An anxious millimeter retreated from the coffee and the handle of the cup thinned.
“I’m also going to be extremely busy over the next few days with the Ariadne,” Odo said quickly, striking out before he was pulled under. “The security arrangements over its cargo will be taking up a great deal of my time—”
“Odo, I’m not asking you to lay on all-night parties and dancing girls! Just check in on him now and again, make sure he’s not sitting by himself with the lights dimmed. I don’t know—ask him to teach you darts or something!”
Odo grunted. “The competition between the chief and the doctor has always seemed to me to be a great waste of time, not to mention their talents—”
“I think,” Dax said absently, “that it’s probably more about the playing than the winning.”
“I’m not entirely sure that either of the competitors would agree with you,” Odo replied. But Dax was no longer listening. A little coffee slumped from the cup as Odo saw the gleam appear in her eye again.
“I know!” she said. “You could get him involved in some sort of mystery. Get him to help you on one of your cases—”
Odo stared at her. Just the thought of someone else interfering in one of his investigations was alarming. “I don’t think that would be a very good idea—”
“But it’s exactly the sort of thing that he’d enjoy. Something for him to puzzle about.” She leaned a little toward him, her eyes shining now not as she plotted, but with enthusiasm for her new idea.
Odo had often thought that Jadzia Dax would make an excellent interrogator. The combination of her host’s youthful charms and her symbiont’s old, low cunning made her almost impossible to refuse. Nevertheless it was time, Odo thought, to put a stop to this conversation—before he found himself committed entirely to something he would regret. Briskly, he put his hand over the top of the mug, reabsorbing it and the coffee discreetly. Then he stood up. “If something comes up,” he said firmly, “then I might consider it.”
Jadzia gave him an enchanting smile. “I knew you’d help,” she said.
“I’ll take that as a compliment, Commander,” he said. “Now, you must excuse me—I have an appointment to speak with the captain of the Ariadne.” He nodded his farewell and turned to go. The safe haven of his office was very close now.
“Besides,” Dax called after him, “it might take your mind off things too.” He turned to look at her, and she smiled sweetly back at him. “I’ll mention to Kira that you’ll be speaking to her soon about the Ariadne,” she said.
Odo glared back at her. He should have guessed that Bashir was only one of Dax’s projects.
Breakfast at the bar was slow this morning, but Quark was philosophical about it. Even without profit, there was still opportunity, and watching the traffic on the Promenade had always been a good way to find it.
For example: Was there opportunity, Quark had to wonder as he dried a little crystal glass, in being the only one up early enough to have witnessed the uncommon sight of Garak walking slowly toward the turbolift, deep in thought, a bag slung over his shoulder? Probably not, although Quark did have a superstitious recollection that the last time Garak had left the station—the Starfleet withdrawal notwithstanding—had coincided with Cardassia joining the Dominion…. Hardly the tailor’s doing, Quark would admit, but perhaps it was worth bearing in mind that when Garak was not safely tucked away in the shop, things had a tendency to happen…. Quark looked down at the glass in his hand. There was a slight smear still on it. He rubbed more vigorously.
So was there opportunity in seeing Captain Sisko striding toward the same lift five minutes later, in earnest and energetic conversation with Major Kira? Quark examined the glass in the light and, now satisfied, he put it away and picked up another. It was worth finding out that the captain was going off-station; it was certainly worth overhearing a mention of increased security as the captain and the major marched past the entrance to the bar; and it was definitely worth seeing the particularly stern set of the major’s jaw as she glared inside the bar. From that alone, Quark was able to determine that it might be advantageous to tread carefully with her over the next few days. He polished the glass with slow, thoughtful care. No, there was no profit in Garak and Sisko being away—in fact, Quark might have paid a slip or two of latinum to be able to listen in to the conversation on the runabout—but was there opportunity? Quark regretfully decided not. Only an idiot would try his luck with the major when she was looking that humorless, and only the suicidal would take advantage of Garak’s back being briefly turned.
Quark put away the second glass, started work on another, and considered the view beyond the doors of the bar. The traffic on the Promenade had gotten busier as the morning went on—busier than usual, in Quark’s expert opinion. This was what made him sure that what he was hearing was the first whisper of impending profit. O’Brien had been running around like a Scalosian. There was a more than usually heavy security presence on the Promenade too; Quark would hardly miss a thing like that. And now there went Odo, hurrying past toward his office, looking even more cantankerous than, in Quark’s long experience, he should at oh-eight-hundred-and-a-bit…. Must have just finished one of his beyond-frugal breakfast meetings, Quark guessed. He felt sorry that Odo failed to realize that such meetings could be both a social occasion and an information-gathering exercise—and he wondered who the constable’s sorry companion might be, given Garak’s absence. The only opportunities that came with Odo were lost opportunities, and he appeared more on the deficit side of the ledger than as a source of income, but he could, Quark thought with a long-held sense of injury, at least think about bringing his breakfast partners here rather than taking them to the Replimat….
