Restoration

25. Whispers

It was raining, a chilly grey mist that clung to the skin, and it suited Damar's mood just fine. He hadn't gotten any sleep, after Gul Dukat had disappeared last night; he'd been too busy mulling over his mentor's words, trying to discern if there was any truth to them. Could it have been real? Was it possible that this, all of it, was just some illusion concocted by his brain in a comatose state? It certainly would explain a lot.

He had a headache, brought on by stress or lack of sleep, maybe both. Earlier in the day, Shakaar had shown him around one of the local monasteries, a pleasant, quiet little place rich in culture. Damar had hardly heard a word that was said about it, though. He found his mind wandering; to Dukat, to Cardassia, to Deep Space Nine—it simply refused to concentrate on the tour.

If none of this was real, then what part of his mind did Bajor represent? Perhaps the part that wanted to be healed, to be whole again. He knew he couldn't go back; his wife and son were dead, and waking up from a coma wouldn't change that, but her could go forward. And maybe Bajor, to his mind, signified the future. Maybe that was why the Prophets had sent him a vision! They weren't really Prophets, they were just part of his own mind trying to work its way out of a catatonic state.

"Close, but not quite."

Damar stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes fixed on the woman standing on the street in front of him. She stood out from the crowd of bedraggled Bajorans because her clothes and hair were bone-dry. Her pale chalky-grey face with finely scaled features marked her as alien, though the ridges at the top of her nose showed her Bajoran heritage.

When Shakaar noticed he was walking alone, he stopped and looked back at Damar, then scanned the road ahead, trying to locate what Damar was staring at. "Is there a problem, Primarch?" he asked.

Damar shook his head and steeled himself, walking forwards and ignoring the young woman who turned and walked just behind him.

"What's wrong, Damar?" she asked. "Surprised to see me? My father did say you'd be getting more visitors."

He forced himself to look around at the faces of the Bajorans who glanced at him, looking anywhere except back at the grey-skinned woman. She, like Dukat, was dead, but he wasn't ready to talk to her yet. He might never be ready to talk to her. He'd shot her in anger, for some twisted sense of justice and revenge. She'd been little more than a girl, and he'd snuffed out her life. She had her entire future before her, and he'd taken that away

"You can see the suspicion and mistrust in their eyes, can't you?" Ziyal continued, gesturing to the Bajorans around them. "That's what it was like for me, living here. Almost as bad as it was on Cardassia. At least here, the main reason people didn't trust me is because I was Gul Dukat's daughter; the man who had not only oppressed them, but sold out the Alpha Quadrant to the Dominion."

He glanced around at the nearby shop windows, looking over the produce on offer, determined to ignore the dead woman. Freshly baked goods, home-grown fruits, hand-crafted jewelry… it wasn't all that different to Cardassia, really.

"Do you know why I was hated and shunned on Cardassia?" Ziyal asked. "It wasn't because I was part Bajoran; it was because I was part Cardassian. Incredible, isn't it? Had I been fully Bajoran, or a mixture of Bajoran and Human, or Bajoran and Klingon, or Bajoran and Romulan, they would have looked at me with those suspicious stares they're so good at, but they would not have despised me.

"When they looked at me, they didn't see a half-Bajoran, but a half-Cardassian, and to them, that was far worse. I was a reminder that although Bajor had been lost, it still affected Cardassians on a very fundamental level. I was the evidence that even great men can make mistakes, that Cardassian blood can be tainted and made unclean. On Cardassia, anything that is not Cardassian is less than Cardassian, but anything which is half-Cardassian is an abomination, something to be ostracised, something which people will only ever mention in hushed whispers because the idea of Cardassian men fathering half-Cardassian children is practically taboo; and even greater a travesty when they father children with Bajoran women."

Ziyal's words rang uncomfortably true. Even he, at first, had judged her because of her Bajoran heritage. But Dukat had been so proud of his daughter that Damar had made a genuine effort to be less prejudiced towards her, and he'd even succeeded, coming eventually to barely even notice the ridges on her nose. He hadn't killed her because she was half-Cardassian, but because she had betrayed Cardassia to the Federation.

"I'd like to look in that shop," Damar said to Shakaar, pointing at the first window that caught his eyes. It was merely a ruse designed to take his mind off Ziyal, an attempt to mute her voice by focusing on something else, but Shakaar nodded and led him over to the shop door.

Ziyal followed them in, but Damar ignored her as he looked around under the watchful gaze of the Bajoran woman behind the shop counter. It was only when he truly looked at the merchandise that he realised they were inside a jewelry shop, and he found himself suddenly out of his depth. Though his wife had enjoyed collecting jewelry—most women did, in his experience—he himself had rarely paid attention to his wife's purchases. Not that he actually wanted to buy something, but he felt guilty about using the shop as a diversion, and guilty for wasting the time of the jeweller; she watched him like a hawk, and he wondered if she feared he might steal something. The thought of Cardassia's leader stealing from a Bajoran jewelry shop was enough to make him smile; it would cause a scandal back home.

