The Trail: A Star Trek Novel (New Frontier Reloaded Book 1)

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The Trail: A Star Trek Novel (New Frontier Reloaded Book 1) Page 5

by ROVER MARIE TOWLE


  “I was.” Alexander squeezes past Julian, setting his luggage on the top bunk. (It looks like Julian won't be debating sleeping arrangements after all.) “My captain went into labor during the battle at Sitre 4. Her midwife was trapped under a fallen cargo crate, so she talked me through the labor. I was good enough that she offered me an apprenticeship.”

  “And you took it?”

  “Yeah. It was the first time I've ever been naturally good at something, so I took that as a sign.”

  “Well, I'm sure your father must be very proud.”

  Alexander ducks his head, mumbling incoherently.

  “You haven't told him, have you?”

  “No.”

  “Why not? Midwifery is a perfectly honorable profession for a Klingon.”

  “I know. I just don't want him to get his hopes up. What if I'm not as good as people think I am? What if I make a mistake? I don't want to disappoint him again.”

  “Is that why you ran away to Cardassia?”

  “Maybe,” Alexander murmurs.

  Julian lays a hand on his shoulder. “You can't spend your entire life trying not to disappoint your father. You'll only end up resenting him. Believe me, I know.”

  –

  “This is worse than your father's bachelor party,” Julian grumbles, fanning himself.

  “You didn't have to wear a tuxedo,” Alexander whispers.

  A Vulcan standing at the front of the crowd turns around, shushing them. Julian nods and pretends to listen to the volunteer coordinator's introduction, before turning back to Alexander. “The only other formalwear I own is my dress uniform; I don't think that would go over very well. And, besides, if he's here, I'd like to be wearing something he made for me. You know, put him in the right mood. Capitalize on our previous relationship. Network. It's not what you know, it's who you know.”

  Alexander looks over at him, his mouth open in horror. “But you're a doctor.”

  “I didn't mean that literally. How have you not heard that ex—” He's cut off by applause as the volunteer coordinator steps off the stage. “Oh, thank god. I thought she'd never stop talking.”

  “I know the feeling,” Alexander mutters.

  “Come on.” Julian grabs him by the elbow, pulling him toward the center of the banquet hall. “Your public awaits.”

  “I'm not sure about this. I was planning on hiding in the bathroom all night.”

  “It'll give you a chance to practice your bedside manner.” Julian smiles gregariously at the nearest available Cardassian, a member of the supposedly free press if he's not mistaken. “Dr. Julian Bashir, physician. This is my colleague and fellow volunteer, Alexander Rozhenko, midwife.” Informed of Cardassian custom ahead of time, neither Julian nor Alexander attempt to shake hands, although Julian's not sure if that's because Alexander is paralyzed in fear.

  “Kacet Tirlan, the Union Wire,” the Cardassian says. “Would you mind answering a few questions?”

  “Absolutely not. That's what this evening is for.”

  “As a genetically modified human and a human-Klingon hybrid, respectively, how would you respond to accusations that the Federation is using the volunteer corps as an opportunity to cast off societal rejects?”

  “Er. . .”

  Julian looks to Alexander. “Um. . .”

  “I would say that. . .” Julian starts, “whoever is spreading that rumor is attributing a higher degree of skill in the art of deception than the Federation possesses.”

  The reporter nods once and excuses herself, joining a group of other journalists clustered in the corner.

  “Someone did her research,” Julian says.

  “What are they doing over there?” Alexander asks, nodding over at the reporters.

  “I don't know, but I'm going to find out. Are you alright on your own?”

  “Now that the reporters are gone, yeah.”

  “I'll find you when I'm done.” Julian makes his way through the throngs of mingling volunteers and Cardassian VIPs toward the mob of reporters. As he approaches, he's pleased to hear a familiar, lilting voice.

  “—precisely why I initiated this program. Next question.” Garak. Jackpot.

  Kacet Tirlan raises her hand. “Many citizens are concerned that the influx of foreign aid, particularly these new volunteers, will weaken the imperial powers of the provisional government, turning the Union into, to borrow a Human phrase, a 'republic of non-governmental organizations.' How would you respond to those concerns?”

