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

by ROVER MARIE TOWLE

  Patrick swallows his bite of zabo meat. “That's a stupid question.”

  “Again? Security fell for your Starfleet admiral disguise twice?”

  “No.”

  Julian sighs. “Good. I put out a bulletin specifically warning about you—”

  “We were ensigns this time,” Patrick adds.

  Julian drops his bread to his plate, splattering his shirt with sauce. “You three are impossible.”

  “Here.” Garak dabs at Julian's shirt with a cloth napkin. “If you don't get this out now, the oil will stain.”

  Julian leans back allowing Garak to work out the sauce. “Thanks.”

  “He's not doing it for you. Don't thank him,” Jack says.

  Lauren smirks. “He's got his own perverse reasons for rubbing you down.”

  Garak glares at them, suddenly regretting his decision to bring Bashir here. After Jack deciding to go on a strange, philosophical diatribe at their picnic rather than spilling all he's learned about Garak, he thought he could trust his consultants to have a meal with Bashir and not expose the extent of Garak's feelings and intentions. Apparently, he was wrong.

  “And what would that be?” Julian asks.

  Patrick chuckles behind his hand. “Garak loves. . .” This is the end. Or the beginning, depending on how Bashir responds. “. . . your shirt.” Or neither.

  Then why all the build-up? Why the carefully chosen words? Why. . .

  Oh, for the love of Cardassia. They were teasing Garak. Like they were his friends or something. They would never tell Julian how Garak feels in deference to their friendship, but they would skirt around the issue to get a rise out of Garak in some exotic, human affection ritual.

  They care about him.

  Garak grimaces at the warm, bubbling feeling in his chest that this realization elicits.

  “Really? I thought you hated all my off-duty clothes,” Julian says to Garak.

  “He does,” Lauren says. “That's why he's so invested in preserving the one shirt he does like.”

  Julian tut-tuts. “Their truly is no end to your deviousness.”

  Garak sets his napkin back on the table. “I've been conspiring against you and your dubious fashion sense for years. I'm surprised it took you this long to notice.” He sips at his tea. “Did you honestly think the station laundry misplaced all your beachwear after your trip to Risa?”

  Bashir's eyes go wide. “That was you? How? What did you do—stake out my laundry chute overnight?”

  “Nothing so labor intensive. I merely had a pleasant chat with the laundry manager, who after reviewing a few photographs I had taken of him cavorting with his wife's cousin, agreed that your hideous velour monstrosity of a vacation wardrobe needed to die.”

  “I liked those clothes!”

  “And I like you. I couldn't very well sit by and do nothing as you sullied your reputation one clashing ensemble at a time.”

  “You went through all that trouble to make little old me look presentable?” Julian presses a hand to his heart. “I'm touched.”

  “Well, I do what I can. Although, I must admit, my reasoning was not entirely unselfish. I didn't go to lunch with you for all those years to look at something unpleasant.” Garak believes this is human flirting.

  Patrick and Lauren exchange looks across the table before yawning widely in unison. “I think I'm going to call it a night,” Lauren says, standing up.

  “Me, too,” Patrick says.

  They stare at Jack expectantly. “Good night,” he says. They keep staring. He crosses his arms over his chest, rolling his eyes, and opens his mouth in a weak imitation of a yawn. “I've suddenly overcome the mania that has disrupted my sleep for the past thirty years. I should get to bed.” He gets up, pushing in his chair.

  “Are you sure you don't want to stay for after-dinner drinks?” Garak asks, communicating subtly with the tilt of his head that if any of the three of them stay a moment longer, he will make their lives extremely unpleasant for at least a few days.

  Patrick slides out of his chair, shaking his head. “No, thank you.”

  “Good night then.”

  His consultants turn to leave the dining room, but stop when Julian says, “Actually, I think I'll take a raincheck on drinks, as well. I've already had enough jivar today to give me cottonmouth tomorrow morning.” He pushes out his chair, standing with a yawn. “Dinner was lovely. Thank you all.”

  Garak stands. “It was our pleasure. Do you need a ride home?”

