Welcome to the Occupation

DS9, Dukat/Tora Naprem,
by Elisabeth Pinto

USUAL DISCLAIMERS: Paramount... blahblah...copyrights....blahblahblah... not mine ... mumblejumble... no money, no infringement intended etc...etc...

The title's from the great R.E.M. song of the same name. I'm not worthy (just cheeky).

NOTE: Before people get carried away...I am not making excuses for the Cardassian occupation of Bajor, or the concept of such an occupation and such horrors and ills as genocide and imperialism. I do not wish to make apologies for Dukat and hope I haven't (what he did was very, very wrong, to use a euphemism) but at the same time I don't think he's evil. He's a fool, but he's not evil. Plus I'm completely ignoring Dukat's affair with Kira's mother, which I find a ridiculous plot line. One advantage of being a season and a half behind anyway. :)

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: I stole the 'silence' idea from the French short story 'Le Silence De La Mer' by Vercors (as if I could have thought of it myself!). Also, we have not found out yet of what treason Dukat's father was responsible for. I decided to go for "something having to do with Bajor," the details of which I borrowed from Ina Hark's stories as she was kind enough to lend me use of them. I would like to thank her for helping me with this story and providing me with continuous feedback, stimulating ideas and useful suggestions. I'm very grateful for her help.

Comments much appreciated! Talk to Zee@goplay.com .

 To Judith Medina, with much respect and affection.

THE MOUNTAIN

 He watched his son scramble over the rock. The boy slipped but caught himself with a wince, curling his injured hand around the jagged edge that had just cut his palm. A single, dark streak glistened down the obsidian stone. Turning from his son, he wondered if the boy would cry. Those rocks were cruel, sharp and blunt together; he was glad he had let him carry the first aid kit. He would turn around, once he reached the top of the slope. That gave his son enough time to apply the dermal regenerator and pretend the injury was not there. He was stubborn child but growing quickly into a fine man. It made him smile but he suddenly felt very old, and a little sad. Already he could not give his son the comfort he probably needed. He should not have to, the father knew, but he loved him so much that he worried it could be detrimental to his future. Duty was all that mattered, and he had made certain his son understood it. Duty to your family, duty to Cardassia. So high and so far from any other living man, though, he felt he could love him as much as he wanted. There was emotion only when there was conflict, he had been taught. Right now, the unthinkable feelings that were so mysterious and incomprehensible to his soldier's heart were quiet and he was happy to leave them that way. If he could simply make his son understand what he sought to teach him, nothing else would have to be said.

He reached the top and turned around to watch him push up the narrow path. He was strong and a little too proud, and his father could only blame himself for that. But a soldier had to be strong, and an officer had to be proud -- if victory was to be above survival and about glory. If he knew his son's heart, the boy would do well.

As he smiled at his father, the older Dukat realised that already there were things they could not say aloud. Dukat said nothing, simply nodded. He would not even tell him that it was foolish to try and overtake him like that, especially when he was not used to high altitudes. It was the father's earlier teasing that had surely put the idea in his head in the first place.

"Are we there yet?" he asked.

"Almost. You're doing well, Elmo."

They followed the path down a short depression and then it was uphill again. He felt the cool breeze that was chilled through the ice and snow covering the Ma'ya peaks, barely visible through the thick and humid morning mist. They were some two hundred kilometres away but there was nothing but plains between the Ma'ya and this mountain range. Nothing to warm the wind but some wild steppes and a few marsh farms. It was a curious climatic border; when Dukat and his son would descend on the southern side, they would reach a luscious agricultural territory of wild and sombre forests. The only real farmland of Cardassia Prime, it was probably its most beautiful territory. It had never occurred to him to complain of the bare harshness of his own lands, and the dark hallways of the old city streets, but the colours that sprawled across the valleys somewhere behind the mist gave him a clumsy longing for beauty he found abhorrent. His countrymen did, too, probably, but they understood it even less than he did. It was a frightening feeling after all, and he wondered if it would destroy Bajor. His short posting there had been one of the happiest times of his life, but that had been in the early days of the occupation. He had been sent to many places since then, fought a great deal, and now that he was in the position of influence he had always sought for himself, he was thinking about returning there -- perhaps take his family with him. But the things he had heard in the capital about the "administrative changes" that had taken place made him fear that Bajor was a dream now dead.

"Father, look!"

He was tempted not to, half-certain that his son just wanted to stop and catch his breath, but after a few steps he glanced above his shoulder and paused. Where Elmo pointed the mist was beginning to fade, leaving the sparkling haze of dew. You could begin to see the yellow, dried earth of the steppe. The wild grass swayed tiredly with the breeze that blew its way to the father's naked arms. He suddenly shivered -- it always seemed to be colder when the sun was about to appear. There was a moment of complete silence, of perfect stillness, and then he felt the darkness withdrawing further from his part of this world. He was its hunter because he had dawn with him. No matter how often night would come -- for him, it came after day, and he was always heading forward.

