Disclaimer:
The Star Trek universe is the copyrighted property of Paramount, and 
borrowed solely for the use of this story. The story is copyright 1997 
by Ariana (ariana@ndirect.co.uk). All rights reserved. Do not distribute
without the present header and the author's written permission. Please
contact the author if you wish to include this story in an archive.
Archived at:  http://www.alpha.ndirect.co.uk/trek/
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                            Halfway
                           = = = = =
                by Ariana (ariana@ndirect.co.uk)
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   "I know that our past makes it difficult for you to accept me as 
an ally. I also know that every fibre of your being is telling you to 
say no, no, no. But somewhere I know there is a yes. You need to 
listen to that yes."
                              Dukat to Kira, "Return to Grace"
   
   
   She was coming towards him, a mysterious half smile on her painted 
lips, and he could not resist that look. He had wanted her for so 
long, to touch her milky skin, run his hands through her fiery hair, 
see some affection in her stern, unforgiving face. She smiled as he 
approached in turn, gently shaking her head as she reached up to his 
shoulder. He closed his eyes and sighed at the touch of her hand 
through his shirt.
   She pronounced his name and he opened his eyes again at the sound 
of her sharp voice. He found her neat face was now only a few 
centimetres away from his. Her hand continued its caress along the 
cartilage of his neck, up to the two strips of skin that ran from the 
lobe of his ear. A finger traced the contour of his jaw and then 
moved up to caress his thin lower lip. He sighed involuntarily at the 
tickling touch and caught the wandering hand in his to hold its soft 
palm to his cheek.
   Unsure of his welcome despite her caresses, he released her hand 
to hesitantly slip his arms around her waist, pulling her gently 
towards him. She took a step forward, and the tip of her nose came 
level with his chin. He leant over to place a kiss on the soft ridges 
between her half-closed eyes and was rewarded by a little sigh. He 
responded with a similar sound, careful to keep his manifestations of 
desire within the bounds of her species.
   Her arms went around his neck and she tilted her face up towards 
his, her red lips parting as she drew him even nearer. He had enough 
experience of her people to know what was expected from him at this 
point. In his youth, he had learned to appreciate this unusual 
activity, which members of his species had not experienced until they 
occupied her world for sixty years. It was a measure of the strange 
relationship between the master and slave races that the slaves had 
taught their masters a new trick of lovemaking. His mouth touched her 
lips hesitantly and then drew away slightly. Her hands in his hair 
kept him from moving further away, and then she kissed him.
   He returned the kiss as best he could, appreciating the feel of 
her hands stroking the wide nape of his neck and then burying 
themselves once again in his hair. For some reason, he was not 
wearing his armour, which was rather fortunate considering the 
present situation, and the curves of her petite body pressed against 
the sensitive ridges of his chest. As her kiss became more 
passionate, he ran one hand down the rough material of her red tunic 
and slipped it under the belt.
   She broke the kiss and stepped back. Her expression was still 
slightly amused, but there was a tenderness in it that he had never 
seen before. Nearly an expression of affection... perhaps even 
forgiveness. And to see that expression on her face was a precious 
gift. He lifted a hand off her waist and raised it to stroke the 
smooth skin of her cheek. She leant into his touch and he decided to 
take that as a yes.
   Bending his knees slowly to sink to the ground, he pulled her down 
with him, until he was kneeling on the floor with her half kneeling, 
half straddling him. From the look in her dark eyes, he gathered she 
appreciated his concession to the mating rituals of her people. She 
raised her hands to his temples and then ran them down his neck to 
where his ridges tapered off under his shirt. He gave way to her 
gentle push and lay down on the ground as she settled on top of him.
   His eyes flew open. This was ridiculous.
   He stared up at the ceiling above the hard bed, his breath still 
irregular at the memory of his mind's construction. It wasn't that he 
didn't want to do that with her, but he did feel just slightly 
pathetic indulging in a fantasy about it. He usually managed to veer 
the desires of his mind onto non-existent people, women he would 
never meet face to face, and who as far as he was concerned had no 
personality or existence beyond impersonating his desire. It had been 
quite some time since he felt driven to fantasise about someone he 
actually knew, and he didn't like it. Particularly as he probably had 
as much chance of seducing her as he had of convincing his mother to 
embrace his illegitimate daughter.
   What was worst about this was that she was lying in a similarly 
badly designed room only a few meters away. He wondered what sort of 
a welcome he would receive if he actually went in to see her. She 
possibly wouldn't be very surprised – he had made his attraction for 
her abundantly clear by any species' standards – but he could imagine 
he would be less than welcome. She had made her dislike of him 
equally clear. Still, the humidity of his skin increased again at the 
thought of her graceful body laid out on her Klingon bed, her creamy 
white skin concealed by some shiny light material... He swung his legs 
off the bed with a sigh. There was only one thing to be done under 
the circumstances.
   He slipped on his trousers and walked out into the corridor. It 
was a pity that, in boarding the Klingon ship, they had left most of 
their possessions behind. There had been no time to pack their bags 
when she had come up with the plan to exchange places with the enemy 
crew. A brilliant plan it was, too. There they were on a weak 
freighter, combating a Klingon bird of prey, and risking imminent 
defeat, when she suddenly came up with the idea of using the Klingon 
transporters to beam the Klingon crew off their ship, while beaming 
themselves onto it. Trust that woman to come up with the key to their 
victory.
   The victory was short-lived, though. The civilian government on 
Cardassia, which had been so eager to demote him as soon as the 
scandal about his daughter broke out, did offer to reinstate him as 
chief military advisor, but they were fiercely opposed to using the 
knowledge stored in the bird of prey's databanks to achieve military 
advantage. They wanted to *negotiate*! Well, he had told them what to 
do with their negotiations. But now, he had no choice but to strike 
out on his own, to fight the Klingons just as the Bajorans had once 
fought him. The Bajorans had won -- maybe he would, too. In the 
meantime, he had at least had the satisfaction of blowing the entire 
Klingon crew to bits as soon as they materialised on the freighter.
   And now, here he was on his prize -- a slightly elderly, but 
nonetheless powerful space ship, complete with the personal effects 
of its late crew, not that Klingons were given to accumulating 
personal effects. He could sympathise with them as far as that was 
concerned; he didn't regret much of what he had blown up with the 
freighter. His daughter had somehow managed to retrieve some bits and 
pieces, including her mother's personal display unit, but aside from 
that, they had all transported on as is, and had to make do with the 
clothes they were wearing. Fortunately, he had no doubt he would be 
able to get any item the Klingon replicators couldn't provide from 
the Federation replicators on Deep Space Nine tomorrow. He had heard 
they still contained some of the programs the Cardassians had left. 
As to clothes... He grinned as he remembered who the station's tailor 
was. There was some justice in the Universe after all.
   In the meantime, since he did not like the idea of sleeping in his 
uniform when it was not absolutely necessary, he had put on a 
reasonably clean maroon shirt he had found among the possessions of 
the Klingon captain. The neck was too tight, of course, but leaving 
the top half open made it wearable. He just hoped he wouldn't meet 
anyone in this strange costume. When he had put it on and viewed 
himself in the mirror, he had found it gave him the air of an 
interstellar pirate, which was only fitting if he was going to live 
the life of a renegade from now on. He sighed as he thought of this – 
for some reason, it made him feel very old.
   As there were no facilities on the ship for him to exercise or 
amuse himself while he waited for the mood to pass, he decided a 
brisk walk would have to do. He was probably going to spend a great 
deal of time on this captured ship, and he might just as well get to 
know it as best he could. Once he had finished doing that, he would 
perhaps pay a brief visit to one of this deck's bathrooms. The 
Klingons were not so keen on hygiene as to have bathrooms in every 
room, and the ones the ship did provide came nowhere near Cardassian 
standards. But until he could have something done about the problem, 
he would just have to put up with it.
   He had just completed his brisk walk and reached the nearest of 
those rooms when the door to it opened and he was suddenly reminded 
of the reason for his presence there. So much for exercising. He 
couldn't help running his eyes over the sight before him, right from 
the horrified expression on her face down to the neat shape of her 
pink and white feet. She had evidently resorted to the Klingon 
replicator to find suitable night clothing. Her item of choice fell 
in loose folds around her, clinging to the subtle curves of her alien 
body, while leaving her arms bare and covering her legs only to mid-
thigh. It was a sight worth seeing, but one he could have done 
without just then.
   "Major..." he started, before continuing in Bajoran. "What a 
pleasant surprise." It had occurred to him that this ship was not 
equipped with an environmental universal translator, and it was only 
polite to speak to her in her own language. He had learned it during 
his years in the occupation forces, and was reasonably certain he 
could conduct a conversation in it.
   She seemed rather taken aback, either by his appearance or his 
Bajoran. But it didn't take her long to recover.
   "What are you doing here, Dukat?" she said, spitting out his name 
as if it were a raw taspar. He decided her hostility was probably 
largely motivated by her current state of undress.
   He put on his most ingratiating smile and watched as her dark eyes 
narrowed suspiciously. He was constantly amazed at how expressive the 
bland, featureless face of the Bajorans could be. In his many years 
on Bajor, he had learned to read the variety of their expressions 
just as well as those of his fellow Cardassians. In the process, he 
had also come to appreciate the simple beauty of their unadorned 
skin.
   "Surely you haven't forgotten, Major," he said reasonably, pulling 
himself up to his full height to take advantage of the fact she 
wasn't wearing her boots for once. "We captured this Klingon ship 
together, remember? As its new captain, I believe I am entitled to 
visit any part of it I wish."
   She gave a reluctant smile, and looked a little more amenable. 
   He sometimes wondered what she really thought of him. He knew, of 
course, that she had plenty of reasons to dislike him, and she had 
told him as much on many occasions. The gods knew, she must have 
hated him enough when he was the head of the Cardassian occupation 
force on Bajor. And yet, he couldn't help feeling her attitude 
towards him had been tempered by the time they had spent together. 
She had taken him entirely by surprise when she proposed to take care 
of Ziyal. Considering her dislike of him and of Cardassians in 
general, he would never have thought she would want to take on the 
care of his half-caste daughter.
   "Well, I guess I'll leave you to your visit," she said, casting a 
mischievous glance at the bathroom door. "Goodnight," she added as 
she pushed past him.
   He looked at the door and gently shook his head before following 
her. By staying just a few steps behind her, he had a rather pleasant 
view of her entire person. The hair on the nape of her neck was still 
wet, as if she had had a shower and had not quite succeeded in 
keeping her hair out of the water. On the other hand, maybe she had 
simply been washing her face and neck to take her makeup off, and had 
wet her hair in doing so. Or perhaps she had washed her hair and not 
quite got around to drying it properly. At any rate, her short red 
hair fell in dark, thick strands at the back of her head, and he 
admired the contrast with the pure contours of her smooth white neck.
   His eyes followed the curve of her shoulder down to the thin arm 
and petite hand that swung ever so gently to keep her balance as she 
walked. He looked further along to where the Klingon material creased 
and smoothed out with the movements of her narrow hips, and then down 
to her bare legs and feet. He could imagine from past experience what 
the rest of her body would look like, the pale unadorned expanse of 
her back and stomach, the beautiful simplicity of her breasts, the 
surprising complexity of her sex, the soft dry skin exempt of all the 
small ridges and gentle hollows of a Cardassian woman.
   As he watched, she stopped walking and her head swivelled around 
on the graceful neck he had admired earlier. The expression on her 
face was less than graceful, however.
   "What are you looking at, Dukat?" she snapped.
   He spread his hands to profess his innocence, even though he 
wasn't sure how much of him she could see in the reduced lighting of 
the alien ship. He knew her dark Bajoran eyes wouldn't be as 
sensitive as his.
   "I assure you, I meant no harm," he said, half acknowledging that 
he was indeed looking at her.
   She looked doubtful for a moment and then evidently decided it 
wasn't worth discussing, because she turned away again and continued 
towards her quarters.
   "Actually, Major, since you're awake, perhaps we could take this 
opportunity to discuss some more serious matters," he said softly.
   She sighed and stopped only a few steps further, beneath one of 
the lights. It shed a soft reddish glow on her pale skin, outlining 
the folds of the dress she wore and casting gentle shadows on her 
bare legs.
   "About what?" she said shortly.
   "Ziyal for instance. This is, after all, the last chance we will 
have to talk before we reach Deep Space Nine. I was planning to talk 
to you earlier, but I thought you had gone to bed." He allowed 
himself a brief pause to look over her improvised night dress. If he 
had known she was lying on her bed dressed like this, it would have 
taken more than a brisk walk for him to recover. "Since you are 
awake, we could perhaps take this opportunity to discuss my 
daughter's future on the station. Although there is no one I would 
rather entrust my daughter to, and you can be sure I have the utmost 
confidence in your capabilities, I do know you have no children of 
your own. Therefore, I believe that, before we part tomorrow, I 
should try to..." He struggled to remember the word he wanted and 
failed, to her obvious amusement, "...explain the best methods to 
use. After all, I have extensive experience on this subject, as the 
father of seven children, and I have come to know Ziyal quite well in 
recent months. I think it would be an advantage for you if I were to 
share some of my knowledge before you take on the task of caring for 
her."
