“He's scared,” Jack says.
“I'm not scared!” He gets to his feet. “What would I be scared of?”
“Us being better at it than you are,” Patrick answers.
“Ha! That would only happen because I am such an excellent teacher.” Julian picks a bat and heads out into the field. “Come on then!” Lauren, Jack, and Patrick grab balls and mitts and bats and follow after. “You coming, Garak?”
“No,” Garak says. “I had my fill of baseball making all those Niners uniforms.”
“Fair enough.”
Garak starts to pack everything away as Julian explains the basics of the game. He's too far for Garak's Cardassian ears to hear, but the elaborate pantomime leaves little to the imagination. Something to do with throwing and hitting and catching. It's all very human and exuberant and cloyingly charming like root beer and Soviet-era spy programs. In other words, something Garak has missed in the nearly seven Federation months (ugh, he's even still counting in their time) since he returned to Cardassia.
With the remainders of lunch packed away and no end in sight to Julian's baseball tutorial (they're throwing things now), Garak spreads out on a flat igneous rock brought to the surface by soil erosion—the only redeeming factor to the Dominion's war on the Cardassian environment Garak has found thus far. If he doesn't count his consultants and Bashir—and he doesn't because he would've found a reason to bring them here anyway.
The action on the field is quickening—hitting, catching, thwacking balls with the bat so hard even Garak can hear before they fly over his head, gone and lost somewhere in the ecological paradise they've carved out of the remains of Prime. Drenched with sweat, Bashir's shirt is plastered to his frame, revealing the outline of his shoulder blades, his unadorned spinal column, his collarbone. . . He peels the shirt away, tossing it the ground before lobbing another ball at Lauren, and Garak has to look up at the sky and enjoy the midday sun on his scales because decorum demands he not favor his pet's human body so openly in public where his security detail can see.
If only that careful lie could become truth as so many others had before. If Garak could become Deep Space Nine's friendly neighborhood tailor, why couldn't the artifice encasing his and Bashir's (much gossiped about) torrid affair fade away, dissolve like a jumja stick on the tongue of an eager child?
Why the waiting? Why the winning? Why not the taking? Why not the being?
Because—and this is unfortunately true—when the moment comes, Garak wants to be the kind of man who can have Bashir for longer than an extended lunch.
Disgusting, is it not?
A shadow casts over Garak and, of course, it is Bashir, shirtless, sweaty, and panting.
“Hey.” Julian waves, crumpling to his knees in front of Garak's rock. What a posture.
“Done playing?”
“Yeah. I—I thought I'd—give them some time—to play together—alone. Without the teacher watching. Be less nervous that way.”
“Ah.” Garak folds his hands in his lap. “They're better than you.”
Julian shakes his head 'no' while gasping, “Yes. So much better.”
“I hope your pride isn't too sorely wounded.”
“Only slightly maimed.” Bashir takes a deep breath, lungs soaking in the clean air. “But it's been a good day regardless. I don't think I've had this much fun since the last time I lost miserably at baseball.” That makes Garak unreasonably happy.
“If the Cardassian public finds this space as enjoyable as we have today, then I consider this project a success.”
“You've done well here, Garak.” He gazes off at Jack's batting practice. “And not just with the park.”
“The work is theirs. I merely brought them here.”
“Still, that's quite a gamble. That's not a chance many people would take, giving them all this responsibility. Not again anyway.”
“It's not the first time I did what the Federation didn't have the stomach to do. I doubt it will be the last.”
“Modest 'til the end.”
Patrick, Lauren, and Jack walk over, hauling with them all the baseball equipment that wasn't hit out of the park.
“We want to leave,” Patrick says.
“Are you sure?” Julian asks. “There's a few more things I haven't shown—”
“We want to leave now,” Lauren snaps.
“Fine. Let's get going.”
They pile their cargo into the car's rear storage compartment and pile themselves inside, Jack oddly quiet all the while. In the passenger's seat, he pulls a Rubik's cube from his pocket, configuring its sides in a rehearsed fashion, humming atonally.
