"Did you know who I was?" asked Lora. "Before Bashir spoke to us, told you our names, before you observed his work on Bajor. Had you heard of me?"
"I hadn't heard your name," said Garak.
They were standing together over Garak's pattern table, and although she was talking, Lora was paying very keen attention as he showed her how they measured the inner lining of the Glinn's new sleeve, such that it would match exactly the lining on the inside of the other – the outer damage could easily be repaired, but the lining had torn in such a way that attempting to sew shut the rip would only make it pucker and rub against the skin.
"But you'd heard of me," said Lora.
"I'd heard of the girl," said Garak, "who was the child of a Bajoran and a Legate's wife, who carried the Legate's name, and the Legate treated as his own."
"That's not exactly true," said Lora.
No, it wasn't, and yes, Garak had certainly heard her name before, although he'd never thought she was so young, and never thought to look into her, never thought even to think about her, not really.
He had known of Legate Ligor long before Ligor ever married – he remembered when he had first begun to work in the clerical office in Cardassia City, when he was little more than a junior probe, and Ligor's name had been something of a joke for a little while, because rumour had it he was searching for a wife. Among the Order's operatives, there was some humour to be found in whatever poor woman found him attached to her like an anchor too heavy for a ship, dooming it to sink.
Garak had never quite liked the tone of those jokes, or the conversations people had about him – the intelligence was quite frank about what his mother had done to him, over the years, the tortures she'd laid on his back, not to mention the rest of his body. He had never found any humour in rumours of his likely infertility, and even less in the gossip the other probes gleefully bandied about, that the scars in that area were self-inflicted, not like the rest – that Ligor had attended himself, that he not impregnate his own mother.
Garak was oversensitive at the time – perhaps he'd known without knowing, in the mythical subconscious the Federaji were so concerned with, who Tain was to him, even before Tolan had told him the truth himself – but now, the facts were just that: facts.
There was no sense being sensitive about them, although there was equally little sense in hurting Lora's feelings.
"I had heard Ligor's wife had taken a Bajoran for her bed," said Garak. "That they'd had a child together – that they required a Vulcan doctor to aid the process, to avoid undue harm to mother and child. Cardassian men easily father alien children; the same cannot be said of Cardassian women, and so it's a rare happenstance."
"They laughed at him on Terok Nor, didn't they? Paying for a doctor so that a ridge-nosed monkey could cuckold him entirely?"
"They did," said Garak, remembering one conversation or other overheard as he ate or tailored trousers. There was no point in hurting Lora's feelings, no, but that didn't mean entirely protecting her from the truth she already knew.
"Skrain Dukat got him that doctor," said Lora.
That, Garak hadn't known, but he didn't allow it to show in his face, simply giving a natural inclination of his head. "Dukat has always liked to be known for his generosity, my dear."
Lora took the laser scalpel, and with smooth, neat movements – she had marvellously steady hands, and he had examined the fine work of her Bajoran embroidery with some pleasure when first she had exhibited it to him – she cut the pattern out.
"He would meet with him, Ligor," said Lora. "We had a house in Dukhasa Province, in a town a little ways out, but Ligor wouldn't ordinarily be out of the city – he'd be in the city proper, with a few rooms, an office, a parlour. My father was a sailor, and his name was Adorak Morda. He used to work the docks, and he quietly took his D'jarra quite seriously, although they're long-since abandoned by most people on Bajor now. Cardassians don't have castes, do they?"
"Not officially," said Garak.
Lora let out a low, derisive sound, much like one of Odo's disapproving grunts, and Garak turned away that she not see his private smile.
"Your mother let him stay a sailor?" Garak asked.
"At first. He ran afoul of a dockmaster, lost his leg after a disruptor blast. He always stayed at home, after that – he had a prosthetic, and he was still quite quick on his feet, but he couldn't lift or climb like he used to. He sewed sails, repaired them – that's where I learned to sew."
"You stayed with him and your mother?"
"Not often, actually, by the time I was eight or nine. I'd been taken by resistance fighters before, when I was very young, three or four, and later on, there was… another incident. Ligor didn't want me unprotected. He didn't consider my mother or father to be particularly capable of looking after me."
"You loved him."
"Ligor or Adorak?"
"Whichever."
"Yes," said Lora.
"And your mother?"
Lora smiled. "Ligor never wanted children. He told me that. He and my mother agreed they'd not have any, but she changed her mind, seeing other people have children. I did love her, and she loved me, but there were complexities there."
"You ruined her perfect fantasy of motherhood, I take it?"