"Is there anything in particular you're looking to buy?" Shakaar asked him.

"Yes," he replied, his eyes catching sight of a row of pretty jewels, "a necklace."

"I have many necklaces in dozens of different styles," the jeweller said. She looked a little less suspicious now that she knew he was going to buy something. "Did you have a particular style or material in mind?"

"No, not really," he admitted.

"This one's nice," said Ziyal. She was pointing to what looked like a series of square blue stones set in a latinum necklace, peering down at it through the glass like a crow looking at its next meal.

"Something in silver," Damar told the jeweller. "And not blue."

"It might help to know what outfit the necklace is to be teamed with," the woman told him.

"What does that have to do with anything?" Damar asked curtly. He hated being out of his depth.

"If I know what colour the outfit is, I can make suggestions based on colour."

"I have a nice peach-coloured dress," Ziyal suggested.

Damar looked wildly around at the necklaces on display, feeling more and more foolish with every passing second. He should never have come into this shop in the first place. Just as he was about to give up and storm out, a flash of reflected light caught his eyes and he noticed a silver necklace tucked into a corner of the display cabinet. It looked quite old, but the stones reflected an almost ethereal light from the sun.

"What's that?" he asked the jeweller, pointing to the item.

"It was found in the aftermath of the Cardassian withdrawal," she replied. "I've had little interest in it."

He wasn't surprised. It was clearly a Cardassian necklace, chunky in appearance, its large stones shaped to mimic flat scales, and it probably would have sat too heavily on a Bajoran woman's neck. Besides, no Bajoran woman in her right mind would wear something belonging to her peoples' hated enemy. "Can I see it?"

The woman brought the display stand out of the case, and Damar ran his fingers over the cool, opalescent stones. His wife would have loved it, and there were many women on Cardassia who would eagerly have snapped it up, had they known it was here. Its low price-tag probably reflected the low interest it had garnered.

"I'll buy it," he said. He had no idea what he was going to do with it, but at least it would get him out of the store.

"I think you should have picked this one," Ziyal said, pointing again at the blue-stone latinum piece.

Damar watched as the jeweller wrapped up the necklace, and he signed his thumbprint on her padd to confirm he would pay. As much as he wanted to tell Ziyal to go away and leave him alone, he couldn't do so when anybody else was around, or they would think him crazy.

"Crazier," Ziyal said. "Most people already think you're at least a little crazy. Ask them yourself, if you don't believe me."

Outside the shop, Damar clutched his purchase, which had been boxed and wrapped, to his chest. It was a poor shield to stave off the rantings of a dead woman, but it was all he had. He didn't know how to make Ziyal go away.

"You already made me go away once," she said, reading his thoughts because she was probably part of them herself. "You'll never have that power over me again, Damar."

"I've changed," he said. "I'm not the man I used to be. I don't deserve to be punished beyond what I've already endured."

Shakaar looked surprised by the random statement, and answered thinking Damar had spoken to him.

"We all change. I didn't bring you here to punish you, Primarch, but to show you what can be done by a determined people. To show you that there is hope for Cardassia."

Ignoring Ziyal, he turned to Shakaar. "Why? Why do you care so much about me? About my world? Just a few years ago, we were your enemies. Your oppressors."

It was a ridiculous place to have this conversation. The street was practically a river of water, Shakaar's hair was plastered damply to his head, and Damar knew he didn't look any better. The few people who were out in this weather were Bajorans who hurried about their business carrying rain-protectors and wading through murky street-water. Damar was cold, and tired, and possibly crazy. It was ridiculous. But he'd been in worse places, and he knew Shakaar had too. Having a conversation in the rain was preferable to having one whilst hungry and hiding out in a cave, or whilst under fire from enemy soldiers. It was downright friendly, by comparison. He suspected his Ministers wouldn't agree, but most of them were sheltered, never enduring hardship before the Dominion had bombed the planet from orbit.

"I've told you before," said Shakaar, blinking running water out of his eyes. "I care because it's in my peoples' best interests to see a stable Cardassia. As it is, your people can't fend for themselves. They can't even feed themselves. I know how many replicators the Federation had shipped to you, I know how many engineers they have on the planet, how many relief teams, how much they send to you in supplies. And I also know that it isn't enough. That opportunistic pirates still manage to raid ships here and there because the Federation's resources are stretched thin. This whole sector is largely considered dangerous and lawless; merchants are loathe to come here without an escort.