He was glad that his son was quiet, glad that he had felt it, too. Elmo was staring ahead with narrowed eyes, trying to find the sun rays before they found him. The grey sky took on a bleak, pink shade; it was still cold. The boy sighed.

"Don't worry, Elmo. We haven't missed it."

"That's not sunrise?"

"It's dawn. Dawn is a promise. The sun is not up yet." He gestured to his son to start walking again.

The last curve was hard, and they both tottered forward as fast as they could, stumbling on the rocks and stones that littered the path. It was together that they reached the top, because he did not want it to be a race. They had reached a small deserted plateau. There was an old refuge build against the rock face, dark, lonesome and uninviting, and someone had left climbing ropes behind, still nailed to the ground and falling over the edge to mysterious depths.

They dropped their back packs and sat on the softer terrain. He searched the front pockets for energy bars and shared one with his son.

"You can't see much right now," he said, "but just wait a few minutes."

They did. Colours appeared instead of grey. More of the Ma'ya broke through the morning fog. Almost all of the steppe was visible. The sun finally peeked above the horizon, wide and warm. The light that flooded the plains was so great that it was as if dawn had never existed. There could be no light but this one, and they squinted. Clouds were hovering above them already. The stars were a memory. Elmo swallowed the rest of his bar and got up to walk near the edge of the cliff.

"Son..."

"*I'm* careful," he shot back.

The father smiled. Impatience was good, it showed eagerness. He stopped near one of the ropes and casually picked it up before taking a few more steps. He was now standing very still, watching something in the distance. The older Dukat had learnt to understand that Elmo was secretive, that his cheerfulness and charm were sometimes no more than tools rather than his nature. He was much like his mother in that way, and he blamed himself for being a little too rigid at times with the boy; there were things he felt not comfortable talking about and he knew that Elmo craved for knowledge and achievements -- so much more than Cardassia could give him. He was worried about this unspoken rage he had seen in his son, worried that perhaps he was *too* ambitious. But what else could he have given him?

He got up and moved to Elmo. He was rarely so quiet, so reverential. As soon as he had been able to talk, he had been able to smooth-talk and even his father sometimes found it difficult to refuse him something. He was not forward enough, he was tempted to believe, but it was a strength and he knew it. One of his teachers had told him once that people who talked didn't listen, and never had to say it again; so he watched his son listen.

"This," he finally said. "This is what you do it for."

Elmo nodded. "Yes. For Cardassia," he said solemnly.

"What is your heart telling you, son?" The boy looked at him, confused. "Perhaps you can't tell me."

"This is nice," he replied, as if he had not heard his father's words.

"The Academy can give you learning, Elmo, but what will you do with it?" This time he said nothing; his father could tell in the way he now refused to look at him that he had no answer to give him, or no words to tell him. It gave him hope. "Do not forget silence. Step away from the noise from time to time. You can't lie to a sunrise, did you know that?"

"What do you mean?"

"I am not sure. Will you remember?"

The boy shuffled his feet. What was his father talking about? "Yes, Father."

"It's all right if you don't understand just yet. I am not good enough with words, and you are too good, so it is best that we don't try to explain." He smiled. "You must think your father is crazy, don't you?"

Elmo shook his head as he watched the sun's faltering silhouette again. He had spent most of his time drawing battle plans in his dreams but this was what he wanted -- all of it to himself. He knew it because his child's heart was beating very fast. He had never doubted himself, never had any reason to. He could beat his older cousins when they raced around the house, after all, and the sky seemed too small. And if it was still bigger than him, would a thousand stars be enough?

"I am proud of you, son. Always will be." Elmo smiled. That child's smile was so beautiful! Why did it have to sadden him so much?

"I am glad we did this trip," the boy replied.

"Me, too." He indicated the sun. "Take a good look -- we're not going to see it for the rest of the journey." Then he told Elmo about Bajor's sun, and that it was visible all day most of the year, at least where he had been stationed. He told him about Bajor all the way down the mountain, about the parks, the temples and the Prophets, the paintings, the colours, and all the shades of a man's heart.

