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At Home on Cardassia

By Cardie-ologist

When Ziyal conceived their fourth child, Garak decided that their family life was going to require more space. Consulting with a number of the architects who had worked on the transformations of the Shopping Stations, he commissioned the design and construction of a large bi level home on the outskirts of Central City on Cardassia Prime. The ground level had a separate bedroom for each of the children and a large parental suite for himself and Ziyal, as well as all the other traditional rooms. An additional room, at the very center of the house, designated as the family space, he had equipped with every possible device to facilitate pleasant mutual interaction of children with parents and children with each other. The second level housed Garak's own space. He moved the Elegance offices there, and conducted there quite a bit of the Commerce Ministry business by holographic communication as well. He only went into the actual Ministry Compound in the most urgent of situations. By necessity a lone operator all his life, Garak had never been comfortable working in a little room surrounded by hundreds of other people working in little rooms, or at reaching decisions through discussion and consensus. "The Obsidian Order didn't schedule too many committee meetings," he explained wryly to Ziyal.

Besides the office, the second floor space accommodated the one indulgence Garak had permitted himself since his unexpected elevation to the ranks of the rich and powerful. Through all the vicissitudes of his life, he had held onto his boyhood collection of advertisements from ancient Earth. Now he sent out word to all the collectibles and antiquities dealers who traded on Cardassia that he would pay "highly competitive" prices for any of the originals featured in those "ads." To date he had obtained 457 separate objects. While he regretted that many of the featured products were consumables that had long since ceased to be produced no more Morton Salt that poured when it rained, no way to test the claim that Maxwell House Coffee remained good to the last drop he was surprised at how many durables still survived. A Sony Betamax videocassette recorder. An amazing Ginsu knife. A first generation Apple Macintosh computer. One priority of the collection was to add a new toy in time for it to be dedicated to each of the boys on each of their respective birthdays. The first birthday to be celebrated in the new house was Terel's eleventh, and Garak had at long last acquired one of the most desired and elusive of the products in time for the celebration.

But more than just a more comfortable and practical space, the new house had a deeper significance. It represented Garak's final commitment to life on his home planet. It confirmed that the risky experiment Dukat had proposed more than ten years ago had, against all logic, worked, that he and his family could be truly at home on Cardassia. Every fear Garak (and Ziyal) had harbored had proved groundless. If the children couldn't help but notice that hybrids were a small minority of the population, and if they couldn't be completely shielded from the occasional hurtful taunt, they seemed totally unscathed by such experiences. Their parents had also worried about jealousy by Julian of his older brother's privileged position as heir to the Dukats, of confusion about the two surnames in the family. None of that had materialized. The brothers were extremely close. Julian worshiped Terel's strength and valor; Terel in turn marvelled at Julian's ability to talk both of them out of any severe consequences that might otherwise have arisen from their various escapades. The older boy was also fiercely protective of dear Ridgie. Although Julian's radically different appearance and surname could have made it easy for Terel passively to disavow their relationship, he always went out of his way to acknowledge Julian proudly as his brother. And both boys doted on Enabran, often proving more effective even than Ziyal in calming his anxiety tantrums. It was true that their parents did not know of Terel and Julian's disappointment that Grandpapa had a wife, and Mummy five sisters (who in turn had 23 children) who for some reason did not consider the Garaks part of their family. Large, close extended families were the norm on Cardassia, and the boys sometimes felt scanted on that score. "At least we have Grandpapa and Auntie Prelenda," Julian had concluded.

Garak had observed the two older boys' developing relationship with surprise and delight. "You know, my dear," he confided to Ziyal "I had feared that with Terel having so much of your father's personality, and Julian so much of mine, that they would be . . . well, incompatible."

"It's not your personalities that are incompatible, Elim, but your histories," Ziyal replied, in that voice which always suggested that Garak and Dukat could become friends if they would ever really try.

Garak answered her unspoken challenge, "Can you not endeavor to be content with the fact that none of our meetings during the past three years has produced any broken crockery, my dear?"

However, Garak had to admit grudgingly that his father in law had done a lot to make the family's life on Cardassia such a success. Any concern that he would favor the young Dukat heir and ignore the humble Garaks evaporated the day Julian was born. The Legate proved, in fact, a wonderful grandfather, planning some great adventure nearly every week for himself and the boys. His presence at certain occasions, like Terel's phase-disruptor rifle drills or Julian's junior oratory meets, was quite helpful in squelching any anti hybrid sentiments that the other parents might have voiced. There were of course awkwardnesses: the refusal of Julian and Enabran's Dukat aunts, cousins, and "grandmother" to speak to them; the difficulty of arranging any Garak family events at which both Dukat and Garak consented to be present, since their mutual love for the boys could not constrain the deep hostility between them that always threatened to escape.

At some level Garak was even jealous of the ease with which Dukat handled the children. While he would have faced a regiment of Jem'Hadar alone and unarmed to protect them, he never felt entirely natural around his boys. He knew that he spoke to them as if they were simply adults in small packages. And he worried that they sensed his momentary hesitation to return the gesture every time one of them spontaneously embraced him or grasped his hand. Ziyal had certainly noticed. "By the Prophets, Elim, after all this time can't you stop acting surprised that your children love you?" Sadly, Elim Garak was doomed to perpetual surprise that anyone could love him.