"I did, but not in the way you think," said Lora. "She wanted to be a mother, she just didn't want to be mine. She couldn't socialise with other Cardassian mothers, you see – she was physically, biologically, literally, a mother. But she wasn't a servant of Cardassia, not with a Bajoran half-breed. It soured it for her – she couldn't join in with social events, could hardly arrange playdates for me, let alone go to groups for Cardassian mothers."
Garak examined her expression, listened carefully to the delicacy in her tone, and said, "You don't sound as though you blame her."
"I don't blame any of them. All three of them loved me, cared for me, tried to protect me. It's not their fault they were each in their own ways stupid and naïve."
"Dukat's always had an affection for the naïve."
"Would you call it an affection?"
"I believe I just did."
"Ligor wasn't what he wanted. He was just an obstacle between him and my parents – and between him and me. You know about her, don't you?"
Her, where Dukat was concerned, could refer to quite a few people – six or seven significant names came immediately to mind. "Her?" Garak repeated innocently.
"Tora Naphrem."
"She wore aquas and greens," said Garak. "They brought out the delicate colour of her eyes – she was insecure about them, how colourless they were, that wan grey. Dukat certainly walked a delicate line replenishing that insecurity and comforting it in turns."
"You know she had a daughter?"
Garak remembered adjusting the waistline of Naphrem's dress, her eyes teary and downcast.
"I didn't," he said softly. "When she fell pregnant, I thought he had her killed."
"I expect he has by now," said Lora, and he put his hand on her wrist, stopping her before she could falter as she cut out her next pattern piece, before she could cut it wrong. "Their daughter was called Ziyal. She was a nice girl. Sweet – I would love to say she was spoilt or lucky, to explain why she was always so soft and warm where I'm hard and cold, but she wasn't either, really. I suppose I just let the water run over me, let it cut me down like running water over stone – she flowed with it."
"You survived," Garak said.
"You're not stupid," said Lora. "You know full well survival is about luck and circumstance."
"I don't believe in luck, child," said Garak. "But I do believe in unpredictable circumstances – and I believe in adaptability. You adapt to unpredictability, and thus, you survive."
"How much of me has survived?" asked Lora, and then met his gaze, her eyes astonishingly cold. "How much of you?"
Garak did not allow himself to show his displeasure. It was natural that a youth should test her boundaries, and Garak could deny a great many things, but not nature.
"A Cardassian does not survive in parts or fractions," Garak advised her softly, injecting enough venom into his own voice that Lora shivered and broke their locked gazes. "We do not believe in souls or paghs, child. We are ourselves, and we are Cardassia. That is as much as we are divided. If you survived, you survived. Anything you "lost", as you call it, is no more lost to you than shed scale, sloughed off like dead skin."
"That's the difference between you and I," said Lora. "You're wholly Cardassian – I'm half-Bajoran, and of my Cardassian parts, Cardassia has claim to nothing."
Garak clucked his tongue in disapproval. "My dear child, you're young—"
"And you're old," she retorted, interrupting him before he could go on. "Can't we just agree that youth is as implacable as age and leave it at that?"
Garak laughed, unable not to, and he gestured for her to start working again, nodding when she set to sewing the two pieces of sleeve together correctly this time, with no more error in the process.
"I don't like him," said Lora quietly. "On a personal level, of course I don't, but I mean… Instinctively, he unnerves me. Offsets me. He's an unpredictable element, if you want to make it about being unpredictable."
"Dukat is very predictable," said Garak. "So long as he's contained."
"Everything's predictable," replied Lora sarcastically, "So long as nothing unpredictable happens."
Garak beamed. "Precisely, my dear."
Lora huffed out an irritable laugh, shaking her head, and she looked down to her needle and thread.
"I'll look into Tora Ziyal," said Garak. "It could be that she's still alive."
"Maybe," said Lora dryly. "Perhaps everyone thought dead lives after all."
"Like Rugal, you mean?"
Lora exhaled, and pressed her lips together. "Look then," she said, "if it pleases you to do so. If it makes you feel better."
She allowed no hope to creep into her voice, which Garak was pleased to hear. He squeezed her shoulder, and for the time being walked away.
"Doctor Julian Bashir," said Dukat, his voice sweet and syrupy as poison sap.
"Gul Skrain Dukat," replied Julian evenly, and watched Dukat's expression falter, obviously uncomfortable with his forename said so loudly and confidently on the Promenade. Culturally, there was a big difference between a Cardassian first name and a Human's, but as far as etiquette went, he'd only mirrored what Dukat had started.
"Where is Councillor Pa'Dar?" asked Dukat imperiously.