  “While those concerns clearly have a historical basis—” Garak spots Julian amongst the crowd and seamlessly code switches to untranslatable Kardasi.

  Most people use the disengagement function of the universal translator to say a few quick phrases rendered less meaningful in translation, like “deja vu” or Bajoran holy words or Klingon drinking songs. But Garak, of course, would use it to be insufferably mysterious. As Garak knows, Julian can't understand Kardasi worth a damn, but he manages to pick up a few words here and there: outworlders, strategically, children. Not nearly enough to understand what Garak is saying. Still, Julian enjoys watching an old friend do what he does best—lie. It's comforting somehow, like hearing Worf sing Klingon opera or smelling Sisko's cooking. If Julian just watches the way Garak gestures with his hands and lifts his browridges, he's transported back to a time when things were desperate and horrible but not as lonely.

  Julian remains there, transfixed by sentimentality, until Garak wraps up the Q&A session. He makes a beeline towards Garak, dodging the questions of the dispersed reporters. Soon enough, he finds himself standing face-to-face with the man who made his suit and kidnapped his friends.

  “My dear doctor,” Garak says, returning to translatable speech. “How lovely it is to see you again.”

  “Garak—excuse me, Gul Garak, isn't it?”

  “For you, just Garak.”

  “Plain, simple Garak.”

  “Exactly.”

  “So, Garak, I hear your office has recruited three new employees from off-planet.”

  “Doctor, I am positively flattered that you pay so much attention to the mundane details of my job.”

  “Let's just say I have a personal interest in these employees. I'd like to see them.”

  “What for?”

  “I. . .” Julian lowers his voice. “I need to know that they're okay. For their families' sakes.”

  Garak steps closers, practically whispering in Julian's ear. “You know as well as I do that their families have long stopped caring about my employees' well-being.”

  “But I haven't.”

  “Of course.” Garak places an acceptably Cardassian bubble of personal space between them. “I'll do what I can to arrange a meeting. You know, of course, that they have a every right to refuse. At least, now they do.” Garak brushes past Julian, heading towards the door, stopping briefly to say, “Doctor, your suit is just as becoming on you under the Cardassian moon as it was in the holosuite.”

  Julian has no idea what Garak was getting at there—a mystery he finds deliciously intriguing.

  –

  They are, of course, expecting him when he arrives, a fact Garak still finds incredibly unnerving even after two weeks of knowing them. Garak is a man used to having his comings and goings recorded and anticipated—he is a Cardassian, after all—but by a well-funded intelligence organization with eyes everywhere, not by three overdeveloped humans shielded almost entirely from the outside world. Almost.

  They stand in front of the house’s main entrance, their arms crossed over their chests like stern parents awaiting an adolescent out past curfew.

  “We saw your interview tonight,” Lauren drawls by way of greeting. “The one at the welcoming reception for the outworld volunteers.”

  “Oh? And what did you think?” Garak asks.

  “Liar!” Jack says, pointing his finger in Garak's face. Another centimeter, and he would've taken Garak's eye out. He supposes Jack was aware of that. “You said Cardassia
needs to use outworld volunteers strategically to rebuild and—and grow strong again.”

  “That's not a lie.” He lowers Jack’s hand.

  “Yes, but then—then you said that if outworlders were willing to send their children to Cardassia to work for the Union, then we should let them, because, and I quote, 'outworlders don't care for their children. At least, not the way we do.' You don't believe that. You don't believe that at all!”

  Garak brushes past them into the foyer. “Fine, you’ve caught me; I’m an incorrigible liar. Don’t tell my friends; they’ll be ever so disappointed.”

  “You saw how a big, powerful man like Sisko,” Lauren says, her voice oozing with lust for the Emissary, “raised his son and you thought to yourself, my father could've been different.”

  “Even though you were ashamed to think that,” Patrick adds.

  Lauren circles around Garak like a Terran shark. The other two shadow her. “You loved your father, but he never appreciated you.”