There was, however, one aspect of his fatherhood on which probably no Cardassian patriarch could match him: the way he performed his offices as the first ancestor of the House of Garak. Once Julian was conceived, and it was certain that there would be a Garak in the next generation, he knew he must have a plan. So much of Cardassian ritual and community life revolved around honoring the traditions of and showing respect for ancestors. Terel had an assured place in the Dukat line. But what about the others? Garak vowed that they would never have to hide in their rooms, as he had, on the Festival of the Ancestors, Cardassia's most important holiday. And so, as Ziyal prepared clothes and baby furniture for Julian's arrival, Garak designed a family crest and a family costume to be worn by the House of Garak during the festival. He began to develop a number of family rituals that Julian and Enabran would be instructed to hand down to their children as traditions of the House. Because he found so hateful the distinction in Cardassian between a sire, what the hybridologists called the "biofather," and a father, who brought a child lawfully into an established house and was bound by law to protect and provide for him, he insisted that the boys call him Papa, a usage frequently found in First Republic poetry but an archaism to present day Cardassians. (He and Dukat had had one of their many rows over his additional insistence that the boys call him Grandpapa.) And from the minute the two younger boys could understand, he stressed to them that honoring forebears of fifty generations past was all well and good, but not nearly as exciting as being the founding members of their own house.

The foremost ritual of the House of Garak was the "telling of the tale," a mythologized version of the family's history that grew each time one of the children had a birthday. Whatever other celebrations might be planned, the evening of the birthday was solemnly reserved for the telling. Garak permitted no one outside the nuclear family to be present (subject of another quarrel between Papa and Grandpapa; Grandpapa had retaliated by reserving the day following the actual birthday for the boys to go on an especially exciting outing with him alone.)

This evening the telling honored Terel. Garak sat in a chair in the middle of the family room. Ziyal was in a rocking chair, with Enabran, as usual, on her lap. Terel, as honoree, sat on the floor at his father's right hand, Julian on the left.

Garak stamped his foot three times and spoke the traditional invocation: "Listen now all members of the House of Garak. This is the tale of your family's beginning." All three boys stared at him raptly (although Ziyal sometimes had to be careful not to giggle.) As the story continued, Julian and Terel's lips would move in synchronization with the familiar words, but their attention never wavered.

Once upon a time, there was a brave little tailor named Elim, who lived in the great kingdom of Cardassia. A poor orphan boy, he had to depend upon his own skills to support himself, so he took up the needle at an early age. But he had another skill besides the skill to make beautiful clothes. He had a way of making people tell him their deepest secrets. Soon the rulers of the kingdom realized that Elim's gift was a very important one, and they sent him throughout the kingdom, and then into many neighboring kingdoms, collecting secrets.

One day, however, a terrible spell came upon the kingdom. No one knew who had cast it, but soon, one by one, the most important people in Cardassia began turning into fearful ogres. And they used the secrets that Elim gathered to do very fearful things both in their own kingdom, and in the other kingdoms, whom they attacked and whose people they enslaved. Finally Elim feared that he would at any minute turn ogre too, and he fled the kingdom.

The ogres were very angry, and they decreed that no world where Cardassia had influence could grant sanctuary to the brave little tailor. Yet on those worlds where Cardassia did not have influence, the people thought that all Cardassians were ogres, and they banished him also. Elim was close to despair when he remembered an enchanted castle that floated in the sky above the planet Bajor. Many people from all over the galaxy lived there, and none of them liked Cardassians, but when Elim went there and explained that he was, after all, a very good tailor, they began to bring their clothes to him to mend, and buy new ones, and he prospered in a small way, and no one forced him to leave, as he had feared.

Meanwhile, down on the planet Bajor, another part of our tale had begun. One of the ogres, a young Cardassian soldier named Elmor, captured a Bajoran princess, Naprem, and even though she was his slave, he fell in love with her, and she with him, and their love was so strong that it broke the spell, and when he was with her he wasn't an ogre any more. And they had in time a beautiful daughter, who was a princess too. And they gave her the name Ziyal.

At this point in the story, Julian felt emboldened to ask a question that had perplexed him for the last several tellings, "But Papa, I don't think Grandpapa was ever an ogre, not really an ogre."

Ziyal shot Garak one of her "I told you so" looks. She had never been sanguine about this ogre scenario. Surprisingly, it was the usually reticent Terel who responded first. "He was under a spell, Julian, he couldn't help it. And you know you're never supposed to interrupt the telling."

Thank heavens I have one literal minded child, Garak thought, and continued with the tale.

The Bajoran people had risen up to combat the ogres invading their land, and when the ogres were finally driven out, Elmor found himself in a difficult situation. His two princesses would not be safe on either Bajor or Cardassia. So he tried to send them to a safe place. But their ship crashed, and the beautiful

Princess Naprem was killed, and the young princess Ziyal enslaved by a race even more merciless than the ogres. And her father thought them both dead, and, without their love, the spell took hold of him again.

Several years later, however, Elmor learned that his daughter was indeed not dead. With Kira, the great woman warrior of Bajor, at his side they rescued the Princess Ziyal, and to keep her safe from the ogres on Cardassia, they sent her to live with Kira in the same enchanted floating castle where Elim had his tailor shop.

And, as if by magic, they fell in love. And their love lasted through a terrible war that separated them, and in which the brave tailor distinguished himself in battle, and through her father's falling victim to the spell once more, and through many other trials until finally the Prophets smiled and broke the spell and all Cardassia awoke to find that the ogres were no more.