Bashir reaches a long arm into the front seat. “Can I see that?” Jack slaps his hand away. “What the hell?” Julian winces. “I just wanted to see it for a second. Damn.”
“Right. 'For a second,'” Lauren parrots. “And then it goes into your desk drawer forever.”
“I'm not going to steal it.”
Patrick nods. “It's not stealing when a doctor does it.”
“Then it's therapy,” Lauren adds.
“Why would I. . . “ Julian sighs, rubbing his forehead. “Because grown men aren't supposed to play with toys. And doctors are more concerned about making you appear normal than actually helping you.”
“Got it in one.”
“Did. . . did Dr. Loews ever take things from you like that?”
Lauren opens her mouth to speak, but stops herself.
Patrick pulls at the front of his shirt. “Karen thought she was helping. She didn't know—”
“Because she wouldn't listen!” Jack snaps, not looking up from his Rubik's cube. “They never listen.”
“I'm listening, okay?” Julian says. “I'm listening right now. And I. . . I need to know what she did.”
–
Julian finds a secure channel in a subspace café tucked deep in the shadier part of Cardassia City. After lining the proprietors's palms with non-addictive painkillers (even the mildest analgesics trade high on the black market now), Julian finds a console in the back and hails Dr. Loews' office at the institute.
It's audio only; visual costs more painkillers than Julian's aching muscles can spare, especially with him going back to work tomorrow. Julian hopes his voice comes over reasonably clear. “Karen? Dr. Loews?”
“Hello? Dr. Bashir?” her voice crackles.
“Yes. It's me. I'm here.”
“Do you have any news?”
“Yes. I've found them. They're safe. They're fine.”
“Thank goodness. Do you have any way of bringing them home?”
“No. . . erm, that's the reason I'm calling. None of them wish to return to the institute and I'm not inclined to force them.”
“You're not inclined? What does that mean?”
“That, as a medical professional, I believe living on Cardassia is far better for their health and quality of life than living at the institute.”
“You may believe that, Dr. Bashir, but you are not their legal guardian.”
“And neither are you. Not on Cardassia, at least. You know as well as they did when they chose to come here that Federation medical conservatorships have no legal standing on Cardassian soil. As hard as this may be to hear, Jack and Lauren and Patrick knowingly fled to a war-devastated planet to get away from you and the institute.”
“What are you implying?”
“I'm implying—no, I'm outright stating that the methods deployed by the institute are, at the very least, non-conducive to their personal development, if not blatantly abusive.”
“That 'abuse' is almost unanimously considered cutting edge treatment by every doctor in the Federation, yourself included at one point.”
“Yes, at one point, when I was their doctor, but now I'm their friend. Look, you wanted them to be functioning members of society and here they can be.”
“That may be true, but can you guarantee their safety once you leave? You'll be returning to Deep Space Nine soon, won'
t you?”
Julian's mouth forms the words without consulting with his brain. “No. I plan on staying for the remainder of my volunteer commitment.”
“And after that?”
“I. . . I don't know.”
Chapter 11: I Toast to My Own Reunion
Ezri plops down onto a barstool, the cushion feeling somehow vastly more comfortable than the bed she'd been tossing and turning in all night. “Raktajino, please,” she mumbles. “Extra strong.” Ezri rests her eyes for one second and when she opens them a steaming mug is on the bar in front of her and Quark is nudging her with her bill. “I'm awake. I'm awake!”
“Far be it for me to argue with a customer, but no one who was actually awake has ever said that.”
She takes the bill, authorizing payment. “I know I haven't in eight lifetimes.”
Quark checks how large a tip she gave him before stuffing the payment PADD under the bar. “Speaking of lifetimes, I thought raktajinos were Curzon's drink.”
“They were.” Ezri plugs her nose and takes a gulp, downing as much of it as she can in one go. “But Ezri needs the boost.”
“Not sleeping well?”