TWENTY FIVE YEARS LATER

The dim, dusty scuttles of feet gave it away. Now the music was broken, and some stopped playing. Naprem carried on, ignoring the discordant sounds filling her ears. She pinched her strings harder, the notes got higher until they were shrills. She had no flute to accompany her and soften the music, and she could see the lines of discontent on the monks' faces. They turned to the door briefly as they heard the Cardassian voices, low and impatient, but returned to her. They could ignore, tolerate the Cardassians but her music was obviously disturbing them. Sapo nudged her, whispering to her to stop playing. She answered by pulling out of her instrument something of a shriek. The monks squirmed on the floor. When the Cardassians walked in, with a brutal push on the heavy wooden doors, she wanted to scream. They stood in the centre isle and looked at her. She looked back.

The Vedek stayed behind them, hands anxiously clasped together, lips mouthing private words. The monks did not even glance at them and stared at Naprem, and beyond her. They wanted to run. The two soldiers were the only ones who did not notice how much darker it had become. The candles behind them flickered with the sweep of their arms; their narrow shadows moved over the room as they pointed at her, and said something to the Vedek. With a gentle gesture, he signalled to Naprem to stop playing and come forward. She could pretend as well as they did, and complied to the first demand.

"You are to report to the District House tomorrow afternoon," the younger soldier said in confident Bajoran. The older soldier glanced at him with contempt, then saluted her. He tapped on his companion's shoulder and they left as loudly as they had come.

The next day, in her worst clothes, with hair unbrushed, she presented herself to the District House. She hadn't wanted to but her parents had decided that they did not wish for Cardassian brutality in their home. Her mother cried, then she had gone to work. Naprem had promised she would answer all questions and keep quiet, and she reminded herself of that promise as she was led to the District Overseer's office. The door was closed behind her with deference. The Overseer got up and cleared his throat. He smiled.

"Please forgive me if I use my translator," he said, "but my Bajoran is a bit rusty and I would like to get a comfortable start. I'm Glinn Dukat, the new overseer for your district."

"Tora Naprem," was all she said.

Somebody knocked at the door and it squeaked open behind her. A soldier came in with two data padds and presented them to him. They exchanged a few words, then the soldier left. Was that a work order he had just signed? Naprem was not nervous anymore but angry. She stared at the Cardassian in front of her, hating every single curve on his face, the aristocratic and angelic blue of his eyes, the smooth, shiny black hair; hating all of him that much more because, in spite of the ashen grey of his skin and the scales that spoke of violent strength, he was a handsome man. She did not trust the warmth in his smile, no matter how tempting it was. She realised she had seen him before.

"I attended a concert you gave last week," he said and then added, "I apologise for my manners -- do sit down. It was in that open monastery, in Pavla. Do you remember?"

"Yes." She remembered how he had watched her, all evening long. It meant nothing to her but she had been told she was an attractive woman before, and she had sat up and taken the light defiantly when she had first felt his eyes on her. That he did not come for her then had been a perverse disappointment: she was quite willing to fight him, to her last breath, to be outraged and hit him, desperately. It did not matter that she didn't stand a chance against him. But now he would take her. Now she would fight.

"I really did enjoy it -- it was wonderful music." He paused, waiting for the thank you that was to follow in polite conversation. It did not come and he studied her for a moment. Then he smiled again. "Of course, I expected no less -- in fact I'm glad. I respect pride. Bajor is a proud planet, I like that. I'm not going to harm you, please believe me. I need to practice my Bajoran and I'm interested in your music. I was hoping you could play for me from time to time. I understand you do not have many engagements? You would of course be free to attend those you choose."

She almost laughed as he waited for her reply. Silence was her only weapon, neither a yes or no, the only option to someone who had no choice. She said nothing and simply looked down.

"You are a brave woman." He nodded, approving. "I do not wish to force you to speak to me, for you will only say what you believe I want to hear. Once I have explained, perhaps you will understand." He waited for a sign of refusal. "I was delighted when they said I could come to Bajor." The change in his tone almost startled her. His voice sounded deeper now that he was speaking real Bajoran. There was more caution, each word very carefully chosen and elegantly pronounced, almost theatrically. She noticed then how aloof his gaze was, how intelligent, removed and calculating, hinting at some undefinable, shifting thoughts. When he spoke a foreign language, the distance between the man and the words suddenly showed. She would remember.

"I have always wanted to come here. My father came here once and told me he had never left. Since my first books, I remember him telling me about Bajor and I have yet to be disappointed. Beautiful." He got to his feet and walked to the one window in his office, a high almond-shaped, yellow-tainted glass that diffused a warm light in the room. There was a kind of restlessness about him, of youthful glee; he took a happy, satisfied, deep breath and turned back to her. With the greatest of respect, and a surprising, modest reverence, he said, "Perhaps you should go home now." 