Elim and Ziyal married. They thought that at last their happiness could be complete, only to find out that not every wicked spell had vanished, because no children blessed their House. Luckily, though, Elim had a dear, dear friend, the great wizard Bashir, who waved his wand and presto, Ziyal was with child. And they looked forward to producing ten fine children to be the ten pillars upon which they would build the House of Garak.

That was the set part of the tale. The rest chronicled the boys' respective births and exploits, told of the heroic Prince Terel, who was called back to Cardassia to save the ruins of the House of Dukat from the toll taken on it by the ogres, of Prince Julian of the magic voice, who could talk the birds out of the trees, and of Prince Enabran who had to be liberated from an enchanted box by the good Bashir's wizardry. "Me, Me" Enabran shouted excitedly when his name was spoken. For the birthday boy, a longer tale of adventures during the past year was added.

Julian, who was the self appointed chronicler of his big brother's deeds, had insisted on telling this part himself: "After all, when I'm head of the House of Garak, I'll have to tell the whole tale; this will be good practice."

That chronicle at an end, Garak resumed: "And the three young princes returned home to await the arrival at last of the beautiful princess who was to be their sister." The spell of the story broken, the boys began to chatter all at once. Garak called them to silence. "Terel, in accordance with our family's most sacred traditions, I now dedicate to you this rarity from a time long past." He rose and picked up a package from behind his chair. It was a see through box in which resided a vaguely humanoid doll covered in shaggy red fur with bulbous features. "Boys this is one of very few of these dolls left anywhere in the galaxy. His name is Elmo. Ordinarily Papa doesn't remove his toys from their packages, but Elmo is very special. He wants you to tickle him."

Terel gingerly poked at the doll's stomach but jumped back as its mechanical voice responded to him. Then, smiling, he tickled again, and then Julian was shoving him aside to have his go, and even Enabran jumped down from Ziyal's lap and gleefully attacked poor Elmo. Inevitably the boys moved on to tickling each other; soon all three were lying on the floor helpless with laughter.

"Boys, boys that's enough. Elmo will have to take his place with the other toys now. Oh, and one more thing." Garak added, "Let's not tell Grandpapa about him. He would be so sad that Papa has an Elmo and he doesn't."

"No he wouldn't, Papa," Terel interposed. "He always says that any man who collects toys is a degen " He broke off mid word at a look from his mother that would have melted neutronium. But Julian, obliviously helpful, continued, "The word was degenerate, Terel."

"Enough!" Ziyal got up from her chair with some difficulty and pulled each of her sons to his feet. "All right Terel, Julian, Enabran come with me to the dining room for your birthday pie with yamok sauce. We need for you to get to bed early so you won't be tired for the trip to the archaeological dig on the Cardassia Tertia moon with Grandpapa tomorrow."

Garak was carefully replacing Elmo in his box when he noticed that Terel had lagged behind. "What is it, son?"

"Papa, I was wondering," Terel struggled for the right words. "Well, I thought that maybe it's not too late for me to become the heir to the House of Garak. I mean, there are plenty of other real Dukats."

Garak put a hand on the boy's shoulder and bent down to look into his eyes: "Terel, has there been some kind of incident?"

"No, Papa, nothing like that. It's just that, when we have the annual gathering where the Dukat elders recite the glories of our ancestors to the 50th generation well, the Dukat stories are so boring compared to ours."

Garak regarded the boy gravely, "Terel, sometimes being the heir to a great house requires sacrifice. I know you're up to it." His son nodded proudly. "Good boy. Now run into Mummy before your brothers eat up your share of the pie." And Garak waited until the boy was out of sight to indulge his triumphant laughter.

***

Looking at her face, as she was once more ensconced in her beloved rocking chair, Garak could see that the exertions and excitement of the day had exhausted Ziyal. He took Enabran from her lap and led the other two boys with him to their bedrooms; he with difficulty calmed their excitement and got them tucked in for the night. When he returned to the family room, he pulled an ottoman up to the rocking chair, propped his wife's swollen feet up on it and began to massage them.

For a while they were silent, basking in the joy that these rituals always gave them. Ziyal sighed contentedly from time to time as the pressure around her ankles lessened. Finally, she trespassed somewhat upon the mood.

"You know you shouldn't have made such a point of warning the boys against telling Father about that doll. It's the surest way to guarantee that Julian at least will tell him first thing tomorrow."

"Now, how could I not have realized that?" Garak responded, eyes twinkling.

"So you want him to tell Father. I suspected as much. What difference could it make to him which antique toy you give the children?" Much as she loved her husband, the elaborate games he could be capable of occasionally annoyed her.

Garak looked at her quizzically. "So in all Dukat's litany of my sins, he's never mentioned Elmo?"

"How could he? He's never had any contact with ancient Earth dolls."

"My mistake. I forget that your father is not quite the cosmopolitan I am."

"But you just said..." Garak put a warning finger to her lips, his "no trespassing" sign. There was a story here, and Elim was not going to tell her what it was. That she had over the years gotten him to confide as much to her as he had was in itself a miracle. She had long ago resigned herself to his keeping many of his secrets hidden from her forever.

Ziyal steered the conversation away from this dangerous shoal. "Now that we know for sure the baby is a girl, we should select a name. Would you be terribly upset if I named her for Auntie Prelenda? She's been a wonderful help to me with the children, and it's perhaps time that one of them receive a traditional given name from the House of Dukat."