  “Yes, but I don't think you're in any condition to drive.” He gestures to the empty flute of jivar in front of Garak's place-setting. “I'll be fine walking.”

  “Not at this hour. An unescorted human would breed terrible suspicion this time of night.” He pauses. “Let me walk you home.”

  “Are you sure?” Bashir asks. “I don't want to put you out.”

  “Nonsense. And, besides, having to bail you out of jail again would put me out far more than an evening stroll ever could.”

  “I guess it's settled then.” He smiles and they head out of the dining room, stopping so Julian can say goodbye to Lauren, Patrick, and Jack, who are all lined up in the hallway watching the proceedings with mild interest. “Goodnight.” He pecks Lauren's right cheek and then Patrick's left with a murmured, “Goodnight.” He stops at Jack, appearing entirely uncertain of what form of affection he's willing to give that Jack would be willing to receive.

  Jack throws up a mock-salute. “Goodnight, sir.”

  Julian rolls his eyes and reciprocates. “At ease, ensign. And goodnight.”

  Goodbyes finished, Garak and Julian make their way to the door, where says, “Before we go, I just wanted to say, I had a truly fantastic time today.” He claps his hand on Garak's shoulder, his thumb resting on Garak's collar bone. “It's been one of the better days I've had in a long time.”

  “Likewise,” Garak says huskily.

  Julian's lips twitch into a grin as he removes his hand. “Shall we then?”

  “We shall.” Garak opens the door, eager for a long walk in the Cardassian moonlight with the person he desires fully—something he never thought he'd be able to do even before his exile. He finds that their way out the door is obstructed in the form of a person loitering on the stoop.

  Sarina Douglas.

  If Cardassians believed in reincarnation, Garak would wonder what truly heinous crime he committed in a past life to deserve this. (He already knows what he's done in this life to deserve it.)

  “Sarina,” Julian gasps.

  Sarina clutches her luggage handles, her hands turning white. “Julian.”

  Jack, Patrick, and Lauren poke their heads into the foyer, their genetically enhanced hearing alerting them to her presence.

  “Sarina,” Jack murmurs. . . quieter than Garak has ever heard him.

  “Jack.” She nods.

  “What are you doing here?” Patrick asks.

  “When I heard you were here, I had to come see you.”

  “You came back,” Julian says.

  “I came back for you,” she says, staring past Julian's shoulder at her old friends. “For all of you,” she quickly adds.

  Patrick, Lauren, and Jack envelop her in a mutant group hug, which Julian taps into like an extra puzzle piece.

  An extra puzzle piece that none-too-subtly smells Sarina's hair.

  –

  He wakes Alexander on his way to bed. “Sorry,” Julian murmurs, toeing out of his shoes.

  “What time is it?” Alexander asks groggily.

  “Erm.” He looks at the chronometer on their shared dresser. “A little bit after twenty-three hundred.”

  “Oh. You're out late.”

  “Yeah. I had dinner with Garak and the others.”

  Alexander shifts in his bunk. “Did she mention me at all?”

  “No.” Julian takes off his trousers, throwing them in the corner with the rest of his dirty laundry. “You didn't come up.” He flops down onto his bunk. “How'd your
day go?”

  “Okay. You?”

  “Fantastic, actually. Besides nearly starting an interplanetary scandal in the middle of Garak's office, I'd say I had a pretty good day. It didn't exactly end how I thought it would, but it was good. Great even.”

  “How did you think it would end?”

  “Er. . . I don't know. I just didn't expect to see Sarina again.”

  “Sarina? Douglas?”

  “Yeah. Amazing, isn't it?”

  “I guess.”

  “I mean, maybe this is my chance. Ezri had one of her old girlfriends come back out of nowhere and now they're playing house. This might be my turn.”

  –

  “I'm afraid the door doesn't lock,” Garak says.

  “That's alright.” Sarina sets her bags on the foot of the guest room's bed. “I'm still not used to having locks myself.” She sits down, bouncing on the mattress slightly, testing its firmness. “Thank you for finding a room for me, especially on such short notice.”