“Not for weeks.”
“In-laws keeping you up?”
Ezri shakes her head. “They moved out into the living room last week when Kira cleared out that block of quarters.”
“I still can't believe you had Trill sleeping on the floor, twelve to a room for a month—”
“Three weeks,” Ezri corrects.
“And not one of them left. If those were Ferengi, you'd have a revolution against your revolution.”
“People weren't exactly happy about it, but I don't know. I think, in a way, being crammed together like sardines was good for us. Most of the expatriate colonies are fairly isolated from one another. They really didn't know much about each other until we jammed them in a room together. But now. . . we've really bonded, I think.” She takes a swallow of raktajino, grimacing at the taste. “And Lenara and I have met more reassociated Trill than we thought even existed. We're learning so much about our history, you know? Like, did you know that up until quite recently Gheryzanita had no cultural opposition to reassociation? It was only when the Symbiosis Commission formed that the Gheryzanita abolished the practice. And even then a number of Gheryzanit left the planet in protest. Some people think that was the first—”
A hand grips Ezri's left arm, squeezing tightly. “Hey!” She turns in her stool, ready to tell off whatever barfly thought it wise to grab at a woman sitting alone. “What is the matter with—”
A wrinkled Vulcan man with long brown hair points a shaky finger in Ezri's face, his other hand keeping a vice grip on her arm. “You are troubled.”
“Yeah.” She jerks her arm away. “By you.”
“There is great conflict within you.”
“Sir,” Quark says, “I'm going to have to ask you to leave.”
The man doesn't seem to hear Quark, or, if he does, he doesn't care. “You're having difficulty reconciling your past lives with your current one.”
“Tell me something I don't know,” Ezri says.
“I can help you. Ease your—”
“Kroykah!” an old Vulcan woman shouts from the bar's entrance. She marches over to the man and pulls him away from Ezri. “I must apologize for my friend's senility and ask that you not take any formal legal action against him. He is too old to know any better.” Which is a strange thing to say considering that the Vulcan woman doesn't look much younger than the man and she clearly knows better than to grab strangers. Boys will be boys on any planet apparently. “I promise he won't do this again.”
“Fine.”
“Thank you.” The woman ushers the man out of the bar, upbraiding him quietly in Vulcan.
Ezri turns back to Quark. “If you see him do anything like that again, report him to station security.”
“Of course. I wouldn't want any of the women in the bar to feel uncomfortable.”
“Right. Ferengi rule of acquisition number ninety-two: 'make your customers comfortable; an uptight customer has a tight wallet.'”
“Exactly.”
Ezri rolls her eyes, hopping off her barstool. “Goodbye, Quark.” As she walks out of the bar, she calls back, “I'll need a raktajino twice as strong for lunch.”
Out on the promenade, Ezri is immediately accosted by a Trill—not an unusual occurrence nowadays with every Trill expat on the station coming to her with even the most mundane problems, but who is doing the accosting this time is a surprise. “Timor!” she says. “What are you doing here?”
The Guardian stumbles a few steps forward before collapsing. The only thing keeping him from falling to the floor is the arms Ezri quickly wraps around his waist. With his shirt pushed up slightly, his flesh feels cold and clammy under her hands. “Dax,” he gasps, barely making a sound. “I came to. . .” He looks to the satchel slung over his shoulder. “Give. . . Protect.” His head lulls forward as he loses consciousness.
It's honestly like something out of a cheesy holo-farce, with Ezri supporting a boneless man at least twice her weight while trying to keep whatever is in that satchel of his from spilling out or crashing to the ground. It's early enough on the station that no one is around to give her a hand or watch her struggle, which might be a blessing in disguise. Somehow she manages to lower him to the ground, but she pays so much attention to protecting his satchel on the way down that she ends up with his head facedown in her crotch. She has to untangle the satchel from his arm before she can roll him into a less embarrassing position.
Winded from the effort, Ezri opens the satchel's leather flap to take a peek. She closes it almost immediately.
