"The
Homecoming"
Disclaimer: Star Trek belongs to Paramount Pictures. This
story is copyright 1997
All by herself, in a small apartment somewhere in the outskirts of Ianaka City on the Southern Continent of the Cardassian homeworld,Tora Ziyal, aged 19, illegitimate daughter of Legate Dukat, was sitting at her dinner table, in front of her an untouched plate of food and a nearly empty glass of kanar. The kanar was for celebrating, as today was a special day for Ziyal for several reasons: First, it had been exactly a week that her father had brought her home to Cardassia. Strangely enough it didn't seem that long to her. This was probably because she and her father had spent a lot of time together: Every night they'd gone shopping, gone out for walks, or out for dinner, and the week had just flown by. Stranger still, Cardassia didn't seem like 'home' to her at all. This was odd because Cardassia was the one place she had wanted to be all her life. Second, today she had been out all by herself for the very first time. After lunch she had gone to the nearby shopping mall to buy paints and canvas. She'd always enjoyed art and she knew she had talent and now, for the first time in over six years, she had the time and the freedom to do with it as she saw fit. The outing, unfortunately, had been a complete disaster: The shop assistant had not only refused to serve her, she had also in no uncertain terms asked her to leave. Ziyal was so used to doing as she was told that she had left and returned to her apartment immediately. On her return, she had found a teenaged girl dressed in colours so bright
that they were bound to give even an only partially Cardassian person like herself a
headache, and sporting the most extraordinary hairdo, waiting for her on the doorstep. She
had introduced herself as Makara Dukat. Ziyal wasn't quite sure if getting to finally meet
one of her three half sisters was or wasn't a reason to celebrate. Obviously she was
pleased to have family other than just her father on Cardassia, but the pleasure seemed to
be fairly one sided. Makara had called her, quite undeservedly, among other things a slut
and the daughter of a slut. Then she had asked her if she was proud of herself for
breaking up her family and taking her father away from her, and when Ziyal hadn't at once
replied, she'd punched her in the stomach and run away. Ziyal had been shaken and
thoroughly upset at first, but a long hot bath had helped her calm down a little and now,
over her fifth glass of Kanar, things looked a lot brighter. Life was good because she was
free at last, and she had a father who'd stand by her and protect her with his life. He
and she together would sort out the problems. Eventually. For now, all she could do
was wait for him. He'd promised her he'd drop in later that night. She finished her drink
and then got up out of her chair to get herself another one. As she did so she noticed
that the floor beneath her seemed to move. As a former mine worker she found this highly
alarming; then she realised that it wasn't the floor at all, but her head that was
spinning, so her second thought was that she had a fever. Suddenly it came to her that she
was drunk, not ill, and she laughed out loud at her own silliness. Since her arrival on Cardassia Prime, her father had bought her a glass of wine with her dinner on a couple of occasions, but that had been all. Getting drunk for the first time surely called for a celebration, Ziyal reasoned and continued with her journey across the room, to the replicator, pushed the empty glass into the recycling slot and asked for another one. The machine dutifully replicated another glass full to the brim with dark, spicy liquid. How lucky that the replicator couldn't see those ridges on her nose, she thought and suppressed a giggle. The return journey to the table was more difficult due to having to balance the glass, but eventually she got there and sat down with a deep sigh. What a memorable day! * * * She must have had nodded off a little, because when she heard the door chime she knew immediately that it had been ringing for quite a while. She knew that, because her head was ringing, too, and at exactly the same frequency. Now who could that be at this time of night? "Yes?" She called out, then realised that she'd have to activate the comm system first. The nearest unit was the one over her bed, so she reasoned that she might just as well answer the door herself. This time, when she got to her feet, she felt positively nauseated, but she managed to drag herself to the door. "Who is it?" she asked, holding on to the comm unit for dear life. "It's me," came her father's voice. "Can I come in?" Ziyal unlocked the door and pulled it open. "Father!" she called out and threw herself in his arms and was met by the completely unfamiliar feel of soft material. Dukat - all but incapacitated by his daughter's affection - managed to step inside and leaned back against the door to push it shut. "Hello, Ziyal. And what exactly have I done to deserve such a welcome?" He gently gripped his daughter's arms and wrested himself free from her intense embrace. At this point Ziyal realised that her father wasn't wearing his uniform. He was dressed in a blue two-piece casual outfit consisting of tunic and trousers. Ziyal had never seen her father in civilian clothes before, and she was alarmed at how tired, thin and, most of all, how *old* he looked in them. Dukat, for his part, saw only one thing: His 19-year-old daughter was stone drunk. "Ziyal, you have been drinking." "No, no, father: I have been *celebrating*!" She found this
incredibly funny and started giggling, and Dukat was obliged to wait until she was
finished. When she was, he opened his mouth to speak, but laughing had increased the