   He was aware there was no need to make such a long speech. But for 
him to stop talking might cause an uncomfortable silence, and, if 
there was anything Cardassians despised, it was silence in a 
conversation. However, he did cut his soliloquy short when he 
realised she was giving him her usual mocking smile. It was quite 
remarkable how this woman could express hatred, amusement and disdain 
simply with varying degrees of her lovely smile. And those were just 
about the only emotions that made her smile when she was with him. He 
wondered if her smile would be any different if it expressed 
affection. Presumably he would never find out -- unless he got an 
opportunity to see her smiling at Shakaar. He ignored the pang of 
jealousy that seized his throat. What mattered right then was to 
seize the opportunity for a few more moments in her company.
   As he watched the smile spread from her lips to her eyes, he 
wondered which emotion it was expressing this time.
   "Do you have any particular advice in mind?" she asked patiently. 
Evidently amusement had won out.
   He didn't really know where to start. After all she had been 
through, Ziyal needed a lot of attention. She was quite ignorant, 
something he had found shocking and tried his very best to remedy, 
though circumstances made that difficult. She had been quite well-
spoken and on her way to being a well educated, accomplished young 
woman before her captivity, but six years serving the Breen with 
former Cardassian soldiers and Bajoran prisoners had undone most of 
what she had achieved as a child. She could read and write, and still 
modulated her voice in a way that would suit a Cardassian lady, 
though her vocabulary sometimes reverted to an unsavoury patois of 
Bajoran, Cardassian and Breen which even a universal translator had 
difficulty processing. As to culture, all that remained were half-
remembered songs and stories of her childhood.
   "Well, she doesn't have much knowledge of Cardassian or Bajoran 
culture," he said evenly, trying to hide the disgust that inspired in 
him. "In fact, one could say she is quite ignorant. Without 
knowledge, she will come to nothing, and lead an unhappy life. She 
needs to be given an opportunity to learn, to expand her mind beyond 
the confines of her existence. She is also in need of some general 
education; her manners and language are still good, but will need to 
be better if she is to move in good society."
   "As opposed to the rabble on Deep Space Nine?" she asked, 
apparently rather annoyed by his simple statement. He wasn't far from 
agreeing with that assessment of the station's population. It housed 
a variety of species, from the dominant Bajorans and Terrans to 
assorted people from the Alpha, Beta and Gamma Quadrants. All the 
place needed was a few Borg, or whatever other species came from the 
Delta Quadrant, and it could boast representatives from every corner 
of the galaxy. So much diversity was probably invigorating for 
someone like Kira, but it might prove confusing to a girl as unsure 
of her roots as Ziyal was.
   "Major, I did not say anything about Deep Space Nine," he retorted 
smoothly. "In fact, I am quite sure your colleagues there appreciate 
good manners as much as any good society. You can also be sure I 
would not consider letting you take Ziyal to the station if I did not 
believe you were capable of delivering the sort of education I would 
want for my daughter. However, it is a fact that there are a great 
many species on the station, including quite a large contingent of 
Terrans. All these species have conflicting ideologies and cultures, 
and this might prove confusing to Ziyal, who is still trying to learn 
the ways of the people she belongs to. After what she has been 
through, she will need some precise cultural references, including 
manners fitting to her race."
   "Well, I can't give her a Cardassian education, if that's what you 
want," she said sharply. She seemed about to add something, possibly 
some curt remark about Cardassian education, which was notoriously 
harsh, but she evidently thought better of it. He was grateful for 
that, as he didn't think an argument with her on that subject would 
achieve anything.
   "No, and I would not expect you to. Ziyal is, after all, half-
Bajoran, and I would not like her to lose that side of her heritage." 
Kira looked suspiciously at him, but he continued, "I have been 
trying, ever since we rescued her, to continue her education where it 
was abruptly cut off six and a half years ago. For obvious reasons, I 
was only able to teach her about her Cardassian heritage, but I 
believe she should also know something of Bajor. I did not think she 
would have the opportunity to learn so soon, but believe me, Major, I 
welcome it heartily. It was always understood that, being half-
Bajoran and half-Cardassian, she should gain some knowledge of both 
people, and it gives me great pleasure to know that she will. 
Furthermore, learning about the language, art and civilisation of 
both species will broaden her mind and make her more receptive to 
further knowledge. It has been a while since she was taught anything 
but manual labour, but she is an intelligent young woman, and now 
that she is rediscovering the simple process of knowledge 
acquisition, she should have no difficulty catching up with what a 
woman her age should know."
   Kira's face softened as he spoke, and she nodded. "I see. You're 
right, she'll need a good education. Maybe I could get Keiko to give 
her some private lessons," she said, half to herself. He wondered who 
'Keiko' was, but then decided it probably didn't matter. "She should 
be able to learn from the computers, too. I think there are some good 
educational programs in the Federation databanks."
   He wasn't too sure he liked the sound of that. "I am entrusting my 
daughter's education to you, not to the Federation." All he needed 
was for Ziyal to be tainted by strange Terran customs and beliefs. 
That she should learn about Bajor was only fair, and something that 
her mother and he had always agreed upon. Not that her mother had 
been enthusiastic about the idea at first, but he considered there 
was too much beauty in the cultural heritage of Bajor for his 
precious child to ignore it completely. But he was not keen on her 
learning any more than necessary about the Terran-dominated 
Federation. Still, with any luck, any knowledge accumulated about 
their customs would be useless when they withdrew in a few years' 
time. If they withdrew...
   "She could do worse than learn about a species that seems to 
populate half the Quadrant," she said with a little smile.
   He shook his head and rolled his eyes. "It is not their numbers 
which worry me, so much as their ideas." He would have expanded on 
his dislike of humans, but she managed to interrupt him before he got 
a chance to continue. 
   "They're not so bad once you get to know them. I felt like 
throwing every one of them through the bulkheads when I first started 
working with them, but I'm really quite fond of them now."
   "As I recall, you were ready to throw a great many people through 
the bulkheads in those days," he said softly.
   He didn't normally think about that time -- it would probably rank 
with the current period as one of the all time lows of his life -- 
but the memory of the newly appointed Major Kira Nerys, with her 
unbecoming hairstyle and brand new Bajoran uniform, presented itself 
in his mind and made him half smile. Though he would never have 
admitted it, it had been a relief for him to find so many people from 
his time had stayed on the station. They were by no means his 
friends, and he barely knew Kira when the Federation moved in, but at 
least he knew where they stood, and that was a help with the Terrans. 
Their species made him nervous; while he despised them for their 
individual dullness, he feared their collective creativity, and their 
incredible ability to impose their culture on other species without 
so much as lifting a finger on them. At least he felt reasonably safe 
in the knowledge that the Terrans were hemmed in by their treaty with 
the Bajorans. And that Sisko, probably the dullest of the lot, was 
hemmed in by Kira Nerys.
   "Yeah," she said, apparently also thinking back to those days. 
"Though that still holds true for some people," she added.
   He presumed she was talking about him and smiled. "I appreciate 
your restraint," he said.
   He waited to see if she would respond, but she didn't say 
anything, and the result was an embarrassing silence. Then, just as 
he was about to say something, anything, to break the silence, she 
sighed, and said, "Right. Anything else?"
   He wondered how he could broach the subject that came to mind. 
There were quite a few more things she would need to know about Ziyal 
in order to take good care of her. But, as the girl's father, there 
was one thing that worried him particularly. Discussing it with Kira 
wasn't going to be easy, though.
   "Major, how much do you know about the physiology of half-castes?" 
he asked, lowering his voice and moving closer to reduce the chance 
that someone might overhear them. Fortunately, Ziyal's quarters were 
much further down the corridor, beside Kira's.
   She seemed puzzled by his question. "Why?"
   "Well, the fact is that our two people are quite similar 
physiologically speaking, even though we do not look the same. That 
is why it is relatively easy for us to produce half-caste children," 
he said, vaguely aware that he was being evasive and seemed to have 
strayed from the point. "In fact, those children often display 
characteristics from both species at once, and that is not just 
limited to the Bajoran nose and the Cardassian ridges."
   "Yes?" she said slowly, prompting him to get to the point.
   He couldn't believe how difficult it was to discuss this subject 
with her. Of course, it was not the sort of thing any man should 
discuss with a woman who was neither a relative, nor a lover. It 
would also have been easier if he had not been trying to seduce her 
for some time; as it was, he was very much afraid that she would take 
this conversation as another pass. 
   "I... It's just that... it isn't just a question of getting the 
right cycle for eating and sleeping," he said carefully, hoping from 
her serious expression that she would realise he was being equally 
serious. "As a general rule, half-castes exhibit sexual behaviour 
similar to that of full-blooded Cardassians. You might argue that 
there isn't that much difference between Bajorans and Cardassians on 
that point... or you might not." He had no idea how much she knew 
about his species' sexual habits. "But there are some quite sizeable 
differences." He realised that was not a very fortunate choice of 
words.
   Kira managed to keep a straight face, though the slight pleating 
of her eyes indicated she had also noticed his slip.
   "Such as?" she asked.
   He was obviously going to have to do some explaining. He was very 
good at explaining things, of course, and could have lectured at 
length on this particular subject. But somehow he didn't feel he had 
the right audience, and decided to keep his dissertation short.
   "Well, for instance, it is only now that she is feeling a bit 
better physically and psychologically that Ziyal's body has completed 
its maturation. She is still rather shy about that particular aspect 
of her life, and I believe it would be in her best interests if you 
could perhaps broach the subject with her to make her more 
comfortable about the idea." He wondered if he was perhaps being a 
little too evasive about this; if he continued like that, he ran the 
risk that Kira might miss his point.
   "Of course, I'll talk to her... Wait a minute. She didn't mature 
before? But she's nineteen." She was very surprised. This was 
obviously one of the differences she didn't know about. But then 
these reproductive details were not the sort of thing Cardassians 
liked their adversaries to know.
   "Yes, it's a Cardassian particularity," he explained. "Excessive 
stress often makes women sterile, and since she wasn't... ready when 
she was captured, her body decided to put puberty on hold for a few 
years."
   "Quite a few years," she said thoughtfully.
   He loved this. He had managed to catch her completely off guard, 
and her face was wide open with amazement. It was a pleasure to see 
such an innocent expression on her normally wary features.
   "It affects men, too, but to a lesser extent," he continued, 
conscious that she probably didn't want to know this much about 
Cardassian particularities. "And it doesn't affect all women the same 
way. My grandmother had two children while she was in prison... 
though no one ever gave me a satisfactory explanation as to how..." 
he let his voice trail off with a grin.
   The corners of her eyes were pleating very slightly, and then her 
mouth curled into a little smile. She was still listening, though, so 
he carried on.
   "As soon as Ziyal was rescued, as I said, Nature did some rapid 
catching up. I was able to explain some basic principles to her when 
that happened. She seemed to have forgotten most of what she learnt 
from us before her captivity, so I think the actual manifestations 
came as a bit of a shock to her... I suppose you can guess why?" He 
knew he was supposing right. That was one of the similarities between 
the two species.
   "Pheromones," she said simply.
   "Yes..." he said slowly. "I found myself having to brush up on all 
the things I learnt as a young adult myself. But she needed a lot of 
explanations. That was not easy, Major; the fact is that our society 
usually enforces a strict separation of the sexes, and in particular, 
it is not a father's place to educate his daughter in such matters. 
So you can imagine that was... rather embarrassing for both of us. At 
least, since you are a female yourself, she will be more willing to 
take advice from you. Not that she didn't listen to me, but I think 
she was well aware that I wasn't the best person to talk to, not 
having any personal experience..."
   "Yes, all right," she said, interrupting him a little impatiently. 
"I'll try to learn up on Cardassian sexuality and tell her all about 
it."
   She was still smiling and the opportunity was too good to miss. 
"Do let me know if you need any help, Major."
   The half smile was wiped off her lips as she gave him the 
irritated look she usually got when he made a pass at her.
   "But I'm sure you will do very well," he added a little more 
seriously. "Ziyal is a little ignorant and inexperienced, but she is 
intelligent, and of course, like Bajorans, Cardassians are able to 
control... that." He couldn't think of the Bajoran word. 
   "Really?" she said, a little saucily, he thought. He wondered if 
she was talking about him and made a mental note to have a chuckle 
about that later.
   "It just takes some discipline," he concluded.
   Kira nodded gravely and he was pleased to see she was paying due 
attention to what he was saying, despite her teasing. For some 
unknown reason, they had both started walking down the corridor 
again, though they were not going very fast. As they walked along, he 
turned to look at her walking beside him, and admired the pure lines 
of her Bajoran profile, how her nose ran straight down from her 
sloping forehead to the curves formed by her lips and chin. She was 
not a beautiful woman, but she was handsome enough, and had a 
personality to run rings around any dish-faced young beauty.
   "So, are you looking forward to roaming around the sector in your 
new ship?" she asked conversationally.
   "Oh, not really," he admitted. "There is no pleasure in 
contemplating life as an exile."
   "You could have returned to Cardassia," she reminded him, though 
her slightly ironic tone of voice suggested she knew perfectly well 
that had not been an option. He wondered if the tone was voluntary; 
if so, Kira was revealing more subtlety than he had come to expect 
from her in the past.
   However, he was not in the mood for a serious conversation, and 
chose to make light of the situation.
   "No, I suppose I had rather be killed by Klingons than by the 
combined efforts of my wife and mother."
   "That bad, is it?" she said with a grin.