"He's busy," said Julian, spreading his hands in a Cardassian gesture of polite helplessness. It wasn't exactly like a shrug – Garak had said with some wry consideration that the helplessness the gesture communicated was rarely intended to be sincere.
"I'm told you're a student of Kardasi," said Dukat, and it was impossible to tell if he was really wryly amused or just disapproving. Julian's skin prickled with discomfort at the way Dukat's eyes moved over his body, at the way Dukat took him in.
He didn't have a contingent like Limor Prang did, or like Pa'Dar, accompanying him, although Julian could see his second, Damar, speaking seriously with one of the engineers that was overseeing their docking paperwork.
To Julian's surprise, his accent wasn't like Pa'Dar's aristocratic one, and nor was it like Garak or Prang's, the "neutral" upper middle class city accent that Julian was learning to mimic himself.
Dukat's voice was far more provincial than he ever could have expected. He knew enough of what Cardassian voices sounded like, too, to understand what Cardassians meant when they wryly said that Dukat was highly-sexed even when they didn't know about his reputation with women, especially Bajoran ones – Dukat's voice constantly had that slight, resonant purr to it that most Cardassians only displayed when they were aroused.
"I didn't know you didn't grow up on Cardassia Prime," said Julian in warm, friendly tones. He used a superior pronoun for Dukat, but only adjusted his manner of speech for Dukat's military rank, treating Dukat as though the two of them were the same age. Dukat's expression was flat and carefully frozen in response – Prang would know it was on purpose, and by now, Julian expected Pa'Dar would know too, but how was Dukat supposed to know?
Julian itched for Dukat to try to correct him.
"You're from Cardassia… III?"
"I lack the privilege of your upbringing, Doctor," said Dukat. He emphasised the seniority of his age in the pronoun and appended it to the title, even though it was technically redundant. "I grew up in a simple, static home – my youth lacked the excitement of yours, I'm sure, travelling from planet to planet, house to house… Fitting that you should settle on a station, ever in motion, the people always changing."
It was a subtle insult. Julian guessed he'd rehearsed it in advance after he'd been handed the file of background research one of his underlings had done on Julian, though he felt a little sick at the idea of an intelligence service looking into his background more seriously, not in the casual, surface-level way whatever soldier or clerk had looked into him with on Dukat's behalf.
It was a more meaningful insult to a Cardassian than to a Human, but the implication still carried – of a broken home, an incomplete home, a home that by definition would result in an unfinished man.
Dukat wasn't to know, of course, that Julian had been professionally finished, and was arguably more finished than Dukat ever could be.
"You could always travel now," said Julian pleasantly. "Make up for lost time," Dukat made a slight face at that, confusion rather than distaste or superiority, and Julian made a mental note to ask Garak how to communicate that meaning in Kardasi, because something was obviously wrong in his construction, "I'm sure the military would get on without you."
Dukat smiled. "But it wouldn't, Doctor – not all of us can be so easily replaced with the next child out of Starfleet Academy." He was pushing Julian's youth very hard, and Julian almost opened his mouth to reply before Dukat tacked on: "Although I'm sure you won't encourage anyone to harm you, and necessitate such a replacement."
That recontextualised vague insult and condescension as a threat. It was amazing, how fast the beaming smile came to Julian's face before he could even come close to thinking up a reply. The smile was his armour, a weapon in itself – you had to fight a Cardassian with their own weapons.
Dukat's own smile had taken on a wooden sheen.
Julian didn't know if it was that falter of Dukat's that urged his brain on to respond, or whether it was the rush the smile gave him in itself, but the reply came to mind so easily, ready to leap off of his tongue.
"You're worried if anything happened to you, there'd be no one good enough to serve as your replacement?" asked Julian. He said it very loudly, in his best Kardasi, so that Damar could hear it as he came from the docking port, at the same time as two members of Prang's team came from behind Julian. He put as much faux concern into it as he could. "I had no idea the Cardassian Military was under such a strain after the Occupation, and been made so weak. The weight of Cardassia must be heavy on one man's shoulders."
It was despicable in Cardassian eyes, to be an individual against the collective, and he was really very proud of his construction – he didn't think he'd made any big errors as he spoke, and he was fairly certain what he'd said had landed with full weight. It would be one thing, for Julian to insult Cardassia – it was another, for him to make out as if Dukat had, and he was just innocently responding.
Kardasi was no longer the language of Deep Space Nine, but it was widely spoken enough, and understood by enough UTs, that several people looked over with interest, and that didn't matter in itself, except to put salt in the wound.
