Chapter Text
Garak woke with his throat full of dust and his eyes gummed shut. He rolled over and groped for the flask of water beside his pallet, taking a long drink that burned down his raw gullet. He poured a little more water into his cupped hand and bathed his eyes until he could open them. Dust was everywhere in the ruins of Cardassia’s capital. His nose was constantly clogged with it. There seemed no way to keep it out of his tent. You would think that, with the much-vaunted standards of Federation technology, they could find a way to keep dust out of a tent.
He could not quite refrain from bitterness at the fact that, after everything, Cardassia’s halting recovery from near-annihilation was dependent on massive Federation aid. Quite a lot of the material came from Bajor. Bajor! Perhaps that was why the tent was so draughty; the Bajorans were getting their own back in a myriad tiny ways, each as irritating as a speck of grit in your eye, all together as devastating as a sandstorm.
There were few buildings left standing, and most of those had been declared structurally unsound by Starfleet engineers. They were using tractor beams to safely demolish them. Three vast white ships orbited Cardassia Prime, sleek and smug. Sometimes they entered the atmosphere, and the survivors looked up at them warily. Garak moved among them, trying to organise, to co-ordinate. He had arrived thinking in terms of a provisional government, and had had to downgrade his aspirations to simply trying to get people registered for aid which many of them were reluctant, ashamed to accept. Now his curriculum vitae could list government agent, gardener, tailor, social worker. Odious!
He sat up with a grunt and pressed his hands into the small of his back, stretching out the crick that he always woke up with. He had hated the station so much, but oh, what he would give now for even the basic amenities it had offered. He took off dusty pyjamas, pulled on dusty clothes and shoes, and went outside to the tent city’s communal standpipe to wash his face and rinse his mouth with cold water. (Hot, fragrant baths. Saunas. Sonic showers, even. They weren’t refreshing but they would get rid of dust.)
A young man walked up with a bucket, raising a hand in a sketched greeting. Garak knew him slightly as a neighbour; one half of his face was quite beautiful and the other was a scarred ruin, the hair burned away from the temple, a shiny streak of scalp laid bare. It sometimes seemed to him that that boy was Cardassia, and he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to embrace him or... there was really no ‘or,’ and no question of an embrace. The young man filled his bucket, briefly waved again and walked away, leaning away from the weight of the water.
At mid-morning, he was sketching out a plan for a community vegetable garden, pacing around a roughly clear area of waste-ground and making notes about plants, tools, supplies, when he was approached by a man somewhat older than him, thin and aquiline, with iron-grey hair.
‘Good morning, Mr Garak,’ the newcomer said, nodding affably.
‘Good morning. I fear you have the advantage of me.’
‘Crell Moset.’
‘The illustrious Dr Moset. It’s a pleasure.’ He had recognised the man, of course. How fascinating it would be to discuss him and his work with Julian. No more discussions with Julian, for a long time, perhaps for ever. Oh, he didn’t need to think of that just now, of the luminous eyes and sweet mouth and slim brown hands, long fingers criss-crossed around a teacup. He crushed that thought away and maintained his affable, interested half-smile.
‘The pleasure is mine. It’s a relief to find you.’ Moset folded his hands behind his back and returned the smile.
‘It’s difficult to find anyone these days. My compliments on your detective work. To what do I owe this mutual pleasure?’
‘I think you know,’ Moset said, his smile broadening slightly.
‘You really do have the advantage of me,’ Garak admitted. ‘I know we haven’t met before. Do you want to offer your professional assistance? I can put you in touch with the Starfleet medical officer in charge of this encampment.’ Moset’s gaze shifted, past Garak’s shoulder, and he nodded in that direction. Casually, he turned to look, as if still planning his garden. A few yards away, a little boy was crouching in the dust, intently watching a small beetle as it trundled across the uneven ground. Abruptly, the beetle unfolded its wing-cases, unfurling shimmering wings, and buzzed up into the air and away. The boy lifted his head to watch it go, and Garak’s hearing dropped away to a feedback whine as he recognised Julian’s eyes, framed by his own brow ridges. Julian’s unruly brown hair. His own thin lips and round face. Nose a mixture, he couldn’t say. Complexion dusky, dark for a Cardassian but not a human brown, a sort of dun colour. Beautiful, impossible little child.
‘I haven’t told him you’re here,’ Moset was saying beyond the whine. ‘I didn’t want to over-excite him. We should introduce you gradually. Are - are you all right?’
Garak turned his back on the boy, so he absolutely could not see him, grabbed Moset’s upper arm and hurried him several paces further off. ‘What do you think you’re playing at? What is he?’ he hissed.
Moset blinked at him. ‘You didn’t know,’ he said slowly.
‘No, but I am going to know, depend on it. Explain yourself!’ He put all the command he could into his voice and his eyes, though he feared it was far from his best performance. At the very least he could be sure he was hurting Moset’s arm.
‘I can’t understand why he didn’t tell you.’
‘Who? Tain?’ It was a leap, but it seemed the most reasonable one. It turned his world upside down; it had to be his father’s doing.
‘Then he did?’
‘He told me nothing. You’re going to tell me.’
‘That’s your son. Tain’s grandson. The continuation of the line - he said he didn’t think you were going to take care of it yourself. A bastard, of course, but that’s unavoidable. It’s not as if you could have married his - other father.’
‘And you? You made him?’
‘To Tain’s orders.’
‘How in hell did he even get hold of Julian’s DNA? What possessed him?’