   "You wouldn't know... you've never been married to a Cardassian 
lady," he answered, delighted at how relaxed she seemed to be in his 
company. It was a strange experience, slowly strolling along the 
corridor, Major Kira smiling at his side. There wouldn't be many 
opportunities to do this again. Tomorrow, he would be leaving her at 
Deep Space Nine, perhaps even saying goodbye to her for the last 
time. But he was not one to mull over the possibility of unhappiness 
in the future; what mattered was the here and now. And here and now, 
he was in the company of an attractive woman for the first time in a 
long, long time.
   "You know, Dukat," she said, obviously preparing to tease him, "I 
find it difficult to believe anyone in the galaxy was unlucky enough 
to have you as a husband."
   He lifted an eye ridge at her. "I will have you know that she 
quite liked me."
   "Really?" She said it in nearly the same mischievous tone as 
earlier, only this time, her smile was more confident.
   He wondered if she was flirting with him. Insulting a man a propos 
of nothing was the sort of thing Cardassian women did when they 
fancied someone. "Yes," he said, unsure if he should take her 
behaviour at face value, or put it down to some intercultural 
misunderstanding. He decided to concentrate on the bantering. "You 
might not believe this -- and seeing as you are Bajoran, you 
definitely won't -- but I was very good looking when I was young. 
Good-looking and ambitious... irresistible, in a word," he said with 
a self-mocking grin.
   "There has to be some reason why you have seven children," she 
said casually.
   "Yes, lack of birth-control," he said calmly, giving her the 
benefit of a sly grin he hoped would hide his confusion. He knew she 
couldn't be flirting with him, but he was still a little puzzled by 
her behaviour. She laughed at his joke, and he was fascinated by this 
new expression on her face. A smile of undiluted mirth. He resisted 
the temptation to take advantage of her moment of relaxation and slip 
his arm around her slender waist. The thought was still enough to 
make him stop.
   She stopped as well and looked at him curiously, the smile fading 
slowly from her lips. He wished he had the powers of a Betazoid to 
know what was going on in her mind right then. But he did not, and 
his knowledge of her was not even enough for him to guess. She was 
looking at him intently, as she had been when he was talking about 
Ziyal and Cardassian sexuality. She couldn't be interested... he 
dismissed the question as pure fantasy. He knew even a Bajoran could 
appreciate his looks and manners, but wasn't so sure this one would.
   Still, he enjoyed the moment and looked into her unaligned dark 
eyes. It was not possible to look into both her eyes at once, and he 
found that disturbing, but also strangely attractive. Which was not 
really a surprise, as he found the whole of her attractive anyway. 
She was still young, but past the false bloom of immaturity, and, 
while she conserved the sharp personality that had always captivated 
him, she had acquired in the four years since the end of the 
Occupation a softer edge. Her voice was gentler, and she smiled more 
often, was more willing to listen to him without glaring or shouting 
at him. Her hair, once long and red, was now shorn into reddish brown 
curls that softened her features. Neither Bajorans nor Cardassians 
would have called her beautiful, but one could not, or at least he 
could not, help but admire her bright eyes and dimpled smile. His 
eyes wandered to her family earring dangling on one side of her face, 
and then moved down to her dress. It was less revealing of her fine 
figure than her uniform, but he found her bare arms and legs 
distracting. And her feet were making him positively dizzy.
   As if she knew what he was now thinking about, she lowered her 
eyes. He stared at her downcast eyes for a moment longer, noticing 
that one reason they looked so strange tonight was that they were not 
made up. She usually brushed some dark brown on the outside of her 
lids to accentuate their slanting tilt. He was seized by a sudden 
desire to place his thumb in the shallow fold of her eye, and run it 
along to her temple, down to her cheekbone, then further to the 
undecorated line of her jaw, to caress the smooth skin of her neck... 
He breathed in sharply and cursed copiously in his mind. With well 
trained discipline, he banished the thought and calmed his body. He 
only hoped he was far enough for her not to have noticed. Pheromones 
could lead to some very embarrassing situations.
   She cast a nervous glance at his shirt and then seemed to look 
into the middle distance. He automatically looked down at his chest 
to see if there were any embarrassing ridges in evidence there. The 
open flap revealed the drop shaped hollow on his clavicle and a few 
of the adjoining scales, but surely she had seen that much on 
Cardassians before. Maybe she just wasn't used to seeing him without 
his uniform.
   "Anyway," she said, obviously desirous to talk about something 
else. "I promise I'll take good care of Ziyal and keep her out of 
harm's way."
   "I'm sure you will. She won't be any problem; she's a bright young 
lady and she's eager to fit in now that she's free. I know she's 
looking forward to living with you -- she admires you a lot."
   "Yes," she said a little shortly, starting off down the corridor 
again. Maybe she was afraid he would say something about his own 
admiration for her. He chose not to.
   "I'm just sorry she can't stay with me," he said pensively. "Oh, I 
know the reasons why she would be better off on the space station. 
All three of us agree that is far safer for her than staying on this 
ship. After all, who is to guarantee that we won't get shot out of 
the sky by the next Klingon vessel we meet? And you're right, I don't 
want Ziyal to lead the life of a renegade, trapped on this ugly ship, 
living in fear and hatred. She has lived in ugliness too long, it's 
time she got a chance to live among happier people in a more pleasing 
environment." 
   He remembered the beautiful architecture of the former Terok Nor, 
and could quite imagine his daughter living there as he had once 
done. The image of a woman leaning against one of the eye-shaped 
windows in his living quarters came to mind. She was looking out at 
Bajor, which was visible from the station back in those days, before 
the Federation moved it to lay claim to the wormhole. Her long dark 
hair was loose and he was pleased he had convinced her to let it keep 
its natural colour. Strange how his mind could remember that moment 
in time so precisely while other, more important events had faded 
into oblivion. He remembered every detail of her rosy face, how calm 
and serene she had looked in the darkness, how her plain beauty 
outshone every star behind her as she turned and spoke his name.
   "Dukat?"
   He realised he had been silent for a while longer than usual, and 
shook himself out of his reverie. He swallowed hard to chase the 
memory. Life was seldom fair, and there was no point lamenting things 
past. What really mattered was to seize the moment -- though this was 
possibly not the moment to seize Kira.
   "Oh, I was just thinking... as I sometimes do," he added to keep 
the conversation shallow enough for comfort.
   "Really?"
   "Major, do you realise that is actually the third time you have 
said 'Really?' since we began this conversation?"
   She spread her hands in helplessness.
   "What can I say? I don't have your talent for making grandiose 
speeches at the slightest provocation."
   "I don't think I have been making so many speeches tonight," he 
said defensively, well aware of her opinion of his verbosity.
   "Well, no, but then maybe speaking Bajoran is cramping your 
style."
   "It has been a while," he admitted. Whenever there was a universal 
translator available, he naturally used his native Kardasi to express 
himself.
   She was silent for a moment, possibly debating as to the 
advisability of saying what she said next.
   "Actually, your Bajoran is quite good."
   "Hmm," he responded, waiting to hear if there was a catch to this 
praise. He could hear a considerable difference between his own 
uneven accent and her Dakhur drawl, and felt a little self-conscious 
about conducting a conversation in which, by essence, he couldn't 
have the full advantage. As it was, it was lucky the major was a 
little on the laconic side herself, or she could have dominated the 
situation quite easily. Still, he had been able to find words and 
construct sentences to his own satisfaction, which made him feel a 
bit better about making himself so open to her linguistic criticism.
   "Though it is a bit strange," she added. "You have some sort of a 
regional accent."
   "Yes," he said quickly. "A Cardassian one..." He realised they had 
reached the sickbay, which was not very far from his quarters, and 
stopped. "Major, would you care to continue this conversation 
somewhere else?"
   She stopped too, and shook her head. "I'm not sure that's such a 
good idea."
   "Oh come now, Major, what's a drink between old enemies?"
   Her dark eyes were fixed on him again, unnerving him with their 
calm. He desperately wondered what was going on behind their curious 
stare.
   "A drink? What would you want to drink at this hour?" she asked.
   "Well, probably not raktajino," he said calmly, sounding for all 
the universe like his usual self. She wondered if he knew that was 
her favourite drink on Deep Space Nine. She decided he probably knew 
all about her, and preferred not to think about that too much. "We'd 
have to see what the replicators come up with," he concluded.
   "Better take a translator, then," she said, starting down the 
corridor again. She had had enough of this. She was beginning to feel 
far too comfortable in his company. His smooth voice, his strange 
accent -- and it was not just a plain Cardassian one -- combined to 
make her relax to the point where she was even considering taking him 
up on his offer.
   "Actually, I can probably string enough words of Klingon together 
to order some acceptable beverage," he said, coming with her.
   "You speak Klingon?" She was vaguely surprised. It was strange 
enough to hear him actually speaking Bajoran, instead of the smooth 
speech the universal translator created in her mind when he spoke. 
She was still puzzled by his accent, especially after he was so eager 
to dismiss it. She had heard Cardassians speaking Bajoran before, but 
none of them had sounded like Dukat. His vowels were too strange, and 
she wondered if it was a residue of some regional accent he had in 
Kardasi. But she couldn't imagine Dukat would have risen so high with 
a strong regional accent.
   "Yes, I can even muster up some Federation Standard if you really 
want a laugh," he answered, with a smile that bared his crooked teeth 
and drew lines on his pockmarked cheeks.
   The idea of him speaking Klingon was funny enough, but the idea of 
anyone but a Terran trying to speak Standard was hilarious.
   "Yes, that's a terrible language," she agreed with a laugh, 
relaxing once more in the comfort of their little conversation. "I 
had to do a quick course in it when I first started working on Deep 
Space Nine. All I can say is thank the Prophets for the universal 
translators."
   She could never get her tongue around the sounds they used, let 
alone understand how their grammar worked.
   "Universal translators are very useful," he started, "but I feel 
you miss the beauty of a foreign language unless you actually learn 
to speak and understand it. The linguistics and vocabulary of a 
language reveal so much about a people's past and culture. It is 
quite amazing, for instance, that a people like the Klingons, who are 
always spouting on about honour, only have one word to describe that 
concept."
   She allowed herself a grin. This was Gul Dukat all right, going 
into full pontificating mode.
   "That is partly due to the fact that when their language was first 
developing into more or less what it is now, the Klingons had no 
honour, so they only needed one word for the notion. Then, when their 
civilisation developed and honour became so important, preserving 
their language as it was at the time of Kahless became equally 
important, which is why they never developed another word for honour. 
Or maybe they were just too stupid to think up another one," he 
added. "The language of the Terrans first developed into its present 
form on part of a small island, and became a standard when the people 
of that island invaded half their world. They must have been a very 
resourceful lot -- Terra is teeming with different cultures and 
religions, imposing one language on them all must have taken a lot of 
effort. I suppose that explains why the Standard culture is so 
contagious, in spite of the language."
   She had planned to let him talk on until they reached her 
quarters, which were not very far by now -- they had just passed his 
-- but she felt she wanted to add her own input to his fascinating 
exposé. Considering his knowledge of Bajoran, she suspected she would 
be able to share the joke with him.
   "And you know what they call it?" she said, laughing at the 
thought.
   "I know, I know! You must have thought it was hilarious when you 
discovered that," he said with a chuckle.
   "But I mean, 'anklish'," she insisted. "What a name for a 
language!"
   "I believe they pronounce it something more like 'engklesh'," he 
corrected. Then he chuckled again, with a typically Cardassian hiss. 
"But trust the Terrans to name their main language after an internal 
organ. Blessed Prophets, but they always have to be peculiar. Anyway, 
that's the sort of thing that makes learning a foreign language so 
fascinating."
   "You're obviously very interested in languages. I suppose that's 
why you speak Bajoran so well," she remarked neutrally, hoping she 
could steer the conversation back onto the subject of his accent. 
Cardassians did not use expressions like "Blessed Prophets".
   Of course, she knew exactly why he had learned to speak Bajoran. 
The Cardassians were intelligent enough to realise that they would be 
easily defeated if they relied on translators alone to communicate 
with the people they dominated. As a consequence, all the personnel 
stationed on the planet had to learn classical Bajoran, and, in some 
cases, the dialect of the region they were in. As a senior officer 
posted in the capital, Dukat would have been expected to have a 
perfect knowledge of the language. But that didn't explain the 
accent. No one in the capital spoke like that. 
   "I'm just wondering where you got that accent, though," she said, 
stopping in front of the door to her quarters. "It's definitely not 
just a Cardassian accent."
   She really wanted to go in and forget about all this business, but 
she might as well get to the bottom of the mystery first. She was 
about to continue when he sighed and looked up at the ceiling, giving 
her a nice view of the smooth expanse of his throat in the process.
   "It's a Netapka accent, Major" he said, his voice vibrating 
visibly under the grey skin before her. 
   She was suddenly aware that a little step forward could bring her 
lips in contact with that skin. She dismissed the idea, of course, 
but was annoyed that the happier life she was leading these days was 
bringing her to see sensuality in most of the people she met. She 
could explain that away as the fact that she had been so starved of 
beauty and happiness during the Occupation, she felt driven to make 
up for lost time now. But she really didn't understand why she should 
be seeing some beauty in Gul Dukat of all people. She decided to 
puzzle over that some other time.
   "Yes, that's it," she said, noticing how serious he had become all 
of a sudden. "I knew I recognised those vowels from somewhere. I must 
say you're the only Cardassian I've ever met who had a Netapka 
accent. That area is pretty far from the capital, and the Netapka 
tend to keep to their own..."
