Star Trek: DS9: The Never-Ending Sacrifice

by Una McCormack

  Before leaving Cardassia Prime, Rugal went back for the last time to the Pa’Dar house in Coranum. That afternoon he had to report to the Second Order’s garrison in the Akleen sector. The next day his company was leaving for Ogyas III, to guard a scientific research facility of unspecified purpose. Kotan, seeing him in uniform, said tiredly, “The never-ending sacrifice.”

  “Someone had better be willing to end it,” Rugal replied, “and soon. Or there won’t be anyone left to sacrifice.”

  Arric, Serna, and Tela came to see him off. Kotan was confined to the house and could not come. They wished him luck—Arric was dazed by this turn of events—and then Rugal was on his way. The company was transported out onto the Ramaklan. Sitting crushed in a line of other indistinguishable troops, Rugal thought how he had longed for this moment, when at last he escaped Cardassia Prime. Be careful what you wish for.

  They stopped en route for four crowded days at Deep Space 9—Terok Nor, as the other men called it, and Rugal tried his best to use that name. The company took up residence in the Ferengi’s bar, drinking overpriced kanar and harassing the dabo girls. Rugal, unwilling to attract attention by going off by himself, sat near the door drinking redleaf tea and looking out across the Promenade. He was remembering the first time he had been here, with Migdal. It seemed a lifetime ago.

  He recognized Tora Ziyal the moment he saw her, less because of her distinctive looks—she had her back to him—but because she had impressed herself so strongly upon his memory. She was talking in forceful fashion to a young human male (and what was a human still doing on Deep Space 9?) and they soon parted ways. The human male came past the entrance to the bar; Ziyal went off in the opposite direction. Rugal finished what remained of his drink, and hurried out of the bar. “Ziyal,” he called after her. “Tora Ziyal!”

  She stopped and turned. She frowned to see that it was only yet another Cardassian gil—and then she recognized him. Her face lit up. “Rugal Pa’Dar!” she said. They met and pressed palms. “What are you doing here?”

  “I came in on the Ramaklan.”

  She looked down and noticed his uniform for the first time. “You joined the army?”

  “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

  She laughed. “How long are you here?”

  “We’re leaving in the morning. How are you, Ziyal? How have you been?” He was painfully glad to see her; she was a drop of sanity in the ocean of madness that had been overwhelming him. “What have you been doing?”

  “Oh, all kinds of things.”

  “Painting, I hope?”

  “Of course!” She glanced around quickly. “Look, I have to be somewhere now, but perhaps you could come to my quarters later? We could catch up, have something to eat. Say twenty-two hundred?”

  “Yes, I’d like that. Thank you.”

  “Till twenty-two hundred then.” She gave him a lovely smile, and then went on her way down the Promenade.

  • • •

  She served him Bajoran food. It was one of the greatest kindnesses anyone had ever done him. He could have cried. They ate hasperat with warm flat bread, and ratamba stew, and finished up with moba-flavored ices. Memories of Migdal and Etra, of his lost childhood and stolen happiness, were stronger than ever before. Ziyal watched with amusement as he ate everything she put in front of him and then took second helpings. She told him about her time on the Groumall, then on Deep Space 9, and then her brief stay on Bajor. It was clear that Deep Space 9 was the place that she considered home. “It’s the mix of people,” she said. “A half-Bajoran, half-Cardassian female doesn’t look too much out of place.”

  “That was why Migdal, my Bajoran father, wanted to come here. He thought we’d get less trouble here. Etra, my mother, was going to open a dress shop. She was a seamstress, and there wasn’t anyone else here doing that kind of work—”

  Ziyal gave him a strange look. “Oh yes, there is—well, there was. There was a tailor’s shop on the Promenade.” Rugal put his hand to his forehead and groaned. At this late stage, it was only funny to learn that the move to Deep Space 9 might well have turned out to be yet another of Proka Migdal’s epically bad decisions. How he had loved that old man.

  “Of all the people I have ever known,” she said, as she served up the raktajino, “you are the one I would have said was least likely to join the Cardassian military. Whatever happened, Rugal? I thought you were going to go back to Bajor.”