"I want things to go back to how they were. Oh, not everything, of course. I want your people to change, and for the better. I don't want us to remain enemies any longer, Primarch. Let what is past, be past. Tell me what you need, and I'll make sure you get it. As for payment… perhaps future friendship with a whole, strong Cardassia would be worth some sacrifice. Bajor is willing to extend the hand of friendship, if Cardassia is willing to accept it."

The First Minister stepped forward, offering his hand, and Damar stared at it. He was aware that Ziyal, who'd been standing in the background, had now disappeared, but he had more important things to think about now. He didn't consider himself a fast-thinker, but he understood what Shakaar was offering. Not just aid, and trade, but friendship. His own friendship, from one man to another. And he knew, now, why Shakaar had invited him here. What was happening up on Deep Space Nine was irrelevant. Whether the Ministers reached and agreement or not wasn't important, because Shakaar was willing to offer everything Bajor could spare, and asking nothing in return but future friendship which would be in both their best interests.

"My people have a democracy now," he told Shakaar, because he wanted to be honest with the man. "My title is only that. I have no real power. I'm not the sole leader of Cardassia."

"And I'm not the sole leader of Bajor," Shakaar replied. "But even within democracies, there must be those who step forward and make their voices heard. People like to follow, whether they are Bajoran, or Cardassian, or even Human. What we've discussed here today, what I offer you now, won't make me a popular man amongst my followers, but I know it's what's best for my people. So I'll accept whatever judgement they wish to pass over me."

"And if the judgement that they pass says you'd be better off not leading anymore?"

"I hope it won't come to that."

Damar looked again at Shakaar's outstretched hand.

"I don't know who will be leading Cardassia in a year's time, or a month's time, or even tomorrow. For all I know, I'll return from this trip to total anarchy." He took a step forward. "All I can promise, here and now, is that I consider you, and Bajor, a friend to Cardassia. And I will accept, on behalf of my people, any aid which Bajor is willing to provide. And I hope that one day, we can repay that generosity in kind."

He grasped the First Minister's hand and shook it, accepting his proposal, binding their planets together in an unwritten treaty of friendship and support. Around them, the Bajorans continued hurrying on their way in the rain, completely oblivious to the political machinations, to history being made right in front of their eyes.

o - o - o - o - o

"And then what happened?"

Gin asked the question as she pushed the escargot shell around her plate, trying to steady it so she could get to the snail inside. She'd decided it was time to introduce Nilka to some alternative invertebrates, and they currently had balcony seats at Quark's along with Ziyra Makala, who'd joined them for a late dinner.

"Hadaran haggled over the price, and Unaran had to go along with it," Nilka said. Unlike Gin, she didn't bother with the tiny fork; she merely picked up a snail shell and slurped the contents down. "I don't know what you said to the man last night, Gin, but whatever you did seems to have worked."

"Oh, I said nothing, really," she said, hoping she didn't sound too modest. "I just reminded him that he'd been picked for the role of Minister for Trade for a reason, and that he had a job to do regardless of whether Damar was around. And I'd appreciate it if you didn't mention my visit with Hadaran to Unaran."

"Why not?"

"Well, after what he said about Damar being too reliant on my advice, I don't want him to accuse me of the same thing with Hadaran."

Makala shook her head. "What are you talking about?"

Nilka cackled. She loved gossip, and promptly filled Makala in on what she'd been missing.

"Minister Unaran has somehow put the idea in Gin's head that the Primarch relies on her advice too much, which is making him weak and putting him in an awkward position with the rest of the council. Gin's worried that Unaran will think she's been interfering with Hadaran the same way."

"Gin," said Makala, resting a slender grey hand on Gin's arm, "you can't trust anything Unaran says. He used to be in the Obsidian Order."

"So did Garak," Gin pointed out, "and I trust him. I'm just glad that Unaran's stopped flirting with me."

Makala scoffed loudly. "He hasn't. He's just changed his methods."

"What do you mean?" Gin couldn't help but frown. She'd thought that Unaran had finally accepted that she had no interest in him, and that his change in behaviour around her signalled a shift in his attitude.

"He's realised that being obsequious isn't working, so he's attempting cool professionalism. Trust me, I know; he tried it with me, too."

"How did you get him to stop?"

"I told him he's not my type."

"So," Gin mused, "you're saying I should be honest and up-front with him? Just tell him that I'm not interested in a relationship with him?"

"Of course not! You should never say that to a man. He'll just think you're playing hard to get."

"But you said it worked for you."

"Yes, well, I'm not you. And we're interested in different types," Makala shrugged.

"Bah, you people and your silly emotion-laden relationships," Nilka scoffed. "If you followed the Ferengi tradition, you wouldn't have any of these problems."