Her mother cried when she came home and found her daughter well. With tears flowing down her cheeks, she thanked the Prophets and kissed Naprem, over and over, until her own cheeks were wet and glistening. She pushed her mother away as gently as she could and dried her face. Her blustering prayers were full of fear and sounded like yelps, and Naprem hated it. It was the weakness she hated. She only had to glance at her mother to see how frail she was, and afraid, not for herself but for her daughter. The Cardassians rarely told them anything, that was what frightened most. They never knew what would happen, who would be picked and why. They stood silent in front of the soldiers' weapons; that made the soldiers angry and they asked more questions to which the people had even fewer answers. So the soldiers arrested them, beat them, or shot them. Then a strange thing happened: people withdrew into the shadow of their heart, and their heart grew darker everyday. There was something secret and quiet about the children's games. The Cardassians felt it, too and they started to shout louder, and hit harder, they held their weapons closer to them. They found that they could not tell about people anymore. Some Bajorans had made fear part of them and turned it into anger. In those men's eyes, the soldiers saw their own death, the men's hands around their neck and for once it was the soldiers who were afraid.

On the street below, Vedek Mano saw her and waved, and quickly trotted up the stairs and to the door. Vedek Mano was not angry. He always smiled to all and was loved for it. He praised life and death alike, he had toys for the children and herbs for the sick, counsel for the people and prayers for peace. Her mother opened and her tears dried as soon as he had greeted her. She bowed joyfully and he hugged her, then Naprem.

"Your mother told me you had been called to the District House," he said. She nodded. "Are you well?"

"All things considered," she replied.

"Did they hurt you?"

What difference would it make to you, she wondered. "No, but the new overseer wants me there just about everyday. He wants me to play for him!"

The vedek smiled. "Well, that one must be different. It's always nice when someone takes an interest."

She snorted. "He won't hear a word from me."

"That's not like you, keeping quiet," he said.

"She understands only harm would come of it," her mother said.

"You and Father are the only ones who care," Naprem shot back. Her mother looked to the vedek and sat, pain hunching her shoulders. "How long do you think it's going to last? You can't just wait for ever."

"You want to join the Resistance?" he asked. He was serving his mother a cup of ginger tea. He folded his robe carefully and sat next to her.

"What else can you do? I know you don't approve but it's none of your business."

He laughed and his old eyes were bright. "Everything that goes on in the universe is my business, child, because I live in it."

"Did you laugh at Lapa's burial?"

"Naprem!" her mother cried.

"It is not me she's angry at," the vedek said softly.

"Someday you'll run out of answers, Vedek," Naprem said. She leaned against the window frame and watched the Cardassian that kept guard at the corner of the street. He was eating a fruit. He was only half-done when he threw it away. It rolled in the dust and none of the hungry children who stared at it dared to pick it up because they knew the soldier was watching. "Like we all have."

"Then I will join the Resistance and fight the question." She shrugged. "I must go now. May the Prophets guide you."

"May the Prophets bless you." It was like an affirmation and her mother stood up firmly. She bowed good-bye to the vedek, closed the door, and returned to the cooker. She sniffed loudly, once. "Help me for dinner, Naprem. Your father will be home soon." There was too much eagerness in the way she peeled her vegetables, too much of the awkwardness of the early prayers, and she realised that was where her mother's struggle was, and that she was stabbing her in the back. It was the weight of everyday that she carried, and the past, the memories. That was what she was taking care of. But Naprem could not forget tomorrow, the next week and the years ahead.

"I'm sorry, Mother." She said nothing and they cooked in silence. Her father came home and asked her briefly about her visit to the District House. He was a calm man, had a good temper, perhaps too even in his moods, but he usually saved Naprem from her darkest thoughts. They talked about her music, her cousin's wedding and where he had gone with his bride. Naprem wondered if coming of age was the realisation that one's parents had no more answers to give. All she had were questions. All they had was her. "We're doing the best we can," he said. "Everybody is."

Naprem did her best. A new pattern, a new silence came into her life. She would take herself and her instrument to Dukat's office three to four times a week. She was silent while she played for the Cardassian. When she returned, her mother asked her if everything was well, and she said yes, and that was that. The neighbours, she rarely saw anymore. They avoided her, dimly aware that it was not her fault -- but then diseases were never anybody's fault and people still did not want to catch them. They did not know that nothing truly happened and perhaps they wondered what was being done to her. They wondered but they never asked. Naprem would have been ashamed to admit that he was as civil to her as he had been that first day, that she did nothing for him but give him a glance when she came in and out. But she felt the silence darken the air in the kitchen, and sometimes it was ready to break with the trembling of a finger, or a hesitant question. So boiling stew, voices, steps, birds and wind grew louder and indistinct, as the silence of the deep waters did when loud with the struggle of the life unseen, the pulse of drowning hearts, the shadowed feelings.

