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In Plain Sight

It has been said that Cardassians have no hearts.

This is, of course, untrue. Any being that derives sustenance from an external source — nutrition, respiration, hydration — must have some means of delivering that sustenance throughout its body. Thus, a circulatory system is necessary, and with it, some mechanism for its operation: a heart.

But he understands the analogy of the statement, because he's heard it so many times before. He's even suggested it might be true. It's camouflage, obfuscation, misdirection. Lies within lies within lies, until the truth is exposed in plain sight yet impossible to see.

Cardassians have hearts. This he knows. For he has seen the risks a Cardassian might take over an affair of the heart. And as he lay dying, acknowledging the son thus created, he opens his heart's eyes and, finally, sees that truth within his own life.

She comes to him upon his promotion to the upper echelons of the order, as one of the rewards that include, among other things, a private home in an exclusive area of the city. Looking down and speaking in a soft voice, she gives her name as Mila Garak and states her purpose: to provide him with housekeeping and "any other services that you may require." It's obvious what she expects the nature of those services to be.

She's startlingly beautiful, with lustrous hair and eyes wise beyond her obvious youth. In that moment, he decides that he will indeed avail himself of those other services. Yet the first time he reaches for her, he finds himself pausing at the mixture of fear and expectation in those arresting eyes.

"I do not require your assistance with this matter after all," he says, after a long, charged moment. His voice is harsher than he'd intended.

"I apologize that my employer does not find me sufficient," she says softly, once again dropping her gaze.

"There may come a time when I do require such services," he replies, "but that time has not yet arrived. Carry on with your other duties." He dismisses her and, as she raises her head to see her way out, he sees a spark of something else flash through her eyes, something that is neither fear nor expectation. He's not quite sure what it is, and he dismisses the thought that it might be intriguing to find out.

There is plenty of intrigue in his life already.

After this, she quietly fades into the background, always present, yet never obtrusive. Yet the evidence of her influence resonates throughout the house. His favorite dishes are prepared whenever he may be in residence. His bed is soft and fresh; and in the mornings, his overnight companions want for nothing prior to their departure.

Sometimes days will pass, even when he is present, when he does not actually see her. The house seems to simply keep itself, but then he will discover her, quietly humming as she places folded linens into a closet or looking at him with startled surprise when she emerges from the root cellar with her arms full of produce.

In time, he chooses to avail himself of those other services. She is quietly efficient in that area too, yet there is still the occasional mysterious flash in her eyes. He likes to imagine it might be something more than duty, something beyond obligation, but she never speaks of anything like that.

Instead, she is quiet immediately afterward, not cluttering the silence with frivolous talk. When they're both breathing normally again, he'll finally hear that soft, melodious voice. "Will you require anything further, sir?"

At first, he dismisses her with a curt — though not impolite — negative. Sometimes he reminds her of something needing doing; she nods and ensures its completion before he emerges from the bedroom. Outside of the chamber, he never sees anything other than the quiet, efficient housekeeper she had appeared to be when she first presented herself in his office.

One night, though, when spring is in bloom and the scent of orchids fills the air, he finds himself starting the conversation. "Are you the one who straightened my study while I was gone?"

"I see to it personally, sir." By this point, she has asked and received permission to occasionally hire temporary staff, particularly during the twice-yearly deep cleaning or when he will be in the city for long stretches. He's pleased that she understands that some places, though, must never be seen by outside eyes.

"You have developed a very efficient filing system," he observes. "I take it you can read, then?"

"Of course, sir." There's something that might be surprise in her expression. "I'm sure I'm not at your level, but reading is necessary to ensure that the household papers and accounts are properly maintained."

"You've seen the notes about the increasing pro-Bajoran sentiment among the people, then."

"I would never presume —"

He keeps his voice quiet, calm. He isn't upset. "Yes or no, Mila."

She lowers her eyes. "Yes. But I do not read anything beyond what is necessary to classify the documents for filing. Such matters are no business of mine."