ringing inside Ziyal's head and her dizziness, and she was in desperate need of something
or somebody to hold on to; and so she called out "I love you, father," and flung
herself into Dukat's Unfortunately this was exactly the moment when her nausea got the better of her and with an "I don't feel so good," she was violently sick. Utterly horrified, she burst into tears. "I'm sorry, daddy!" she howled as Dukat without a word motioned her in the direction of the bathroom. * * * Ziyal was sobbing while her father cleaned her up with a flannel, soap and
warm water and helped her out of her soiled clothes and into her night dress. She was
still sobbing when he picked her up and carried her into her tiny bedroom and finally
tucked her into her bed. Eventually she had to stop to ask for a tissue which Dukat handed
her "Thank you," she said. "You're welcome." Then, "Feeling better now?" "Yes. I promise I won't be sick again." "Ah, that's what *you* think," Dukat said with a grim smile. His own tunic was stained with water where it had been soiled by her vomit. "But next time, will you give me a fair warning, please?" "Yeah." She laughed, embarrassed. "Good." The mattress sank in as he sat down on the side of her bed. Even that minor motion made her head spin and her stomach turn. "Daddy!" she called out in horror and sat up straight. Dukat jumped to his feet and without further ado picked her up and carried her off into the bathroom. "See? Here we go again..." * * * "I will *never* drink kanar again!" "Good." Dukat put his daughter back to bed and she sank into the pillows with a sigh of exhaustion. Neither of them said anything for a while. Eventually Dukat spoke. "Who hit you, Ziyal?" he asked, evenly. "How do you mean?" "You have a bruise above your abdomen. I want to know who did that to you." His voice was still calm. "Oh, *that*. I fell." "You did not fall. Who hit you? Was it Mikor?" "No! No... It was Makara." "I see. She will be punished." That, as far as Dukat was concerned, was that. He pulled a chair up to the bed and sat down, straddling it with his legs. Ziyal propped herself up on her elbow. "Please don't be hard on Makara!" "Why not?" Dukat sounded genuinely surprised. "She probably just needs time to adjust to the new situation," Ziyal said, on the off-chance of saying something that might actually be helpful. "You must *talk* to her..." "Damn it, Ziyal!" Dukat raised his voice in a mixture of anger and despair. "How can I if she won't talk to *me*?" He slammed his fist against the back of the chair. "My own children won't even talk to me anymore!" Again, there was a period of silence. Then Ziyal said, quietly, "I'm sorry." "Me too." Ziyal shook her head - and then wished she hadn't because it hurt. "No, I meant, I am *sorry*!" Sometimes she had this silly urge to apologise, even if she didn't know what for. "What for?" She smiled. Of course he had to go and ask her that! "Just so." "Well, don't be." Dukat leant forward and put his hand on her shoulder. "This is not your fault." "Thanks." She put her hand on top of his and they remained like that for a minute or so. She looked up at him. How strange and unfamiliar he looked in that outfit! "Why aren't you wearing your uniform, father?" Dukat pulled away and got to his feet. Absently, he plucked her dressing gown off the floor and began to fold it. "I've been relieved of duty," he said in that casual tone of voice that she always found so alarming. "What?!" She sat up straight, holding on to the mattress to counteract the dizziness. "Don't worry, I've been suitably replaced already. In fact, it seems I was a lot easier to replace than I would have thought possible!" He laughed, harshly. Then he hung her gown over the chair and said, "Do you have to be so untidy?" "How can they do that to you?" she cried out. "What's going
to happen to us now?" "That," he explained, putting his arm around her, "is up to the Central Command. I suppose they'll assign me the command of some ship - not necessarily a warship though." He hugged her close. "If they do, how would you like to come with me? See the stars, see new worlds, meet new people? That was what you wanted to do when you were a child - but back then I could never take you with me. Well, now I can, so how about it?" All she could do was nod, as there were tears streaming down her face again. She just couldn't stop crying which was odd because she hadn't cried that hard since the day that her mother was killed. How strange that drinking should make her cry, she marvelled. What was even more odd was the fact that she wasn't actually crying for her father, but for herself in her desolation. "But they are all wrong, aren't they?" she called out between sobs and got a puzzled look from her father for it. "The Central Command, and your family, they are wrong...?" she repeated, pleadingly. "They are treating you unfairly, aren't they?" Dukat missed the urgency in her voice. Absently he shook his head. "No," he said. "I'm not being treated unfairly. I was indiscreet and I was found out. Now I have to accept my punishment." * * * At that moment, it was like all light had gone from Ziyal's life. What better proof that her own existence was fundamentally wrong than having her father admit that he deserved to be punished for bringing her into the world? Legate Dukat left the apartment soon after, having been asked by his daughter to do so. No 'But I didn't mean it like that!' could make his words unsaid. He returned to his own apartment which he had rented only hours earlier, after having been asked by his wife to move out of their family estate. Tora Ziyal, however, the Legate's 19-year-old illegitimate daughter, drunk for the first time in her life, finally cried herself to sleep in the early hours of the morning, exactly one week and a day after her arrival on Cardassia Prime. ~~ end ~~ |