She taps her commbadge. “Dax to Kahn.”
“Kahn here,” Lenara responds sleepily.
“I need you to get to Quark's bar as fast as you can. There will be a package hidden behind the column to the left of the entrance.”
“What should I do with it?”
“You'll know what to do. Dax out.” She stashes away the satchel and hits her commbadge once again. “Dax to sickbay.”
–
Lenara is half-convinced she's still asleep and dreaming when she sees what's inside that bag. A pinch and a few deep breaths later, she and the package walk determinedly into Quark's, past the bar, and into Vic's living room.
“Hey!” Vic raises his Bloody Mary to her. “You're just in time for breakfast. I got bacon on the gr—”
“Not today, Vic,” Lenara says. “I'm here for the pool.”
“Of course. When are you not?” With Vic's will, the “false bottom” Lenara wired into the program deactivates, revealing the symbiont pool in the middle of his penthouse. “Neat trick you thought up.”
Lenara sits down next to the pool. “We couldn't let anyone come in and see the symbiont. And those curtains we put around the pool weren't going to fool people for long.” From the satchel, she removes a stasis tube—one of much higher quality than the tube her contact in the resistance supplied her. With that grade of stasis, the symbiont resting within could stay dormant for years.
But that's not what it is here for.
Lenara disengages the stasis mechanism, sending the symbiont flopping in her hands. She lets it slide from her grip into the pool. She watches. She breaths a sigh of relief when the two symbionts swim happily around each other, transmitting electrical impulses to one another.
“So,” Vic says, approaching the pool. “You got the little slug a friend.”
Lenara nods. “Although, I'm hoping in time they'll become more than friends. The fate of our revolution depends on it.”
“You're breeding them?”
“No, they're not cattle. . . We're merely introducing them with the hope that romance will flourish.”
“Like a blind date.”
“Exactly.”
“Where'd you come across little Romeo anyway? If you don't mind me asking.”
“I don’t. And I hon
estly don't know. I found him on the Promenade. Or Dax did.”
“Some luck stumbling across it like that.”
“Some luck indeed. I'm just waiting to see if it was good luck.”
“You got exactly what you needed handed to you. How's that not good luck?”
“I'm not saying it isn't, but time has taught me that good luck can turn around very quickly.”
“I suppose however many lifetimes you've had could make anyone cynical.”
“And I suppose however many years of self-awareness you've had could leave anyone an optimist.”
–
Once Ezri finishes explaining where the symbiont came from, Lenara says, “I believe I owe Vic an 'I told you so.'”
“Huh?”
“Nothing. I'm just not surprised that the man who brought you the. . .” Lenara glances around the infirmary's informal waiting room. “. . . package lapsed into a coma shortly thereafter.”
“There's always a catch,” Ezri says. “I can't seem to figure out what it is this—”
Dr. Girani, who has taken over Julian's position in his absence, comes into the waiting room. “Dax?”
“Yes?” Ezri stands.
“I have a few questions I'd like to ask you.”
“Yes. Of course.” Ezri walks over to the doorway where she and Girani confer quietly.
“During the time that you've known Timor, has he mentioned any history of fainting or seizures?”
Ezri shakes her head.
“Any exposure to industrial or environmental toxins?”
“No, but we honestly weren't that close.”
“I see. Is there anything you do know about his or his family's medical history?”
“No. I'm sorry. All I know is that he's a telepath who worked in the Caves of Mak'ala.”
“In that case, I think my best course of action is to contact Trill and request his medical records.”
Behind them, Lenara coughs loudly and conspicuously. “Um,” Ezri says, “I don't think that would be such a good idea.”
“Why not?”
Lenara stands up. “We have reason to believe it was someone on Trill who did this to him.”
“And informing the government would. . .?” Girani sighs, rubbing the wrinkled bridge of her nose. “Does this have something to do with your revolution?”
The Trail: A Star Trek Novel (New Frontier Reloaded Book 1) Page 12