  Since it was hardly possible to tell her of her father’s part in it, he sidestepped the issue. “After I finished training as a medic I wanted to do something useful. I couldn’t get back to Bajor, and the army seemed the obvious move.”

  “For you? Couldn’t you have found a civilian placement?”

  “Remember that man at the Darhe’el monument?”

  She shuddered. “I’m not likely to forget.”

  “I thought he had a point. That it was all very well for me to judge the military, but if I couldn’t speak from experience, then I shouldn’t speak at all.”

  She shrugged, but seemed persuaded. Rugal was amazed, not to mention dismayed, at how fluently he had been able to lie. Cardassia had made him good at hiding the truth. He tried to change the subject. “Was that really a human male you were talking to earlier on the Promenade?”

  Ziyal’s hand hesitated as she lifted her cup. “He’s just a friend.”

  So they were both keeping secrets. Was he more than a friend? Did her father disapprove? “I’m sure he’s nice...”

  She shook her head and laughed. “Prophets, no, nothing like that! He’s a journalist. But he’s also the son of the Starfleet captain who was in command here. His name’s Jake, Jake Sisko. It’s an awkward situation, obviously.”

  Sisko. The man who had, all that time ago, sent him back to Cardassia. Rugal frowned. If this was the son of the former commander of Deep Space 9, then he was also the son of her father’s sworn enemy. Should Ziyal be talking to him? He caught himself in time. That would also, of course, preclude her from talking to him, never mind giving him dinner. Besides, she was free to talk to whomever she chose, without her father’s permission, or his. He smiled inwardly at his reaction. He seemed to be turning Cardassian in his old age.

  “How is Penelya?” she asked, changing the subject herself.

  “Her uncle sent her back to Ithic after the Maquis were defeated.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Rugal. I know how fond you were of each other.” She gave him a shrewd look. “Is that why you joined the military?”

  “No, of course not! Of course not! Why does it matter to you so much to know why I decided to join the military? I did, and now I’m here. That’s the end of it.”

  There was an awkward silence. Ziyal put down her mug and bit her lip. “I’m sure my father appreciates your willingness to fight for Cardassia—”

  “Your father! Ziyal, Dukat is the reason I’m here now, in this uniform, on my way to the middle of nowhere to guard a research facility for our Dominion masters!”

  She went very stiff. Color leached from her face. “I know you must be worried about what you’re going to find when you get there, but it’s hardly fair to blame my father for that. The whole of Cardassia supported joining the Dominion and entering this war—”

  “Ziyal, if it wasn’t for your father, I’d have packed up and left Cardassia and gone to join Penelya on Ithic. If it wasn’t for your father, I’d never have been taken away from Kotan and Arys in the first place! But I was, and now I’m stuck in the middle of this insane war and I have no idea if I’ll ever see Penelya or Kotan again!”

  Ziyal stood up. “I think you had better leave,” she said coolly. She led him toward the door, but before he could go, she turned to him. Her eyes were wet. “I invited you here because I wanted us to be friends. I didn’t have to, after all your father did to us.”

  “What Kotan did?”

  “My father told me that it was Kotan who was to blame for my being forced from Cardassia Prime
.”

  “That isn’t true—”

  “That your father was the one behind the whole scandal, that he used it to secure his position, and that’s why he’s the only one of the Detapa Council still alive.”

  “Ziyal, Kotan resigned from the Council because they were using you to get to your father. The only reason your father hasn’t been able to kill him is that he spent the time after that trying to stop the Cardassian people from starving. Whatever Dukat’s been telling you, it’s a pack of lies.”

  They were standing facing each other like enemies. Ziyal’s eyes were flashing; Rugal’s fists were clenched. Then, all at once, at the same time, they understood what they were doing. Ziyal took a step back; Rugal relaxed his hands.

  “My grandmother used to say that all the best feuds are passed on,” he said. “I won’t let this one be passed on. I’m sorry I said what I did about your father, Ziyal. I didn’t come here this evening to upset you.” And he hadn’t. Whatever Dukat had done, it was not the fault of this lost and lovely young woman. She was mistaken, badly mistaken, about her father—but Rugal did not want to be the one who shattered her illusions. The universe was cruel enough without his help. He could only hope that when she learned the truth, it would not be the death of her.