"Prelenda is an excellent choice. She's been very courageous to take us totally into her heart, when all of your father's other relatives barely tolerate Terel and won't be caught in the same room with the rest of us. Still," Garak mused "I had simply taken it for granted that if we ever had a daughter you would name her for your mother."

Ziyal's face clouded. "Part of me longs to do so, of course, but I really don't think Father could bear to hear her name, to have to use her name, in the everyday business of life. I mean, having to shout, Naprem, don't play with that replicator, I just don't think he could do it."

Ziyal did have the strangest sentimental delusions about her father, Garak thought, but they made her happy, and he rarely challenged them. "That's fine then; Prelenda will be the final character added to the tale of the second generation of the House of Garak."

The way her face changed when he said "final" told him her thoughts as clearly as if he had been Betazoid. He stopped massaging and rose to his feet. "Ziyal, this is going to be our last child. A daughter to complete the family."

"Why are you always so reluctant to have more children?"

"Ziyal, every child we've had has been an experiment in some way. I'm as grateful as anyone can be for Julian Bashir's miracle treatments, but the medical interventions that have been necessary for you to conceive and bring to term these children take their toll. We have a beautiful family, and you're going to be here at my side, healthy and strong, to raise them. I forbid you to take any more risks and this time I'm not going to let you talk me into another pregnancy."

Ziyal bowed her head and said nothing.

"Don't avoid this issue for once," Garak went on. "What is it that compels you to keep wanting more children. And don't tell me any of that nonsense about the ten pillars of the House of Garak."

Ziyal smiled in spite of herself. "You won't understand this, because it's not at all logical, but I'll try to explain. Elim, you and I had such bitter childhoods. So in their own way did Odo and Kira. And all the hybrids I knew on Bajor. And the Cardassian war orphans. And millions of others throughout the galaxy. And while I know that my having children won't do anything to ease others' suffering, I feel somehow that every additional child we bring into this family, and raise with love, that somehow it's a kind of compensation. It is a silly thought, I know."

Garak bent down and took both of her hands in his, "I only wish that I were capable of such 'silly' thoughts, my dear." Then it was his turn to be silent. Ziyal squeezed his hands. "Elim, come sit in this chair with me" she said.

He was completely taken aback. "But, my dear, I hardly think we can both fit."

"Then I'll sit on your lap. Come on, we can manage it."

He awkwardly helped her up, settled himself into the chair, and then arranged her on his lap, her head leaning against his shoulder, her arms about his neck. "Now, rock us," she urged. "Isn't it nice? My mother used to do this for hours when I was small." She felt his whole body tense. "Oh Elim, I'm so sorry; your m... no one ever rocked you when you were a child?"

He turned his face away from her. "No, of course not. I mean, who was there that would have thought to?"

Ziyal raised her hand and gently turned him back toward her, kissing away the single tear that was running down his cheek. Then her lips found his "spoon" and caressed it softly several times. Garak in turn brought her face to his lips and returned the caresses, each for each, on her nose ridges. Then they settled more tightly into an embrace, and rocked, and rocked.

When the boys burst from their rooms at dawn's first light, eager to prepare for the excursion to the moon, Garak and Ziyal were still in that embrace, the chair sporadically rocking as they shifted their weight in their sleep. Pausing in the doorway, Terel instinctively clamped his right hand over Julian's mouth and held Enabran back with his left. Turning them both away into the dining area, he said, "Mummy and Papa aren't ready to wake up yet. I'll make our breakfasts."

***

The Festival of the Ancestors had arrived, the one holiday on which Ziyal insisted that neither her husband nor her father suddenly discover a pressing engagement in order to remove themselves from each other's company. So she and Garak, accompanied by Dukat, had taken Julian and Enabran to watch the parade of the most venerable houses on Cardassia, those with an unbroken line of at least fifty generations. For the first time Terel, decked out in the ancient robes of the House of Dukat, had been permitted to march with his clan. Clearly there was no place in the march for the newly minted House of Garak, but its proud founder had nevertheless designed and personally tailored its instantly traditional regalia in which he, Ziyal and the two younger boys were now clothed. Made from satiny silks, the garments featured bright red, blue, and lilac panels and an insignia that represented a sewing machine of three hundred year old vintage. Warned by his daughter, Dukat had not offered an opinion on the flamboyant design, and when pressed for comment by the excited Julian, merely grunted, "Yes, certainly unique, all your friends will recognize you even in this crowd."

After the morning's august spectacle, it was customary to devote the afternoon to revelry. The family had dined at a new Cardassian restaurant that one of Quark's native protégés had opened on Belok Nor Shopping Station, one of the few venues that remained eclectic rather than devoting itself to one specific species' cultural productions. ("Frankly it's the only place a start up Cardassian business might have a chance," the Ferengi had confided to the Commerce Minister. "None of you people would have a chance against a consortium of human or even Bajoran entrepreneurs.") Now the adults were enjoying hot beverages at one of the Terran cafes, but the boys were restless. Terel, flushed with pride from the morning's ceremony, was eyeing a Klingon martial arts demonstration being set up at the base of the central pylon. Julian had asked for the thirtieth time when the famous Vorta storyteller Martona would begin her performance. Even the docile Enabran fidgeted noticeably on his mother's lap.

More than the attractions of the colorfully decorated Nor motivated the boys' unease, however.