   "Naprem was from Netapka," he interrupted, now fixing his eyes on 
the ground.
   She just stared at his face. His downcast eyelashes were casting 
soft shadows on the uneven skin of his cheeks. His thin lips 
separated in a sigh, and she watched as his eyes shifted position, 
just before his lids were raised and she found herself gazing into 
his cool grey stare again.
   She was surprised by the sorrow she saw there, before reminding 
herself that there was no reason for surprise. There could be no 
doubt that he had sincerely loved Naprem, and the little she knew 
about the woman seemed to indicate she had loved him too. But she 
wondered how a Bajoran woman could have loved him -- this wasn't just 
any Cardassian, this was Gul Dukat. Talkative, scheming, egomaniacal 
Gul Dukat. And yet this woman had loved him, and she had meant so 
much to him the mere mention of her name made him unhappy. It was not 
the first time some part of her felt sorry for him, but the feeling 
was getting to be quite a habit these days. And his expression was so 
unusual, so vulnerable... strangely appealing.
   "I... I should go to bed now," she said, cursing her voice for 
sounding so hesitant.
   His eyes were still boring into her, though they were less 
sorrowful now. He smiled and leant a little closer, making her all 
too aware of her situation. He made her nervous enough under normal 
circumstances. Despite his reversal of fortunes, she could not help 
remembering the powerful and hated man he had once been. She could 
recall the first time she heard the name Gul Dukat. She was sixteen 
or seventeen, and he had just been promoted military commander for 
the administrative region including Dakhur. As such, he became a prime 
target for their movement though not, in those days, the most 
important one. He increased taxation on the working population, 
exacted higher quotas of labour from the villages, personally 
supervised punitive raids against the Resistance -- or anyone 
suspected of knowing anything about them. A promotion or transfer put 
him out of the resistance cell's eye for a while, and then, the next 
time she heard of him, he had become the Prefect of Bajor, the head 
of the occupation forces and the highest ranking Cardassian official 
on the planet. He was the one who signed the orders to torture 
prisoners, draft more labour into the mines, murder more civilians in 
retaliation for Resistance attacks. She knew she could never forget 
that. She wasn't sure if she could forgive him, either.
   And yet this was Dukat as she had never wanted to see him. He 
looked strangely out of place in the dim red light of the Klingon 
ship, his black hair falling in straight strands alongside his narrow 
face as he smiled at her. She wondered where he had found the strange 
costume he was wearing. Possibly from the replicator, where she had 
got the dress. The rough maroon material of the shirt clung loosely 
to his lean frame, parting to reveal the drop shaped hollow at the 
base of his throat, and some of the complex pattern of scales on his 
chest. His body was not as muscular as she had expected, and in some 
ways, that pleased her. It confirmed her suspicions that his 
ubiquitous armour was just another of his facades, just as his 
posturing hid whatever real feelings he might have. But the shirt 
also made him look a lot more ordinary, and strangely vulnerable.
   The rather confident smile on his lips, on the other hand, 
reminded her exactly who he was, and made her more than a little 
self-conscious about her own state of undress. She knew she should 
not have ventured out dressed like this, but the Cardassians had 
turned up the environmental controls on the ship, making the air 
unbearably hot and dry. Anyway, she had not expected to be so unlucky 
as to come face to face with Dukat. He was obviously enjoying the 
situation, and his light eyes had left her face to explore her body. 
It was unspeakably demeaning to be looked over like this, though some 
perverse part of her insisted on being flattered by his attention. As 
his face drew closer to hers she became aware of something else -- 
not so much a smell as a sensation her nose was eminently designed to 
process.
   She realised she had said she was going to bed a few minutes ago, 
and had been standing in front of her door ever since, having a good 
look at Dukat's chest, and letting him look at her likewise. He was 
probably feeling very encouraged by now. She pulled herself together 
and turned around, careful not to look him in the eye as she placed 
her hand on the door controls. She was confused by the desire she 
felt rising in her and it was all she could do not to tremble.
   "You don't have to go now," he murmured, his voice growling just 
above a whisper. She could sense he was standing right behind her, 
and resisted the temptation to step back and lean against him. The 
fact that the thought had even occurred confused her further. Why 
would she want to lean against Dukat? The man who personally oversaw 
the uridium processing on Terok Nor, who had had every acre of land 
in her homeland poisoned, who had ordered the execution of some of 
her closest underground friends, whose clammy hands were even now 
caressing the bare skin on her upper arms and sending shivers through 
her body. She had never felt so aroused by someone she disliked so 
much.
   "Let go of me, Dukat," she pleaded, horrified at how weak her 
voice sounded. Needless to say, no man in his situation would have 
heeded such a pathetic refusal, and his hands remained right where 
they had been. He even pulled her a little closer. "Dukat," she said 
more firmly.
   His hands loosened their grip on her arms, but his right hand 
pushed her gently to try and make her turn towards him. She resisted 
the movement; she didn't want him to see her face. In fact, all she 
wanted to do right then was to vanish into her quarters. She shrugged 
his hands off and pressed the door release.
   "No, Major, please. I thought we could talk," he pleaded as she 
walked in. He took a step forward to keep the door open.
   She turned and glared at him. She didn't think he would actually 
come in and force her, and indeed he was staying in the doorway, but 
she was too overwrought by her own emotions to think very rationally. 
   "Get out!" she ordered. She did remember to keep her voice down, 
as Damar's quarters were just next to hers.
   The lights had come on when she entered, and as they were set to 
maximum for her own comfort, he was still blinking a little 
uncomfortably. 
   "Major, there is no need to shout. I apologise if my behaviour..." 
he started, but she interrupted him before he got a chance to make 
one of his speeches.
   "Look, Dukat," she said, anxious to make her refusal quite clear, 
"just because I've decided to take care of your daughter doesn't mean 
my attitude towards you has changed in any way. As far as I'm 
concerned, if you and I were the last people in the Galaxy, that 
would be the end of civilisation."
   "Major!" he exclaimed, though his expression suggested he found 
her outburst amusing rather than insulting. "I'll bear that in mind," 
he added gently.
   That despite all her years of fighting his people she could have 
displayed such weakness in front of this man made her very angry. 
Part of her knew she only had herself to blame, and that lashing out 
at him would only confirm his suspicions that he had managed to get 
to her, but she was too overwrought to be calm. She hated the way he 
used her title, the way he was looking at her, the way he was 
standing there when she wanted him to go away and leave her alone.
   "Just go away," she ordered, conscious that her protests were 
rather lacking in the forcefulness she would have used under normal 
circumstances. She knew enough about herself to realise she was 
extremely vulnerable when she was aroused. In fact, that was one of 
the reasons she was here right now; Shakaar had wanted her to go to a 
joint Bajoran-Cardassian conference, and convinced her by giving her 
a very compelling massage. If only he knew what he had let her in 
for. But he would never know... at least, she wouldn't tell him; she 
couldn't be sure Dukat would be so discreet. The thought made her 
flush violently; she could even feel her ears tingle.
   In the meantime, he apparently wasn't the sort to take no for an 
answer, because the next thing she knew, he was walking into the 
room.
   "Are you all right, Major?" he asked, sounding quite concerned. He 
wisely didn't come too near her, but just the fact that he had come 
in was enough to unsettle her. He looked decidedly strange in the 
bright light. It emphasised the curves and lines on his face, and 
revealed that the shirt was made of a light satiny material verging 
on the transparent. Staring at the bumps and hollows the alien 
garment revealed nearly made her forget to protest. He caught her 
eyes looking him over and moved nearer, in fact so near she could 
smell his desire again. He just leant towards her, intimidating her 
by his mere presence. She again fought the urge to touch him, but it 
became more difficult when he lifted his hand and stroked her cheek 
ever so gently.
   "Get out, Dukat," she growled again, far more convincingly now 
that she really felt menaced.
   He leant forward until his breath swayed her earring.
   "Why?" he purred confidently.
   He had such a smug expression on his face she felt very much like 
hitting him. She decided to leave that as a final recourse, and keep 
her attacks verbal for the time being.
   "You want me to tell you why?" she exclaimed, her chest now 
heaving with anger more than desire. "Well, quite aside from the fact 
that I already have a lover who suits me fine, I don't like you, 
Dukat. And that's not just because of all the pain and suffering you 
caused my people in the past. In fact, if you were a Bajoran 
Resistance fighter, I still wouldn't like you. You're a creep, Dukat. 
You are egotistical, self-satisfied, cruel, arrogant... You're so 
wrapped up in yourself that it has never occurred to you I might not 
be interested in your advances. There's why."
   "Well, I'm glad to know one of those reasons isn't that you don't 
actually want me," he said calmly.
   She was so enraged it was all she could do not to slap the smug 
grin off his face. In fact, she was so enraged it was a split second 
before she realised she should respond to his statement.
   "I don't want you," she protested, but it was already too late. He 
had taken her hesitation as an admission that there was some truth in 
what he had said. His delighted smile was proof of that.
   She pushed past him and opened the door.
   "Out," she said.
   He bowed slightly and complied. She obviously didn't know what she 
wanted herself, so how was he to work it out? However, he couldn't 
help lingering as he passed her in the doorway. The scent was 
unmistakable; whatever was going on in her mind, it wasn't enough to 
bring her body under control. Although he knew Cardassian pheromones 
could be quite compelling for Bajorans, it was equally a fact that a 
little discipline could bring those effects under control. If she 
really felt no attraction whatsoever for him, she would not be 
letting her body emit such a clear indication of the contrary. Still, 
perhaps he shouldn't be surprised at an uneducated former Resistance 
fighter giving him such mixed signals.
   However, he knew he had to believe her words rather than her 
pheromones. She seemed pretty sure she shouldn't take him, even if 
she wanted to. He told himself he should be happy enough that she 
wanted him; goodness knows that was progress in itself. It had been a 
while since he had sensed anything so intense from a Bajoran woman, 
and he was flattered to think a man his age still had it in him to 
attract a handsome young woman. He had known that, of course, but it 
was nice to have tangible proof.
   He told himself her refusal was clear enough and he should go back 
to his quarters, or take another brisk walk, but her scent was truly 
intoxicating. They were still standing in the doorway of her room, 
and he took an involuntary step towards her.
   "You take one step closer and it will be very painful for you, 
Dukat," she menaced.
   He had no doubt part of her meant that in earnest. But he was now 
too preoccupied with the part that didn't, the part that seemed to be 
calling out for him to take her in his arms. He was conscious of his 
own pheromones and noticed how her breasts were heaving with her 
uneven breath, how amazed she looked as he took the step closer, 
calling her bluff yet again. 
   He was now so close all he needed to do was lean towards her for 
his chest to touch hers. She shied away slightly, pressing her back 
against the side of the door and turning her head to one side as his 
mouth neared her smooth neck. But then she seemed to remember where 
she was and what he was doing, because her face suddenly turned back 
towards his, its expression less than welcoming.
   She tried to slip back through the door, but he caught her arm as 
she moved, and pulled her back towards him.
   "What do you want, Major?" he asked. A straight answer would have 
been most welcome, as he was thoroughly puzzled by her behaviour. But 
instead, all he got was the fulfilment of her earlier promise.
   An elegant sweep of her arm freed it from his grasp as she swung 
about, throwing enough of her weight into a punch to his chest to 
make him groan with pain. He instinctively countered her next blow, 
seizing both her arms and trying to position his legs to trip her up. 
Under normal circumstances, he would probably have succeeded, but it 
occurred to him that in the present situation, knocking her to the 
ground might have some ramifications he could do without. At least, 
in a corridor.
   She apparently had no such qualms. While he hesitated, she broke 
free from his hands, threw a hand chop to his neck cartilage that 
made him see stars, and used her left heel to hit his ankle and make 
him fall. He fell to the ground with a thud, but scrambled to his 
feet almost as quickly, just in time to counter her as she lunged at 
him once more. She pushed him against the wall on the other side of 
the corridor, though he couldn't work out exactly what her manoeuvre 
would achieve. In effect, all it did was give him an opportunity to 
take the advantage. He wrapped his arms around her waist and picked 
her up.
   Surprised by his move, she placed her hands on his shoulders to 
regain her balance as he lifted her off the floor. The feeling of 
his unfamiliar ridges under her fingers combined with his scent to 
make her forget any desire to hit him. In fact, she was beginning to 
wonder if it wasn't time to give up the unequal struggle. Thoughts of 
Bajor, Shakaar and Deep Space Nine were nothing compared to the feel 
of his alien body pressed against hers.
   They stared at each other. Leaning against the wall, breathless 
and in considerable pain from the bruise on his chest, he looked up 
at her face. It bore such an expression of amazement he couldn't help 
but smile. She saw his delighted smile and found herself returning 
it. He hugged her body against his, conscious that she could feel the 
humidity in his groin, but too turned on by her radiating warmth to 
worry about embarrassment. They were both silent, breathing in the 
desire of the other, neither daring to move. As her body slid inside 
the material of her dress, she was gradually slipping down his front, 
and the sensation was exquisite for both of them.
   But they let go of each other in a hurry when they heard the sound 
of a door swishing open across the corridor. He remained against the 
wall, but she took a quick leap away from him as soon as her feet 
touched the ground. They turned towards the sound and watched with 
embarrassment as Damar emerged from his room. He looked at them both, 
obviously puzzled to see them there.
   "Is everything all right, sir? I heard a noise."
