An Honorable Contest - Part Five Victoria Meredith Part Five "We were talking about honor," Damar said, bringing his attention back to Worf. "You like talking about honor, Worf." "I like talking about Klingon honor," Worf gave a loose nod. "It is an honorable subject. But since you don't have any honor, you wouldn't understand." "Wait a minute," Damar protested. "Wait a minute. You just said . . ." he looked at Dax. There seemed to two of her. One wasn't actually there, but he couldn't decide which was the real one. He made his best guess. "He just said, didn't he, that I had honor." "He said that you had a little," Dax confirmed. "There. A little. Don't get fickle on me again, Worf, and take that away from me." "I'm not fickle," Worf snapped, saying "fickle" like a curse. "This contest will determine your honor." "Oh, right," Damar nodded. "I had forgotten that." "You had forgotten the purpose of the contest?" Worf asked as though shocked. "The purpose is to see who can drink the most without passing out." "We were drinking to prove our honor," Worf reminded him. "You're drinking for the honor of Cardassia." Damar began to laugh. It all seemed so ridiculous. He had said that so seriously, as though he had really believed that. As though Cardassia's honor had actually hinged on how drunk he could get without passing out. Worf only made it all the more absurd by sounding as though he actually believed that as well. Damar laughed so hard that he pounded the table. He heard Dax laughing right along with him. Having her laugh with him made him feel better about things. When he finally stopped laughing, he looked up to see Worf glaring at him. "You said that this was to be a contest of honor," Worf stated. That only made Damar laugh again. "I wanted to challenge you to honorable combat," Worf reminded him, "so that you could prove your honor, but you were too cowardly to do so." Damar's laughter choked in his throat. Furious, he commanded his body to rise and challenge Worf. His body refused to comply. Instead, all Damar could do was lift a wavering finger at Worf. "I am not a coward," he snarled. "You know that. You acknowledged that. If you say I am now, then you are a liar." "I am not a liar," Worf insisted. "Neither am I." Worf peered at him with bleary eyes. "Very well. You are not a coward." "Thank you," Damar said sardonically. "I suggest that you don't forget that." "I'm sure that you won't allow me to," Worf sounded vexed, but then he shook his head and gave Damar an earnest look. "Keep fighting as you have been doing and I won't forget." "I will," Damar pledged. "And it's honorable of you to acknowledge my courage. I appreciate that." "You're welcome," Worf grumped. "Courage is a virtue," Bashir pointed out. "There," Damar nodded. "I have a virtue." Dax laughed again. "Hold on to it, Damar. You don't have many others." He frowned at that. "I thought we were done with insulting each other for the night." "Only because you're too drunk to think of a counter insult," Dax said. "That's probably true," Damar admitted as he poured more kanar for himself. His stomach complained viciously about its mistreatment, roiling with kanar. Worf gulped his bloodwine then slumped down against the table. The blurry forms of Bashir and Dax seemed bored. Frowning at the table, Damar tried to think. They were talking about something. Or were they done? Worf wasn't any help. He didn't want to talk at all but Damar couldn't imagine just sitting with people and not talking. At least, the Klingon hadn't started singing again. A thought came to him that made him groan. Damar forced his head up to look at Worf. "I have to go on duty tomorrow morning. Don't you, Worf? Don't you have to go on duty?" Worf lifted his head again. "Now?" "No, tomorrow." "Yes," Worf sighed. "I do too," Damar sighed as well. "I have to go back out there tomorrow and fight. I have to get on that monstrous . . ." "Bird of Prey," Worf interjected. "Right. Right. That monstrous bucket of prey and try to keep it whole and intact for another day. Then another and another." "Sounds tiresome," Bashir commented. "I hate it," Damar groused. "I hate that ship. I hate the Klingons and this detestable war. All I can do is to keep fighting and fighting. I don't know how we keep going, but we do. We can't give up no matter how much we hate it. No matter how bad it is." "You will never give up," Worf stated with drunken earnestness. "Never," Damar agreed. "You're too stubborn to give up." "That's right," Damar felt stirred by Worf's encouraging tone. "You're too defiant." "Exactly." "You're too loyal." "I am," Damar said then shook his head. "No, there's no such thing as being too loyal." "It is a noble fight," Worf said, trying and failing to hold up his finger at Damar as he swayed in his chair. "A courageous fight against a ferocious and strong enemy when every day you face death unflinching, knowing that is a good day to die." "You're