“They’d like it better there,” Rugal shot back. “Bajorans would do a better job of looking after them.”
“More fool them,” Geleth said. “Overemotional, sentimental—no wonder we conquered them so easily.”
“You didn’t conquer us,” Rugal said. “We threw you off. Remember? It was only three years ago. You can’t have forgotten it yet—”
“I suggest,” Kotan’s voice rose above the quarrel, “that we keep our thoughts about the annexation of Bajor—successful or otherwise—to ourselves. Airing them in public is unlikely to do any of us a great service.”
Geleth peered down the length of her nose at her grandson. “It might be difficult to bar all discussion of Bajor from this particular table.”
“Then we must exert ourselves,” Kotan said dryly, “out of the great sense of love and duty we all feel toward the Cardassian state. As the writer says, a harmonious family is the bedrock of a harmonious state.”
Geleth sniffed. “Never liked Corac. Too clever for his own good. And nothing ever happens.”
Rugal saw Penelya whenever he could. They could not meet every day; Penelya had her studies and also often found herself called on to look after her three young cousins. Rugal, too, was supposed to be studying in preparation for entering his academy, but since he didn’t intend to be there for long, he didn’t exactly apply himself. He did rummage through Kotan’s library, quickly swapping Corac’s long didactic sentences for lighter reading. Enigma tales bewildered him at first; then he saw the joke and got hooked. His favorites were the ones set in massive decaying country houses during the dying days of the Second Republic.
But it was Penelya’s friendship that really made life on Prime bearable. Rugal might not be an orphan, but he had grown up Cardassian on Bajor, and he knew what it was like to live on the margins. They understood each other very well. The only thing he couldn’t grasp was the way she spoke about her relatives. She said constantly how much they were doing for her, how grateful she was to them. This puzzled him. Etra and Migdal never talked about gratitude, or how much they sacrificed for him, even though Rugal knew that it was because of him that their little family faced so many difficulties. Now that he thought about it, Kotan didn’t talk that way either—although Rugal didn’t like to think about that too much.
Penelya was surprised when he mentioned it to her. “But of course I should be grateful to them,” she said. “They didn’t have to let me carry on living with them after my parents died. They could have asked me to leave their house. What would I have done then?”
“You’d have got by.”
“Do you think so?”
“Lot of Bajorans lost parents, whole families, under the Occupation. People looked after each other, took care of each other.”
She gave him a dry look. “You really don’t know Cardassia very well, do you? Have you even gone outside Coranum yet? You should take your father’s beautiful skimmer down to the river one evening when people are trying to find somewhere to sleep for the night. Better still, do what most people do, and take the shuttle. Then come and tell me whether or not I should be grateful to my uncle.”
It wasn’t long before Rugal got the opportunity to observe Penelya’s relatives up close. To Kotan’s evident pleasure, and Geleth’s frankly stated disbelief, the desired invitation was received, and Rugal spent an afternoon in the company of the Khevet family.
Rugal knew from Penelya that there were five children: two sons, Colat and Tret, young men of roughly Rugal’s age, and three much younger girls. The size of Cardassian families bewildered Rugal: if the world was so poor that famine had been commonplace in living memory, why did they have so many children? He had a couple of theories, neither particularly appealing. It could be a display of wealth, like being able to pay for the water for the trees and gardens that made Coranum so lovely. Or else it was more calculating—Cardassians assumed that not all of their children would reach adulthood, and had a lot of them just in case. Either way, it was close to criminal.
Rugal arrived at the Khevet house nervous and frowning, carrying gifts for Mikor and Elinas that Kotan had fussed over for days. He was welcomed by Colat and Tret with charm and courtesy, and dragged straight off to the family rikot courts. Penelya was brought along to do the scoring.