"Does it seem to you, as it seems to others, that there is an interesting juxtaposition of the increase in pro-Bajoran sentiment and the strengthening of the Federation presence near the Orias sector?"

Her eyes are still lowered. "I may read parts of the documents, sir, but analysis is beyond my abilities."

"If I wanted professional analysis, I would ask a professional analyst. I am asking you because I'd like to know what a common citizen, knowing what you know, might think."

There is another of the mysterious flashes in her eyes, and he understands that she is thinking carefully. With a start, he realizes that she is far more intelligent than he had first believed. Or that she wishes to appear.

An intelligence like that, he knows, can understand the concept of playing a role. She would know, too, that successfully doing so would require completely subsuming the self into that role for a significant period, perhaps even one's entire life.

She may even be doing just that.

"It appears," she says slowly, bringing him out of his musings before they reach any conclusion, "that the Bajoran problem may lead to more consequences than the Detapa Council and Central Command originally intended."

He's often thought the same thing. "What brings you to that opinion?"

Her eyes now have gone completely opaque. "A questioned leadership is a weakened leadership, and a weakened leadership is a defensive one. When on the defensive, one must pay more attention to practical matters and thus less attention to making significant decisions. Thus, those suffer, and it begins a circular cycle."

She is definitely more intelligent than he'd realized. "Yet the leader that ignores 'practical matters' is one that might find himself unaware of the changing needs of those he leads." A smile tugs at his lips, though with her head bowed she must be unable to see it. "I am the leader of this house, you know."

"Of course, sir."

"Do you not feel I should spend more time attending to the more mundane activities of its operation, then? Paying attention to the small details?"

She raises her head. "No. That is why I am here."

It's only later that he realizes she did not call him sir.

He watches her more closely after that conversation, and that is how he learns that she has, indeed, quietly slipped into a role more akin to senior administrator than housekeeper. She never questions his authority or steps outside of her own; she's made it clear she would never presume. But all details of his planet-side life are handled entirely at her direction. In her own way she subtly directs a part of his life simply by managing all of its daily functions.

In that moment, he realizes why many leaders have such strong relationships with lowly administrators. Like them, she is important, possibly even critical, to his success. He must not risk the possibility of her betrayal. He couldn't stand to lose her. And so he decides to take steps intended to bind her closer to him.

It's for protection, he tells himself. Before one can address the enemy ahead, one must ensure there are no enemies within. Loyalty is paramount, and cannot be earned by position alone.

So he brings her presents from time to time, trinkets from the places he travels in his service to the Order. She accepts them graciously, sometimes even with a smile, and every now and then he sees the barest hint of something that might be more. It never lasts long enough to identify, though, which leaves him curious.

It's when he presents her with a length of high-quality Risian silk that he successfully recognizes another of the nuances in her expression. "You find this amusing."

She drops her eyes. "Only in the most benign of ways, sir. It is no comment about the quality of your generosity."

"Come now, Mila. There is a difference between humor and gratitude. I don't doubt the latter," he continues, carefully shielding his own realization that he isn't as sure as he sounds. "But I don't understand the former. What is so funny?"

"It's nothing. A trifle." Is that a tremor in her tone?

"I'm waiting," he says, forcing patience into his own.

She lifts her head, but she will not meet his eyes. "The silk is exquisite. Its quality is obvious without examination. But it is impractical."

"Impractical?" He'd expected he might hear many things, but not that.

"Cloth this fine is fit only for clothing. But why would a mere housekeeper have need for a garment so fine?" She runs the cloth through her hands. "This is a beautiful gift. But I have no use for it. It will require some effort on my part to create something of it that properly showed my appreciation."

"So you're saying I've actually made more work for you?"

She risks the shortest of glances at his eyes. "Yes."

"I will take it back, then," he says, and she hands it over immediately. "I will remember that my housekeeper prefers practicality to beauty."

"I'm sorry, sir."

To his own surprise, he laughs. "Oh, Mila, don't be sorry. You're right. I simply hadn't thought about that detail."

"I handle details," she says quietly, "so that you can enjoy the beauty of your home."