  Garak tries to step out of the trap they’ve made around him, but Patrick blocks his way. “Just like Cardassia,” Patrick says.

  Garak spins around, looking for an opening to walk though, but Lauren is there in an instant. “Even though you were clever.”

  “Too clever!” Jack interjects.

  “You had to sit and watch as people far less competent than you basked in the glory of their service to the Cardassian Union,” Lauren says. “While you lurked in the shadows.”

  Now, they’re talking and moving far too fast and close for Garak to register anything but an inescapable wall of motion and sound.

  “The clever bastard who should be king,” Jack says.

  “Ooh,” Patrick coos, tapping Jack on the shoulder. “The man in the iron mask.”

  “Locked out of sight,” Lauren finishes.

  Garak finds himself lifted off his feet and carried across the room into the—oh, no. The closet door locks.

  “We won't be locked away again,” Jack shouts through the door.

  Garak's airways constrict.

  “And certainly not as one of your plans to ensnare Julian,” Lauren yells.

  He won't beg.

  “We're not stupid, Garak! We know why you brought us here!” Jack says.

  If he didn't beg Enabran Tain, he certainly won't beg them.

  “Now that we're here,” Lauren says, “you can't send us back.”

  Closets seemed so much bigger when he was a child.

  “We don't want to get locked up again, do you understand?” Jack asks. “Do you understand?”

  Garak can't even croak a response their enhanced hearing could understand. The door swings open regardless, sending Garak falling face first into Patrick's arms.

  “He knows,” Patrick tells the others, rubbing Garak's back.

  “It got worse toward the end of the Dominion War,” Lauren says, figuring things out aloud.

  “He was afraid he wouldn't be able to stay on the station.”

  “Ah, but where would they put Garak then?” Jack asks.

  “He knows,” Lauren says. “He knew it then.”

  “To the loony bin with him!”

  Garak staggers away from Patrick, sense and oxygen returning to him. “If you ever do that to me again, I will—”

  “We know.” Lauren winks.

  “But we wouldn't,” Patrick says.

  Jack grabs Garak, kissing both his cheeks. “You're one of us.”

  What a frightening prospect.

  Chapter 5: Nobody But Me is Going to Change My Story

  As soon as Julian's shuttle has departed, Ezri emerges from her hiding place behind a column (a not insignificant part of her wanted to see Julian before he left, a bigger part of her was too mad to talk to him, so they compromised by lurking in the shadows). She hooks arms with Kira, eliciting a small jump of shock from the Colonel. (Seven years ago, Kira would've shot her.)

  “Hi!” Ezri says.

  “You're up early.”

  “Early targ gets the gagh.” Ezri scratches the back of her head with her free hand. “Would you mind if I asked you a favor?”

  “Depends on what it is.”

  “Lenara and I are sort of throwing around the idea of leading a revolution on Trill. And we were wondering if you could give us a few pointers.”

  “Let me get this straight. You want me to give you lessons on how to be a revolutionary?”

  “Uh huh.” Dax nods. “You're the only person we know who has experience in this kind of thing. Besides Garak, but he seems to be a little busy kidnapping people right now.”

  “Listen, you know I support you and Lenara. . .”

  “But.”

  “But, as a representative of Bajor, I can't risk plotting a revolution on a Federation planet.” She pauses. “I could however offer a few general suggestions on a purely hypothetical political movement.”

  Ezri squeezes her hand. “Nerys, you're the best.”

  “But after that you're on your own.”

  –

  Lenara runs her fifth scan of the symbiont since this morning. The results are the same: the stasis is holding, the symbiont remains (temporarily) inert. Despite the symbiont's consistently stable condition, Lenara continues to go through the motions of scanning it every hour. She's not entirely convinced that the stasis will hold as long as she was told; the provenance of the stasis tube is shady at best. God knows where it came from and how Lenara's contact (name unknown even to her) got ahold of it. Lenara has worked in the sciences for enough lifetimes to know that rare materials acquired through shady means could be worse than having no materials at all.