"If we followed the Ferengi tradition we'd be naked and good for nothing but pre-chewing other peoples' food," Makala said wryly.

"Harsh."

"I don't think Makala meant any offence, Nilka," Gin said, trying to smooth over her friend's ruffled feathers. In truth, it was as hard, sometimes, for the Cardassians to accept Ferengi ways, as it was for Nilka to accept Cardassian ways. "We both know you're good for more than pre-chewing food."

"Yes, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to imply that at all," Makala said. "You are a formidable economist. The equal of any male."

"Hmph." Nilka, finally mollified, downed the last of her garlic escargot.

"Makala is right about one thing, though," Gin continued. "For all that Ferengi follow their rules of acquisition and place so much emphasis on professional contracts, they are still subject to their own feelings."

"Pft!"

"I'll prove it. Watch." Gin leant forward over the balcony, and called down to the bar. "Quark!"

"Everything okay with your meal?" he shouted up over the crowd.

"Yes, fine. I was just thinking… before our ship returns to Cardassia, I'd like to get together with you one night to talk about those crates of brandy."

He grinned, and scratched at his lower ear lobe. "My pleasure, Ambassador. Your quarters, or mine?"

"I'll let you know." She turned back to the table. "See?"

"There's a thought," said Nilka. "You could find yourself a man. Unaran wouldn't keep up the games if you were seeing someone else. Would he?" she asked Makala.

"I don't know," the Cardassian woman replied hesitantly. "It's not like I know Unaran well. I can only guess how he might react. In our society, if a man or a woman is courting somebody below his or her social stature, it can be seen as a foolish indulgence. Unaran might simply consider it a challenge to win your attention, especially if the other man in question was below his own rank."

"That sounds needlessly complicated," said Gin. Being Cardassian sounded exhausting. "But that's beside the point. I'm not going to start courting a man just to get Unaran off my back, so to speak. It isn't right."

"Well, that doesn't have to be just why you do it," Nilka grinned. "It's a big, lonely embassy we live in. All those rooms, and nobody but Merak and Telor to occasionally stop over. A little night-time company wouldn't go amiss, would it? Two or three of those junior ministers are fine-looking men."

"I've warned you before about involving me in your man-hunts," Gin warned. "By all means, keep a look-out for your next husband, but leave me out of it."

"Bah, you're no fun! Makala, what about—"

"No," Makala replied, with all the bluntness of a sledge-hammer. "They're not my type."

Nilka held up her hands in defeat. "Alright, I give up. Maybe when we get back to Cardassia I'll work at finding Telor a nice young lady friend. I think it's about time he started having a little fun, and acting more his age. Merak has him studying medicine five days a week. Can you believe it? The poor boy doesn't even have any friends, as far as I know."

Gin rolled her eyes at Makala as Nilka launched into a long tirade about how unfair it was that Telor had to work so hard, and without a mother to make sure he was told about the finer things in life. Gin didn't know why Nilka felt the need to interfere and gossip, but she suspected it was something to do with the fact that for many years, she'd had absolutely no say in her own life, and now she was making up for it by trying to have a say in everybody else's. Gin just hoped that her friend wouldn't go too far; not everybody wanted advice about their lives, no matter how well-intentioned it was.

o - o - o - o - o

"First Minister, we will be docking at Deep Space Nine momentarily."

The pilot's voice came over the comm of the First Minister's private shuttle, stirring Damar from his deep introspection. He'd been mulling over the words of Dukat and his daughter, trying to decide if there was any truth to them. This life, this universe, didn't feel like some sort of comatose hallucination, but he didn't know how he could truly be sure. If everybody he met were simply figments of his imagination, how could he trust anything they might say?

"Thank you," Shakaar replied. Releasing the comm button, he turned to Damar. "This has been an interesting and productive trip, Primarch. I hope that our future meetings will take a similar tone."

"As do I," he agreed. So far, foreign politics seemed much easier and less complicated than domestic politics.

"Your ministers will be glad to have you back within their sights, I'm sure."

"Of that I have no doubt. I just hope they haven't done any serious damage." He knew that he sounded like he didn't trust his ministers, but he couldn't help it. First-hand observation of their constant bickering within the council had soured him on their ability to get things done. He'd already called ahead to Unaran, asking the ministers to meet him in his quarters so that he could discuss their meetings with them, get a sense of how badly they'd gone, and learn how many ruffled Bajoran feathers he'd have to smooth down before leaving.

When the shuttle had finally docked, Shakaar walked him as far as the turbo-lift, then claimed he needed to go and visit Colonel Kira. Damar let him go without ceremony; there was going to be a farewell celebration tomorrow evening, Shakaar had already informed him. There would be plenty of time to say their goodbyes then.