He dismisses her with a nod, but it occurs to him that there is a certain beauty in efficiency.

He comes through the back door, breathing heavily with exertion, though the greater heaviness is the one in his heart. Mila appears, reaching for his coat. "You're ill. I'll prepare something."

"No, no, it's not necessary." He waves her off. "I am not physically ill. Only sick at heart."

She turns from the coat-hook to look at him.

"The Central Command has chosen to increase the military presence on Bajor. To crush the rebellion, they say, and protect the strength of our position."

"This does not please you." It isn't a question.

"Of course not! Mila, it's stupid! Throwing good resources after bad! The Bajorans and their damnable faith can't be controlled by more of the same things we've always done. We must act differently, more subtly, if we'll ever have the slightest hope of —" he trails off, realizing who she is. She does not deserve to bear the brunt of his anger. "I'll be in my study."

"I will bring you something hot."

He shakes his head. "No. I need to be alone."

"As you wish." But she comes into the study anyway, several hours later, bearing a tray of cold finger foods. She approaches him cautiously, quietly, apparently meaning to avoid disturbing what she must think to be sleep. Her intent is clear: she wishes him to wake up and find his needs already met.

Or is it? Today she has seen him under less than perfect control, has learned information that could lead her to believe association with him might not be in her best interest. So, as she sets the tray down on the table beside his chair, he abruptly sits up straight. "Are you here to poison me, then?"

She is so badly startled that she knocks the tray onto the floor. "To poison you?"

"Yes. I'm a member of an opposition group now, someone who has openly spoken against Central Command. It may be that a liaison with me is unwise."

Pausing from cleaning the spilled food off the floor, she sits back on her heels. "Liaison? You are my employer, nothing —" she breaks off herself, showing a rare loss of composure. But a single breath restores it before she continues in a more measured tone. "Your point is well made, sir, but I do not believe that I am in any danger simply because of my position."

"And if I should be required to go underground? To work outside the lines of the law?"

"I would have no need to be aware of such activities." Finishing her task, she takes the tray and stands up. "My responsibility is to maintain your home, not monitor your comings and goings."

"What if I couldn't give notice of those comings and goings? If I were simply to appear and disappear without warning?"

He sees another of her rare flashes of feeling, and wonders that it has come so quickly on the heels of an earlier one. But he's distracted by the fact that she makes no effort to avoid eye contact. "Then I would keep the household in a state of continuous readiness."

Perhaps it is because of her eye contact. Perhaps it is the years of experience they now share, or simply some foolish assumption on his part. But he believes her. He knows she will not transfer her loyalties.

"Mila," he says as she turns to leave. "I want you —" he pauses. "I would like you to join me in my bed tonight."

"Of course. I'll be there as soon as I've had a chance to clean up."

"Mila." She stops, but does not turn back toward him. "I don't want you there unless you want to be there."

Without a reply, she exits the study and closes the door behind her. Later, though, after he has retired to bed and truly fallen asleep, he wakes to find her slipping, already unclothed, into the bed beside him. They do not speak, offering no promises, no declarations of loyalty, no tender but meaningless words.

But afterward, he tells her to call him Enabran.

His prediction was correct; he's required to go underground to maintain his work toward the Order's goals. It is a slippery activity, as he must ensure the appearance of his normal routine even when he's required to be elsewhere, on- or off-world, for days, weeks — or, even once, months — at a time.

His house is always ready for him. He never comes in after a long absence and finds dust, an unstocked kitchen, powered-down systems or any other indication that the house was not lived in the day before. She is as true to her word about that as she has been about everything else.

She also never asks, anymore, whether or not he wishes her companionship when he is home. They never openly speak about it. But in the night, she always comes to him. It is the only time she will ever speak his name, ever respond with anything other than the quiet efficiency she has provided for years.

One night, as she rises to leave, he catches her hand. "Stay."

"I'm sorry?"

"Mila, stay. You don't have to leave."

She frowns slightly. "It isn't seemly."