  There's also the issue of the symbiont's natural telepathy. In the Federation, it is standard procedure for telepaths in medical stasis to be treated only by doctors capable of shielding their thoughts from others. There is some (possibly unfounded) concern that, even in stasis, a telepath's brain can perceive the thoughts of others, which may result in neurological distress. Lenara isn't certain how much of that belief is based on hard facts and good science, and how much of it is based on obscure Vulcan cultural traditions. (Unfortunately, due to the dominance of Vulcans in Federation science, Lenara often has a hard time discerning whether an accepted scientific practice is actually a philosophical mandate from a Vulcan who died two millennia ago.) Even so, with a life in her hands (or, on her table, as it is), she keeps an extra-close watch for any signs of neurological distress in the symbiont.

  It remains, as ever, healthfully inert. Which is good for the symbiont, but bad for the bored overqualified scientist watching over it.

  Lenara yawns, checking the chronometer again. Four more hours until Ezri gets off-duty. Four more hours until Lenara has company more stimulating than a comatose slug and a stack of astrophysics journals.

  She gets an early reprieve when Ezri comes in a few minutes after lunch hour began, juggling two trays stacked high with food.

  “I couldn't remember what you like to eat for lunch,” Ezri says, walking slowly, carefully, and somehow still awkwardly toward the kitchen table. “But then I remembered that Nilani liked cherog soup so I got some of that, and then I thought you might not like that so I just. . . sort of. . . ordered everything.”

  Lenara rushes over to catch the tray in Ezri's right hand as it dips toward the deck. “Here. Let me.”

  Together, they manage to get the food onto the table while still having room for the stasis tube. “How's the symbiont?”

  “Stable as ever,” Lenara says, resuming her seat. “Did you talk to Colonel Kira?”

  Ezri nods, sitting across from Lenara. “She wants to help—and she will—but keeping Bajor neutral comes first.”

  “Understandable. How much help is she willing to give?” She blows on the steaming bowl of cherog soup.

  “Not as much as we hoped. Right now, the only definite I got from her is a crash course on revolution planning in her quarters tonight.”

  “That should be informative. . . alth
ough I must say. . .” She slurps at her soup. “. . . I'm a little disappointed that we can't rely on Kira Nerys, crusher of occupations, to swoop in and do our work for us.” She's only half-joking.

  “I'm sure we'll able to manage on our own.” Ezri takes a big bite of bread. “I mean, all we have to do is follow Kira's directions. The Bajoran Militia has been doing that for years and, well, Rom was in the Bajoran Militia, so. . .”

  “How hard can it be?”

  “Exactly.”

  –

  Ezri and Lenara sit on Kira's sofa, knees touching, styluses out and ready to take notes, while Kira sits across from them, elbows resting on her knees. “So,” Kira says, “I think this will work best if you two describe—in broad, anonymous, hypothetical terms—what you are having problems with.”

  “Okay. . .” Ezri coughs. “So, I might have a friend who might have a new girlfriend—well, not really new. I mean, we've—they've been together before—but that's not really important. I mean, it is important. To them. Or, at least, to one of them.”

  Lenara lays her hand on top of Ezri's. “To both of them.”

  “Right. So, anyway, my friend and her girlfriend—is 'girlfriend' the right word? It sounds kind of juvenile. Jake has girlfriends.”

  “Maybe partner?” Lenara offers.

  “Partner,” Ezri tries the word out. “I'm not crazy about it, but it's better than girl—”

  “So,” Kira interjects, “your friend and her partner. . .”

  “Right. My friend and her partner might be considering leading a revolution and might be having some issues with figuring out how to do that.”

  “What have your friend and her partner figured out so far?”

  Ezri and Lenara look to each other, wincing. “. . . that they might be considering leading a revolution,” Ezri says with a nervous, submissive grin, showing her teeth like a Terran primate.

  “Your friend has no idea what she's doing.”

  “I wouldn't go that far, but yes.”

  “If I were to talk to your friend,” Kira says, standing from her chair, “I would tell her that every successful revolution starts with one word, an abstract idea—like freedom.”

  “Or equality,” Lenara adds.

 

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