“Ah, yes, the traditional Terran jig. The most common expression of optimism amongst my proud people.”
“But Cardassians. . . we don't experience optimism as happiness. To be optimistic is to believe that things will get better, and, in order to do that, you have to acknowledge that things are bad or, at least, imperfect.”
“And doing that makes you yell at well-meaning strangers in the street?”
“I'll admit Kiltar might have been a bit excessive.”
“A bit? She practically bit my head off.”
“It hasn't been easy around here. Tempers are short. We have barely enough water to drink, never enough food to eat, too many people to a room. But, tiyal nokt hoon, what can we do but be angry about it?”
–
Julian collapses on his bunk. “I can't do this anymore. I'm not designed for manual labor.”
“It's only been a week,” Alexander says, combing out his hair in the dorm's tiny mirror.
“That's easy for you to say. 'Only been a week.' You get to spend all day inside talking to the village's one pregnant woman.”
“Not all day.”
“Of course, how could I forget? Sometimes you go outside to hang her laundry out to dry. Meanwhile, I'm digging a well all day by hand in the Cardassian sun. Look at this hand.” Julian holds out his left hand, smacking Alexander's leg in the cramped quarters. “Last week, this was a surgeon's hand and now it's blistering sandpaper. And, of course, I forgot to pack any moisturizer.”
“You could probably pick some up tomorrow when we tour the city.”
“Oh, the tour,” Julian groans. “I'd forgotten about that. I thought I had tomorrow off.”
“It might be fun.”
“Fun? No. A Cardassian conspiracy to make us so exhausted that we give up Federation state secrets? Possibly.”
“I don't think you whined this much at my dad's bachelor party.”
“At least I knew Worf's bachelor party was going to end. This? It could take Garak weeks to get back to me, if he even does so at all.”
“Can't you contact him?”
“How? I don't know where he lives or where he works or how to get ahold of him. And besides that. . . there are rules to espionage. If your contact tells you to await his message, you can't go out looking for him unless you want to compromise your mission or find your contact hacked up with a meat cleaver and stuffed in your mailbox.”
“Do you really think Garak could get hacked up with a meat cleaver?”
“No, of course not. He's not my love interest.”
“Wait, what?”
“That sort of thing only happens to people a spy cares about, like a Soviet woman in a slinky dress whose importance as an informant is only paralleled by her importance as a lover.”
“Has any of this stuff ever occurred outside of a holosuite?”
–
Julian is mastering the art of sleeping while walking when Alexander pinches him hard in the side. “What?” he hisses, batting Alexander's hand away.
“Sorry,” Alexander whispers, “I thought you'd want to see this.”
“No, I don't want to see any of it. That's why my eyes were closed.”
“Gentleman,” the tour guide says sharply, glaring at them from the front of the tour group, “do you have any questions?”
“No, ma'am,” Julian and Alexander mumble.
“Good.” She returns to smiling at the group. “On your left, you'll see the Imperial Plaza, home to the administrative headquarters of the Cardassian Union. This was one of the first areas to undergo reconstruction following the withdrawal of the Dominion and has since become the center of operations for reconstruction efforts. In fact, the Cardassian Relief Volunteer Corps, of which you are all a part, came out of Gul Garak's office right—” She points to a window high in the administrative building. “—there. Up ahead, you'll see the newly sculpted monument to. . .”
Julian grabs Alexander by the elbow. “This is my chance.”
“What?”
“My chance to find Garak. He works in that building up there. We just have to sneak away from the group, stake out his office, and follow him. I bet he'll lead us right to Jack and the others.”
“Us? We? What about. . .” Alexander lowers his voice to a barely audible whisper. “. . . meat cleaver?”
“It'll be fine. I have a plan.”
–
“I don't like this plan,” Alexander says over his comm, keeping himself crouched behind a bush.
“It's a good plan,” Bashir responds, likewise behind a bush. “Hold on—there he is!”