PRIDE IN THE DARK

The men's laughter echoed sharply around the cave then subsided. They spoke loudly because they felt powerful, warm and comfortable. The slow trickles of water that chimed on the rocks sounded too quiet, too small for the men to even think it was worth listening to. They thought that it was typical of the Bajorans to have actually written entire symphonies based on the water's rhythms. They had paused to have a quick listen, as a joke, and that was what they were laughing about. A silly thing to do! Ridiculous! Water rhythms, what nonsense! They started talking about the great Cee'ar Waterfalls of Cardassia Prime. Huge, deafening, crashing sounds -- those waters could crush a starship. *That* was power.

Vok was a slim young man with narrow shoulders and a long, thoughtful face. His eyes were narrow, too, very dark and lazy. They all knew his father had bought his commission and even if they did not, it was obvious that he had not been made for the military. He was very intelligent and witty, sometimes vulgar, enough to be a good and harmless companion who would have a good career and make a better historian. His only enemies were those who could not stand his high-pitched laugh. He moved his languid arms to lean back and turned to Dukat.

"How have you found Bajor so far?" he asked.

"Fitting with my expectations," Dukat said. He moved to feel the water spill over his shoulders. With an indifferent sigh, he added, "Quite beautiful, if lacking Cardassia's character."

"As Bajorans do," Vok said, and there was some chuckles.

"I don't know," Dukat said. "Perhaps it is only my district but there is resistance."

To the right of Dukat sat Gul Darheel. He was the most senior officer there and already had lost his soldier's body. The light layer of fat gave him a paternal, intellectual air. He was always generous with advice but laughed disdainfully at Dukat's words. "Resistance? Dukat, Bajorans don't have such a word in their vocabulary. Oh -- we do get the odd armed group but there are too small to do much. And they spend more time seizing food than anything else."

Dukat smiled a little. "The Bajorans certainly are a...calm people. But they can shout as loudly as any of us and I think they will eventually revolt."

"And with what?" Palar was Darheel's officer. Young and very keen, and usually quiet -- but he always liked to talk about the Bajorans. They were amusing to him, so pitiful. They seemed like ghosts and it was easy to walk right through them. "They have nothing. They are too soft and lack discipline. What -- with one ship we could burn right through five of their provinces. As easy as that --" he flattened something in front of him with the palm of his hand and shrugged.

"Perhaps they are starting to understand Cardassian wisdom, " Vok said. "Surely, that must include steel and determination." They all laughed again, contentedly. "But I suppose that will also include their bowing to our obvious superiority." They all agreed.

Dukat said lazily, "Given that the Federation is probably going to be more difficult than we thought, it simply seems to me that we ought to slow down our cultivation of Bajor. We ought to make sure she will last us for while -- especially given the huge amount of manpower we have invested in it."

"I would not have thought of you as a careful man, Dukat," Darheel said. "Your academy career promised some rather grandiose achievements, but not arithmetics." The tone was friendly but the words sharp. Soldiers looked to glory, not politics.

"An officer needs to be a good tactician also," Dukat replied. He knew better than looking Darheel in the eye, even though he did not fear the man. He did not fear anyone that he could so obviously have knocked out as he could Darheel. But things were never as simple.

Darheel snorted. "You have just arrived from Cardassia and perhaps the civilian discomfort seems greater than it is. Bajor can give us ten times a return on this 'investment'. They seem to be blind to the fact that Bajor heats up a quarter of their homes, which is more than any other of our colonies. It's a shame about the Bajorans. If this planet were uninhabited, we could populate it with half of Cardassia Prime. Now, that would give us breathing space."

"Yes," said Dukat, "shame about the Bajorans." There was an uncomfortable ripple in the water, politely ignored - no one was certain of what they had heard in his voice, and whether they wanted to know.

"Well, Dukat," said Palar eventually, "Gul Darheel is looking into that problem at the moment."

"Really?"

"Hmmm. I have just finished setting up a work camp, at the Gallitep mines. They may as well serve as labour. Anyway," he finished with a wave, "enough of all this talk. We came here to enjoy ourselves - you and I may enjoy debating but I believe our companions are getting bored. More Kanar anyone?"

They finished the two bottles quickly and discussed what to have for dinner, and what to do afterwards. Gul Darheel declined the offer of a woman. At the look of slight embarrassment from some of the other men, he added that he actually loved his wife very much. They were all a little drunk and laughed longer than they should have. Darheel simply smiled. When they left the hot spring, he pressed his hand on Dukat's arm discreetly and they fell back behind the others as they made their way down to the small town.