He set off towards the quarters of his delegation. He wasn't particularly in the mood to talk to his ministers, however. All he wanted to do was speak to Gin, and tell her of the unofficial, unwritten but promising treaty of friendship he'd established with Shakaar. He wanted to see the happiness in her face, maybe the admiration in her eyes, when he told her of the aid that Shakaar had promised to Cardassia. She knew that asking for friendship and aid from Bajor was difficult for him, for all Cardassians in fact, and he hoped she'd be pleased that he'd managed to overcome this obstacle for the sake of his people.

The ministers were loitering outside his quarters when he arrived. They didn't immediately greet him with questions about where he'd been and what he'd done for the past two days, which was a pleasant surprise. When he invited them into his quarters, they declined drinks, so he seated them on the sofas and prepared to explain himself.

"First of all, I just want to apologise for leaving you at such short notice. I know I dropped you all in the deep end, but I was confident you would be able to handle the trade negotiations without me." How easily the lies came, these days. There would have been a time when lying would have been very difficult for him; as Garak said, he lacked the imagination. Now, he knew that half of a politician's job was lying for one reason or another. He wasn't willing to lie to the civilians—they had been through more than enough already, been told too many lies in the past—but the men and women of the council were a different matter. If he needed to lie to make them believe he had faith in them, then so be it. As far as lies went, it was fairly harmless. "Please, tell me how things have progressed in my absence."

"Here is a full report, Primarch," said Hadaran. He passed over a padd of data. "We have secured the majority of the trade agreements that we sought. One or two are still in dispute, but I have agreed with my Bajoran counterparts that we can continue negotiations on sub-space."

"I see," he said, glancing at the padd. He hadn't expected Hadaran to be this successful.

"In addition," said Unaran, "the Bajorans are willing to undergo several joint ventures, including limited exploration of the Alpha Quadrant, and some scientific endeavours which Minister Makala was fortuitously present to suggest and oversee." Unaran nodded at the woman, who coolly returned the gesture. "I don't have the data to hand, but I can have it sent to your quarters aboard the Ronak so that you can examine them during the journey home, if you like."

"Based on the results of our negotiations," Nilka said, handing over a padd of her own, "I have drawn up projections for the Cardassian economy based on a two percent growth rate, and have provided figures for one year from now, five years from now and ten years from now, but of course that is reliant upon the Cardassian economy growing at a steady two percent per year over a period no less than—"

"Thank you, Minister Nilka," Damar interrupted. Finances gave him a headache. So, for that matter, did Finance Ministers. "I will certainly review all of your projections. You have my thanks for your hard work. All of you. Together you have achieved more than I could have hoped for."

"Well, I had to prod everyone along a bit," Nilka said, before the other ministers could get a word in edgewise. "But we got there in the end."

"The council have been in touch several times," Unaran informed him, just as Hadaran looked as if he was going to object to Nilka's claim. "They have been asking for your whereabouts. Also, the Captain of the Ronak has received word of a… situation… on one of our colonies."

"Situation?" Damar asked, feeling one of his scaled eyebrows rise questioningly.

"Some disgruntled residents may have planted an explosive device at the dilithium mining facility. Three people have been killed, and the mine has been rendered inoperable. Minister Amaro has dispatched a ship to investigate, and we received their report only a few hours ago. I believe Amaro is ready to send further troops to… what was the phrase?" Unaran asked his colleagues, an innocent expression on his grey face.

"Quell further resistance," Makala said. "His words exactly."

"He plans to declare martial law on the colony," Hadaran added.

"The dilithium mine being shut does nothing for the Cardassian economy," Nilka pointed out.

Damar closed his eyes as his head began to throb. The last thing he wanted was for people to be hurt during a military offensive to restore order, but that's exactly what would happen if Amaro was given free rein. The man believed in showing force to cow his opponents, but a show of force was the wrong way to go about this. Ordinarily peaceful men and women did not blow up infrastructure unless they thought they had good reason. But Amaro wouldn't care about reason, only about action. He saw anybody who was willing to oppose the authority of the council as a threat.

"And we can't have anything threatening the delicate stability you've achieved, can we?" said a new voice. "You know what you have to do. You have to get rid of Amaro. So what if he's a friend? You've done it once before; why would it be any different now?"

He opened his eyes, and knew he'd paled, because he could almost feel the blood rushing away from his head. A man was standing between Nilka and Makala; a man wearing the metallic silver and black uniform of a Cardassian soldier. A man who could be no more real than Gul Dukat or his daughter.

"I am a different man," he whispered.

"What was that, Primarch?" asked Unaran. "I didn't catch what you said.

"Which colony?" Damar asked, tearing his gaze away from Gul Rusot, forcing himself to meet Unaran's near-black eyes.

"Modan Two."