   And you waited patiently until the noise had stopped, thought 
Dukat irritably. He looked up at the ceiling, willing himself to calm 
down before he did his second in command an injury. Once he had 
recovered a little from the shock of the interruption, he looked at 
Damar and said, in a quietly menacing voice, "Yes, everything is all 
right."
   Damar looked them both over with slight distaste. He obviously 
didn't approve of his commanding officer groping Bajoran dignitaries 
in public places. Dukat knew the man was too far away to sense them, 
but there was the possibility that he had seen them before Kira moved 
away. And anyway, it wouldn't take much imagination to guess what 
they had been doing, if only based on the observation of their 
irregular breaths and the major's flushed face. Dukat noted the 
latter detail himself as Damar wisely went back into his quarters. 
Kira's face had actually turned a very attractive shade of pink, 
deepening the hue of the ambient lighting.
   He turned to look at Damar's closed door and debated whether he 
should try to explain the situation to his second in command 
tomorrow, or just leave it up to the man's discretion not to mention 
this incident. In the meantime, he was quite speechless with 
embarrassment. If only she had attacked him while they were still in 
her quarters.
   She was quiet. As he looked towards the door, he could just see 
her out of the corner of his eye, a blurry image of pink and red. She 
appeared to be leaning against the wall now, and then he realised she 
was looking at him. He turned to return the look and was surprised to 
find she was now smiling. He smiled back, and her smile widened to a 
grin. He grinned as well. Then they both began to laugh. Her laughter 
was lower and softer than the first time he had heard it, when she 
had been in hysterics over him sitting on a sandspine. But it was a 
relief to have her laughing beside him.
   "Interesting evening," he said gently.
   That made her laugh again, and he felt confident enough to move 
closer to her and stroke her cheek with the back of his hand, just as 
he had done before. There was a certain purity in Bajoran features 
which had always charmed him. It was a delight to be able to run his 
hands over her unadorned face and watch it become more serious under 
his touch.
   "So, how about continuing this somewhere else?" he suggested, 
using his most seductive voice.
   His voice was seductive, all right, but she shook her head, 
placing her hand on his chest to push him away. He obediently stopped 
caressing her face and took a step back, though he did roll his eyes 
slightly. He obviously had her down as someone who didn't know what 
she wanted.
   "I don't think that's a good idea," she said.
   "Feels like a good idea to me," he protested.
   She didn't answer. The truth was, she was afraid of having a bad 
conscience afterwards if she gave in. She would not be able to 
confide in any of her friends, and though there were plenty of things 
she had chosen to keep to herself over the past few years, she 
preferred to keep their number as low as possible. Anyway, it would 
be the worst possible betrayal of Shakaar. To sleep with another man 
would be bad enough, but to make that other man Gul Dukat would be 
unforgivable. Besides, she had said the truth when she said she 
didn't like him. And it didn't take much for her to convince herself 
someone as fond of bragging as he was was probably no good in bed. In 
the meantime, she was a little distracted by the current state of his 
shirt.
   He noticed she was looking him over a bit curiously, and 
remembered with sudden embarrassment that he was wearing a Klingon 
shirt. He automatically looked down at his chest, and found the shirt 
was almost completely unwrapped. Great. Damar could be in no doubt 
about what had happened. He self-consciously tied it up again. 
   Having rearranged his person to his satisfaction, he straightened 
up and looked down his nose at her. She was uncomfortable in the 
knowledge that he could see a lot more of her than she could make out 
of him in the darkness of the corridor. He then looked away, as if to 
seek inspiration in the contemplation of their plain surroundings. He 
sighed and then looked at her again. For a moment, his expression 
seemed almost apologetic, and definitely embarrassed. But as his grey 
eyes ran over her face and body, she saw a little smile creep up on 
his lips.
   "I must apologise, Major," he said. "I am normally a better host 
than this." 
   "I guess you don't make a habit of jumping on your guests in 
corridors," she said with a grin.
   "Not really," he said, before adding, "I may be growing old and 
forgetful, Major, but as I recall, you were the one who jumped on 
me."
   She just smiled and looked at the bumps and dips of his profile 
outlined against the reddish backdrop of the corridor. From what she 
had felt when he held her earlier, he was probably in a great deal of 
discomfort right now. Her mind brought up the recent memory of his 
arms firmly wrapped around her waist, every bulge and ridge of his 
body pressing against her through their thin clothes, the incredible 
expression of delight on his upturned face when he sensed her own 
desire. Her throat was dry at the very memory. It was lucky Damar had 
interrupted them.
   She had to get away from him before she felt tempted to do it 
again. She dragged herself away from the wall and made her way slowly 
around him, praying to the Prophets he wouldn't touch her as she 
passed.
   He didn't. He just leant against the wall and watched her walk 
towards her door. He was evidently more affected than she thought. 
Relieved, she took a few steps along the corridor, and was just about 
to reach for the controls again when she heard his husky voice behind 
her.
   "Are you sure you wouldn't like something to drink, Major?" 
   He wrapped his arms confidently around her and this time, she did 
lean back against him. She did want something to drink -- the air on 
the ship was hot, and she was feeling a little dehydrated by her 
desire anyway -- but she really didn't think it would be wise to 
drink with him. This was Gul Dukat holding her in his arms, after 
all, not just some stranger. Whether that was a good thing or not 
remained to be seen. She would never have allowed any stranger this 
close to her. Then why Dukat? She was as puzzled by her behaviour as 
he was.
   "You never give up, do you?" she said, disengaging herself gently 
from his arms. 
   She turned around to face him and found her eyes were level with 
his nose. She was quite used to glaring up at people, so that was not 
what made her uncomfortable. But turning around placed her nose too 
near the glands in his neck for comfort, and the residue of his 
desire made her head spin. She had half intended to attack him again, 
to make up some excuse to be angry with him, to punish him for making 
her feel like this. But she knew where that would lead after what had 
just happened. She sighed. This had to be one of the worst jokes of 
Nature; why should Bajorans be so sensitive to Cardassian pheromones 
when the two species were designed to live their lives out on two 
separate planets light-years away from each other? She wasn't even on 
heat, for the Prophets' Sake!
   A little nagging voice in her mind reminded her this wasn't simply 
a physical reaction to his pheromones. She ignored it.
   "I can't do this, Dukat. I can't do this to myself, I can't do it 
to Shakaar, and... I don't think it would be very fair on you, 
either."
   "Well, I'm glad you've considered it seriously enough to think up 
some good reasons not to. But I'm serious about having a drink. I can 
assure you I am perfectly capable of behaving myself. I would just 
appreciate your company. Let's say it would be a chance to practice 
my Bajoran."
   "I don't think your Bajoran needs any practice," she said gently. 
"Naprem taught you well."
   "She knew plenty about languages," he said gently, averting his 
eyes as the same sorrowful expression crossed his face.
   He took her hand in his and turned it so that the palm was facing 
upwards. He then traced a line from her wrist to her middle finger. 
His fingers tickled her and her hand closed automatically on them. It 
was a Cardassian gesture, a farewell of some sort, as she vaguely 
recalled. After a moment, he disengaged his fingers from hers and let 
go of her hand.
   "You're right, Major. It's late and you should be going to bed. 
I'll see you tomorrow."
   More than a little surprised at his sudden change of mind, she 
opened her door. Once she had walked in, she turned and just caught 
sight of him framed in the doorway, looking strange and dishevelled 
in his outlandish costume. The expression on his face was... rather 
wistful.
   The door closed and she sat down on the bed. She pulled up the 
dress she was wearing and buried her nose in it. As she had expected, 
she would have to take it off -- its smell alone would be enough to 
give her a sleepless night. Accordingly, she took it off and lay back 
on the bed with a sigh. The first thought in her mind was naturally 
for Dukat.
   She had hated that man ever since the first time she had heard of 
him -- it was strange to think things had changed to the point where 
she had actually let him hold her in his arms without so much as a 
protest. It was true that her attitude towards his people was 
different now. The Prophets had not taught her to be completely 
unforgiving. It was against their orders to kill and hate as she had 
done for so many years, and she had often wondered if she should try 
to make amends for what she had done. The fighter in her argued that 
Cardassians like Dukat had made no atonement for their crimes, but as 
a faithful follower of the Prophets, she felt she should strive to be 
a good girl from now on, forgiving her enemies as the Prophets 
commanded. Which should also include forgiving Gul Dukat.
   For brief moments in recent months, she had seen past his 
carefully erected facade. She knew she would never forget the sight 
of Dukat, kneeling in the sand of the barren planet, weeping on the 
grave of his lost lover. Much as she hated the idea, she had wondered 
if the Prophets hadn't thrown him in with her twice in such a short 
time precisely so that she would learn more about him, and perhaps 
even forgive him for all the harm he had done. They had waited until 
her wounds had heeled, until she was sufficiently happy with her own 
life and Bajor's political situation to view her defeated enemies in 
a more favourable light. Maybe there was some reason why they wanted 
her to be closer to Dukat in particular. But if there was, it surely 
wasn't simply for her to go to bed with him.
   She dismissed the thought of sex with Dukat as too dangerous to 
consider in her present state and decided to focus on the way he had 
left her. She guessed his abrupt decision was due to the fact that 
she had mentioned Naprem and she couldn't help wondering about this 
woman who had meant so much to Gul Dukat that he could hardly bring 
himself to mention her name. It seemed logical enough that he 
wouldn't want to discuss Naprem with her, not when he was making such 
misguided efforts to seduce her. But she couldn't help thinking that 
this woman, whoever she had been aside from Dukat's evidently beloved 
mistress, had also been Ziyal's mother. It was all very well him 
warning her about Ziyal's physical particularities, but she felt she 
could perhaps have done with a little detail on the girl's mother, 
too.
   She tried to imagine what sort of woman would suit Dukat. Whatever 
Tora Naprem had, it was obviously enough to keep Dukat's affection 
for at least fourteen years, judging from Ziyal's age when he 
arranged to send them to Lessepia. Admittedly, Ziyal's existence 
alone could suffice to explain that, if Dukat had simply felt duty-
bound to the mother of his illegitimate child. That was Shakaar's 
opinion, of course, but then Shakaar was not prepared to put anything 
past Dukat as far as scheming went. He even went so far as to argue 
that Dukat's tears on Naprem's grave were purely intended to get 
Kira's sympathy. That was something she could not accept; Dukat had 
been crying well before she came out of the Ravenok, and there was 
the added matter of his 'intention' to kill Ziyal. Now that she knew 
exactly what Dukat had suffered on account of the girl, she could see 
how a mind as unscrupulous as his had come to such a cruel decision. 
He knew bringing her back with him would ruin his already faltering 
career, so eliminating her would have eliminated the problem. But 
there was obviously some glimmer of a conscience in his tortuous 
Cardassian mind, or he would never have been so stupid as to tell 
her, of all people, his intention. And she could not forget how 
pleased he had looked when he finally embraced his daughter. 
   Those were all things she had tried to explain to her lover, but 
the First Minister was still not convinced. And, of course, she could 
well see his point. As far as he was concerned, Dukat was a 
machiavellian killer with the devious mind characteristic of his 
race. But Shakaar didn't know even the little she knew about Dukat. 
He hadn't seen him mourning his lover or embracing his daughter, he 
hadn't laughed with him and fought with him, or felt his arms 
around... She decided to abandon that particular train of thought 
again, but her body struggled to remind her exactly how good the 
Cardassian's arms had felt. She knew they had only felt that way 
because of her susceptibility to his pheromones, of course.
   She turned on her communicator to make it translate and ordered 
various ingredients to be made into a beverage. As could be expected, 
the replicator did not have all the right products programmed in it, 
but it came up with the bright suggestion that those particular items 
would be available from the sickbay. It didn't explain where that 
was, but a little painstaking research on the terminal revealed the 
route to follow. She sighed and berated herself for not bringing her 
bag off the Groumall -- but how should she have known that idiot Dukat 
was going to blow the bloody ship up? She decided the trip to sickbay 
was worth it. The thought of her being so open to Dukat's physical 
attraction irritated her, and she wanted to make quite certain her 
body had quietened down before she even attempted to go to sleep. A 
good old Bajoran recipe would sort that out for her.
   She put on her uniform trousers and undershirt and ventured out 
into the corridor again. She was hoping against hope that Dukat had 
gone to bed and wasn't roaming the ship as before, and actually 
believed her hopes had been fulfilled, until she reached sickbay and 
found him there. The Prophets definitely had a hand in this. He was 
stripped to the waist, standing in the middle of the floor with his 
back to her. The light was as dim there as it was in the rest of the 
ship -- Klingons obviously shared with Cardassians their dislike of 
bright lights. But she could see the lean muscles tense and ripple 
under the thick grey skin, the ridges rising and falling with the 
movement of his right arm, the shine on his straight black hair as it 
fell in lifeless locks on his bowed head. She stood in the doorway, 
staring at the sight of so much of his body bared before her. This 
evening was really becoming stranger and stranger. His nakedness, the 
alien sickbay, the late hour, the things that had happened earlier 
all combined to create a feeling of unreality in her mind, as if she 
were in a dream. But she knew it was no dream when he turned around 
and stared at her.
   He had the same expression of delighted amazement as before. It 
was quite sweet, she found herself thinking, before reminding herself 
that she had no right to be finding Dukat sweet in any way. Once he 
had turned around completely and was staring at her, she saw that he 
was holding a regenerator. There was still a black bruise on his 
chest, where she had hit him earlier, and he had obviously been in 
the process of repairing the damage.