  Ziyal smiled at him sadly. “I’m sorry too,” she said. “It’s their battle, isn’t it? Not ours.”

  Peace was restored, of a kind. Regretfully he said, “I should go. I have an early start.”

  She made a quick gesture, stopping him in his tracks. “What did you mean,” she said, “when you said it was my father’s fault that you were taken away from Kotan and Arys?”

  His mouth; he always spoke before thinking. Kotan and Penelya had both complained about it. “Forget it,” he said. “I spoke in the heat of the moment. It was good to see you again, Ziyal. I’ll come back this way when the war is over, if I make it. We’ll go to Bajor. I’ll bring Penelya. You bring that human friend of yours, Sisko’s son. We’ll sit in the sun and be at peace and we’ll never fight our parents’ wars again.”

  As he went toward the door, Ziyal said, “Wait a moment.” She went and got her art case, opening it up and rifling the contents. “I have something for you.” She held out a piece of paper. “It was a very happy day for me,” she said, “one of the few I ever had on Cardassia Prime. I think it was a happy day for both of you too.”

  It was the sketch she had made of him and Penelya. She had caught them both so well, summed them up in a few quick clever lines, but with wit rather than cruelty. Looking at her, Rugal missed Penelya acutely, all over again. He cleared his throat. “Yes, it was.”

  “Keep it. Take it with you. And when this is all over, we’ll all meet again, like you said, and we’ll look back at all this and shake our heads and wonder how we ever found ourselves where we are now.”

  But they did not, nor could either of them have imagined where this war would take them. They pressed palms, like Cardassians, and then, because they were both Bajoran too, they embraced and said good-bye.

  Eight

  “For Cardassia,” said Dalin Tret Khevet, as he strapped on his chest armor, “I am strapping on chest armor that is prone to cracking in the subzero temperatures in which I am required to perform my duty.”

  “For Cardassia,” replied Glinn Rugal Pa’Dar, as he checked the power supply on his disruptor, “I have not had a decent cup of tea in over a year and a half.”

  “True words, Rugal,” Tret said sorrowfully, “true words. Mm, let’s see. For Cardassia... What have I ever done for Cardassia? Oh yes, for Cardassia, I skip every third meal.”

  “For Cardassia, I have not yet strangled my commanding officer in his sleep. Do you think the night vision on this visor is likely to work at any point?”

  “Never been less sure of anything in my life. For Cardassia, I have forsworn the tender charms of my beloved for what seems like an eternity if I’m being frank.”

  “For Cardassia, I shall not throw up at any point during the next two days.”

  They both snapped down their visors. “Hey, Tret!” Rugal said. “In this light, we could be mistaken for soldiers! How did that ever happen?”

  But Tret was no longer playing the game. He was staring down at his disruptor as though he had just worked out what it was for. Softly, he said, “My brother died, for Cardassia.”

  And for one brief mad moment, Rugal envied Tret—envied him his home, his history, his certainty. Most of all he envied his desire for revenge. Because revenge was better than nothing—and nothing was the whole of what Rugal felt for Cardassia. Then he remembered Kotan, and what Kotan would undoubtedly say right now if he were here.

  Rugal Pa’Dar began to laugh. “All right, Kotan!” he whispered to his distant father. “For once, I’ll do what I’m told. For your sake, I shall try not to get us all killed.”

  On Ogyas III, the snow fell gentle and thick upon Keralek Base. The snow generally fell just this gently, and just this thick, but most days the garrison did not have to stand outside enjoying the experience. This afternoon, however, Gul Rantok was giving out medals. A typically Cardassian reward, Rugal thought as he shivered within the protective shielding of his armor. Keeping them out here while the names of those to be honored were called out so that their comrades could loathe them twice over: first for their success, and then for this afternoon in the snow. A few Jem’Hadar were standing by dispassionately, like watchdogs, overlooking the proceedings. They did not feel the cold, or did not care. The Vorta, Verisel, was conspicuous by her absence. She would not trouble herself to freeze, handing the Cardassians their baubles.