"Nobody else is in the house," he points out.

"Staff members will report in the morning. There is no need to risk an inadvertent discovery. Eyes and ears can be everywhere."

He doesn't release her hand.

"Enabran." It's the first time she's spoken his name while outside his bed. "This is too risky a time to lead with your heart."

Startled, he drops her hand and sits up. "My heart?"

She drops her eyes as is her wont, but it's too late to disguise the flash of emotion that crosses them, or the change in her expression. But she bites her lip before schooling her features. "I apologize for the presumption. But simple prudence indicates —"

"No," he says, uncertain why he feels upset. "You're quite right. You may go now."

She gathers her clothing and dresses, but then stops before leaving the room, taking a single breath before speaking again. "There is something else you should know. Another reason I must leave."

"Yes?"

"The house is being watched even when staff is not present." She meets his startled eyes, but hers are calm, shielded. "My job is the details. I see the differences, the subtle signs. You must always take steps to ensure your own protection."

"Thank you." His eyes follow her out of the room, and he wonders why she chose this time to give her warning. He also wonders what else she might have had to say, and why she finds him so important.

It has nothing to do with either of their hearts, he knows. She's too practical for that, and he's too careful.

Maintaining the fiction of a normal routine isn't always easy. At times she is required to meet him outside the house. Sometimes she brings him a change of clothes, to imply he's had a chance to go home overnight. Sometimes she retrieves an item that would be better off stored within his home. She is always cautious, approaching through indirect means and maintaining absolute silence and discretion, even when he chooses to indulge himself with her body.

It is during one of those meetings that he finds out. She is collecting her clothing, stands up suddenly, and unexpectedly sways. She's forced to grab for the wall to steady herself.

He looks down at the surface beneath them. It's perfectly level, not slippery and with no obstacles that might cause her to trip. "Mila, what is it?"

She shakes her head, though she is still leaning against the wall. "Nothing, sir. Just a temporary malady."

In the dim light, he can see she is much paler than usual. "Nothing?"

"It's not communicable. You're in no danger."

"Mila." He catches her chin with his fingers and raises her face so their eyes meet. Hers are completely devoid of expression, totally opaque to him. "That wasn't my question."

"I simply need to undergo a procedure. It's already scheduled. This will not happen again."

"All right." But then, as she is pulling her jacket around her body, he sees the subtle difference in its shape. Her breasts are slightly fuller, her face the tiniest bit rounder. And, now that he has noticed, he also perceives a difference in her aura, her presence.

In the space of a heartbeat, all his questions are answered. "You are carrying a child."

Had he not been looking directly at her, he never would have seen the brief pause in her movements. "It's nothing of consequence."

"Nothing of consequence? Is it mine?"

Her head comes back sharply at that. "Who else would it be?" But then she squares her shoulders, and her voice drops to normal. "I did not take proper care, that's all. But I've already made arrangements. You need not concern yourself."

"No." He crosses to stand in front of her, to keep her from leaving. "I won't have that."

"It's the most practical solution."

"Hang practicality! You're talking about a child, about family! How can you so blithely make such a decision? How could you do so unilaterally?"

"Biology is not family," she whispers.

"But it isn't a 'malady,' either." He takes her hands, noticing that her skin is as cold as ice. "I will be home in a few days. We will discuss this in further detail then."

"But —"

"No buts." He looks her straight in the eye, finally seeing a flash of emotion there. "We will talk."

He is the one who initiates the arrangement. There are a dozen reasons why it is a risky move, yet, in his mind, they are outweighed by the one reason that supports the risk.

By now he knows she will protest, so he does not inform her in advance. He simply instructs the new city grounds-keeper to be present in the kitchen one morning, when she emerges from the small room where she sleeps.

She stops short, for once plainly showing her feelings. "What are you doing here?" The shock in her voice reflects the expression on her face.

"I might ask you the same," he replies. "How many years has it been? What are you still doing here?"

She takes a long breath, schooling her expression although her breathing is still irregular and her body taut. "I have a job."