“Where?”
“Eight o'clock.”
“. . . that's not a direction; that's a time.”
“Are you telling me you've never seen an analog clock?”
“A what?”
Julian sighs. “He's coming out of the doors to the left of that statue.”
“I see him!”
“Good. Now, go!”
Alexander takes off after Garak, trailing him by half a city block. When Julian can just barely see Alexander's head in the distance, he vacates his position behind the bush and follows after him. Julian comms Alexander. “Where is he now?”
“Heret and Ghemor.”
“Has he spotted you yet?”
“No. . . yes.”
“What did he do?”
“He disappeared.”
“What?”
“He disappeared. He was there one second and then gone the next.”
“Yes, I understand what disappeared means, Alexander. What I don't understand is how—hold on.” Julian spies Garak's signature watermelon get-up heading down an alley. “I've got him.” He jogs across the street and into the alley, stalking Garak silently into a doorway. With his prey cornered, Julian grabs Garak by the shoulder, spinning him around.
To find that he isn't Garak. The Cardassian is nearly identical to Garak, close enough to be his. . .
Doppleganger.
Julian preemptively raises his hands over his head.
The doppleganger nods his head and three plainclothes operatives appear out of nowhere, snapping cuffs on Julian's wrists, searching him for weapons, and putting a bag over his head.
Welcome to Cardassia.
Chapter 7: If You Want a Future, Why Don't You Get a Past?
“Oh my god.” Ezri scuttles away from the symbiont, throwing a concealing arm over her bare breasts. “How did it get out of stasis?”
“I don't know,” Lenara says, fumbling with the tricorder, apparently unconcerned with her present state of undress. “It's body mass has increased by five percent, it must have busted out of the tube.”
“It got bigger? Why?”
“I'm not sure, but my best guess is that. . .” Lenara gulps. “. . . certain telepathic stimuli triggered a growth spurt.”
“So. . . we triggered its puberty?”
“In a matter of speaking, yes. Symbionts are like any other animal; they thrive and mature best when exposed to nurturing, intriguing stimuli.”
Ezri covers her face with her palm. “What do we do now? How long can it stay out like this?”
“I don't know, but I have someone I can ask.” Lenara fishes her comm out of her pants' pocket. “Hopefully, they pick up.” She speaks into the comm, “Phantom to Compass.”
After a few seconds, a distorted voice answers, “Compass here.”
"I have a problem. The package broke free of the stasis chamber. Can you get me another?"
"Not before the package expires."
"What do I do?"
"Submerge the package in the traditional place. Compass out."
Lenara puts down the comm. "That was great help."
"What did they mean by 'the traditional place?'" Ezri asks. "Is that a resistance base?"
Lenara shakes her head. "We need to get the symbiont into a pool as soon as possible."
"Oh." Ezri snorts. "I guess we'll just drop it off at the Caves of Mak’ala."
/>
"That seems to be only the option. There's no place else in the galaxy where symbionts are bred and raised. But we can't bring the symbiont back to Trill. Not without blowing our covers and exposing the resistance."
Ezri grabs Lenara's forearm. "I have an idea. If we can't go to Trill, why not bring Trill to us?"
–
"Quark!" Ezri shouts over the din of the bar.
"Well, if it isn't my favorite reassociated Trill. What can I get for the two of you?"
"Do you have a holosuite program with the Caves of Mak’ala?"
"Of course." Quark pulls out the program catalogue. "Sacred, forbidden places are hot holosuite commodities. Say, would either of you be interested in taking a peep inside the hallowed Salt Lake Temple in Hew-tah?”
“Maybe later,” Ezri says. “Right now, we need to see the Caves of Mak’ala.”
Quark taps out a few keystrokes on the catalogue. “For how long?”
Lenara grimaces. “The next fifty years.”
Quark smiles widely, passing her the catalogue PADD. “Alright, that'll be two hundred bars of latinum, payment upfront please.”
