy, his consideration, indeed, his willingness to put himself at risk for people he didn’t even know often astonished me. But I found his present concern about my welfare grating. I renewed my determination to rise above my irritation.
“You seemed quite upset when you left,” he began, knowing full well how crotchety (as he put it) I could become at these ministrations of his. “Have you been taking those pills?”
“No . . . well, yes, but I don’t think they’re doing much.” After the incident when the Doctor removed the cranial implant and saved my life I had terrible headaches. They have lessened considerably, but during moments of stress my head can sometimes feel like it’s coming apart.
“You should have told me,” the Doctor admonished in that parental tone he took with his disobedient patients. “I’ll reconfigure the formula and have some new pills for you tomorrow.”
“That’s very kind of you, Doctor,” I repeated, attempting to control my growing impatience.
“What is it, Garak? What’s going on?” he asked with the disarming directness of his profession.
“Other than waiting for this invasion to take place? I’ll be an old man when the Federation finally gets organized. Is it really necessary to get everyone’s input? Romulans and Klingons need to be told what to do, not consulted or persuaded!” The expression on Bashir’s face told me that I was working myself up again. “As you can see, my patience is being strained.”
“Are you afraid of what you’ll find there when the invasion happens?” he asked.
“Perhaps of what I won’t find there,” I replied. He nodded. Silence returned as we sipped our cooling teas. Even if I had wanted, how could I even begin to explain to him?
“Quark has a new, rather interesting holosuite program,” he said, changing the subject—or so I thought.
“Let me guess. It has to do with some epic battle pitting the beleaguered British against some Cardassian-type implacable foe,” I needled.
“No, no,” Bashir laughed. “I’m afraid now’s not the time for that. Reality has overwhelmed fantasy. No, the new program enables one to revisit his past. To pick a time, a pivotal incident.”
“For what purpose?” If I wasn’t sure, my returning irritation alerted me to where this was going. I knew I had to be careful.
“With a minimum of programming—time, place, key people—you can recreate a scene where you feel something happened that . . .” Bashir paused, looking for the word.
“. . . that was negative, injurious, a wrong choice,” I prompted.
“Yes,” he conceded.
“So you can change it,” I added.
“Well, not actually, of course . . . but psychologically, physiologically. . . .” He also was treading very carefully. I took a deep breath.
“And you think this is something I should do?” I asked bluntly.
“Honestly? Yes, I do,” he replied, relieved that it was finally said.
“I see.” The tea was cold now, but I kept sipping. “But you wouldn’t need a program like that, would you, Doctor?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I have moments in my past. . . .”
“No,” I interrupted. “I mean that with your enhanced genetic capacity you are able to revise your personal history just by sitting in a room and rethinking those ‘moments’ from your past.”
Bashir said nothing. With a faint smile, he looked down into the mug of tea he was holding between his hands, as if trying to keep it warm.
A Bolian client came down the steps outside the door and was about to enter the shop, but for some reason he stopped at the threshold. He looked at us, turned, and went back the way he came.
“I’m keeping you from your business.” Bashir stood up. “I won’t take up any more of your time.”
“I’m pleased you stopped by.” I was about to escort him to the door.
“No, you’re not,” he said quietly.
“Excuse me?”
“Garak, I come from a culture that has perfected the ‘stiff upper lip,’ ” he explained with the same faint smile.
“What does that mean?” It was a genuine question; there was a change in his attitude.
“It means that we never complain, never admit to our feelings, never ask for help. It’s just not done,” Bashir explained. “And those people who ‘lack character’ and insist on airing their needs—especially in public—are subject to ridicule . . . and worse. Does this sound familiar?”
“Perhaps,” I replied softly.
“But I’m also a doctor, Garak. And I know which group of people suffers the most. I really won’t take up any more of your time.” He extended his hand, which he rarely did, and I took it. “Thank you for the tea.” He turned and went out the door.
I stood there for a long moment, deeply upset. I felt trapped within myself, knowing what I had to do to get out but unable even to begin. Yes, Doctor, it does sound familiar. But as to the question of which group suffers the most. . . .
21
Entry:
At the end of three years, a review process was customary, to determine whether or not a student would progress to the next Level and if so, with what designation. It was a nerve-
racking time for all of us. If you didn’t progress, you were sent back home in disgrace. And if you did, you were given your position in the group commensurate with your evaluated performance of the past three years.
After Charaban’s betrayal I became as withdrawn and solitary as I had been when I first came to the Institute. I tried to spend time with Palandine, but it never quite worked out; between her regular duties and the recruitment and planning for the female Competition, she had little time for anything else. But there was something else, a distance that had crept between us that I didn’t understand. I felt ashamed, that somehow I had failed and it was my fault, but I found it difficult to discuss. This was probably the loneliest I had ever been.
On my way to the review hearing I felt conflicted. The lonely, betrayed part of me desperately wanted to go home and happily follow in Father’s work. I hadn’t seen my family in three years. And yet was it possible, after what I’d experienced here at Bamarren—the taste for success and recognition and, yes, power that I’d developed—to spend the rest of my life cleaning up after parades and tending gardens? The childish fantasies had been replaced by real accomplishment and real friendship. No—I wanted to stay.
And the moment that I came to this decision I realized that I wanted to achieve two goals: to beat Charaban in the next Competition and to win Palandine’s love. The conflict dissolved, and I knew why I wanted to be here. All I had to worry about now was my designation. I was certain that I would progress, but to achieve these goals I needed a high place in my group. I began as number Ten because I came from the lower orders of society. To remain at Ten would mean that I had made little or no impression—which I didn’t for a moment believe would happen. It was clear to everyone that family and social standing count at the beginning, but after that advancement was solely dependent upon performance. Even Charaban’s betrayal could be overcome.
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