"A job." He looks her up and down. "It appears you have a problem, too."

Although the signs of her pregnancy are not obvious to a casual observer, they are clear to anyone who might know her, and she does not bother to deny them. "Perhaps. But it has nothing to do with you."

"That's where you're wrong," the other man snaps. He slams his hand down on a kitchen counter. "It has everything to do with me, since I'm now here to provide this situation of yours with…" he trails off before spitting out the last word disgustedly. "Legitimacy."

Mila shakes her head. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Of course you do! Don't tell me you didn't suggest this to him! It's a perfect way to hide the family 'shame,' isn't it? Now they can say that Tolan saw the error of his beliefs once he met the right woman. He's gone off into the city to be with her, start a family, and live as a 'proper' Cardassian!"

She had recovered her composure during his speech, but the final phrases startle her again. "Start a family?"

"Yes. I'm here to be your 'husband' and the 'father' of your child. Your bastard child," he finishes with a sneer. "At least I'm honest about the Way. You? You've always professed to be so dedicated to being a proper Cardassian: right belief, right thinking, right behavior. Behavior that does not include this!"

"I have done nothing that was not appropriate," she answers, and though her voice is calm there is a hint of defiance in her eyes.

"Oh, so you love him, then," he challenges. "This employer of yours, this spy, who fathered a child on you. I assume he's your lover, of course. Or could it be he's just your handler? Maybe you're even using him for your own purposes?"

"Tolan! We're standing in his own house!"

"Yes, you are." Tain strides into the room, nonplussed. This was not the happy reunion scene he had imagined. "And you are quite free to change your mind, Mr. Garak. Of course, you'd have to be sent away to make sure that there's no chance of anyone finding anything out, but there are ample off-world opportunities for groundskeepers of your skill and training."

Tolan Garak squares his shoulders, a gesture that is oddly reminiscent of Mila. "No. She's my sister. I'll stay."

He has to admit the statement and the unquestioning family loyalty are both quite impressive.

"Good," he says, not wanting to let too much of his positive opinion show. "But keep in mind: she's not your sister. She's your wife. And that is the last time you will ever call my child a bastard."

Tolan's eyes hold Mila's as he nods. "Yes. The last time." Then, breaking the contact, he turns to address him as his civil service sponsor. "If you'll excuse me, sir, I need to visit the city offices."

They watch him leave, each looking anywhere but at the other.

"He will not be the best of influences," she comments later that night, when they are alone. He has to leave again in the morning, to travel off-world. She has not asked where. "His beliefs are radical."

"Exposure to different mindsets will be a positive experience for our child," he answers. "The Oralian Way is an ancient religion, of no use anymore, and it will die off within the next three generations. It no longer constitutes any threat to Cardassian culture. Let him amuse himself, thinking he might pass it along."

She drops her eyes, clearly not agreeing but just as clearly not intending to argue.

He decides not to press the point, instead remembering another part of the overheard argument. "Mila, when you were arguing, Tolan called me your 'handler.' What did he mean by that?"

"It's just an old argument."

"Really? What about?"

Her hands have frequently been busy in his presence, but this is the first time he's ever seen them moving nervously: she worries the edge of the bedspread that covers them. "Sibling insults, nothing more."

He lets it drop, but the word echoes in his mind. It, combined with Tolan's other accusation — maybe you're even using him for your own purposes — creates a suddenly alarming picture. He had hesitated before contacting Mila's family. Now, he wonders if he shouldn't have done it sooner.

Pre-natal examination shows that the child is a boy, and at his request she agrees to name him Elim. It had been his grandfather's name, but it's common enough that there should be no awkward questions about the child's namesake.

Still, just to be certain, when he returns from his trip he visits the Order's office in person, staying well past the time when other workers have left. It's important, he tells himself. He must be certain that this child, acknowledged or not, will have no negative family connections that might preclude a future in the Order.

His thoughts stutter to a stop when he discovers that Mila's file isn't as that of a mere security-cleared domestic worker. She has an agent's file.