It was a good game—you had to chase a tiny hard ball around the court and sometimes it got insanely fast—but the rules were impenetrable. Colat, who captained the academy’s team, insisted that Rugal take a guide back home with him. After that, sweating and muscle-sore, they went to the sauna, a household innovation of which Rugal heartily approved. Then they went and sat out in the stone garden drinking iced leya juice and watching the youngest girl’s tiny pet keye stalk lace-flies. Their mother, Elinas, elegantly dressed and sweetly perfumed, came out to join them; their father, Mikor, stocky and hospitable, took a moment away from his work ostensibly to welcome Rugal, presumably to check that he was in fact suitable company. Mikor engineered the conversation so as to be able to make an offhand compliment about Kotan’s handling of the Circle inquiry. Rugal assumed he was meant to pass this on, so he did, later, and in earshot of Geleth.
Altogether, it was a very pleasant afternoon. It would have been so much easier if he could have hated them all outright. But they were friendly and welcoming, and Colat and Tret went out of their way to pass on useful information about the academy where Rugal would soon be joining them. Both young men did have a tendency to talk over other people, as if conversation was a competition rather than an exchange, but Rugal knew they didn’t have to bother to talk to him at all, and he appreciated their advice. One thing he disliked was how the whole family used the word “Bajoran” as a synonym for “stupid,” but when Penelya timidly reminded her cousins where Rugal had grown up, they didn’t do it again. They didn’t apologize, though, and it seemed not to cross their minds that they should.
Penelya was different in their company. When they were alone, she talked constantly, changing direction midsentence, as if her head was overflowing with ideas. Around her family, she said next to nothing, and only when she was addressed directly. There was more that Rugal had not liked, and he brought it up the next time they met in their garden. “Elinas had you running up and down stairs all afternoon. If it wasn’t her bag, it was her embroidery; if it wasn’t her embroidery, it was her book. It was like you were one of the servants.”
“I don’t mind.”
“And the way the three girls sometimes speak to you! Elinas and Mikor should stop that. But then I suppose if Elinas can’t be bothered to say “please” and “thank you,” it’s no wonder her daughters have picked up the habit. And couldn’t Tret and Colat have asked you to play a couple of rounds at least? You were sitting on the side all that time except when they wanted the water bottles—”
“All right,” Penelya said in a small savage voice, “you’ve made your point. You can stop going on about it now.”
She had her arms wrapped around her. She often held something in front of her—a padd or a book or a cushion—as if she preferred to go about shielded. Rugal realized he was not telling her anything that she did not already know.“Sorry,” he said awkwardly.
“The thing is,” she said, looking at him with suspiciously bright eyes, “it isn’t for long. Once I’m trained, they won’t want me in the city anymore. I’ll be more use to my uncle somewhere else. So I won’t be here forever, and it’s better than my other options. Do you understand, Rugal? I don’t have all the opportunities you have.”
He took her hand and gave it a squeeze. He did try to understand, because she had listened and not judged when he told her about Bajor. But he hated what it did to her, how it bent her out of shape with fear and guilt and self-doubt. She was funny and clever and kind; she should be racing ahead, like a grace-hound, not held back and on a leash. He did not mention it again. But he puzzled over it often, sitting in his room staring out at the light show of the city, as he puzzled over many things on th
is complex and perplexing world. Why would Cardassians do this to their children? Why not let them become everything they could be? What were they afraid would happen, if they simply let them go?
The long summer ended and classes began. Rugal’s academy, which was surely costing Kotan a lot of leks, prepared students for entrance into the Institute of State Policy. The lessons chiefly focused on political theory, official history, rhetorical strategy, protocols for debate, and a fairly punishing regime of physical education that acted as a proxy for formal military training. The Cardassian political elite maintained a careful and necessary distance from the military, but duty demanded that their sons be prepared to serve as soldiers, should Cardassia be in need.