The sun was just setting. Dukat kept his eyes on the two moons whose curves had appeared above the horizon. The dust under his feet had a sweet smell and he let the drying bushes scratch against his hands. The other officers' joyous stomping echoed back to them. He did not feel very much like talking to Darheel. He already knew what the gul would say, and what he would reply, and Darheel would probably like him by the time they reached their rooms. But today he did not feel like indulging another gul with big ideas but a small mind, especially one - of many - who had signed a petition asking for his father's execution. There had been no need for such a petition; it was obvious his father would be executed. Dukat felt his mind suddenly settle with thought of things to come, when he would make every single man on that petition pay, when he would stand in front of all Cardassia and tell her of his father's sacrifice. When he would take his name higher than his father had ever dreamt.

"You have a promising career ahead of you," Darheel began. "You finished the academy with the highest average of your year and have so far proven to be a thoughtful and bold officer - an interesting combination."

"Thank you."

"Central Command will soon have completely forgotten about your father," he continued. He glanced at Dukat, whose face simply showed mild irritation. "Unlike others, I quite understand the bond between a father and his son. I respected your father very much, until he committed this folly. I know you must have cared for him a great deal. You did what you had to do, but that does not change your feelings, does it?"

"I am my own man, sir," Dukat replied respectfully. "What my father did has died with him."

"If you were not, you would not be here right now. I understand you have been asking to be assigned to Bajor for quite a long time."

"That is true. It seems to be the best place for me to serve the empire."

"There is much opportunity for the ambitious here," Darheel agreed. "But there is also much room for mistake, as your father has demonstrated." They had reached the road now, and ahead of them, before the dusty tracks turned into the valley, the others were talking to three soldiers. "That must be the convoy for the fields," Darheel said. "But I thought they were meant to be there yesterday. Come, let's walk around them." Dukat followed him. They climbed up for a few minutes and found a path that surveyed the main road. Vok waved at them and started leading up the rest of them. The convoy appeared, and it was clear that it had been trying to catch up with their schedule. The Bajorans were of all ages, ragged and stooped. Their clothes were yellow with dirt from the waist down, and hung loosely from their shoulders. Water was being passed around, someone cried something, then someone else. A soldier cursed loudly, they heard a thud and a fall, more cries and then nothing. The soldier was shouting for another minute. A few of the prisoners had turned to get a look but the convoy was not slowing down. Dukat caught the eyes of a man, who held a boy by his hand. The man stared at him with some curiosity. His features, softened with the golden, sweet-scented dust, were difficult to distinguish. He seemed tired but he looked as if he walked at his own pace. The boy looked up to the man, then followed his gaze. The man tugged at him and they both turned back to the convoy. The boy glanced back briefly once or twice, and then waved quickly. Before Dukat could wave back, someone behind the boy slapped him lightly on the head, and he started to cry. The man picked him up in his arms.

"This is what I mean," Darheel said. "Those who serve with you like you, Dukat - they say you are fair. I have no doubt you know the meaning of honour and battle but you must be careful. I have been on Bajor for over five years now, and I have seen many officers come and go. This place softens the soldiers - oh, I have seen it many times!" He pointed at the moons, rising higher now that the sun was gone. The sky was a gentle blue. "The heat is comfortable, the food excellent and the Bajorans keep their homes clean. There is always something going on, some dancing, or music. They forget why they're here. You said the Bajorans can shout as loudly as we can - it may be true but then so can my children's pets."

"Sir, with all due respect - what are you trying to warn me against?"

"I am warning you against your father," he answered. "You are very much like him - very ambitious, perhaps a little too much. Not many men can follow their ambitions through. Your father could not. I feel sorry for the Bajorans but then I don't. We have people to feed back home, Dukat. Would I kill a Bajoran to save my children - of course I would. So would you. So would any Cardassian. It simply does not bear thinking. Them, or us. It's going to be us, and as soon as possible."

"I understand my duties, sir."

"There are different ways of doing battle. You will soon be thinking, 'this is not what I signed up for. I signed up to fight for Cardassia.' Well, this planet is a battlefield, the whole universe is!" Darheel wiped sweat from his forehead. He was a little out of breath, too, so Dukat increased the pace. "Your father lost track of his duties, young Dukat, and I want to make sure to stop anyone else before they do."

"I understand."

Darheel smiled. "Don't take this the wrong way. You see, your father made another mistake. He thought he had something to say in the matter and he did not. There is nothing personal in the military. That's not why one is an officer. The question is always, 'what will that do for Cardassia?' Were I thinking that you were a danger to Cardassia right now, I would take my phaser and kill you on the spot - as much as I enjoy your company. Some things aren't worth it - you knew that when you denounced him, did you not?" He directed the younger officer's gaze to the convoy, still moving, dragging, heavy with thirst and hunger, cloaked in the fine dust that its weight lifted lightly off the road. "No point in not calling it what it is." He tapped Dukat's shoulder, man to man. "Welcome to the occupation."