amazing, Worf." Worf blinked at him. "I am?" "You are," Damar loosely nodded. "You are. You're inspiring. You make it all sound romantic and noble. And it is. But it isn't." "How can it be both?" Damar considered that. There wasn't anything romantic and noble about living in impoverished conditions on that monstrous bucket while they barely made a dent against their enemies. But Worf encouraged him to believe that it was. "I don't know," he finally concluded. "You should find the greatest bard of your people," Worf told him, "and have him write a song in honor of your courageous battle." "I should," Damar agreed, blinking to keep his eyes focused. "Yes. Only, we don't have bards on Cardassia." Worf slowly shook his head. "But someone must tell your courageous tale of adventure." "I know what I should do," Damar grinned as he picked up the kanar bottle. He made an attempt to pour but missed the glass. "Let me," Dax offered and poured him a shot. "Thank you," Damar said then gulped the drink down. He frowned in thought. "I was saying something." "You're always saying something," Worf grumbled. "No, I had an idea. A good one." Damar struggled to remember it. "You were talking about how there's no bards on Cardassia," Bashir told him. "That's it," Damar said and started to laugh. "I know what I should do, Worf . . . I should . . ." He pealed away with laughter, finding the idea too funny to speak. "You should what?" Worf asked with annoyance. "I should . . . I should . . ." "Yes?" "I should find a Klingon bard." "That is a good idea," Worf approved. "There are no finer bards than Klingons." That only made Damar laugh harder as he clung to the table. Next to him, he heard Dax stifle her laughter behind her hand. He tried to calm down. "I shall . . . I shall find the finest Klingon bard and have him write a stirring song about our . . . our noble fight." "I know of several I could recommend to you," Worf told him. Losing himself in laughter again, he pounded the table. Worf glared at him. "You are not serious about this," Worf accused him. "I am," Damar struggled to keep a straight face. "I want a Klingon bard. Really." Worf studied him with bleary eyes then finally shook his head in disapproval. "That isn't funny, Damar." "I think that it is." "No Klingon bard is going to write a song about Cardassians fighting against Klingons." "But you were going to recommend several to me," Damar grinned at him. Worf only scowled at that and grasped the bottle of bloodwine. Reaching forward, Bashir helped him to pour. The Klingon lifted himself up enough to drink from his tankard then he slumped back down on his arms against the table. "What were we speaking of?" Worf looked to Dax. "Klingon bards," Damar supplied with a laugh. "If you have no . . . bards on Cardassia, then who tells your tales?" Worf asked him. "Poets. Musicians. Dramatists. Writers. A lot of people." "Then you can hire one of them . . . to tell your tale." "That's true, I suppose. Not now though. No one's writing poems or songs now. No one can do anything except just survive." Damar let out a mournful sigh and stared at the table. "You will survive," Worf assured him. "And when . . . this is finished, you will have great songs sung for you by your people." "Well, not for me," Damar shook his head. "For Dukat. He deserves great songs." "He does not deserve great songs," Worf said gravely. "Of course he does. He's leading this . . . noble fight. If I deserve songs, he does even more so." Worf didn't look too happy about that. "Perhaps," he said with grave doubt. "I know you can't see it. I mean . . . we're in humble straits on that bucket, barely surviving. It's hard right now . . . for other people to know how truly great he is without being with him and seeing what he does and listening to him talk. If you could do all that, you'd see. You'd know." "I'd rather not have to do all that," Worf grumbled. "You'll see," Damar assured him, as he picked up the kanar bottle. "Dukat . . . will prove himself to you. He'll prove himself to everyone. One day, you'll sing songs about him." Worf barked a laugh. "I will sing songs about my own great leaders." As Damar concentrated as much as he could on pouring the kanar, Worf began to sing and throw off Damar's concentration. Damar missed his glass. "Look what you made me do," he groused, not liking the sight of wasted kanar spilled on the table. He managed to pour enough for a drink, and he swallowed it down while Bashir found more napkins to clean up the spill. "Sek'ram yash dreblek'kan farush." "Shut up, Worf," Damar snarled at him. "Hrek ravust kardreg. Hrek ravust yit marv." "I said to be quiet!" "Leave him alone," Dax said sternly. "He's doing this on purpose," Damar grumbled. "He's just wanting to . . .annoy me." "He's singing because he enjoys it," Dax said. "No," Damar tried to wave a dismissive hand at her but his hand just flopped about. "He's singing to annoy me." Dax leaned in. "The world