‘As to the first, I didn’t ask, and for the second, I would think paternal love.’
‘Ah, no,’ Garak said, with a short bark of laughter. ‘No, that wouldn’t answer at all. He thought this would be useful somehow.’
‘Of course it’s useful. This boy is extremely useful. Federation genetic enhancements. The science they abandoned rather than let the rest of us benefit from any of it. I wanted your permission, your co-operation - you are, after all, the boy’s next of kin, and a useful man to know in any case - we must obtain facilities, equipment, cloning isn’t that complex but it does require the right conditions.’ Moset’s eyes were alight with slightly cracked ambition.
‘First you’ve created this... chimera, and now you propose to clone him? How old is he? Four? Have you the faintest idea whether he’ll be stable in the long term? What is he supposed to be, the new Jem’Hadar?’
‘Better. And ours.’
‘No.’ Garak stopped himself, taking a controlled breath. ‘That would be extremely unwise in the present climate. Impracticable, at the moment, and in the foreseeable future, inadvisable.’
‘I’m not a young man any more, Mr Garak. I won’t be able to work on this project forever.’
‘I am simply asking you to put more time and diligence into laying the groundwork. I repeat, you have no idea of his long-term stability. By its nature, genetic engineering is often work that takes multiple generations. Don’t worry. You’ll get the credit you deserve.’ He released his grip on Moset’s arm. ‘My apologies, Doctor. You can imagine my emotions.’
‘I’m sure.’ Moset glanced over Garak’s shoulder again, rubbing his arm. ‘Still grubbing about in the dirt. Once he gets interested in something, you have to pry him away. Do you want to meet him?’
No, I can’t possibly. He isn’t mine, not really.
‘Very well.’
Moset led Garak back to the little boy, who was now watching a procession of ants making their way into a hole in the ground. ‘Eighty,’ the doctor said, bending down towards him, ‘come and meet Mr Garak.’
The little boy scuffled to his feet, wiping his dirty hands on the front of his tunic and looking up at Garak expectantly.
‘Hello,’ Garak said. He forced himself to reach out and touch the boy’s shoulder, a stiff-handed pat, not the squeeze that would have shown real warmth. ‘Eighty?’ he asked Moset.
‘My eighth attempt,’ Moset said. ‘Not,’ he added with a chuckle, ‘my eightieth!’
‘No other name?’
‘My father’s going to name me,’ the boy said. He had a squeaky little voice and very precise diction for such a young child. ‘My fathers are,’ he corrected himself.
‘Fathers, eh?’
‘Yes, I’ve got two. Most people have only got one, but I’m a bit special.’
‘I’m sure you are. Who are your fathers, if I may ask?’
Eighty looked up at Moset as if asking permission. ‘Yes, go on,’ the doctor said.
‘My one father is Cardassian, and he’s a very brave man who’s done lots of good things for the state to take care of all of us. And my other father is Human, and he’s a very clever man, he’s a doctor like Dr Moset, he’s cleverer and stronger than all the other Humans. And Dr Moset made me out of the best bits of both of them, so I could be a good boy.’
‘And are you a good boy?’
‘I’m trying,’ Eighty said earnestly. ‘I’m really trying.’
‘Well done.’
‘Sometimes you’re a bad boy, aren’t you, Eighty? But you soon learn.’
‘Yes,’ Eighty agreed quickly. Garak saw the quick, timid flicker in his eyes. He wanted to kill Moset and carry Eighty away to safety. He wanted to run away right now and change his name and never be heard from again, much less tracked down by mad doctors with children who shouldn’t exist in tow. He wondered if the best thing was to kill both of them. People went missing all the time, there was no reliable census of who was still alive, he could do it quickly and painlessly for the child. No, he absolutely could not.
‘My fathers are going to name me.’ I can’t name a child. The only names I know how to come up with are aliases. And Julian would want to call him something ridiculous like Leonidas or Caractacus or Hannibal, wouldn’t he? And tell him terrible stories about wolves?
‘It was very nice to meet you, Eighty,’ he said. ‘Dr Moset, I must ask you to excuse me. I’m very busy today.’
‘Then perhaps we can come back tomorrow.’
‘I’m afraid I shall be busier then.’
‘We’ve come a very long way, and the roads are in a shocking state,’ Moset pressed. ‘Perhaps you can recommend a place for us to stay tonight.’
‘Really, you needn’t stay.’
‘But we should be here when Dr Bashir arrives.’
‘I beg your pardon,’ Garak said numbly.
‘I have, of course, sent a message to Dr Bashir asking him to come and meet us.’
‘Dr Bashir is a very busy man, with a full medical practice on Deep Space Nine. I’m sure he can’t be spared to...’ But it was exactly the sort of thing that was guaranteed to get Julian here post haste. Mysterious message. Prospect of adventure and intrigue.
Something was touching his hand. The boy was touching his hand. He only just kept himself from snatching it away.
‘You’ve hurt your finger,’ Eighty said. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Quite all right. Just a little slip with the scissors, trying to sew in bad light.’ Last night he had been repairing a ripped coat that he had found wadded into a broken window-frame, thinking it would fit the young man with the scarred face. The shadows from the lantern suspended from the tent frame, swinging with the wind, had forced him to give up, cursing as he sucked his nicked finger. Today it was puffy and sore and he very much hoped it was not infected.
‘Poor Mr Garak,’ said Eighty, holding his hand and patting it gently, his grubby little paws as warm and soft and maddeningly kind as Julian’s hands.
‘Poor me,’ Garak agreed, with feeling.