Apart from the physical education, Rugal did not shine. Educating Bajoran children had not been a priority to their Cardassian masters, who became interested only when they were old enough to work. The school system had all but collapsed. Bajoran teachers did their best, but it was hard to teach a roomful of hungry children, and when the sensors had been installed that prevented Bajoran adults from moving freely about their own planet, many of the children had been too busy running errands or scrounging up food to bother with school. It was rare, by the end of the Occupation, to see anyone above the age of eight or nine in a classroom. In the short time since, there had been a drive from both the Council of Ministers and the Vedek Assembly to encourage older children to resume their education, but classes were remedial, aimed at helping them catch up on lost time. However dedicated the teachers, however committed the policymakers, the poor Bajoran schools Rugal had attended could not hope to compete with one of the most elite establishments the Cardassian plutocracy had at its disposal. He felt like an idiot around these slick and knowledgeable young men.
There was also the small matter of emphasis. The official history that the academy taught was not one that Rugal recognized. He knew Cardassians as all Bajorans knew them: ruthless aggressors who had inveigled themselves into Bajoran territory, and then proceeded to rob, murder, and all but destroy an ancient, complex culture. From his new tutors, however, Rugal heard a very different story. In this version of events, Cardassia had been benign in its dealings with Bajor. It had come with its hand outstretched in friendship, to help Bajor take its first tentative steps out into the quadrant. It had tried to show Bajor that it did not need its childish superstitions anymore. But that friendship, that desire to help, had been rejected in the most vicious way. Cardassian settlers had been murdered. Cardassian children had been orphaned. Reprisals, sadly, had been taken. It was heartbreaking, it was tragic—yet what else could Cardassia do? Acts of terror could not go unpunished. It was inevitable that Rugal would lose his temper.
Every morning, after the Oath, the students took a short test. There was a series of standard questions with a set of memorized answers they were supposed to put down word for word. The subject matter could be anything from the past or present curriculum. The other students had been doing this for years, of course, but Rugal was way behind and often regretted his summer spent reading enigma tales. This particular morning, they were being tested on the reasons for the advancement of Bajor. That was what the books called it—Bajor’s Advancement. Ten dark heads bent studiously over their lessonpadds, most of them anxious to get this routine task finished as quickly as possible. It was hot and dull and Rugal knew he had no chance of ever catching up. He reached List the five ways in which the advancement benefited Bajor and couldn’t stand it any longer. He inputted: It didn’t. The padd underlined his answer in red and responded: You have given one answer. This answer is incorrect. A point has been deducted from your attainment score. There are five ways in which the advancement benefited Bajor. List the five ways in which the advancement benefited Bajor.
Angrily, he shoved the lessonpadd aside. “This is ridiculous!”
Nine students and one tutor looked at him with varying degrees of interest. Metrek, the tutor, at first didn’t know what to do about this unexpected interruption. He had chosen to teach an age cohort that was meant to have outgrown this kind of behavior. In time-honored fashion, he fell back on sarcasm. “Could it be possible that you haven’t entirely understood the question, Pa’Dar?”
“I understood every word. It’s still rubbish. Friendship? Help? None of that’s true! The Occupation was about resources—everyone knows that. Cardassia is short on natural resources, Bajor is rich. The Cardassians invaded in order to strip the place bare. You would have done it too, if it hadn’t been for the Resistance.”
Metrek grayed markedly and didn’t reply. One of the other students, Ferek, yawned. “We heard that version of events in elementary classes and we were tested on its flaws last week. We all know you’re struggling, Pa’Dar, but if you have to say something to make yourself important, try coming up with something that isn’t out of the infant classes.” A couple of the other students, scenting blood, laughed. “Only Bajorans would tell a children’s story.”
Rugal was ready to fire off a fusillade of street slang, but before he had a chance to speak, Tret Khevet intervened. “I imagine Rugal knows more about Bajor than you do, Ferek,” he said lazily. “He was living there until earlier this year. Still, Rugal—you of all people must know that’s an exaggeration.”
“It isn’t an exaggeration!”