Dukat threw his shirt onto his bed and stared at it for a moment. He ran his hands over his face and through his hair, and without knowing why, he was thinking of home and his two children, and the one on the way, and wished he loved his wife, too. His conversation with Darheel had been illuminating, if unpleasant. It was even more unpleasant to find it unpleasant. Darheel was right, there were things that needed to be done, difficult things, but he was Cardassian, he was a Dukat and it would get done. That was why he was in the Military. He had learned from his father that a man ought to do what his duty ordered, whatever his duty may be and to the end he had followed that creed and died for it. Dukat gritted his teeth. He had cried only once for his father, and he had been drunk then. Now he was angry at him for doing this to his family, to his son who loved him so much. He was angry because he didn't understand why his father had sabotaged that ship, why he hadn't discussed it with him. He couldn't quite remember what it was that he didn't understand.

Victory must be above survival, he remembered, and about glory -- Cardassia's glory will be mine, too. Sometimes honour was lost, and fair play, but he was not the first one who had cheated. Discipline. Strength. Sacrifices. He could do it. Darheel didn't have a clue. Dukat had greater plans. He would not waste Bajor. He would make it great, and they would understand that all the hard times had been necessary. All the beauty that was once Cardassia's, that was cherished and talked about, that was their pride but had not been seen in a hundred years, was here on Bajor. And the sense of divine purpose that carried the Bajorans would take on a new meaning; they would give their spirit to Cardassia, and Cardassia would give them her strength. Glory would no longer be only of words, but of colours, stones and ideas. What design had made Cardassia and Bajor so different and yet such close neighbours? The old hurried bureaucrats of Central Command and the Obsidian Order still had the memory of the great famines, and they were still hungry, but their time had come. Starting with Bajor, he would take Cardassia in a new direction. Darheel was right on one thing -- Dukat would go far. The mountains that stretched in front of him, high and sharp, closing the empty plains full of the sun and the moons, told him that.

Vok's sneering laughter came rattling up the stairs, followed by shouts and exclamations, and then heavy, stumbling steps. Dukat heard female voices, unmistakably Bajoran and frightened, a little shrill. He grimaced at the sound and, putting it out of his mind, reached for his shirt again. Something had made him shiver; perhaps the darkness of his room. Someone pounded on his door.

"Come in."

Vok kicked the door open. He was holding a young woman tightly against him. "Listen, Dukat, I know you said you were too tired but I don't believe you! I've found you a girl who should be able to make you, shall we say, *come* to." He grinned. "Mine is a little keener but she should be more fun" The girl had instinctively looked at Vok when he started talking but now she was staring at him with wild fear at the words she could not understand. He pushed her in and she fell. Chuckling, he closed the door.

Dukat turned on his bed lamp, and listened to the girl's quiet panting as he folded his shirt and put it on a chair. Her eyes were straining not to look at him but when they did and saw the light scales on his chest, her face became a little paler. He walked to her and took her hand.

"Please do not be afraid," he said in Bajoran. "I wish you no harm." The girl refused to move. Now he realised that she must have been about fifteen or sixteen. He imagined by the freckles on her cheeks and the small fingers that she was something of a free-spirited child. She had long, dark brown hair, like that of Naprem, and the same sharpness about her ridges that he liked to think was only hers and therefore only his. Her skin was so light and soft, her features so pure and so simple. Naprem was like no woman he had ever seen, because she was Bajoran and because she was Naprem. Different from him, different from other Bajorans, too. He wanted Naprem, wanted her to want him and wanted to love her. There were unknown promises in her otherness and, he knew, only truth; it could be no other way.

He caressed the girl's face, imagining it to be Naprem's. Gently, he made her sit on the bed and released her hand, with soft murmurs of reassurance. Then he kissed her. The lips were warm in surprise but his Cardassian senses felt the blood rush away from them, and she was trembling again. He got up and put his shirt on, then gave her the glass of water he had poured himself a few minutes earlier. He felt a little annoyed until he watched her spill half of the water with her shaking.

"How old are you?" he asked after a moment. He could see on her face the frantic calculations of her mind, wondering what it was he wanted to hear.

"I -- I am going to be fifteen next month."

"Where do you live?"

This time there was a short pause. "Over the ridge," she said quickly.

He smiled. "There is nothing over the ridge."

"There's my father's farm --" She swallowed more water.

"I was there today and I didn't see anything."

The girl sprang off the bed and towards the door. Dukat caught her flailing arm before she could open the door. She fell to his feet with a small exclamation and he relaxed his grip.