doesn't revolve around you, Damar." "I know that," he snapped, though with the room spinning the way it was, it felt as though everything really did revolve around him. He wished it would stop. Slumping his head forward, he shut his eyes. That didn't help and he forced his eyes open. Leaving them closed only invited sleep. "He's trying . . . to defeat me by singing," Damar decided, finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate on speaking. Dax rolled her eyes. "How is this going to defeat you?" "Because . . . it's such a slow and boring song," Damar said, raising his voice louder and louder to be heard over Worf's drone, "that he's going to put me to sleep with it. It's not going to work, Worf!" Though it felt about ready to work. Damar settled back down, slumping over the table, and wishing he could plug his ears against the noise. Bloodwine had not improved Worf's singing. Focusing his mind on staying alert, Damar's head drooped down against his chest. Endurance, he thought. Now it had come to endurance. He had to endure the drunkenness threatening to drag him under the table, and he had to endure this annoying Klingon singing his awful songs. Mercifully, Worf came to the end of his song and gulped down more bloodwine. Then, without mercy, he started to sing again. "Kruup fas yavetch kremen. Taag dref'akir sem." Worf seemed to sing for hours. Bored and annoyed, Damar looked around the bar, his entire body slumped heavily in his chair. He noticed that the crowd had thinned out quite a bit, and the atmosphere seemed quiet and mellow. He wondered what time it was and guessed that it had to be late. Several people at the other tables openly watched Damar and Worf, but Damar lacked the wherewithal to discourage their curiosity with a glare. He had to keep his mind alert somehow to get through this. That, he knew, was the key. He had to keep his mind active before it shut down in drunken incoherence. Drunken incoherence was only a step away. He could do it, Damar told himself. He could remain alert. All it took was focus and concentration. After all, he had had all that mental discipline drilled into him since childhood by his Inquisitors. It had to be good for something. If Worf would stop singing, at least Damar could talk to him. He had to talk. Somehow, he had to keep thinking to hold back the fog. Talking seemed easier than thinking. But talk about what? A glass of kanar slid into his view. "Ten minutes, Damar," Dax said. He forced his head up to peer at her. "What?" "Time to drink again. Bottoms up." "Bottoms up?" "Just drink," Worf suddenly stopped singing to snarl at him. "All right," Damar agreed and grasped the glass. "Kanar. I love kanar." "I can tell," Dax laughed. Damar drank it down and his head felt even heavier. "I don't think . . . that I ever want to see kanar . . . again." "Hopefully, tonight will make you learn your lesson," Bashir told him. "What lesson?" "Not to drink so much." "Oh. I don't . . . drink that much. Not . . . not so much. Worf. Your turn. Drink." "I think I did," Worf said, looking confused. "No. I just . . . had a drink so now you have to. Otherwise, you'll be . . . be . . . behind again." "Actually, you two are even now," Dax told them. "Then I will . . . need to pull ahead," Worf said then lifted the bottle of bloodwine and guzzled it. Damar made an attempt to laugh at that, though his laughter came out as an amused grunt. "You're supposed to use a glass." "Oh. Yes," Worf agreed then tried to pour the wine into his tankard. Dax took the bottle away from him. "I am ahead of you . . . now." "You are," Damar nodded. "Stay that way." They both sat with their heads slumped down, both staring at the table. How much longer was this going to go on, Damar wondered. How much bloodwine was it going to take to get Worf to pass out? How much more kanar could he take? His stomach rebelled at the thought of more. Damar lifted his head enough to peer at Worf. "Worf, are you still there?" Damar asked. "Uh?" Worf squinted at him. "Don't fall . . ." Damar started to warn then stopped himself. He decided on a new tactic. "You look tired. You should go . . . to sleep." "Sleep," Worf repeated, his eyelids falling closed then opening again. "Sleep. Doesn't that . . . sound nice? Close your . . . your eyes . . . and rest your . . . head down and sleep. Just sleep." Worf gave a sloppy nod, his eyelids refusing to stay open, and his head slumped down. "That's it, Worf," Damar approved. "Go to sleep." "Worf," Dax said sharply. "Stay awake. Don't listen to him." Worf's eyes snapped open and he shook his head as though to clear it. Damar gave an annoyed sigh. "Nice try, Damar," Dax sniped. "Well, Worf tried . . . to make me fall asleep . . . by singing." "He wasn't doing that on purpose," she said. "You were." "You're . . . biased against me," he accused her. "I'm being fair," she corrected. "You're biased . . . against me and against . . . all Cardassians. You . . .you hate us." "I don't hate Cardassians." "You do. You hate . . . us and you hate me." "No, I don't hate you. I just don't like you." "I hate that . . . I hate that you hate us. I hate that you don't like me. I'm not so bad." Dax shrugged. "Not always." "I love my people," Damar told her with drunken earnestness. "I love them. I don't . . . understand how you can . . . hate Cardassians . . . when I love them . . . so much." "I don't hate Cardassians," Dax reminded him. "I've known some fine Cardassians. I know that not all of them are like you and Dukat." That took a while to soak into his brain. "More insults," he grumbled. Dax poured him a glass of kanar and slid it in front of him. "Already?" he peered at the glass. "Already. Your ten minutes are almost up." He ignored the glass. "I'm just . . . trying to be the best . . . officer I can be. I'm just trying . . . to help my people . . . to survive this war." "I know you are. Drink up. If you don't, you'll have to forfeit." Grasping hold of the glass, Damar forced his head up and he drank the kanar down. Gravity seemed to have gotten ten times heavier as he slumped back against the table. "No one else is . . . fighting," Damar mumbled. "Only us. The civ . . . civilian government . . . they meant . . . well, I suppose. But . . . they're . . . they're too weak. They . . . weakened us." "You opposed the civilian government?" Bashir asked him. Damar gave a heavy shrug. "I don't know. I didn't . . . pay much attention. I don't like . . . politics. I didn't think they were . . . right for us. And now we know . . . that's true." "They never really had the chance to prove themselves, did they," Dax pointed out. "No. Because of the Klingons and this . . . hateful war. You . . . you know what the worst part is?" "No," Dax said as she stifled a yawn behind her hand "The worst part is . . . is . . . I don't know. For a time . . . for a minute, it felt like . . . like everything was shifting. Everything was changing. Cardassia stood on . . . the cusp of something . . . something new. Different. Better." "It was a hopeful time," she said gently. "It was. It was. But . . . but now, Cardassia stands . . . on the edge . . . of an abyss. It's all . . . gone now. What might have been . . . is gone. Everything's . . . crumbled . . . apart." "Not forever, Damar," Dax said in encouragement. "This war won't last much longer." "I hope so," Damar mumbled. "But when . . . it's finished, what . . .what will be left? What will . . . be left of us?" "You . . . will survive," Worf droned, talking to the tabletop as well. "You'll . . . rebuild." "Yes," Damar let out a long sigh. But what was going to be left to rebuild? "You have to keep . . . " Worf mumbled, his words falling away. Damar lifted his eyes to peer at him. "I have to keep what?" Worf didn't respond. "Worf? Worf?" Stirring again, Worf looked up at him, barely able to keep his eyes open. "What?" "I have . . . I have to keep what?" "What?" "You were . . . saying something." "I was?" Damar sighed, "Never mind," and allowed his chin to fall down against his chest. "Worf, time to drink again," Dax said as she slid his tankard in front of him. Squinting at her, Worf mumbled, "What?" "You have to drink now." "Now?" "Yes." His head down, Damar forced his eyes up and watched Worf drink. The Klingon could barely lift the tankard to his mouth. Worf seemed to take a very long time drinking his drink. Damar's eyes dropped back to the table. He had no idea how much longer he could go on. One more drink would finish him. He had no endurance left. As much as he fought to keep his mind active and alert, his drunken fog grew thicker and thicker. His head became too heavy. Any moment, he would not be able to resist laying his head down on his arms. The moment he did that, he would lose. Ten more minutes, he thought, the only thought in his head. Ten more minutes. Few people were left in the bar and all of them had their focus on Damar and Worf. All Damar saw around him were blurry shapes, and their voices sounded distant and muffled. Dax gave him another drink, though he couldn't tell if had only been a minute or hours since his last one. It took a tremendous effort to lift his head to drink. She did the same for Worf, and Worf drank his bloodwine with the same effort. His head back down, Damar felt himself list in his chair. "Come on, Worf," Damar heard someone say. He tried to look for the owner of the voice, but lifting his head seemed nearly impossible. "Stay with us, Worf," another voice said in encouragement. It became quiet again, too quiet. Damar wished that the bar were noisy and bustling again, even if it was filled with people who hated him. Dax and Bashir were speaking to each other, too softly for Damar to tell what they were saying. Other voices whispered around him. He ignored them, his focus back on the mantra in his head. The mantra of ten more minutes, and the sound of his own breath coming in