Occasions like this always mixed excitement and dread. On the one hand, they rejoiced in having both Papa and Grandpapa with them at the same time. Cardassian holidays demanded multi generational displays, and the boys were painfully aware of how short they usually came up in the matter of extended family solidarity. On the other hand, sitting at a table with both Papa and Grandpapa was never pleasant. Although Garak and Dukat had never openly quarreled in front of the children, the three brothers all sensed the antagonism. Who could not, given Papa's stories of ogres, Grandpapa's contempt for dressmakers and toy collectors, and the constant cautionings from Mummy about things not to be repeated, subjects to be avoided. Both Terel and Julian had repeatedly tried to find out "why Papa and Grandpapa don't get along," asking everyone in the family for an explanation, only to be told that, of course, they got along quite well, that they were simply both busy men, that the boys had over active imaginations. Julian had hatched a scheme to charm the truth out of Kira or Odo on their last visit, but they had resisted all his wiles, telling him the same tall tales that Mummy did. If he could just figure out how to establish commlinks, he was going to try Uncle Kukalaka next.

Terel, with his Dukat connections, had by now discerned that the whole Dukat family in fact hated Papa. Voices often grew quieter as Terel passed by at family conclaves, and Grandpapa or Auntie Prelenda always made sure that he stayed away from certain relatives. Once, when he had finished paying his respects to Great Grandmother, he had heard one of the cousins say, "How can she abide the presence of the son of that ' tailor,' after what he did to Palmor?" Only after considerable detective work had he discovered that "Palmor" was the great grandfather whose exploits were noticeably absent from the chronicles of the House of Dukat. This knowledge he still kept completely to himself, afraid that Grandpapa, if asked, might actually explain it to him. An instinct had told him that the answer would prove that the brave little tailor Elim had not completely escaped the ogre spell after all. A similar instinct warned him that the whole "Elmo" business might also impinge on this delicate matter, and he had manipulated his younger brother's hero worship to prevent him from running to tell Grandpapa all about it.

The very seating arrangements at the cafe's circular table bespoke the awkwardness of which the boys were so aware. Mummy and Papa had Enabran between them, although his chair was currently empty as he sought his familiar refuge in Mummy's lap. At Mummy's left hand, on the other side from Enabran, sat Grandpapa. Terel sat beside him, while Julian took up the chair on Papa's right. The boys always felt that they must provide a buffer between their male elders, as if the men were two volatile chemicals, highly combustible if combined.

Right now, Mummy was talking happily about the impending arrival of their little sister. Despite the joyful topic, Terel couldn't help noticing that Grandpapa was holding his cup so tightly that his knuckles had turned blue. Julian, likewise, was mesmerized by Papa's repeated folding, unfolding, and refolding of one of the House of Garak's ceremonial sashes.

A commotion outside the cafe suddenly drew the attention of everyone at the table. An extremely large Cardassian family was passing by on its way to the Klingon restaurant next door. The group included over a dozen children, three young couples, two sets of grandparents, and an elderly woman, probably the great grandmother, leaning on the arm of the oldest male child, no doubt the heir to the House, since everyone in the group wore identical family colors and insignia. All laughed and talked excitedly. As the group receded from view, Terel and Julian's eyes met solemnly. As usual Julian's thoughts immediately became words. "Those people are certainly having fun," he sighed.

Ziyal drained her ginger tea and motioned to the boys: "And so shall we. There's plenty to do this holiday. Come on with me. We'll let Papa and Grandpapa finish their drinks."

"My dear, let me accompany you," Garak interposed. "You shouldn't try to handle the boys all alone in your condition."

"My condition is excellent, thanks to Dr. Bashir's medications. And it would hardly be polite for us to leave Father all alone here."

"We'll all go," Dukat announced, rising decisively.

"Nonsense," said Ziyal. "You two sit here, relax, and have a nice chat."

Garak and Dukat were rarely of one mind on any issue, but now their thoughts were identical: "Will she never give up on trying to make us friends?" As the "see you later, papas" and the "we won't be too long, grandpapas" receded down the corridors, the two men sat in awkward silence. Finally Dukat spoke. "She really is all right? You know how she always sees only the positive side of things."

"The doctors are monitoring her very closely, and they assure me there is no sign of trouble. Did she tell you we're naming the baby for your sister?"

"She did. And Prelenda will be so touched that you're giving the baby her name. You, Garak, are in for something quite special. Once you've a son to secure the line, there's nothing quite like being the daddy to a little girl."

"And maybe I can groom her to take over the Elegance shops." Garak assumed the mocking tone that always made Dukat's flesh prickle as if attacked by a swarm of Engorna flies: "I've had absolutely no luck in getting the boys interested in style."

"I should hope not. It's no profession for a man."

They looked daggers at each other. "Here we go again," thought Garak, biting his lip. It had been a delightful day so far, and it would be a shame to have Ziyal and the boys return to find the two of them at their traditional loggerheads. Dukat must have had a similar thought, because he quickly changed the subject: "The name of this place, it's Federation Standard, isn't it? What does it mean, 'Stahr bux?'"

"Oh, it just means that you can make quite a profit from selling stimulant drinks to inter stellar travellers," Garak purred icily.

His father in law had come to recognize this tone of voice all too well. It generally indicated that Dukat was being had, and that the ridicule stemmed from Garak's anger. Dukat tried again to defuse that anger. "All right. What I said was uncalled for. It certainly takes a man to sire three such fine sons. I was wrong all those years when I thought your consuming interest in dresses meant you were uh'nat."

"Well, obviously not exclusively, no." Garak's face was its most enigmatic.