   After they had stared at each other for a moment, he suddenly 
became aware of his state of undress, and reached for his shirt, 
discarded on the operating table.
   "Are you following me around, Major?" he said in his maddeningly 
suave voice, holding the shirt self-consciously in front of his 
chest.
   "Yes, of course. I have nothing better to do." She didn't often 
resort to sarcasm, but the repartee was too good to miss.
   "Well, of course," he said without any reaction beyond a smile. 
"I'm irresistible."
   "Ha," she guffawed, rolling her eyes.
   He put on his shirt, turning his back to do so, as if she hadn't 
already got a good view of his chest ridges.
   "I just came down to repair the damage you did to my person. I 
must admit, you're not a woman who does things by half. That bruise 
is quite painful."
   She noticed he hadn't finished treating it, and wondered if that 
was just because he was embarrassed to remain bare-chested in front 
of her.
   "Well, I'll leave you to your occupation," he concluded, taking 
the regenerator with him as he walked past her into the corridor. She 
watched him walk by, and waited to see if he would really leave 
things at that. Of course he didn't. He was no sooner in the corridor 
than he turned back.
   "The invitation for a drink and talk still stands, you know."
   "You have got to be the most stubborn man I've ever met! The 
answer is still no, Dukat," she exclaimed, more amused than 
irritated. She wondered if she would ever have the same respect for 
Dukat as an adversary after what she had seen tonight, or if, every 
time she met him, she would remember how he looked half-naked. Not as 
bad as she had imagined based on her earlier observation. His body 
looked far better under his bare grey skin than a thin maroon shirt.
   "I have a weakness for pursuing lost causes," he said gracefully.
   That made her smile. "Obviously," she said.
   His grey eyes remained fixed on her for a while, and he was 
silent. For a man who talked so much, he was remarkably good at using 
silence in a conversation. Then he nodded gently.
   "Well, you know where to find me if you do want to talk."
   "...Or rather, listen to you," she couldn't help pointing out.
   "Oh, I could tell you some fascinating things, you know, Major. 
You shouldn't dismiss everything I say based simply on the fact that 
I say so much. I know you and your Terran friends believe that I am 
over talkative and find that a sign of weakness. But language is far 
too precious a gift to be used simply as a tool for communication. It 
is an art form in itself, and to be able to craft a simple 
conversation into a brilliant masterpiece of rhetoric is one of the 
most admired accomplishments of Cardassian society. I do realise 
that, as a Bajoran, you have no interest in the accomplishments of 
Cardassian society, and that speech is nothing more for you than a 
string of words, a means to the end of communication, but I was 
raised to see every exchange as an opportunity to exercise my mind, 
to gauge the culture and erudition of the person I am talking to, 
while revealing my own knowledge and craft. So you see, Major, it is 
quite unfair of you to dismiss my discourse as empty words. Every one 
of those words has been carefully selected, and a lot of thought has 
gone into the form chosen to express the meaning I want to impart."
   If he hadn't been such an awful person, she might nearly have 
admired his long-winded speeches. Given a good subject, and an 
audience he wanted to impress, such as herself, he could go on for 
ages, aligning perfectly constructed sentences one after the other, 
each one adding a little more of the information he wanted to impart, 
while not quite making the point, until all the sentences were 
completed and added up to express the full meaning of his speech. His 
rhetoric was impeccable -- the sentiments expressed often less so.
   He had given plenty of speeches when he was the Prefect of Bajor. 
His automatically translated addresses to the Bajoran population, 
eloquent expressions of the latest propaganda from the Central 
Command, were broadcast on a far too regular basis on the official 
information services and at every street corner in every village. The 
sound of that voice droning on had been the backdrop for most of her 
adult life.
   But his speeches sounded quite different in Bajoran, where his 
Cardassian accent and occasional Netapka vowels combined to attenuate 
the supercilious tone he seemed to use in Kardasi. Still, she rather 
regretted getting him started. He could go on as much as he liked 
about Cardassian customs, but as far as she was concerned, Dukat 
simply liked the sound of his own voice. She knew he could go on for 
ages if she didn't interrupt him. Fortunately, he did pause to see 
what effect his speech was having on her, and she took the 
opportunity to turn the monologue back into a conversation.
   "Well, I'm glad there's an actual reason why you talk so much, 
other than the fact that you like listening to yourself talking. But 
as you said, I don't have the same view of language, so I fail to see 
why you bother. You could just get to the point, and save us all some 
trouble."
   He shrugged his shoulders and, to her dismay, took a step towards 
her.
   "I'm afraid I just can't. It has been bred into me ever since I 
first learned to speak Kardasi."
   "You're speaking Bajoran now, so you could just conform to Bajoran 
traditions."
   "Ah, but the added advantage of making long speeches in Bajoran is 
that I can impress you with my knowledge of your language." She 
wasn't sure if he was teasing her or if it was just part of his usual 
bragging.
   "I don't see why you bother. Garak was right, you know, I'm not 
impressed by your constant posturing," she told him, placing her 
hands on her hips and moving a little closer to him.
   "I am not posturing," he protested a little crossly. She couldn't 
help but smile at his petulant tone. "Besides," he added, "Garak is 
certainly not the right person to give advice on that subject. He 
knows nothing about women."
   "I am not 'women', Dukat, and he seems to know more about me than 
you do," she argued.
   "Well, I am glad to know our friend the tailor is so well 
informed."
   She just cast him a deadly look which had served her well with 
suitors in the past. Then his words sank in.
   "What do you mean, he knows nothing about women?"
   He smiled egregiously and spread his hands to indicate his 
innocence.
   "Or so I've heard."
   She hadn't expected that. "Garak? It never occurred to me."
   "I hope it has occurred to your friend the doctor."
   She guffawed. "Now that is definitely an image I don't need to 
have rolling around my head..." He laughed with her, and she took a 
step nearer to see him better. She became more serious as she thought 
about the long-standing enmity between the two men. "Speaking of 
Garak," she added, "I presume you won't want Ziyal to associate with 
him too much."
   He looked surprised, as if the thought had not occurred to him. "I 
fail to see what she would have in common with an old man like him 
anyway. He is my age, for the Prophets' sakes!"
   She was not sure she would agree with his description of the pair 
of them as 'old men'. But she decided not to say anything, as Dukat's 
ego probably didn't need that sort of bolstering.
   "Well, they will be the only two Cardassians on the station. I'll 
introduce her to Bajorans and Terrans, of course, but she might find 
she misses her own people."
   "My people," he corrected, coming nearer to emphasise his speech. 
"You introduce her to some nice Bajorans and keep her away from 
Garak. I'd rather she made friends with Terrans than with him. How 
about that child, Sisko's son, what's his name?"
   "Jake?"
   "Yes, at least he's the same age."
   "Actually, Jake's a bit younger than Ziyal. But I'm sure she won't 
have any trouble making friends. Though you said you wanted her to 
explore both sides of her heritage. She may find she wants to see 
some Cardassians as well."
   "I'd rather she didn't explore anything with Garak," he said, in a 
tone which brooked no contradiction.
   "All right. She won't," she said seriously. "I promise."
   She found herself looking up into his grey face, and it reminded 
her how close she had been to that face only a while earlier. He 
moved closer to her, but she held her ground, staring right back at 
him.
   "Go to bed, Dukat," she said reasonably.
   "Now you sound like my mother," he said ruefully.
   "And your mother sounds like a sensible woman."
   She caught a mild look of surprise on his face, before he smiled 
and turned away, muttering in Kardasi, "[Bajoran women]".
   "What about them?" she snapped.
   "I couldn't live without them," he said turning to blow her a 
kiss.
   The sight of a Cardassian blowing anyone a kiss was not 
incongruous enough to distract her from the meaning of the gesture.
   "Do you want another one of those?" she exclaimed, pointing to his 
chest. His teasing was getting on her nerves.
   His eyes followed her indication and he grinned.
   "Only if you insist. I had no idea you took such an interest in 
Klingon mating rituals, Major. I hope Shakaar has a good 
regenerator."
   "That's not funny, Dukat."
   "I never said it was meant to be. I'm sincerely worried about the 
health of the First Minister of Bajor being entrusted to your 
delicate hands." He rubbed the bruise as if to remind her exactly how 
hard she had hit him. "Unless, of course, you need to take out your 
unused *energy* on someone else." The word he used for energy was 
used almost exclusively in sexual situations, and she felt her temper 
flare up the minute he said it.
   Once upon a time, she would have attacked him again for making 
such insinuations about her lover. But she found she could stand a 
lot more of his teasing than she used to. She had gained a great deal 
of patience since the likes of him had ceased to rule her planet, and 
her relationship with Shakaar being secure as it was, she didn't feel 
too threatened by Dukat's jibes in general. But her slightly guilty 
conscience about letting him hug her so easily earlier made her 
uncomfortable with his sexual reference.
   "You _dobarsida_," she hissed, using a word that cast enough doubt 
on his own sexual prowess to revenge the slight on Shakaar's. It 
wasn't a very vicious insult, in fact, it was rather amusing, but it 
meant what it meant.
   He smiled, of course.
   "It's been a while since someone called me that."
   "Well, she must have been a sensible woman, too," she said a 
little pettishly. Men didn't usually use that insult.
   His smile became gentler, and he looked away thoughtfully.
   "Not always," he said, his voice rumbling barely above a half-
whisper, as if he were remembering something. Or was it someone? "But 
she did know some pretty nasty insults," he added, apparently pulling 
himself back to the present. "Well, I see I have no choice but to 
comply to your desires, so I'll take my leave."
   Her temper died down as rapidly as it had flared up. There was 
something about his reluctance that intrigued her.
   "Is that what all this is about?" she asked gently as he turned 
his back on her. "Do I remind you of her?"
   "Not really," he said without turning back. Then he looked at her 
over his shoulder. "She was in love with me, after all," he said in 
his most charming voice.
   "All right, you can stop right there," she laughed, raising her 
hands in a slightly exaggerated gesture.
   He nodded, and after a moment's hesitation, walked away.
   "Dukat," she called after him. "It's unlike you not to want to 
talk about something."
   With all the body language of irritation he stopped and turned 
back towards her. 
   "Major, is this some Bajoran custom I don't know about? Do you 
always conduct extensive personal conversations in corridors?"
   "Dukat," she pleaded, ignoring his remark. "She was Ziyal's 
mother, don't you think I might do with knowing a bit more about 
her?"
   He sighed and looked down, fiddling with the regenerator in his 
hands.
   "I don't want to talk about her," he admitted a little weakly.
   She walked up the corridor to him, and placed her hand on his arm 
as he turned away again.
   "Why not?" she asked.
   He was visibly surprised by her concern, though it was difficult 
to imagine he could be more surprised than she was.
   "Dukat, you can't bottle it up inside like this. You need to talk 
to someone."
   "Oh? I thought you said you didn't want to listen to me talk. 
Anyway, I wasn't aware that you were considering a new career as a 
Federation counsellor, Major," he remarked sarcastically.
   She ignored the jibe and stared up at him, slightly conscious that 
he must be quite pleased to have her whole attention all to himself, 
while also a little concerned that he didn't seem to be enjoying it.
   "Maybe you do need counselling, Dukat. I know how much you loved 
Naprem, and I find it just a little strange that you refuse to talk 
about her at all. You keep mentioning her, and then the next thing I 
know, you're walking away."
   "There's nothing to say." He hesitated and then added more 
passionately, "Why do you want to know about her anyway? I fail to 
see what business it is of yours."
   "I'm just interested to know more about Ziyal's mother. If I'm 
going to be taking care of her daughter, your daughter" -- she used 
the plural -- "you could at least tell me something about Naprem."
   "I'm sure you are interested, Major," he said, visibly agitated. 
"Curious, more likely, to know what sort of woman could have loved 
me. I was the head of the Occupation, the Prefect of Bajor, for the 
Prophets' sakes. You know exactly who I was and what I did in those 
days. And so did Naprem. And yet she loved me, she lived with me and 
she bore me a daughter who is the most precious of my eight children. 
I don't want to talk to you about her because to talk about her to 
you of all people is to defile her memory. To you, she will be 
nothing more than a despicable traitor, someone to despise and hate. 
And I can do without your moral self-righteousness."
   She shook her head. "If you think I am not capable of rising above 
my personal experience of that time, to learn about Naprem with an 
open mind, then you really don't know me all that well. I have 
changed."
   "You don't seem very keen on rising above your personal experience 
to learn about me. Or accept that I might have changed, too."
   "That's because I'm not so interested in you," she said with a 
faint smile. "But I am interested in Ziyal, and you are her father. I 
can't make abstraction of that. Now, I know plenty about you and what 
you did. But I know nothing about Naprem -- who she was, what she 
did, how much of her is in Ziyal today."
   "A lot," he said simply. He breathed in deeply and raised his face 
to the ceiling, as he sometimes did when he was irritated. "Now, 
Major, I think I will go back to my quarters. If you want me to tell 
you about Naprem, feel free to follow me," he added, the very image 
of patience.
   "You wish," she said, giving him an annoyed look.
   He chuckled and walked away.
   She watched him go and wondered if that was the end of it. She was 
still curious, but not enough to fall into the trap of going to his 
quarters. Whatever the good reasons for his refusal to discuss 
Naprem, he had seen an opportunity to get her where he wanted her, 
and she just wasn't going to give him the satisfaction. Though she 
was rather curious to know what would happen if she did accept the 
invitation. Wouldn't he be surprised!