"It's on our flight-path back to Cardassia," he said. "I'll tell Minister Amaro to stand down the additional ships. We'll investigate on our way home."

"Of course we will," said Gul Rusot, unheard by the others. "After all, who would dare stand against the hero of Cardassia? I'm sure they'll fall down in prostration as soon as they hear your name. That's how it goes, isn't it? Everybody worships you because you single-handedly drove the Dominion from Cardassia. Never mind the others with you; the hundreds who died when we were betrayed. The men who helped you build the rebellion in the first place. The men you killed. I guess our names just aren't as memorable."

"Excuse me," Damar said to the ministers, "but I have to go and speak to Ambassador Fox. Diplomatic matters."

"Anything I can be of assistance with, Primarch?" Unaran asked smoothly.

"No, it's just something I need a Federation opinion on."

"The Ambassador's not in her quarters, Primarch," Nilka said, with a helpful smile.

"Do you know where I can find her?"

"Quark's, I think."

"Thank you, Minister. Now, as you've all done such a good job, feel free to have tomorrow to yourselves. See what the Promenade has to offer. There will be a farewell reception in the evening, and I'd like to leave immediately after. I don't want to leave this situation on Modan Two any longer than necessary."

He left the ministers to return to their own quarters and set off to the turbolift which would take him to the Promenade. After living on the station for months during the Dominion's joint-occupation of it, he knew it like the back of his hand, was familiar with all the twists and turns, the corridors which looked alike in every section, and he was able to navigate it with ease. Or so he thought. After he got turned around for a second time, he stopped and looked at the junction name scribed into the wall.

"This is near where you killed her, isn't it?" Rusot asked, appearing from thin air. "Ziyal won't come onto the station, you know. That's why I'm here instead."

"You're not really here," Damar growled. "You're just part of my imagination."

"Of course. Aren't we all?" Rusot scoffed. "Even if you wake up, I'll still be dead. I think the turbolift's down there, by the way."

Damar ignored the direction in which Rusot was pointing and set off down a different corridor. How could he have gotten lost so easily? He'd always had an excellent sense of direction, and this station had once been his home.

"Home to some, tomb to others," Rusot remarked. He was following behind, his footsteps quiet on the carpeted floor. "Come on, Damar, can't we just stop and talk like old times?" Damar ignored his plea. "Tell you what, if I get you to the Promenade, will you talk to me then?"

"I don't need the help of an imaginary dead man to find my way around this station!" he growled angrily

"Oh? Why do you think you're getting lost? This part of your mind is damaged too, you know."

"That's not true! This is real. The station is real. I've just come back from a very real visit to Bajor with a very real First Minister Shakaar."

"And it didn't strike you as odd that he was practically falling over himself to help you?" Rusot scoffed loudly.

Damar said nothing. He had to admit, it was a little strange. But Shakaar had made some very convincing arguments. Not everything had to be about hidden agendas and ulterior motives.

When he finally found the turbolift, he stepped inside and Rusot joined him. "Promenade," he said, and the lift jolted slightly as it began to descend. It stopped at its destination, and Damar stepped out into the throng of people making their way along the Promenade. The faces were of myriad colours, and bodies came in all sorts of shapes and sizes. It no longer disturbed him to be around so many different peoples; at least there were no Breen, here. He didn't think he could tolerate seeing Breen walking free, after everything they had done to his people.

"That's why the Bajorans hate us so much, too," Rusot pointed out. His eyes flickered across the faces in the crowd. "Half of the people here would knife you in the back, if they thought they could get away with it."

Quark's bar loomed into view, an almost garish display of light and sound spilling from its open doorway onto the cool grey floor of the Promenade. Damar could already tell that the place was busy tonight; he could hear the game wheels spinning, the triumphant cries of "Dabo!", the laughter of men and women as they drank and socialised and forgot all about their problems for an evening.

Damar had tried that. Back when the Cardassians and Dominion had joint control of the station, he'd spent many an evening in here, being plied with top-shelf kanar by Quark, trying to forget his problems. Back then, his problems had been pretty small; they amounted to having to work with Kira every day, and being charged with disabling the mine-field that the Federation and the Klingons had erected in front of the wormhole entrance to stop any Dominion reinforcements coming through.

It hadn't been an important problem, at first. Dukat had told him to take his time over it. He'd wanted the Dominion to suffer losses, so that they would be forced to rely on Cardassia for support. Without those Dominion reinforcements; the hundreds of ships, the thousands of Jem'Hadar soldiers—and more importantly, their supplies of ketracel white—Cardassia was an equal partner in the relationship, with the potential of becoming the dominant partner if the war went badly for the Dominion. It was a brilliant plan; the sort of scheme that only Dukat could have come up with. Damar's mentor had always been a great strategist.