"What!? Can't you ever give a straight answer to anything? Why, if I seriously thought what you're implying is true I'd..."

"Listen, Dukat." Garak took the astonishing step of gripping the other man's forearm, hard. "I would never betray Ziyal. There will never be anyone else in my life as long as we are joined. But in the past . . . You know I'm a man of eclectic tastes." He relaxed his grip and leaned back in his chair, smiling. "And besides there were practical considerations. I mean, my earlier . . . career . . .was hardly conducive to a settled, joined life. And when marriage isn't an option, well, uh'nat don't produce bastards." The smile vanished. "A bastard's life is very hard on Cardassia, I should know. I made a vow to myself when I was twelve that Elim Garak would never sire a g'reakh. And I kept that vow, unlike some people I could name."

Dukat fumed. "Damned if I'm going to try any more conciliatory gestures," he said to himself.

Garak, enjoying his victory they were always so pathetically easy to obtain was ambushed by a wave of guilt. The wife and children he loved so much would have their holiday ruined by returning to "Papa and Grandpapa playing the glum game," as Julian had once put it. He cleared his throat, "Anyway, we were talking about the baby. Even though Ziyal seems to be doing so well, we're taking the precaution of sending Terel and Julian to stay with Kira and Odo for a month after the delivery. It's their school holidays, and I don't think Ziyal needs to cope with a newborn, a toddler, AND those two under foot all day long."

"Probably a wise precaution," Dukat allowed. "But why don't you have them stay with me. My wife is taking our two youngest girls to her mother's for the holidays. I'd hate not to see the boys for a month!"

"That's generous of you to offer," Garak was trying his best not to let his genuine reaction to such a proposition show. "But the boys just dote on the twins. They're like cousins to them." He couldn't stop himself from adding, "And their Dukat cousins - and aunts - never seem to be home when they come to call. Besides, Ziyal has such confidence in Kira, and Odo's been quite the loyal friend to me over the years."

"Do you always bond so touchingly with people you've tortured?" Dukat asked with casual malevolence.

Garak let it pass. "I think it had more to do with our common experience of being unfairly exiled and abused by our own people. And lately our shared joy in being able to come home again."

Garak composed his features into an attitude of profound sentiment.

Dukat glared back. "Well, friends or not, I still don't think it does the boys any good to spend so much time with Lupaza and Pol, not to mention the two older children. Such a strange, mongrel family," Dukat added, a little too loudly.

"Talk about glass houses, as the Terrans say," Garak thought, as right on cue, a Jem'Hadar Klingon couple with two children in tow passed close to their table. The looks they shot at Dukat made him glad that they had the youngsters on their hands.

"I think that 'hybrid' is the preferred term these days," Garak whispered. "And I'd lower my voice if I were you." He took a sip of his mocha latte. "That reminds me. Julian told me that when you took him to see Terel compete in the rifle championships, he overheard you boast to some man that no one would guess to look at him that the heir to the House of Dukat was anything but a pure Cardassian. I think Julian's feelings were hurt."

"Julian has big ears and a big mouth, just like his father." Dukat squirmed in his chair. "It was my old second in command, Damar. You start talking soldier to soldier and such things just come out. Surely I've never given Julian any reason to believe I treasure him the less because his features are Bajoran. Why when I look at him..." Dukat's voice broke huskily. He began again, softly, "Let's just say that his face is so dear to me that I would indulge him beyond all redemption" Dukat attempted a jovial chuckle "if his personality didn't resemble yours so closely."

"Whatever your rationalizations, just know this. If any of the children, or Ziyal for that matter, ever hear talk of mongrels or half breeds or racial purity coming out of your mouth again, it will be quite a bit longer than a month before you see them again." Garak's eyes were not twinkling. "Is that clear?"

Dukat took momentary refuge in his cup of raktajino, which was fortunately, like all Starbucks' beverages, served in a continuous re-warming container. "So this is what it comes down to," he continued after a few swallows, regarding Garak steadily. "You don't think that my love for Ziyal and the boys is genuine."

"For Ziyal perhaps; she certainly believes that to be the case. But do I trust in your affections for any child of my blood? No."

"You're hardly the one to speak of trust!" Dukat retorted. "How do you think it makes me feel to know that the happiness of my daughter and grandchildren is in the hands of a man who once was the most feared torturer on the planet and has the crookedest tongue in the galaxy?"

Garak shook his head. "I've often thought that it was a particularly delicious joke of those Prophets of Ziyal's to have your daughter fall in love with me. Perhaps it was their way of punishing both Central Command and the Obsidian Order for the Occupation of Bajor. At any rate, we must each try to get the dear girl finally to accept that there can never be any relationship between us besides one of mutual suspicion and that's when it's calmed down from outright hatred."

They both fell silent, scanning the corridors in hopes that Ziyal and the children would return and rescue them from another round of the glum game. Alas, the martial arts exhibition was still going full throttle, and the storytelling performance had not even begun. Without quite knowing why, Dukat decided to risk opening a very old wound. "Garak, do you ever think about the Kabar'net debacle back when we were in school together?"

"That piece of ancient history?" Garak lied.