“But what you’re saying, basically, is that Cardassians are cold-blooded murderers.” Tret gestured around him. “That’s us, Rugal. Not just the people in this room, but my family, your father, my cousin, you. We’re all Cardassian. Have we been cruel? Since you came back here, has anyone been anything other than welcoming?”
Leaving aside Geleth, Tret had a point. “That doesn’t change Cardassian behavior during the Occupation,” Rugal said doggedly. “They killed millions of people—”
“The Resistance killed people too. You should know that, with your family history.”
“But the Cardassians killed many more.”
They went on in this vein for some time, but Rugal quickly realized it was almost impossible to argue with him. Tret, like everyone else in the room, was unshakeable in his belief that if the Bajorans had only been grateful for the opportunities they had been offered, none of the trouble would have happened. And there was something else beneath it, Rugal realized, something deeply troubling. Tret truly believed that Bajoran society was inferior to his own; he truly believed that the Cardassian way of life, its system of government, all its institutions, were the best that existed. And why should he not? Life was good for Tret Khevet. His family was rich, his home comfortable, and he never went near those of his own kind who lived more precariously. Tret wasn’t saying these things to provoke, Rugal realized, not the way that Geleth did. He said them because he knew nothing outside of Cardassia, and he had no reason to learn. It would take alien invasion or apocalypse to change his mind.
“If we’re generalizing,” Tret said, “everyone knows what Bajorans are like.”
“Oh yes? And what are they like?”
“They’re lazy, they cheat... My mother’s youngest brother worked for a mining consortium out there, and he said he couldn’t get a full day’s work out of most of them. There’s something wrong with people who won’t work.”
“Perhaps they hadn’t had enough to eat to be able to work,” Rugal said.
Tret looked at him as if he were mad. “But you said it yourself! Bajor is agriculturally rich! If food distribution was being run on Cardassian lines—run properly, I mean, not sabotaged—then there would have been enough food to go around. If they didn’t have enough to eat, they were probably stealing it off each other.”
It was hard to know where to start with that. “You don’t know the first thing about it, Tret. You haven’t been there, you haven’t lived there.”
Tret smiled as if he couldn’t believe how easily his victory was being delivered. He tapped his padd. “I don’t need to. It’s all in the lessons.”
There was a round of applause from the others. R
ugal almost banged his head against the desk in frustration. The argument had circled back upon itself, like the whirls in the stone on the bench in the garden where he and Penelya sat. At least Khevet’s money wasn’t going to waste. Tret was going to make a first-rate politician. “The lessons,” Rugal said through gritted teeth, “are a pack of lies.” He was about to start explaining how, yet again, when he caught sight of their tutor.
Metrek was trembling. A grown man, clever and well-informed, and he was shaking with fear. It was dreadful to watch. Rugal held up his hands in defeat. “All right, Tret—have it your own way. Bajor was begging for Cardassia to come in. And when it did, the Bajorans couldn’t see how lucky they were.”
“Now that this little performance is finished,” Metrek said, his voice getting steadier as he spoke, “perhaps we can return to the business at hand? We’re now running ten metrics behind, so I’ll add that to the end of the day and you can all thank Pa’Dar for that.”
There was plenty of muttering and complaints as everyone settled back down to completing the test. Rugal stuck to his wrong answers, and when the time was up, he had lost a total of sixteen points from his attainment score. After the class ended, Tret leaned back in his seat to speak to Rugal. “Everything all right between us, Pa’Dar?” He looked genuinely concerned, as if he had belatedly realized that for his sparring partner, this might not simply have been a demonstration of rhetorical technique.
“Yes. Fine.”
“Good!” Tret gave him a sunny smile. “Don’t worry about the extra ten metrics, you’re bound to claw it back during the afternoon run. Are you free this evening? Colat has a new training program he thought you might like.”
Star Trek: DS9: The Never-Ending Sacrifice Page 5