What mattered was the anger in Dukat's eyes, the indignation – and to Julian's surprise, there was even more anger in Damar's eyes as he stalked forward. Damar's hand was clenched into a fist, and Julian stumbled back as the other man came into his space, but Damar grabbed him by the front of his jacket and hauled him closer. It really didn't matter that Julian was a bit taller than Damar when Damar was built like he was, stocky, a soldier, and so strong.
Julian was stronger, but not strong in a way he could show.
"Sir?" asked Damar, his hand twitching at his side, as though to go to his phaser, and Julian understood in a very abrupt, chilling way that he'd gone too far.
He didn't want to apologise, and readied himself to punch Damar in the side, to wind him and drop him onto the floor, but a warm hand alighted on Julian's shoulder, a body almost seeming to materialise behind him, and Julian knew without looking that it was Prang.
Damar skittered back like he'd been burned, bowing his head so that he didn't look up and into Prang's eyes.
"Legate Prang," said Dukat, giving a deferential bow of his head and not quite meeting Prang's eye himself. The anger was still on his face, though, and Damar was almost stalking as he went to stand beside Dukat, radiating a dangerous fury.
"Are we in the habit of posturing so violently at the petty incivilities of children, Corat?" asked Prang in a soft, terrifying voice, and when Damar whirled on them Julian stepped back against Prang before he even realised, his shoulders hitting Prang's chest. Prang wasn't just tall, and didn't just appear taller than he was – he must have been six foot four to Julian's five eleven, and Julian was grateful he was there, but wished it was Garak.
How could he not?
Damar was almost snarling – he spoke fast, used a working-class city dialect that Julian had trouble keeping up with even with the UT, but he understood "grievous insult of his superiors" and "can be treated like a Cardassian until he doesn't like the consequences" and "wide-eyed little bitch".
"Who, precisely," Julian started, "are you calling a—" Julian swallowed a cry of pain as Prang squeezed hard on the juncture of his neck, muffling the sound but not stopping it entirely, and at that, at least, Damar looked satisfied, although his lip was still curled.
Dukat looked positively smug.
"Isn't it really appropriate to allow Damar to tend to this, Legate?" he asked softly. The title was so steeped in deference, with modifiers for age, superiority, class, and expertise that it couldn't really be heard as anything but sarcastic. "One wouldn't want to think of you stooping."
"Do you consider it stooping to educate a child, Dukat?" replied Prang in his soft, severe voice, unmoved. "Do you consider the core of fatherhood a chore?"
Dukat didn't respond anything like the way he had with Julian, but stiffened, straightened his back, downcast his eyes again. "Of course not," he said. Almost cowed, he added, "Sir," and the deference was real this time, if motivated by fear rather than sincerity.
Julian didn't receive any warning before Prang pressed hard either side of his upper back, where the flesh joined his shoulders to his neck – he squeezed not on the tendons or muscle, but on loose flesh, and yet with how hard he did it, how much pressure he put between his thumbs and fingers, Julian was almost certain the skin was going to split.
He managed not to cry out openly, but he let out a muffled grunt and tears came to his eyes; something told him not to try to twist away or try to grab at Prang, let alone to wrestle away from the pain, but it seemed to go on for half an eternity before Prang finally let him go, and Julian heaved in a harsh gasp.
"Greet the Gul as etiquette dictates," Prang intoned from behind him as Julian reached up and hurriedly wiped at his eyes with his sleeve, certain that under his shirt, black bruises were blossoming where Prang had burst capillaries under the skin. "His second, too."
Julian's skin was hot and flushed, and a part of him – a part of him he wasn't particularly proud of, but one that wasn't going anywhere soon – found something about Prang publicly disciplining him where everyone could see a bit hot, even though he was pretty sure that Prang intended nothing lascivious in it whatsoever.
Straightening his back, he put up one hand, trying to ignore the visible tremble in his fingers, and said in as controlled a voice as he could, "Your presence is honoured, Gul Dukat, and I mark it here."
It wasn't quite as polite a phrasing – nor as personal – as the one he'd given the Councillor, but he did use the proper modifiers on Dukat's title now, and to his intense displeasure, Dukat looked delighted, a beam breaking out across his lips.
"See that, Damar," he said approvingly, and Julian tried not to react at the familiarity he used, using an affectionate modifier Julian didn't know very well, "you don't have to worry as much as you did about the tailor teaching him to be uncouth. Others will step up to take him in hand."
Julian lifted his hand higher, but Dukat grabbed it and shook his hand the Human way. Julian's nose wrinkled before he could stop himself, and that was before Dukat's second hand landed on top of Julian's, both of his hands clutching him: Dukat's skin was hotter and dryer than Julian's, but slid over Julian's eased by Julian's sweat, played over the inside of his wrist, squeezed tightly, until Julian twisted his wrist and withdrew his hand.