“Quark,” Ezri says, “we can't afford that.”
He takes back the catalogue. “Then you can't afford the program.”
“Can't you cut us a deal?”
“That was a deal. At any other Ferengi holosuite, you'd be paying tax on top of that.”
“Please,” Lenara says, “this is a matter of life and death.”
“I'm sorry. I have a business to run. I can't let you take up one of my holosuites without paying.”
“You let Vic do it,” Ezri says.
“That's different; Vic helped my nephew.”
“And I didn't?”
“No! That's why he was living in a holoprogram.”
Lenara leans over the bar. “What if there was a way to run the program without taking up one of your holosuites? Would you give it to us then?”
“No. But I'd sell it to you.”
“How much?”
“Fifteen strips.”
“Twelve.”
“Thirteen and five slips.”
“Deal.” Lenara takes the PADD from Quark, signing it with her credit line.
Quark pulls a program cylinder out from under the bar, exchanging it for the PADD. “It was a pleasure doing business with you.” He heads into the back of the bar, mumbling something about Trill teasing him with the profit of a lifetime.
Ezri stares at Lenara curiously, narrowing her eyes. “What do you have planned, Kahn?”
–
“You want to put what in my program?” Vic shouts, drawing the attention of quite a few holographic patrons at the bar.
“A symbiont pool,” Lenara responds. “It's a pool where Trill symbionts live.”
“You know, I managed to gather that on my own. What I don't get is why you two need one. Specifically in my program.”
Ezri and Lenara share a look. “We can trust him,” Ezri says.
Lenara steps closer to Vic, and says quietly, “Ezri and I have come into possession of a symbiont. It was in stasis, but now it needs to live in a pool or it will die.”
“Oh, that's rough,” Vic says, his tone calmer. “But why don't you just take it Trill? There are symbiont pools there, right?”
“Yes, but. . .”
“It's a bit more complicated than that,” Ezri finishes.
Vic sighs, shaking his head, muttering something in Italian. “The symbiont's hot, isn't it?”
Lenara furrows her brow. “Not particularly.”
“I mean, is it stolen?”
“As much as a sentient being can be stolen, yes.”
Ezri touches Vic on the elbow. “We have the symbiont, because we think we can provide a better life for it than the Symbiosis Commission could. If we return the symbiont to Trill, it'll go right back into a toxic system rife with inequality.”
“A place where the Dax and Kahn symbionts would be left to die, just because Ezri and I are in love,” Lenara adds.
“A place where symbionts' joinings are restricted based on centuries' old prejudices.”
“A place where symbionts are leveraged as political pawns to keep the Symbiosis Commission in power.”
“So,” Vic cuts in, “not a good place?”
“No,” Lenara says, “not at all.”
“Letting us incorporate the symbiont pool code into your program would save the symbiont from going back there,” Ezri says.
“And, in time, it might even save all of Trill society.”
“You two are planning something, aren't you?” Vic asks. “Something big?”
“We understand if you don't want to be a part of it.”
“You kidding me? It's not everyday a hologram gets to change the world outside his program.”
“So,” Ezri says, “you're in?”
“I'm in.”
–
“Alright,” Lenara says, closing the arch control panel. “We're patched. Computer, engage subroutine Kahn-1 in Set-1a.”
A small symbiont pool materializes in the corner of Vic's bar, unfortunately, on top of an existing table and chairs and two out-of-towners sampling the shrimp cocktail. Fortunately, it is a quick, holographic death. Messy, but quick.
“For crying out loud,” Vic grumbles. “Donny, get the mop!” He glares over at Lenara. “What the hell happened?”
“I don't know.” She looks over her programming PADD. “Everything patched seamlessly.”
“Seamlessly? Two people are dead! You're lucky I know people in the mob or you'd have to program that pool into my jail cell.”
“I'm sorry. I assumed the new subroutine would override the existing layer.”