  Rugal was among those receiving a medal today. He had earned it during the first wave of the Romulan assault on Ogyas, for “conspicuous valor shown during the evacuation of the civilian population.” Tret thought the idea of Rugal receiving a medal was the funniest thing he had heard since the war broke out. But then Tret had been stationed on Ogyas III for nearly two years, and hilarity was in even shorter supply than heaters.

  Rantok barked, “Glinn Pa’Dar!” Smartly, Rugal stepped forward. They exchanged salutes, and, in fractious fashion (the gul disliked this particular glinn), Rantok pinned the Triple Medal of Valor on his chest. More salutes, then Rugal stepped back into line, his moment of glory over. Beside him, he heard Tret struggle to contain his laughter. Rantok’s litany ground on, and yet another glinn stepped forward to receive his due. Soon Rugal’s own mouth began to twitch. All any of them wanted to do was sit inside as close to a heat source as possible. Yet here they were, standing in the cold, while the snow fell gently upon them and Gul Rantok shouted out the name of another freezing young soldier who wanted to be indoors. Honors that were punishments. Was it possible, Rugal wondered as the whole business dragged on, that this was all a little crazy?

  Afterwards, and back indoors, Tret said, “Sometimes I think everyone around me has gone mad and I’m the only sane one left.” He and Rugal were making something like redleaf tea, only without the redleaf, which had run out earlier in the month. “Then I think, perhaps I’m the one who’s gone mad, and everyone else around me is sane. Then I come to the conclusion that we’re all of us mad together. What do you think, Rugal?”

  Rugal warmed his hands around his mug and took a sip of hot brown water. His purpose was to listen. Tret outranked him.

  “Of course,” Tret said, “you’re the only sane one around here, aren’t you?”

  “If I were sane,” Rugal said equably, “I wouldn’t have come out here.”

  “There are worse places to be.”

  “There are warmer places to be.”

  “Yes, but some of those are even closer to the front line.”

  Rugal grunted. Tret had a point. Was it better to freeze under Romulan bombardment or burn up from Romulan disruptor fire? Death was still the outcome, either way. He sipped his tea. Dying preyed upon his mind these days. It was a large part of what they talked about: when they would die, how they would die
, whether or not it would hurt. Conversation was sadly limited on Ogyas III. Sometimes they talked about how bad the food was. Sometimes they talked about how cold it was. Death, food, and the weather. That pretty much covered everything.

  “You know,” Tret said, as he poured himself more of the appalling tea, “this isn’t bad.”

  Tret Khevet had come a long way from his sun-kissed life in Coranum. He and his brother Colat had both joined up in that first rush of patriotic fervor following the taking of Terok Nor. He had joined the Second Order because it was Dukat’s old command; many young men like him had been inspired by their charismatic new leader, a great hero who was going to revitalize the Union. Clever, personable, physically strong, Tret had quickly risen to the rank of dalin. He was second in command here, below Rantok. By the time Rugal had got to Ogyas, however, the war had lost its glamour for Tret. He was now firmly among the cynics. Colat’s death at Chin’toka had undoubtedly been the final blow. But it also seemed to have something to do with how long the civilians had been kept on Ogyas.

  Keralek had originally been a Cardassian weapons research base, but the Dominion had quickly retooled it as a Jem’Hadar cloning facility. There was no further need for the research staff, but they had remained on Ogyas for months afterwards. Tret had pressed for them to be sent away; Verisel—and therefore Rantok—would not allow it. It was plain that they were intended as shields, to ward off aerial attack or sabotage. The first Romulan assault on Keralek Base had made it blindingly clear they weren’t bothered in the slightest about the status of their Cardassian targets. They were more than happy to slaughter indiscriminately. That battle—Tret’s first, Rugal’s too—had been vastly overcomplicated by the presence of these terrified, untrained civilians. It was only after the assault that the civilians had finally been evacuated. When the base was secured, Rugal had been the audience for Tret’s subsequent frenzied outburst. Rugal had listened without interruption. It was a shame, he thought, that Tret’s idealism was another casualty of this war, but if he was only now grasping the brutality, the depravity, of the Cardassian military, it was not soon enough. Rugal himself was not cynical about this war. He had never cared in the first place. But he was glad that Tret was here. He liked the young man, and besides, he was a link to Penelya.