   He was nearing the bend that led back to their quarters when, as 
she had expected, he stopped and looked back at her. He leant 
nonchalantly against the wall, striking an attractive pose in the red 
light, and she could just make out that his eyes were running 
appreciatively over her tightly clad body. Annoyed by his sudden and 
rude appraisal of her person, she decided to fight him with the same 
weapon. A few years ago, she wouldn't have known where to start. But 
she now had enough confidence in her sexual attractiveness to know 
she could pull off this kind of intimidation, especially with someone 
as susceptible to her charm as Dukat. The thought she might gain the 
upper hand by flirting with him ever so innocently gave her some 
measure of satisfaction, and she set to it immediately. 
   She let her eyes start at his boots and then move slowly up his 
dark trousers, lingering deliberately on his crotch before rising up 
to observe the crumpled folds of the shirt, the long bare neck with 
its leathery throat, the narrow face and its elaborate pattern of 
lines and curlicues, fashioned by some freak fancy of Nature into a 
semblance of her own species' features. He had said he was handsome 
in his youth, and she could just about imagine it as she looked at 
him. She had never admired Cardassian looks, for obvious reasons, but 
Dukat's face was becoming all too familiar these days, and she was 
beginning to see its good sides. She became aware of his slightly 
untrue eyes fixed upon hers and smiled when she saw the confusion in 
them.
   He had probably been preparing to make some fascinating speech to 
encourage her to come with him, but her efforts had paid off, and he 
was quite speechless. Maybe she didn't need to be so afraid of him 
after all. She walked up to him confidently, her calm gaze perhaps 
just a little menacing.
   He didn't look so self-confident now.
   "Careful, Major. I might be tempted to think you actually mean 
it," he said.
   "Don't get your hopes up too high," she warned him.
   He nodded and indicated the way down the corridor, inviting her by 
the gesture to go with him. They walked along to his quarters and 
stopped outside the door. Without even looking at her, he just opened 
the door and walked in, leaving her free to follow or not. She 
hesitated, staying in the doorway to hold the door open, but not 
quite sure if she really wanted to go in. She looked around the room. 
This being the captain's quarters, the first room was a sitting room 
with large leather sofas and various items of Klingon decoration -- a 
bat'leth, a sculpture of Kahless, the insignia of a Klingon captain 
hung up on the wall. But she also took in Dukat's anthracite armour 
discarded on a sofa and a Cardassian portable display unit on the 
table.
   He turned the light on.
   "Do you want it any brighter than this?" he asked, standing with 
his hand on the controls. He increased the luminosity slightly. The 
light took on an orange tinge, veering gradually to yellow as he 
pressed the controls.
   "That's all right," she said, raising her hand and blinking as the 
room came into proper focus.
   He cleared the armour off the couch and went to put it in the 
adjoining room, which she presumed was the bedroom. He had taken the 
regenerator with him, probably to finish off the work on his bruise. 
She wondered if he would change while he was in there; he was 
apparently quite as embarrassed by his costume as she had been by 
hers. Certainly, with her in her uniform, he must feel at a 
disadvantage wearing that shirt. He might even want to put his own 
uniform on.
   While she was curious to see how he was going to handle the 
situation, the temptation was strong to leave and go back to her own 
room. That had, after all, been her original intention. But running 
away was hardly the brave thing to do, and if she really wanted to 
prove to herself that she could handle Dukat, she was better off 
staying right where she was. Anyway, she might learn something in the 
process.
   He came back while she was still procrastinating and she was 
delighted to find he hadn't changed after all, though he had combed 
his hair a little. No, not delighted, of course – why would anything 
about his appearance delight her?
   "Do come in, Major" he offered gracefully, noticing she was still 
standing in the doorway.
   She came in a little hesitantly, and settled on one of the 
couches. It creaked unfamiliarly as her body sank into the shiny 
leather, and she self-consciously squirmed into a more comfortable 
position.
   "What would you like to drink?" he asked, peering at the 
replicator to discover if it would work without a translator.
   "A glass of water would do."
   "Vambîk ûngašvîh/om h/înob," he ordered in what was obviously 
Klingon with a thick Cardassian accent.
   The replicator thought about that for a moment, and then a small 
container appeared in the slot. Dukat took it out and brought it up 
to his nose to smell its contents. He was apparently satisfied that 
it was water, because he handed it to her.
   "Thank you," she said, just a little too late to be polite. She 
tasted the beverage and found it was similar to stale Bajoran water. 
Presumably Qo'nos water was a little different from the water on 
Bajor.
   While she was puzzling over the strange taste of the water, he 
helped himself to a goblet of blood wine from the vat near the 
replicator and came to settle on the couch opposite hers. She found 
this rather a relief, having feared for a moment that he really would 
take advantage of the occasion and come and sit beside her. Not that 
she wouldn't be able to cope if he did, but it would be a terrible 
bore to have to fight him off, and it would mean she would never 
learn any more about the mother of his daughter.
   "So, do you want to talk about her?" she asked.
   "No, I don't," he snapped. "What's this sudden fascination with my 
private life, anyway?"
   "Dukat, do I have to explain everything five times? I've already 
told you --"
   "Yes, you want to know more about Ziyal's mother. I do wonder, 
though, if your desire to hear about Naprem isn't prompted by 
something else than concern about her daughter." She steeled herself, 
waiting to hear him out before throttling him. "I believe you are 
less interested in her influence on Ziyal than the fact that she was 
my... that she was so close to me." She noticed the correction and 
wondered what he was about to say. Mistress? He had rejected that 
title for Naprem once before.
   "That must really bother you, Major," he continued. "You would 
probably prefer to think that I was feared, hated or despised by 
everyone around me, rather than that someone actually loved me. But 
don't worry, Major, I got plenty of disdain from my wife and mother. 
In fact, it is a great consolation to me that you will probably never 
meet either of them. The three of you would have far too much in 
common. This Quadrant would not be safe if you got together." She 
wondered if he was trying to distract her from Naprem with this train 
of thought. "And it is true that none of my collaborators have been 
particularly close. You can't have friends when you're courting 
power. But I have not been so unlucky as to meet only people who 
disliked me. Naprem was different."
   She had expected him to elaborate, to continue his monologue 
following his usual habit. But he just stopped speaking and stared 
into his mug of wine. His hand went up to his temple in the typical 
Cardassian gesture of self-consolation. She watched as his fingers 
ran along the ridge above his left brow and then moved down to caress 
the half circle around his eye. The movement of his thin fingers over 
his grey skin reminded her of something. Her mind struggled to 
retrieve the memory, and then fought equally hard to repress it as it 
became clearer.
   She remembered standing in the sparse undergrowth of the Averos 
forest. The winter breeze was chilling her face and the bare hand 
with which she held the disrupter was blue with cold. It had been the 
coldest winter in living memory, a time when the Cardassians, driven 
indoors by the chill, had loosened their grip on the land. The 
soldier was kneeling in the mud, his eyes fixed on her boots, his 
hands, freed by the over-confidence of his captors, automatically 
stroking his eye ridges as his whole body shuddered with cold and 
fear. 'Kill him,' said Shakaar.
   She dragged her thoughts back to the present, and this other 
Cardassian sitting opposite her.
   "I'm sorry," she said. "You don't have to talk about her if you 
don't want to."
   He continued to observe the red liquid in his goblet for a moment, 
before seeming to become aware of what he was doing. He put the mug 
down and placed his hands on his knees. The nervous tension was too 
much, though, and he brought his hands together, his fingers 
intertwining and separating as he became lost in his thoughts again. 
She sipped her foul water and wondered how to leave him to his 
thoughts without being totally impolite.
   "She was from the Kishahel valley in the Netapka province." His 
voice was a low growl and she looked up in surprise. "She used the 
funniest expressions sometimes," he added.
   Kira waited for him to say more, and when no more was forthcoming, 
she prompted him. "How did you meet her?"
   He hesitated, but then decided he did want to discuss this with 
her after all. Perhaps it would make her realise that he didn't have 
such a heart of stone.
   "A friend of mine was the head of the Linguistics department at 
the Bajoran Centre for Science. Naprem was one of his assistants back 
in those days."
   A little Bajoran woman with hair dyed jet black, her mouth 
twitching in amusement as he discussed something totally inane with 
Inquisitor Gareid. The crop failures? The perspective of the cold 
winter ahead? It didn't matter, all he could think about was this 
woman with her braided hair, the twinkle of sympathy in her eye as 
the Inquisitor pontificated on about matters nobody cared about. 
Finally, Gareid sent her to get them some drink or other, and he 
pretended to have seen someone of his acquaintance in the crowd, and 
accosted her as she poured out the kanaar. "Anyway, don't you know 
Bajorans don't like Cardassians?" she told him as she pushed past him 
with the drinks. But she did turn to smile at him as she disappeared 
in the crowd.
   "A collaborator." Kira's sharp voice sliced through his memories 
like a knife. A collaborator. The Centre for Science was a Cardassian 
creation that played a key role in the propaganda from the Central 
Command. Of course anyone associated with it would be a traitor in 
her eyes. How could he have expected this woman to understand? She 
probably had the whole Occupation figured out, everyone categorised 
into little boxes -- the Resistance here, the Oppressors there, the 
collaborators in a pit in the middle. And there was a label all cut 
out for her -- Tora Naprem, collaborator.
   He could make her realise exactly how stupid her commentary really 
was. "Well, of course, Major. She was sleeping with me... one could 
say she had a personal interest in keeping the Cardassians on Bajor."
   She looked annoyed; his comment had hit the mark.
   "I told you -- you wouldn't have liked her at all," he said 
smoothly, taking advantage of the situation to indulge in a little 
'told you so'. "She hated the Resistance. Really hated them, a lot 
more than I ever did." 
   No, that was a lie, there had been one time in his life when he 
had hated the Resistance. He decided he might as well let her know 
about that, while he was at it. "At least, until someone took a pot 
shot at Ziyal when she was about six years old. That changed my views 
a bit, though I never considered that I should take the Resistance 
attacks personally. I thought they were simply..." He caught her eye 
and decided there was no point telling her what he had thought of her 
sort back then. Fleas attacking a rhinoceros. But fleas with a 
powerful will to succeed.
   "Never mind what I thought. I was just a misguided Cardassian 
officer following orders," he said sarcastically, putting on an 
excessively contrite expression. He knew the tune well enough, having 
heard it from quite a few of his former colleagues. Being associated 
in any way with the Bajoran Occupation was no longer fashionable -- 
better to have fought the Federation like a 'hero'. He was pleased to 
see that brought a smile to her lips, and even more pleased to find 
she was waiting for him to continue.
   "Anyway, Naprem took the Resistance very personally," he continued 
thoughtfully. "She had calmed down quite a lot by the time I met her, 
but she never forgave them..." He paused; there were still some 
things he didn't feel like telling her about. He pursued his 
reminiscing in a lighter tone. "She used to have a fit when I was 
hurt by Resistance attacks. That was mostly later, when I was on 
Terok Nor. I was always grateful that the propaganda services 
systematically covered up or minimised the extent of the attacks. I 
knew I was in for an earful if she got wind of what had happened to 
me. Of course, she always blamed me -- I wasn't careful, I was too 
overconfident, my guards were incompetent. Anyway, she made a lot of 
fuss over nothing."
   His description of domestic bliss made her smile, but she wasn't 
too pleased at his depiction of Resistance attacks. Dukat had been 
notorious for his condescending attitude towards the Resistance. No 
matter how hard they worked to kill him -- and some of their attempts 
had come pretty near the mark, she recalled -- they never seemed to 
convince him to take them as a serious threat. It could be argued, 
and from what she had heard, frequently was on Cardassia, that this 
disdainful attitude had played a part in the Cardassian defeat. But 
at the time, it had proved extremely frustrating for the Bajorans. 
Apparently, it was not only impossible to kill Dukat, but it was 
equally impossible to get his attention.
   "Is that why she hated them so much?" she said, feeling a sharp 
edge creep into her voice.
   "Oh no, that had nothing to do with me," he said dismissively. His 
grey eyes met hers and his face became very serious. He was silent 
for a moment, and then started, "she... When she was fifteen, the 
local Resistance cell teamed up with some other opportunists in her 
village and attacked the house her family lived in with her maternal 
uncle. They beat up every single member of both families, ransacked 
the house, burned down their crops and slaughtered their cattle. 
Naprem's mother died a few weeks later, and she always believed it 
was due to the shock of the attack."
   "The Resistance was never kind to collaborators," she said calmly. 
She had never taken part in these punitive raids herself -- Shakaar 
considered quite rightly that the Cardassians should be their main 
targets -- but she knew how common they had been, especially in 
remote areas where Cardassia didn't maintain such a strong presence. 
Not that the Cardassians were very keen on protecting collaborators 
anyway.
   "The funny thing is, Major, they weren't really collaborators at 
all. Oh, they weren't in the Resistance by any means. Like about 
ninety-five percent of the Bajoran population, they were doing the 
best they could under the circumstances. Their real problem was that 
they were landowners doing just a bit better than everyone else. But 
they did commit one crime -- they let this fifteen-year-old girl fall 
in love with a Cardassian soldier."