“No, subroutines layer on top of existing material. Literally. Holoprograms haven't been coded like that in decades.”
Lenara pokes her head inside the control panel. “I don't understand why they had to change things around. The way we made it the first time worked perfectly.”
“You used to work in the holo-business?”
“One of my previous hosts did.”
Vic's eyes widen. “Chilar Kahn.”
“That was the one.”
“You were Chilar Kahn? That was you?”
“Yes. You've heard of me?”
“Heard of you?” Vic crosses the room toward Lenara, navigating around the symbiont pool/crime scene. “I've had your name memorized ever since I became self-aware. You were part of the team that invented the holosuite.”
“We called it a holographic recreation room back then.”
“Still, you're the reason I'm standing here. If it weren't for the rec rooms on 23rd century starships, the holographic entertainment industry never would've been born and neither would—”
“Damn.” Lenara slams the control panel shut. “The protocols of your program can't be altered without a creator override. It could take weeks to get the program back from Felix.” She looks up at Vic. “Do you have any way of editing your own program?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
–
“Lieutenant,” Nog grunts, throwing his full weight at Vic's entertainment unit, “I appreciate that you would ask me for help, but I don't get why we're doing this.”
Ezri rests her back on a flat edge of the unit, using her legs to push backwards. “Vic wanted to move some furniture around.”
“In every room in his program? In the exact same spot?”
“Okay, I think we're clear.” She slides to the floor, taking a deep breath.
Nog steps away from the entertainment unit, bending over, resting his hands on his knees. “What are you hiding down here?”
“We're not hiding anything.”
“Oh, come on. You think you're the first person to stash something in a holosuite? I've been doing that since I learned to steal.”
“So, before you could walk.”
“I'm not going to tell anyone; I'm just curious what you would have
to hide.”
“Something that could get you in a lot of trouble if you knew about it.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“Nothing that your father could get you out of without causing an intragalactic incident.”
“Then maybe I don't want to know.”
“Smart boy. Let's get the next room.”
–
“Everything's clear,” Ezri says, wiping her sweaty hands on her pants. “How's the symbiont?”
Lenara adjusts the symbiont in her arms. “Holding on. If this doesn't work. . .”
“It'll work.”
Vic comes out from behind the bar. “You folks ready?”
“We better be,” Lenara says. “Computer, engage subroutine Kahn-1 throughout Bashir 62.”
The symbiont pool rematerializes in the bar, surrounded by curtains (a temporary measure added by Lenara to keep away prying eyes), the area now cleared of furniture and hapless patrons. Lenara parts the curtains and gently places the symbiont in the pool where it gets to swimming. Lenara runs a tricorder over it. “All life-sign values are improving.”
“Yes,” Ezri gasps.
Lenara pockets the tricorder. “How do we know if the subroutine is stable throughout the program?”
“You check,” Vic says.
Lenara looks to Ezri. “Fine,” Ezri says. “I'll go. You watch the symbiont.” She takes off at a sprint out of the bar, staggering back in three hours later drenched on sweat. She collapses on the floor next to the pool, resting her head on Lenara's lap.
“You smell,” Lenara laughs.
“I would slap you for that if I could feel my arms.”
“I'm glad to see Starfleet keeps its officers in peak physical condition.”
“I'm a counselor, not a furniture mover.” Ezri rolls on to her side, nuzzling her head against Lenara's leg.
“Don't get too comfortable; your shift starts in two hours.”
Ezri groans, covering her head with her arms. “Give me five minutes, then I'll shower.”
“Fine. Five minutes.” Lenara feels Ezri's breathing slow as she drops off to sleep.
She doesn't wake her for an hour.
Chapter 8: Those Good and Crazy People--My Friends
The hood comes off and Julian finds himself in a windowless room smaller than his medical supply closet on DS9. He's almost disappointed. No drugs, no manacles, no four lights. Just a chair in a room.
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