long, deep gasps. He held onto the table, his hands gripping and fumbling at the edges. Another drink slid in front of him. The last thing Damar wanted to do was to drink it. Through the thick fog in his brain, he gathered as much willpower as he could and gulped down the drink. It nearly finished him, dragging him all the more closer to blissful incoherence, which his mind kept fighting to avoid. Worf may have taken another drink or he may not have. Damar lacked the wherewithal to pay attention to anything around him. There were people gathered around the table, all of them encouraging Worf to continue. To not let a Cardassian beat him. They nearly chanted Worf's name, trying to keep Worf from sliding into unconsciousness. Damar concentrated on their voices, clinging to the sounds to keep himself alert. Though he knew they were against him, feeling annoyed and angry with that just took too much energy. Damar felt nothing except oblivion pulling at him. Then from every direction around the table, there came a collective groan of frustration and displeasure. The noise of the muffled, unhappy voices faded as Damar watched the blurry forms move away from the table. "It looks like that's it, then," Damar heard Bashir's voice come from far away. Damar told his head to lift but his head refused to obey. "It's about time," Dax sighed tiredly. Time. Had ten minutes passed already? They must have. It felt like an eternity since his last drink. Damar forced his hand to rise and grasp the kanar bottle. "Ah, ah," someone said. Damar thought it was Bashir. The bottle was taken from his hand. "Drink," Damar muttered. "Have to drink." "It's over," Dax said. "You won." He lifted his eyes at her and saw only a blur of blue. "I did?" Then he looked over at Worf and saw a blur of brown slumped over the table. With all the effort he could muster, Damar reached out and grabbed Worf's head. He forced Worf's head up and could barely make out that the Klingon's eyes were closed and his mouth open. His breathing sounded heavy. As heavy as Damar's had become. He let go of Worf's head. "He's . . . he's on top . . . of the table," Damar managed to get out. "He's supposed to be . . . under the table. I have to . . . I have to . . ." "You have to get back to your ship," Dax said as she stood. "I have to drink . . . him under . . . the table." "It's just a figure of speech, Damar," Bashir told him as he came to Damar's side. "Figure of speech?" Damar asked in confusion. Dax and Bashir went to each side of him. Damar felt his arms being lifted then draped over their shoulders then felt their arms encircling his chest and waist. "Ready?" Bashir asked Dax. "Let's get him up," she replied. They struggled to get him standing. Damar supposed that he should try to help them but he couldn't find his feet. Suddenly, he was upright but that wasn't a good thing. The movement made his stomach lurch, and he tried to hold back his nausea. Dax and Bashir started to half-carry, half-drag him out of the bar. "No," Damar muttered. "Wait." "We're taking you to your ship," Dax told him. "Wait," he insisted. "Waste . . . waste extract . . . extract . . ." "You can go to waste extraction on your ship." "No, we better take him now," Bashir said. "He looks sort of, well, you can't really say green." Dax gave an annoyed huff. "I'm not going to hold a drunken Cardassian while he vomits in the waste extraction." "I don't want to either," Bashir said. "But he's not going to hold on to it for much longer." That was true. Damar tried to control his stomach but his stomach refused to be obeyed. He felt them drag him along rather hurriedly through the bar and into the waste extraction room. They opened a stall and dumped him in. Damar found his face in front of the smooth dark bowl of the receptacle. He retched violently into it. Emptying his stomach made him feel a little better, though it had exhausted him as well. He would have fallen over without the hands holding him up. Someone wiped a wet cloth over his mouth. The coolness of it felt good. They hauled him back up again, their arms around him. Damar's head lolled to the left, looking at one of them. He wasn't sure which though he thought it was Dax. "I . . . apologize," Damar muttered as they dragged him out of the waste extraction. "Well, it was to be expected," Dax conceded. "Don't worry about it." "What about . . . Worf?" "He'll be fine where he is for now." "He'll be . . . be all right?" "We'll take care of him after we take care of you." Damar felt himself propelled along, though he couldn't raise his head enough to see where they were taking him. Dax had mentioned his ship. As they dragged him through the Promenade and into a turbo-lift, Damar concentrated on staying conscious, though his concentration had left him long ago. Suddenly, the atmosphere changed. It became darker and warmer. He realized that he was back on the bucket. He could smell it. The bucket always smelled awful. A dark