  “It's nothing.” Garak leans against the doorframe. “Although, I do find it strange that someone with your intellect and foresight would forget to find accommodations for the night. That is, unless she planned on sharing someone's bed.”

  “Am I that transparent?”

  “In my line of work, one learns to see through people.”

  “Then you know why I'm here.”

  “I have a few theories.”

  “When people develop theories about people like me, they're usually wrong.” Her hands clench the end of the mattress. “In the interest of clarity, I'm not here to interfere with what you're doing with Jack and Patrick and Lauren. I want in.”

  “In?”

  “I want to work and live here with them.”

  “And that's all you want?

  “What more could I want? They're my family.”

  “And Bashir?”

  She inhales deeply. “I hope that, in time, he'll come to see me as something more than a prize he's earned. And that you'll realize I'm not a threat. Even though you think everyone is a threat.”

  “You have high hopes.”

  She grins. “That's at least one thing we have in common.”

  Garak's emergency comm chirps in his pocket. “Excuse me.” He taps the comm. “Garak here. . . I see. . .. Alert the first lady of Ferenginar that her trip to the northern continent is canceled. I'll find something for her to do in the city tomorrow. . .. Yes. . . No. . . Good. Garak out.” Garak slips his comm back into his pocket and massages his temples.

  “Is something wrong?” Sarina asks.

  “Quite. One of the imperial listening stations on the northern continent has gone offline.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “The operatives tending to that station are dead. Or worse.”

  “What's worse than dead?”

  “On Cardassia? Betraying the state.”

  She grips her comforter so tight her fingers turn white. “It's beginning, isn't it?”

  “You've chosen a lovely time to visit our fair planet.”

  “I knew the risks.”

  “Of course.” Garak nods. “I'd prefer if you kept the statistical probabilities to yourself. I'd like to maintain some semblance of optimism.”

  Chapter 13: Give Life's Little Guy Some Ink and When it Dries...

  “Are you sure you wanna do this?” Jake asks.

  “Are you sure you wanna do this?” Ezri responds.

  “Yeah.”

  “Then so am I.”

  Jake turns on his audio recorder.

  –

  A few months ago, Lieutenant Ezri Dax had a hard time remembering who she was: what foods she liked, what gender she was, what events she had lived herself or merely remembered through her symbiont. But now Dax finds herself filled with absolute certainty—a first since she has been joined.

  “The Symbiosis Commission is lying to us,” she says, pulling at a loose thread on the arm of her chair. “They're lying to all of us.”

  I lean closer. “What have they been lying about?”

  “Everything.”

  “Could you be more specific?” As the son of an old friend, I can get away with that kind of cheek in an interview with Dax.

  “Well, to start with, they lied to the Federation about the symbionts.”

  That's an old secret, one most Federation citizens are aware of. I was only twelve at the time, but I still remember watching Grenfar Jarvis' evening holo-report on the scandal and turning to my father to ask, “Does this mean Curzon has a worm inside him?”

  My father, shocked by the news, gritted his teeth. “We'll have to ask him.”

  “Ben was hurt,” Ezri says. “It's understandable. He and I—he and Curzon were very close. The Dax symbiont was such a huge part of who Curzon was—who I am—that Ben felt a little betrayed that I kept it secret from him. Like I didn't trust him.”

  “Did you?” I ask.

  “Trust him? Absolutely, with my life. On several occasions.”

  “Then why keep Dax a secret?”

  “At the time, Curzon believed he had to for the good of the symbiont population. The Symbiosis Commission warned all ambassadors that the revelation of our joined nature would result in the Federation doing horrific medical experiments on us and kidnapping the symbionts. And Curzon believed them.”

  “But you don't?”

  “Obviously; I mean that's not what happened when the Federation found out, but if you mean do I doubt the Symbiosis Commission's reasoning for maintaining secrecy? Then, yes, I do. . . . I think they kept joinings a secret from the Federation so they could get away with murder.”

  “Figuratively?”

  She nods. “And literally.”