"Glinn Damar," said Julian, not putting up his hand but instead flattening his arm over his chest and giving a bowed inclination of his head – he outranked Damar, and he let that show in the modifier he used, almost spitefully, but to his surprise, Damar didn't seem at all displeased.
His anger had faded, and although he frowned – Julian didn't know that Damar did anything but frown – there seemed to be approval in his expression as he returned the bow, and said, "Doctor Bashir."
"Good," said Prang.
"Councillor Pa'Dar will be delayed at least another hour," said Julian, trying his best not to sniffle as he inhaled, resisting the urge to wipe his eyes again. "But I can show you to a meeting room to wait, Gul, and I can have something brought from the Replimat for you."
"That would be wonderful," purred Dukat. His hands were over his hips as he looked Julian up and down, lingering over Julian's chest, his waist, his head tilting as he looked down Julian's legs, and Julian stiffened, his lip curling, but before he could say something, Prang interrupted.
"Meeting room B-5?" asked Prang.
Julian nodded.
"My men and I have been working with Pa'Dar's people next door – come, Skrain, Corat, I'll show the two of you over. You might wish to alert Commander Sisko of their arrival, and go via the Replimat before you join us."
"Yes, sir," said Julian, and he hoped the gratitude showed in his face as he met Prang's neutral expression and nodded his head, even though he didn't say thanks out loud.
Odo fell into step beside him.
"Thanks for stepping in," said Julian savagely.
"Damar hadn't struck you yet," said Odo, shrugging.
"I didn't realise what he wanted at first – when his hand twitched, I thought he wanted to go for his phaser! Would you have stopped him if he had beaten me?"
"Of course," said Odo, crossing his arms and moving his neck slightly, disapproval showing in his features. "He would have been within rights to beat you were this still Terok Nor, but it isn't anymore – the new station regulations would define such discipline as assault. He wouldn't have bruised your neck like Prang did. I'm surprised you let him do that."
"If Damar had beaten me, it would have been across my hands or thighs," muttered Julian, feeling a flush rise high in his cheeks at the thought, burning under his skin. "At least only the Cardassians and you really noticed that Prang was hurting me – I wouldn't have put it past Damar to bend me over."
"I thought that was what you were asking for," said Odo, and Julian elbowed him in the side, making Odo give him a wounded, baffled look.
"Obviously I wouldn't have said that if I knew it was a beating offence," he hissed. "I was just trying to show Dukat up!"
"Well, you did that," said Odo, releasing an amused hmph. "I hope it was worth being disciplined like a child. It's not unheard of, disciplining favoured aliens as children instead of as adults, with the same expectation of limited capacity, but it does have…" Odo made one of his usual, throaty sounds. "Connotations."
"What, everyone thinks I'm fucking Prang now too?"
Odo looked at him flatly. "Of stupidity, Doctor, not… sexual involvement."
"Oh," said Julian. "That's fine, then."
"Is it?"
"Of course," he said. "I'm not an airhead and I'm only sleeping with Garak, but I'd rather people think of me as the first one than sleeping with other Cardassians. It's a lot easier to disprove."
"What have you done to make Prang like you so much?"
"He likes children," muttered Julian, and he felt more embarrassment rise in his neck and his cheeks as Odo looked at him with his eyebrows raised. "He likes that I'm smart, I think – that I'm learning. That I'm trying. You saw him there: even after taking over my discipline," Julian's shoulders were starting to throb, adrenaline wearing off and making the pain rise to the surface, "he told me what to do, praised me when I did it right. Why, do you know Prang well?"
"I never met him before he came to DS9. I had heard of him, that he was very quiet, but I know little about him except that he's known for high expectations and a distinct attention to detail."
"Oh, I see," said Julian. "You like the sound of him because he's like a Cardassian you."
Odo smirked, raising his chin. "I've already advised Commander Sisko of Dukat's arrival, and Major Kira, too."
"You think Prang will give me a smack if I bring them Bajoran food instead of Cardassian?"
"Maybe," said Odo. "But Dukat likes to telegraph his affection for all things Bajoran. You might be better off bringing a Vulcan selection, ostensibly with enough for Prang's contingent, too."
"Constable Odo," said Julian, wiping off the last of the wetness around his eyes, "you're quite nefarious under all that beige, aren't you?"
"I have to keep my wits about me to match Quark."
"Oh, I'm sure," said Julian, and gave Odo a small smile before he went in the direction of the Replimat.