   He sipped his blood wine as he let that information sink in. She 
looked suitably impressed -- so much for the idea he couldn't impress 
her. He wondered how much he should tell about the life Naprem had 
led. 'I'm a woman with a past,' she had warned him, when he contacted 
her after the reception. It had taken her a long time to tell him 
everything, and at that, it was quite possible there were some things 
she had still kept to herself. She was as good as any Cardassian when 
it came to lying. But he remembered how upset he had been when she 
had told him about this particular incident. Not just an incident, in 
fact, more like one of the main events that shaped her life.
   "Needless to say, there wasn't much of him left when the Bajorans 
had finished with him," he informed Kira. He stared down at the floor 
and after a moment's hesitation, added, "I probably don't need to 
tell you what they did to Naprem." He lifted his gaze once more to 
hers to see her reaction. He wasn't sure if she would think the 
punishment was deserved, or if she would feel sorry for Naprem.
   Her throat tightened at the look in his eyes. She knew exactly 
what they had done to Naprem, what they did to any woman who slept 
with the enemy. It was the price to pay for the ultimate betrayal of 
their people. She lowered her eyes as she realised she had been 
wrong. The Resistance had hurt him after all.
   He sighed, picked up the goblet as if to drink from it, and then 
seemed to change his mind. Instead, he put his hand up to his 
forehead and his middle finger traced the contour of the drop-shaped 
growth above his brow. This covered his face enough to protect him 
from her inquisitive eyes, which had risen up to look at him again. 
He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and fingers in a weary gesture, 
wishing he had never brought up that subject. His mind suddenly 
reminded him of the smooth Bajoran forehead wrinkled with sorrow as 
she told him what her own people had done to her. What they had done 
did not touch him in itself -- such an unfortunate experience so long 
ago in her past was of no consequence to her honour or his own love 
for her -- but it pained him because it was something that had really 
hurt her.
   "It doesn't matter," he said, trying to express some of the 
frustration he had felt back then. "It... There is no excuse for 
living in the past. Bitterness, revenge, regrets, they're all a waste 
of energy, because you can't change what is done. But when I met 
Naprem nearly fifteen years later, a part of her was still living in 
that moment, still so bitter about what had happened, so 
unforgiving..." It was too hard to talk about Naprem like this, 
bringing the conversation too near to his real feelings for comfort. 
If he continued like this, he would bare his pagh to her, and he 
shuddered to think what she would do with it then.
   "It was one of the things that irritated me most about your 
people," he continued, changing topic slightly to divert his 
monologue from himself, "this constant reference to the wrongs and 
rights of the past. As if you go through your lives walking 
backwards, never prepared to forgive, or forget, or contemplate doing 
anything new... I'm not speaking for you personally, Major. You are 
definitely open to new ideas and resolutely turned to the future."
   She smiled a little to indicate no offence was taken.
   "It wasn't easy at first," he said without any indication as to 
what he was talking about. "She and I were so different. There was 
the business of her being Bajoran, of course, which was trouble 
enough. By the time I met her, she was pretty pro-Cardassian, but 
there were still innumerable little Bajoran traditions she had to 
respect, from wearing her earring to throwing salt on the ground 
before guests came in."
   He was about to drink some more of the wine when it occurred to 
him he was beginning to feel a little light-headed. It had been a 
while since he had been drunk, but the sensation was unmistakable. He 
wasn't sure he wanted Major Kira to see him in that state. On the 
other hand, he doubted she would be staying very long. He looked at 
the dark red liquid and decided one more sip wasn't going to have him 
rolling on the floor. It made him feel a lot better about the 
situation, so he took another one.
   "I imagine that's a Netapka custom," she said, never having heard 
of sprinkling the floor with salt before. She knew she would learn 
something interesting if she came in with him tonight, though it had 
not occurred to her it would be an obscure custom from her own 
planet.
   "Oh yes, they have some pretty strange customs down there. She 
also used to sew a pinch of salt into the hems of Ziyal's garments 
for good luck. I never saw such a people for worshipping food. Mind 
you, my mother used to slosh water on my..." there was no word in 
Bajoran for it so he pointed to the drop shaped protuberance on his 
forehead, "my this thing, when I had an important event of some 
sort."
   She smiled. "For good luck, too, I presume."
   "Either that or she was trying to drown me," he answered jovially. 
"Anyway, Naprem and I would have these pointless arguments about all 
sorts of things. She usually won, of course. One of my aides once 
joked that if she had been religious, I would probably have let her 
build a shrine in my living-room." He shrugged with a tender smile. 
"Maybe I would have, too."
   "You must miss her a lot," she said.
   "Oh, yes, I do," he said with feeling. "I am not one for mulling 
over things past, but you can't be that close to someone for 
seventeen years and then forget them overnight." Seventeen years? she 
thought. It had not occurred to her they had been together that long, 
though the simple arithmetic she had used earlier made it pretty 
obvious they had. She regarded Dukat with a slightly heightened 
respect. When he had first told her about Naprem, she had put it down 
as an affair, just a good reason to despise Dukat for being 
unfaithful to his wife, as well as being a war criminal. But he was 
right, he was a lot more complicated a man than she had thought. And 
she was right, she did prefer simpler men. They were easier to 
understand.
   But she had to admit as his voice continued that this new side he 
was baring to her tonight was quite intriguing.
   "The hardest thing about the disappearance of the Ravenok was that 
I had no idea what had happened to it," he continued. "I couldn't 
even be sure whether she and Ziyal were dead or alive. All I knew was 
that they were gone and I was totally helpless. I couldn't order 
further investigations when the mandatory search party came up with 
nothing, because officially, I had no particular interest in the 
ship. I couldn't grieve for them in public because no one was 
supposed to know how much I had lost. I could not share my hopes and 
fears with anyone because the person I had always shared my innermost 
thoughts with was Naprem. We made a great couple," he added a little 
more lightly, as if to tone down the melancholy of his speech.
   "It can't have been easy for her all those years," she said, 
trying to imagine how anyone could have put up with the life Naprem 
must have led.
   He nodded. "It wasn't. I was a high ranking official in the 
Cardassian military, I was married with seven... no, there were just 
six back then, so six little Cardassians waiting for me on Prime." He 
sighed an uncharacteristically melodramatic sigh. "Everything I did, 
my whole life was built in such a way that there was no place for 
her. I couldn't introduce her to the people who meant most to me. I 
couldn't tell anyone about her..."
   His eyes fell on the display unit on the table, and he pointed to 
it.
   "If you're really interested, there are some old pictures of her 
in that unit."
   She picked it up and switched it on. It contained a lot more than 
simply pictures; the main screen indicated she could consult 
communications archives, as well as personal logs and a testament. 
The display was in Cardassian and Bajoran, and the different scripts, 
aligned in different places on the screen, created a strange pattern.
   Noticing that she was staring a little blankly at the unit, he got 
up and leant over her, taking it from her hands to bring up the 
images he wanted her to see.
   The first image was a typical posed Cardassian family picture. 
Ziyal was about ten years old, her black hair worn long and loose, as 
her little grey face stared in earnest at the imager. She was 
standing beside Dukat, who was sitting in full uniform, hands leaning 
on his knees as if he were about to get up, his head held high, the 
very image of Cardassian assurance. And then there was Naprem. 
Conspicuously pink and plump with the onset of middle age, she stood 
out on the picture, her expression nearly as arrogant as his, her 
hands neatly folded on the expanse of her bright green robe.
   He sighed and switched to the next picture, returning to sit on 
the other couch before she had time to look at the face which smiled 
up at her. There could be no doubt who was holding the imager when 
this picture was taken. Tora Naprem smiled out of the unit, happy and 
confident on a Summer's day on Bajor. There were hints of a brown and 
green countryside bathed in sunshine behind her, but most of the 
picture was focused on her face. It didn't take long for Kira to 
realise where she had seen that face before. It was round and smooth, 
with widely spaced, almond-shaped eyes, and thick, sensual lips. Her 
dark brown hair was down, curling over her family earring and her 
bare shoulder.
   "Ziyal is very like her," she said.
   Dukat just nodded.
   "I always thought she was like me, for obvious reasons. But the 
truth is, she is the image of Naprem. I nearly fell over when I first 
saw Ziyal, when we rescued her." 
   Her memory of that occasion was that he didn't seem exactly ready 
to fall over at all. The image of him standing with his rifle pointed 
at his daughter came to mind.
   "I thought I had lost them both," he continued pensively. "And 
then it turned out I had found Ziyal again, but she was no longer a 
child, she was a young woman, with Naprem's voice, her eyes, her 
face... My skin. A very strange combination. I would never have 
imagined she would turn out so beautiful."
   "Yes, she's very pretty," she agreed, wondering how that had come 
to pass. Certainly the woman on the pictures was no raving beauty, 
while Ziyal was very attractive.
   "It just goes to show that I was wrong. I thought she would be an 
abomination. I had seen other half-castes before, of course, but the 
thought of fathering one myself was eminently repugnant. I'm glad to 
find I was so mistaken."
   "Why did you have Ziyal if the thought was so repugnant to you?" 
she asked.
   "I didn't 'have' her," he said with dignity. "Naprem did. Oh, you 
know what Bajoran women are like -- in fact, you are one, so perhaps 
you don't fully realise how stubborn you can be," he added with a 
smile.
   She knew that was the general consensus among non-Bajorans.
   He drank some wine and looked thoughtful for a moment. "We had 
been together for three years when Naprem suddenly decided she wanted 
a child. She was about your age when we first met, so I suppose she 
felt it was the best time to become a mother. That wasn't a problem 
in itself -- all she needed was a doctor, a little magic, and she 
would have the child of her choice. But no, she wanted it to be *my* 
child." He paused, and then continued, "As I said, I didn't want us 
to have a child. A bastard half-caste who would belong nowhere and 
cause nothing but trouble for both of us? Much as I adored Naprem, I 
knew what we would be letting ourselves in for. Both our species 
despised us enough as it was for being lovers, but to actually parent 
a hybrid child was to invite more disdain and hatred... well, you 
know what happened to me when my people did find out about Ziyal, and 
most of it was due to her Bajoran blood. Her existence wouldn't have 
been half as troublesome if she had been a full-blooded Cardassian... 
But when it came to an argument, Naprem usually had the upper hand," 
he continued. "She finally convinced me the reward would be worth the 
risk. And you know, Major, she was quite right. I was telling the 
truth when I said I didn't regret anything to do with Ziyal. From the 
moment I made the decision for us to have the child, I knew I was 
right. Even if it did mean Naprem spent months sneezing and 
complaining about her ankles."
   Kira grinned at his description of a typical Bajoran pregnancy.
   "I know Ziyal was worth it," she said.
   "Oh, yes. She was a sweet child. In fact, she's a sweet young 
woman, too. I don't know where she got that from. Naprem thought it 
was either something she inherited from her maternal grandmother, or 
maybe it was just that she was subdued by having the two of us 
around." He had a drink and then went on with a fond look in his eye. 
"When you think about it, her mere existence is pretty amazing. One 
half of her Bajoran, the other half Cardassian. One would have 
thought it would be like trying to mate a vole and a wompat, but no, 
no technology was needed... and there she was. It was the strangest 
experience. This plump Bajoran woman, so pink and, and smooth and... 
Bajoran, holding a baby that looked exactly like all my other 
children. A little, grey baby with..." still no word for them in 
Bajoran "...curlicues all over. We noticed the nose ridges later," he 
added. "That was weird. But she was really beautiful."
   And you're really drunk, thought Kira, noticing how disjointed and 
emotional his speech was becoming. She leant forward with an earnest 
expression.
   "You should be careful with that drink," she said. 
   "I've only had half a mug," he protested, looking into the goblet.
   "Well, I still think you're getting a bit drunk. Maybe that's 
because blood wine is designed for Klingons, not Cardassians," she 
said. "You're probably not as resistant as they are," she couldn't 
help adding.
   He gave her his most reasonable look. "I never said I was. 
Considering their lack of intelligence, I would presume Klingons are 
probably extremely sturdy. Such things often run in inverse 
proportions."
   "Well, that explains a few things about Cardassians, then," she 
said gently.
   "I believe Cardassians have achieved a fair balance between the 
two," he said in a lecturing tone.
   "Of course, you would. You're Cardassian."
   "Oh, and you wouldn't argue that Bajorans are in some way superior 
to Cardassians?"
   "Well, you put a Cardassian and a Bajoran in cold weather 
conditions, and see who the fragile one is. Your people didn't do too 
well during the Long Winter." She was rather enjoying this silly 
argument.
   "Those were freak weather conditions," he said, anxious to get on 
with the anecdote that brought to mind. "Do you know I spent half 
that winter arguing with Naprem's sister-in-law that it had nothing 
to do with Prophet intervention, and the other half fighting off 
Naprem who wanted me to wear these ridiculous warm vests all the 
time," he told her, waving his finger at her as if to get her 
attention. "I told her I could handle a little cold. So my feet 
turned white, well, that's what regenerators are for."
   She remembered that winter and the white frostbite on the 
soldier's fingers as his blood left the surface of his body to try 
and warm his vital organs. Her own hand was blue, but her blood was 
warm enough for her body to be kept at a comfortable temperature by 
the thick clothing she wore. His blood didn't have enough warmth of 
its own to keep his body temperature up, any exposure to such cold 
could be fatal. Dukat was already with Naprem in that winter, when 
she was so young her own hand trembled as she held the disrupter. She 
had killed people before, but this soldier had made a feeble attempt 
at chatting her up, and had shown her holograms of his m