"Well, I do. I think about it quite a lot." Garak was caught off guard by the sincere urgency in his father in law's voice. "Now I know I initially treated you quite shabbily, and for no fault of your own. I was speaking through the prejudices of my caste and my station, and frankly I acted like an Orion jack ox. But by the time we finished rehearsing our routine I didn't think of you as an enemy. We were partners, and damn good ones too. There were surveillance monitors in the arena, of course, and I've watched our rehearsal tapes. We were hilarious, AS A TEAM. I've had neutral parties watch the tapes and they agree with me. So you didn't steal my laughs because I didn't have the talent to keep up with you. You must have sabotaged the performance purposely. I think you wanted to goad me into turning on you. Am I wrong?'

"I don't deny it. Although I admit I miscalculated just how . . .decisively . . . you would turn."

"By all our ancestors! why? You know, I've sometimes thought if we had just gotten through that performance without incident we wouldn't be at the impasse we find ourselves in now. That all the rest of our grievances sprang from that moment."

Garak was not accustomed to re-examining the motives for his actions. "He who regrets his past has a bottomless pit for his future" had been one of Tain's most insistent homilies. The man who always had an answer for everything found himself unable to respond for an entire, extremely uncomfortable minute. Finally he began a tentative explanation, as much for himself as for Dukat: "Yes, I was a contemptible little g'reakh whom you were going to be magnanimous enough to treat kindly as long as he played his proper part on your team. It's a characteristic you pride yourself on, this magnanimity to those you have the power to crush. I've heard stories from the Bajorans, how you'd release young ladies from your quarters, unravished, if they begged you for death rather than dishonor. Or that you'd spare the three or four of fifty condemned hostages who made particularly heart rending pleas for aged mothers or starving children. Well, I had no use for your magnanimity."

Dukat was too fascinated by the explanation to bridle at the accusation. "All right. I was patronizing. You were too proud to grovel. So you could have stuck to our agreement, that we'd get through Kabar'net and then stay out of each other's way. Was the spectre of a condescending regard from me so unbearable that you felt you had to make me want to kill you instead?"

Garak sighed. The reasons were so personal, so hard to articulate. "Dukat, let me tell you a story about myself. It's a story I've never told anyone. Unless our information explosion has been even more extraordinary than advertised, there is still, in my dossier in the Cardassian Central Archives, a six year blank from the notation of my birth as bastard son of Enabran Tain to my enrollment in my first boarding school on Cardassia Secunda."

"The last time I checked, yes." They both could not suppress a smile.

"For those six years I was raised in a small, remote farm house at the northern tip of Illytia, on Cardassia Prime. I was attended by the necessary servants, nanny, wetnurse, cook "

"Ah, of course, because Tain had terminated your mother as soon as you were born."

"Surely you know better than to try such an old interrogator's trick as that on me. " Garak arched his brows enigmatically. "The truth of my mother's fate, and her identity, died with Enabran Tain. And stop interrupting. You're as bad as Julian.

"To resume. None of these servants ever stayed more than a few months. I *hope* they were merely moved on to other assignments. The only constants in my life were the sporadic and always unannounced visits by 'Mr. Tain, who owns this nice house you live in.' No one ever gave me the slightest cause to believe him to be my father, but somehow I always knew.

"One day when I was five, he arrived as usual out of the blue and said that we were going on an outing. I was in my room getting dressed when two of his bodyguards started talking beneath my window. I simply couldn't help overhearing them. And then I couldn't believe what I was hearing. The first one said, 'Do you think he'll kill the boy today?' and the other one replied, 'I'm surprised he hasn't done it before now.' 'It's a bit of a shame, though, the little fellow is quite charming,' his companion offered, but then the other: 'Every Cardassian who sires a bastard has the right to get rid of it, and any member of the Obsidian Order who doesn't take advantage of that right is a bloody fool.'

"You can imagine how terrified I was, although, obviously, Tain didn't kill me on that occasion. In fact," Garak sighed wistfully, "we had a particularly lovely excursion. But from then on the days I'd always looked forward to with such anticipation were full of dread. And every time I saw Tain after that I would think, I have to tell him I know, I have to beg him, Father please don't kill me. And yet I never did. A year later I went off to school with a proper cover story, and I didn't see Tain face to face until he recruited me into the Order when I was eighteen and our association could be explained by the fact that I worked for him. And the moral of this story? I had accepted that each day I lived was at the sufferance of my father; there was no way to change that. He would kill me or he would not. It was his choice, one that I had no right to influence. This moral, has, a corollary, however. I vowed at the same time that I would never, ever take anything else on sufferance from anybody else. Certainly not the friendship of the most popular boy in the Third Form at Central Command Preparatory Academy."

Dukat's face remained impassive, as it had throughout Garak's recitation. His companion could not tell whether he believed the story or if, believing it, he had any greater understanding of or sympathy for Elim Garak. Garak continued, "And of course once we'd both taken our mutual revenge, complete enmity was the only option."

"Yes, " Dukat nodded. "I really would have killed you if they hadn't stopped me."

"I know. I'd had no illusions that I'd escape without a thrashing if I crossed you. But that's not the revenge I'm referring to. There was no going back for us once you'd told the world, in the middle of a sacred ritual, that Elim Garak's sire was not his lawful father."

"Really, Garak," Dukat protested. "It was hardly a secret."

"It was a whisper, a rumor, a speculation. Even I had never actually been told that it was so. When you turned the fact that my father had abandoned my mother and me without benefit of joining into a dirty joke for our schoolfellows, and their parents, and our lectors, you might just as well have dragged him in with hood and manacles and fired the disruptor into his chest in front of all of us."

"A scene you managed to stage for me in earnest."

"My part in the discovery and punishment of Palmor Dukat's treason did provide some closure to the incident."