"I'm sorry," he said. "We sometimes forget how strong we are." Once more, he made her sit on his bed. "I won't touch you, I promise." She stared at him, eyes glazed with tears, so he moved back to lean against the wall. "What's your name?"

"Ta -- Tannar Pola."

"Pola? That's a nice name." He let her catch her breath. "You are a very pretty girl. I can tell."

"Thank -- thank you." She was glancing at him, then glancing away again.

"I'm sorry they frightened you," he said. "There are -- things they don't realise. But I am not like that." Then he asked, "Are you hungry at all?" She shook her head. "There is a Cardassian game I like to play. I could teach you, and then you can tell me about yourself." He was reaching for the set he had taken with him when they heard a dim scream of pain, and muffled sounds of distress and laughter.

Pola was shaking again, staring at the wall where the scream had come from. Dukat watched her for a moment and decided that this was not what he wanted to spend his night doing. He wanted to send her home but feared that it would put him in the awkward position of explaining his lack of sexual drive. He traced her jaw with his fingers, lifting her face to look at him. He could not bring himself to be aroused by the sight of the fear. Taking women did not agree with him, perhaps because he found more satisfaction in gratitude.

He got up and ordered a bottle of Kanar and a large jug of water from the guard. The girl stopped shaking and sat very still now, the sheets clutched tightly between her fingers. He was removing his shoes when the guard came back. He poured a glass of the Kanar and a glass of water, and handed the Kanar to the girl.

"Try it," he said.

Pola sniffed the drink. "Why...aren't you drinking?"

Dukat had to smile at that. "How rude of me," he apologised. He poured some Kanar in the glass she had discarded earlier and took a full gulp. "It's a good year," he said encouragingly. "I'm not trying to poison you, see?" He laughed when she started coughing and spitting what she had swallowed. "Take it slowly. It's strong." She moved to put the glass on the bed table but he gently intercepted her hand. "You have to drink it."

He could see she thought about protesting. She asked instead, "Why?"

"It'll help you sleep." She flinched at the sound of another Bajoran shriek and then started to sip the Kanar. When she was finished, he gave her a glass of water. Too young still, he thought, to know how to cure a hangover. He poured her two more glasses of Kanar, and she was very drunk by the time she finished the third round. She still said nothing, simply reeled gently back and forth on the bed, very flushed, struggling to stay conscious. She burst into tears so suddenly that it startled him.

"My father was executed two weeks ago," she said.

He had not touched his own glass for a while but now he raised it to her. "So was mine, a few years ago." She didn't seem to hear him and carried on sobbing. The Kanar was making him warm; he felt tears in his eyes. But there was nothing to be done, so he had another drink. Eventually she slipped to the floor and fell asleep, without Dukat noticing himself. She snored lightly. He picked her up and moved her to a corner of the room. He tore off the sleeve of her dress and studied her breathing. She was sleeping so deeply that she only grunted when he smacked her hard. It would leave a good enough mark in the morning. He thought it was slightly ridiculous to have to pretend to have done something that would get him painfully executed if done to a Cardassian woman. But he remembered Darheel's words and he knew that a Cardassian soldier was to show no pity, that if he was seen to have mercy on *Bajorans*, there would be a lot of hostile questions.

Dukat had become aware of Cardassia's many contradictions since his father's execution. The rigidity of home always clashed with the ambition it encouraged. Those had been painful realisations of his youth that he now understood as being part of growing up. Bajorans thought Cardassians extremely cruel, and Dukat would not have denied that his people were harsh. But the Bajorans didn't know that Cardassians were just as cruel with each other and with themselves as they were to them, and that they had been lucky with this planet so rich in everything. Now they were beginning to understand that what they'd had was a mere respite. Whether it was a drought or an invasion, the universe itself had cruel ways. Bajoran naiveté was not his problem but theirs. The survival of Cardassia is above moral laws, the Academy had taught him, since moral laws are meant to ensure order and survival itself. There was only heroism in committing oneself to the survival of Cardassia. Strength was the core of all empires. What did his father expect when he authorised the sabotage of that ship?

He sighed, wondering where those thoughts were coming from. They didn't seem very constructive. Perhaps Darheel had been right and perhaps Bajor was already starting to get to him.

"I will not weaken," he said aloud, to the sleeping girl.

It was still early in the morning when he roused her and threw her out. From his bedroom window, he saw her silhouette, arms thrown around herself, dart below the fruit trees of the garden and onto the road, where she carried on running and disappeared at a corner. He left for his district soon after breakfast with thoughts of Naprem that were sweet and pressing like those of love, and it left him intrigued and tired.

NEXT