gray form approached them, and he heard his fellow crewmen talking in the background. "So, he survived it, did he?" He recognized the voice. Traken. "So far," Bashir replied. "Glinn Damar, are you still with us?" Traken asked. Damar felt the man's hand cup his chin and lift his head up. "Grmph," Damar muttered. Traken laughed. "He's still conscious." "If you can call it that," Dax said from his left. "I take it this means that he won?" "He certainly did," Bashir said. "I knew you could do it, sir," Traken told him, still holding his chin. "Frsth," Damar tried to reply. "I'm amazed he's hasn't passed out yet," Dax commented from his left. "Glinn Damar has a great constitution," Traken said, sounding proud as he let go of his chin. Damar's head flopped down. "He's also extremely stubborn." "We've noticed that," Bashir said dryly. "Want to point us in the direction of his quarters?" Dax asked. "He's dead weight here." "Of course," Traken said. "Let me take him for you." Damar felt his body being shifted then someone else came forward. "We'll take care of him," another crewman said. Damar searched his mind for his name. Daden. "That's all right," Bashir replied from Damar's right. "I'll help out. Jadzia, why don't you go take care of Worf." "Good idea," Dax said. "Good night." "Good night," Bashir replied. "Gru," Damar managed to get out. Again he felt his body propelled along, this time through the tight corridors of the ship and then into his tiny quarters. Suddenly, Bashir and Traken let go of him, and Damar vaguely realized that they had laid him on his bed. Then one of them pulled him back up as they took off his uniform jacket. They let him go and he flopped back on the bed. He felt them pull off his boots. "Mrphm," Damar grunted as they pulled him back up. Bashir and Traken undressed him then laid him back into the bed and covered him up with his blankets. "I'll need to check him out," Damar heard Bashir say to Traken. "Why don't you go and let Gul Dukat know that his officer is back safe and sound?" "Very well, Dr. Bashir," Traken replied. Lying in the bed, Damar began to drift away, aware of only the heavy sound of his breathing. Was Bashir still there? Damar couldn't tell. Everything had gotten very still and quiet. "Well, how is he?" Damar heard Dukat's voice, muffled and distant. "Medically?" Bashir replied. "I'd say he's excessively drunk. He'll survive though I gather that he'll wish that he hadn't tomorrow. It's beyond me why anyone would want to purposely inebriate himself. I don't appreciate that I had to spend half the night looking after one of your officers. I have important matters to attend to." "I didn't ask you to do that," Dukat said. "Unfortunately, it was expected of me in this role. The Trill insisted that I keep an eye on him and the Klingon for medical reasons, and because I'm supposed to be her friend. I didn't have much of a choice." "The Trill was concerned about his health?" "As well as the doctor, of course," Bashir sounded annoyed about that. The Federation can be a generous people." "So is the Dominion." "If your promises are fulfilled." "They will be and more," Bashir assured him. Damar felt himself fading away and struggled to remain conscious. Something wasn't right, but his mind refused to function properly and work it out. Bashir talking about Dominion promises? No, there was definitely something wrong about that, though he couldn't figure out what. "I suppose I should give him a shot of glexis now," Bashir said. "All that alcohol in him needs to be neutralized. He should have taken one before that absurd contest." "He wanted to win with honor," Dukat said, sounding amused. "If he had taken the glexis beforehand, I would have covered for him. The Klingon wouldn't have known. Winning with honor isn't important." "It was to him." "I'll go prepare the hypospray." "No," Dukat said sternly. "Damar needs to suffer the consequences of his actions. Hopefully, it will do him some good." "Is drinking like this common behavior for Cardassians?" Bashir asked in a disapproving tone. "For Cardassians, no. For him, it's becoming more common than it should," Dukat sounded concerned. "He's been under a great deal of stress lately. We all have. I can't fault him for wanting to drink in order to relax, although he goes overboard when he does." "All of Cardassia's stress will ease soon." "I'll have to have faith in that for now. Don't concern yourself about him. I can control him. If I order him not to drink, he won't." "He's that loyal?" "He's the most loyal man I know," Dukat said sincerely. "He's a very useful man to have around. The Dominion will see that soon enough." "I believe that all Cardassians will prove themselves useful to us," Bashir said. Damar heard the door of his quarters open and their voices faded away. Just in time, for he faded away as well, drifting off into peaceful oblivion at last.   Continue to Part Six ***** Back to Archive Back to WDFA