He hadn't been at a high enough level to decrypt that aspect of her records when she first began working for him. By the time he had been, he had been certain enough of their relationship that he had never bothered to look. After deciphering the entirety of the file, though, he castigates himself for his complacency, ignoring the twisting, churning feeling in his mid-section.

He must dismiss her immediately. He doesn't dare bring any additional shame on his son by publicly excoriating her, but her continued presence threatens him. Trying to formulate a plan for her disposition, he begins to read the intelligence she has provided to the Order. He needs to know her true opinion of him.

It is three hours later when the situation becomes clearer: she hasn't provided the Order with any reliable intelligence since before he first began going undercover. Her reports became increasingly riddled with misinformation, and eventually, she simply stopped submitting them. The Order has not heard from her at all in nearly two years.

And somewhere in the time it took for him to learn that, the disquiet in his body has settled.

He's called away again the day after he reads the file, and by the time he returns, his son is ten days old. Tolan mentions to him that her slender physique meant the birth was not easy, yet he knows from reviewing the household schedule that she has already returned to work.

He finds her in the kitchen, instructing a cook. The baby is asleep in a corner. He pauses to look at the child before coming over to them. "What are you doing working?"

"You are hosting a breakfast for senior Council members in two days' time."

"I'm sure it will all be fine. It has never been otherwise."

"There are always last-minute changes and items to be addressed."

"Yes," he answers, "but I've never known a new parent not to be sleep-deprived. You will make mistakes if you don't rest."

Her lips quirk into a brief smile and then smooth back out. "Sleep deprivation is nothing new to me, sir."

"I can imagine. We need to talk."

At this statement, made uncharacteristically in the presence of another, she looks up and meets his eyes. "Now, sir?"

"Yes. Come with me." He leads her through the yard onto one of the walking paths Tolan has beautified in the last several months. "Before I left this last time, I went into the Order's records. I located and decrypted your file."

She stops, closes her eyes, and exhales slowly through her nose. "I had wondered when this day would arrive. Do you wish me to arrange something quiet, or would it suit your purpose better if things were more public?"

"More public? What are you talking about?"

"My elimination, of course." Her eyes open again, opaque, and her tone is perfectly even. "I'm a rogue agent, and too much of a liability. I've attempted to position myself so that exile might be sufficient, but if it should come to execution —"

"Mila. I'm not talking about getting rid of you."

By now, he knows the subtle signs of emotion she shows, and he can see her relief. "What is your plan, then?"

He considers her for a long time. "I don't know. There was one question I could not answer. Why did you start submitting false reports?"

She glances away.

"Answer me."

Her voice is very soft, and he is reminded of the day he first met her. "I knew how the information would be used. I was no longer able to be objective."

"You became emotionally involved with the situation?"

Her silence tells him all he needs to know.

"You told me once," he says, his voice as soft as hers, "that I shouldn't lead with my heart. You warned me that it would be too risky. By that time, you already had, hadn't you?"

Still not meeting his eyes, she nods once.

He reaches out, cups her chin, and turns her face up to his. "All this time, you've been protecting me. Caring for me. In some cases, ensuring my needs were met before I even knew I had them."

"That is my job."

"Yes. And you've done it more than well. Well enough, I believe," he continues as the idea dawns, "that you've earned the right to some actual job security."

"Job security, sir?"

"Come back with me to the house," he answers. "We will draw up a new contract of employment. A permanent one this time. I will see to it that you can remain here, and that the Order will never be able to discipline you as a rogue agent."

Her lips quirk into a brief smile again. "That's as risky as leading with your heart."

"Riskier." Then he returns her smile. "But the risk will be worth the reward."

Nobody was fooled, he understands now. This truth has been lying in plain sight the whole time. Her permanent employment contract wasn't his first risk. It was his last.

The darkness is surrounding him now, and he can no longer feel the presence of those who are around him. He will not see Mila again. Yet he has no regrets about never explicitly telling her this truth he has seen in the final moments of his life. He knows that she knows. For she, too, has a Cardassian heart.