But there was only so much delay the Vorta, Weyoun, would tolerate, and the mine-field itself posed some… unique problems. First of all, it was cloaked, which meant the mines were hard to detect. Cloaked mines were nothing new, of course—the Klingons and Romulans had been using them in limited numbers for years—but each mine also had a self-replicating unit attached to it. If its neighbour was detonated, it would replicate a replacement. A diabolical design that had been dreamt up by now–Grand–Nagus Rom.

Each failed test had resulted in a new chewing-out by the Vorta, and each chewing-out had resulted in Damar coming here, to drown his woes. Back then, kanar had eased his frayed nerves and soothed the angry beast that could only growl and gnash its teeth whilst that insufferable little clone-man had given more and more freedoms to the Bajoran security forces, all at the behest of Odo. Towards the end of the Dominion–Cardassian occupation of the station, Quark's had become a home away from home, for Damar.

He scanned the crowd, looking for a familiar human face. It was harder to spot faces, now that they came in all different colours. Back when the Dominion had run things, the faces had mostly been grey. The pale, chalk-grey scaled faces of Cardassian soldiers, and the craggy dark-grey faces of the Jem'Hadar. The latter had no right to be in the bar; they didn't eat, or drink, or gamble, or enjoy the sight of scantily clad dabo girls. And though back then there had been some Bajoran faces in the crowds, there were many more today. Bajorans, Humans, Betazoids, Ktarians, Kobheerians, even a couple of Nausicans who were probably somebody's muscle.

"Disgusting, isn't it?" Rusot remarked. "All these aliens, on a proud Cardassian station. It was never intended for this."

"No. It was intended for slave labour ore processing," Damar reminded him. "I think I prefer it this way."

He couldn't see Gin at first, but when he finally spotted her, laughing with a group of Starfleet officers—he recognised a couple of them as Deep Space Nine crew members—as she threw a small dart at a board on the wall, he hung back. She looked happy. Sort of how she'd looked happy when her brother, Paul, had visited her on Cardassia. She was smiling and joking in a way that she never did back home. How easily she'd made friends here. After more than three months on Cardassia, she still had only a handful of people with whom she was close enough to call 'friend,' and one of those was a Ferengi.

"I used to think that kanar was your weakness," said Rusot, standing beside him and watching the group of officers at their game. "Now I suspect it's women."

Damar gave a dismissive snort, but Rusot ploughed on.

"I mean, you killed me for one woman, and now you're killing Cardassia for another."

"I didn't kill you for Kira," he countered. "I killed you because you couldn't accept change. Because you could never have lived in a new Cardassia."

"Err, did you just say something?" Quark appeared by his side, looking confused and a little concerned.

"No," he replied. "It's nothing."

"Uh-huh. I see. Have you been drinking, by any chance?"

"No," he said curtly, scowling at the short Ferengi. Quark had always had a big mouth, for such a little man.

"Do you want a drink?"

"No, I'm not in the mood."

"Well in that case, do you have any particular reason for standing in the middle of my bar, impeding the flow of people and staring at my paying customers?"

"I was hoping to speak to the ambassador," he admitted, "but I don't want to interrupt her game."

"Ahh. Well, I'd offer to tell her that you stopped by, but we have a date later this evening." Quark gave him a suggestive grin.

"Right," he scoffed. He didn't believe that for a moment. Gin had far better taste. She could have her pick of men on any world.

"It's true. Now, if you're not going to sit down and order something to drink, or join one of the dabo tables, I'd appreciate it if you'd make room for someone who actually wants to spend some latinum tonight."

Damar didn't bother even trying to argue. Sure, he could point out that he was the Primarch of the whole Cardassian Union, but Quark, like Kira, didn't see the Primarch; he just saw Damar. Damar, who had been a glinn and then a gul, and then a man who'd drunk too much kanar for too long. It was hard to look up to a man when you'd served his drinks, seen him blind drunk, and listened to his childish whining. So Damar could forgive Quark for his poor manners. Besides, it was a refreshing change. Most people were guardedly polite around him, to the extent that now it just felt false.

"You know," said Rusot, as Damar made his way out of Quark's, "I'm actually glad that you killed me. If this is how you're going to be running Cardassia when you get yourself out of this coma, I'm glad I won't be around to see it. Everything that I love, gone. Destroyed because you're trying to make Cardassia softer. More caring. Like the Federation. But it won't be Cardassia any longer, if you do that. Maybe you should change its name to Caredassia. Make it sound more friendly to the rest of the Alpha Quadrant. That's what you want, isn't it?"

"What I want," Damar snapped, "is to go about my business without being constantly harassed by dead people!"