"He was not a traitor!" Dukat's fists were clenched on the table top. "I always knew you betrayed him because of your personal hatred for me."

"While my being the instrument of his apprehension carries a certain poetic justice, our past quarrels did not motivate my actions. Your father's insane opposition to the Bajoran Occupation had gone beyond printing leaflets, resigning his commission and broadcasting tiresome speeches into our homes. His followers in the Opposition sabotaged a troop transport and killed 1500 Cardassian soldiers. I was acting as an agent of the Obsidian Order in defense of the sovereignty of our people. How can you deny that he was a traitor when you denounced him at the tribunal and enlisted in the Army of Occupation three days after he was buried?"

Dukat bowed his head. "I did those things because Father implored me to. It was the only way to save the House of Dukat. You know the system."

Garak was relentless, "I don't think the system required you to become the military governor of Bajor, to authorize, or at least not interfere with, the brutalization and slaughter of its people. How much Bajoran blood did you need to cover up the stains of those dead troops on the walls of your great House of Dukat?"

"THAT'S ENOUGH, TAILOR." Dukat had risen from his seat and pounded both fists on the table in front of Garak. The drinks overturned, their contents slowly dripping onto the floor. Everyone in Starbucks was staring at them.

It was the kind of moment Garak was made for. "Perhaps someone should alert CNN Breaking News?" he lightly inquired of the occupants of a neighboring booth. Throughout the cafe, eyes were quickly averted, heads turned, conversations restarted. To a young human waiter who still stood nearby gawking he said with studied casualness, "We've had a small accident here my boy. Could you bring us two fresh raktajinos and some napkins."

Dukat was making not wholly successful efforts to pull himself together. "I suppose, given that I've waited thirty years to have this out with you, I could have chosen a less public place to do it in."

"The last feature story CNN did on us began with the immortal line 'Once bitter political enemies, Legate Elmor Dukat and Commerce Minister Elim Garak, now united through marriage, have buried their old hostilities in order to lead Cardassia into a glorious dawning of its Fifth Republic.' I believe they'll have to file an update now."

Garak saw that Dukat was actually shaking. I sometimes forget I'm not the only person in the galaxy to have suffered because of my father, Garak told himself. Aloud he said, "I was out of line talking about Palmor Dukat that way. He was seriously misguided, but nevertheless a man of conviction and bravery. You know he never broke during the torture, never named any of the others in the group, never cried mercy..."

"Please don't!" Dukat's voice and welling eyes were filled not by the anger Garak expected but deep anguish. "Don't tell me what you did to him, or how well he endured it, or how long it lasted. I know what he suffered. I saw him in the prison . . . afterwards." He buried his face in his hands.

Until this moment Garak had never seen Dukat display any emotions other than rage and contempt; he had never quite believed Ziyal's assertions that her father had a tender side, was capable of deep and complex feelings. Then another of her assertions flashed across his consciousness, part of a conversation she had had with Julian after hearing him prattle on blithely to his brothers about a schoolmate's domestic tragedies: "Darling, just because you know something doesn't always mean that you should tell it."

Dukat, mastering himself at last, raised his head and surveyed the room surreptitiously in embarrassment. He made a show of drinking from his empty cup, but the handle was slick with the spillage and it slipped from his grasp and shattered on the floor. Mercifully the waiter appeared at this moment bearing the fresh drinks and napkins. Garak placed several coins in his hand and whispered, "That's fine my lad, just leave us now and don't worry about cleaning up the damage."

Barely able to let their eyes meet Garak and Dukat drank their raktajinos with deliberate slowness and in deadly silence. Similar thoughts occupied them. "How could we let it come to this on a holiday outing to the Nor? Ziyal will be horrified. The boys won't understand." They looked out into the center court both hoping and dreading to see the family returning. There was still no sign of them.

After what seemed an eternity, Dukat spoke. "You know what the real devil of it is, Garak?"

"N...no, what?" Garak couldn't read the tone at all.

"I still remember all 112 verses of the Klingon Pain Stick routine, just as we rehearsed it." Dukat grinned slyly.

Garak laughed long and loud, "So do I."

"But you just said you never even thought about the show!"

"And you believed me? That would have been a first. You know, it's hard for me to believe that in a few years my boys will be old enough to understand those jokes."

"A few years? You must be spending too much time with your dress designs. Terel's rifle team are up to verse 53, and Julian knows everything his brother knows."

"Scandalous! I hope Ziyal and I can preserve Enabran's innocence for a few more years at least.. You know, perhaps papa and grandpapa can put on their show, the way it should have been, for Terel and Julian some day."

Dukat gave him a searching look. "I think you're actually serious, Garak."

"I am. And do you know, Elmor, that you're never too old to learn the old soft shoe?"

The beat Dukat took was perfectly timed. "But I also know, Elim, that I was always too old to learn the old soft shoe." This time they both laughed. "If we do go through with it though, Elim, just to be safe, this time I don't think we should use props of any kind."

And amidst their further gales of mutual laughter, they heard the voices crying "papa" and "grandpapa" and looked up to see Terel and Julian running toward them, colorful banners and balloons in both hands, and Enabran, wearing a paper hat with a feather, tugging at the arm of the radiant and beaming Ziyal.

"Elim, what do you say we go out and meet our family half way?"

"An excellent idea, considering the shape this table is in."

And they both rose and held out arms to embrace the family they both loved as intensely as only Cardassians could.