Текст книги "A Stitch in Time "

Автор книги: Andrew Robinson

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“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 shouted. 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 notsupposed 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’tneed 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 was 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.

“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 tothem. 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 kanarupstairs.”

“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. Kanaris 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 kanardown 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.