Too late did he realised he'd spoken aloud, on the very bustling Promenade. The people closest to him gave him concerned looks and edge around him, not wasting any time in hurrying away. Damar helped them along with a scowl. Great. Just great. Now he looked like a man-mad. Well, he probably was mad. He'd resisted the Dominion, followed a Bajoran, been brought back from the brink of death, brought democracy to Cardassia, and now he was being haunted by the ghosts of his past who claimed that he was simply living an illusion and that he was still comatose in a hospital.

This, he realised, was not the life of an entirely sane man. But that didn't matter. He didn't need to be entirely sane; just sane enough to help his people get through this terrible hardship. Just sane enough to build a new civilisation from the ruins of its predecessor. It was a job, he suspected, that no sane man would willingly accept. Probably a good thing, then, that he was a little bit crazy.

He didn't feel like returning to his quarters on the station—Rusot would only keep talking at him, preventing him from sleeping—so he wandered for a while without paying attention to his surroundings. Rusot kept up the constant stream of conversation, making small observations, most of them petty, asking questions which Damar refused to answer, and generally making a nuisance of his imaginary self.

"Primarch? Is everything okay?"

Damar stopped walking and looked up into a concerned grey scaled face. Then he realised he was at the airlock door, where the Ronak was docked. The young soldier on duty outside the ship's door must have seen him coming from all the way down the corridor. Quickly, Damar tried to think back, to recall whether he'd been admonishing Rusot to be quiet. He didn't think he had. At least, he hoped he hadn't.

"Yes, I'm fine, thank you," he replied, and turned away from the airlock. Then he stopped, and turned back, looking at the man's face. "I know you." A name leapt into his mind. "Ekoor, right?"

"That's right." Ekoor looked pleased. "I'm surprised you remember me, Primarch."

"Remember you? You were a part of the Resistance; of course I remember you!"

"I played only a small part."

"There are no small parts, in a resistance. Every man is an equal," Damar told him.

Ekoor smiled. "That was one of Colonel Kira's sayings, wasn't it?"

"I suppose it was." He hadn't realised, when he'd said it, but it was something Kira had told him during the early days of their resistance. "And it was no small part you played. You saved my life, and the lives of Garak and Kira. Without you, we would be long dead, and Cardassia would be just one more conquered Dominion territory."

Suddenly, he was struck by a strong feeling of guilt. Ekoor, and the half-dozen soldiers who'd been sent to Mila's house to execute the last of the Rebellion, had not only saved Damar's life, but had risked their own lives on an assault on the Dominion Headquarters. And since waking from his coma, he hadn't given a single one of them even a moment's thought.

"You've not woken from your coma yet," Rusot pointed out.

Damar ignored him, and turned to Ekoor. "I didn't know you were serving on the Ronak. I didn't see you on our last trip to Deep Space Nine."

"I was only transferred a couple of weeks ago," Ekoor replied. "I think it's more convenient for the council to have me here."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, when we drove the Dominion back to the Gamma Quadrant, I thought things would be different on Cardassia. I thought you'd died. They told everybody you'd died. So I thought it was up to me to keep the spirit of the resistance alive, to speak as one of the only surviving military personnel to have been in the resistance. But other than Garak, nobody would listen to me. I'm just a soldier, not even a glinn, and I don't have a single white in my hair."

Damar nodded. A young man like Ekoor, without outstanding academic qualifications, only a few years into his military career, would not have been taken seriously. Damar knew how that felt; he'd been that young man, once. His whole life had changed when he'd been assigned to Dukat's ancient freighter, the Groumall. His whole life had changed because one great man had taken an interest in him.

"What are you doing right now?" he asked Ekoor.

"I'm on duty. I'm what stands between the Ronak and the hordes of murderous Bajorans," Ekoor scoffed.

"Not anymore. You can join me in my quarters, and tell me of what you've been up to since the end of the war. And tell me what happened to the others who joined us in that final assault."

"But Primarch—"

"None of that 'Primarch' nonsense, Ekoor," Damar warned. "Just a few months ago, you and I were outlaws living in the same parkat-hole. You've no need to use a title with me."

"Very well… Damar," Ekoor acceded. "But that doesn't change the fact that I'm on duty."

"Not for much longer. I'll ask Captain Madar to send a replacement for you. We have a lot of catching up to do."

Ekoor looked completely flummoxed as Damar contacted the Ronak's captain and requested a new guard for the airlock door, but Damar didn't care. This was a rare chance to speak with someone who'd been there, right in the thick of it, during the final days of the resistance. Ekoor would be able to tell him things the council could not, and Damar might actually get an honest, straightforward opinion for once.

"You can't keep running from me, Damar," Rusot pointed out. But Damar ignored his dead friend. Coma or not, Rusot was gone, and for the moment, Damar had more important things to think about.