  –

  Lenara traces her fingertips along the spots on Ezri's temple. “How are the interviews going?”

  “Good. I may not be too eloquent a speaker, but Jake is a damned good reporter. I'm sure he'll throw something interesting together out of my incoherent ramblings.” Ezri looks up, keeping her head rested on Lenara's chest. “I'm joking. I've made every effort to be coherent. Profound, even.”

  “I'm sure you have. As I recall, Curzon was quite the orator.”

  “And so was Audrid. Somehow, I don't think that skill got passed down.”

  “I don't know how much of public-speaking is something you can learn and how much of it is innate. I've put hours into perfecting my speaking for conferences and symposia, but I'll never be as at ease as Nulat is.”

  “How is Nulat, by the way?”

  “Good. Apparently, she's been chosen to go on some special, solo mission for the Fed Artists Corps.”

  “Where to?”

  “She wouldn't say. Which leads me to believe that her mission is highly secret or highly dangerous. Or both.”

  “What could be more dangerous than Romulus?”

  “I don't know. Perhaps they're sending her through the wormhole to perform for the Great Link.”

  Ezri snorts. “Have her say hi to Odo for me.”

  The door chimes. On the sofa, Ezri and Lenara pull apart. “Come,” Lenara says.

  Tsorka Ven and Priyoon Kar, one of the oldest reassociated couples in the resistance, step inside Dax's quarters. "I hope we're not interrupting anything," Priyoon says.

  "Oh, no," Ezri says. "We were just. . . lounging."

  "Good."

  "Was there something you wanted to discuss?" Lenara asks.

  "Yes. . ."

  "Go right ahead."

  "Well. . ." Tsorka drawls.

  "You know we've been getting on in the years,” Priyoon says. “Don't tell my grandchildren this, but I don't know how much longer I have left. I'm happy I can spend my last years with people who support me and Tsorka, but I am a bit concerned." She wrings her hands.

  "About what?" Ezri asks.

  "Well, I. . . I'm at peace with dying; this won't be the first time I've done it. But I'd feel better knowing that when I go, my symbiont won't
be going with me."

  Her wife grips her wrist. "And I'd feel better knowing that maybe one day, we could be together again."

  “We know you have the donor registry and new hosts waiting, but we have some doubts about how. . .” Priyoon trails off.

  “Uh, there's a reason why the Symbiosis Commission had Guardians supervise joinings.”

  Ezri nods. “And you're concerned that because we don't have any Guardians, the joining of the Kar symbiont to its next host won't be successful?”

  “Yes,” Priyoon says.

  “I understand your concern,” Lenara says. “We are working our very best in securing Guardians. In the mean time, however, I'd like to point out that there is precedent of successful joinings occurring without the supervision of the Guardians and the Symbiosis Commission.” She smiles at Ezri.

  “I see,” Tsorka says.

  Priyoon's full lips thin into a line. “Thank you.”

  They shuffle out of Dax's quarters without saying goodbye.

  “Well.” Ezri claps Lenara's shoulder. “They seemed comforted.”

  “Next time, I'll leave the bereavement counseling to the professional.”

  “I don't know what I could've said that would've been much better. The truth doesn't leave much room for comfort: we don't have any Guardians or any plan for recruiting them, and we're basically staking the future of our symbionts on the hope that the joinings we orchestrate based on guesswork go as well as mine. And that's setting the bar fairly low, to be quite honest.”

  “We've done all we can,” Lenara says. “We can't get in contact with any living Guardians, Timor died, and Vic—the closest thing we have—has all the potential but none of the training. . . and is also a hologram. So, even if we did manage to track down some hyper-telepath to play guru, we couldn't rely on Vic being our sole Guardian because—”

  “I don't think we'd have to.”

  “What?”

  “Well, if we found a hyper-telepath, logically speaking, he'd be able to identify telepaths in our ranks. We'd have an entire class of future Guardians.”

  “Yes. If we found a hyper-telepath, which is highly unlikely given that the most powerful telepaths either live as hermits, try to take over the galaxy, or—”