Quark put the old hurt aside for nurturing later, rubbed hard for a little while at a fourth glass, and listened, as he worked, to what the traffic on the Promenade was trying to tell him. Yes, he thought, there was a definite change in tempo. People were anticipating something; so what could it possibly be? Nothing too serious, or with consequences for the war, or the captain would not have contemplated leaving the station, and from the way the captain and the major had been talking, Sisko had definitely known what was going on before he left. So whatever it was that was about to happen was not critical, but it was enough to make O’Brien look harassed, and make Odo look tetchier…. A situation that demanded engineers? The arrival of a ship, perhaps? A damaged ship? But why all the security passing down the Promenade? Why did Odo look even more dismal than usual?
Quark put the last piece of crystal away, threw the cloth over his shoulder, and turned back to his sole customer. His own brother. Speaking of idiots…Quark watched with disapproval as Rom shoveled fork after fork of food into his mouth. He was halfway through a plate of that revolting pink and yellow hew-mon breakfast he had seen O’Brien eating. The slick sound of the cutlery slipping against the grease made Quark feel queasy, but it wasn’t slowing Rom down for a second.
Quark reached for Rom’s cup and filled it. Rom took it from his hand and drank with enthusiasm. Coffee, Quark thought with distaste. Noxious, bitter, addictive stuff; the very reverse of root beer and yet somehow still so intrinsically hew-mon….
“The chief looks busy this morning,” Quark said.
Rom put down his cup and stared, slack-jawed and trusting, back at his brother for a moment or two and then, increasingly, looked upon him with the soft sad eyes of a Bajoran silk deer that knows it’s being herded into the hunter’s trap. “Oh no, brother…” Rom said, sorrowfully. “I can’t tell you anything about that.”
Quark leaned in hungrily. “So there is something?” he said.
“Oh no…” Rom said again, shaking his head this time. “Not a word, the chief said. Not. A. Word.”
Quark turned away. He flicked the cloth across the bar. “Fine,” he said. “Fine.” He sighed deeply. “I know you’ve made your choice, Rom.” He tried to keep the grief from his voice not at all, but drew the line
at dabbing the cloth against an eye. Not even Rom was that stupid. “I just can’t help it if it hurts…when I try to take care of you…. Have you had enough to eat?”
Rom slid uneasily from his chair. “Yes, brother,” he said, making it sound like an apology. “Thank you. But I must be going now. A lot to do before the Ariadne arrives.”
As he watched Rom scurry from the bar, Quark gave his widest grin. He picked up Rom’s abandoned plate and cup. Ariadne. That was all he needed. Quark turned to his interface console and began to investigate the ships that were scheduled to pass through the sector.
The runabout’s systems hummed quietly, and the lights on the console seemed to be synchronizing with them. Sisko watched his fingers drum in time for a beat or two; then he stopped them and sighed.
“Is something the matter, Captain?”
Sisko turned his head to see Garak standing in the doorway, holding a mug. Since they had boarded the Rubicon, Garak had hidden himself away at the back. Now he had surfaced again. “I thought you were asleep,” Sisko said. It came out rather more accusatory than he had intended, so he softened his tone, just a little. “Is something the matter with you?”
Garak shrugged. “Maybe I had a bad dream,” he said, flippantly. Sisko watched him as he came a little closer. Garak did not look as if he had slept well. Sisko wondered whether he dreamed of Vreenak too. “But you haven’t answered my question, Captain—is there something the matter?”
Sisko considered his options. In theory, it was a classified report that he had been reading. He suspected, however, that once they got to Earth, Garak would be issued with a high enough security rating to read it; he would have to be, if Starfleet Intelligence were serious about using him. Plus the chances were pretty damn high that Garak would just wait until Sisko was finally sleeping to rummage around and find out for himself. And it was hardly as if there were no secrets between them already. Garak, he noticed, was watching him, a smile playing across his face, almost as if he could follow the lines his thoughts were taking. Sisko looked back down at his hand. A muscle in it was twitching slightly. He really had to get some sleep.
He passed over the padd. Garak put down the mug and began to read. “Continued Romulan advances in the Benzar system,” he said, after a moment or two. He chewed thoughtfully at his bottom lip. “And from your face I thought it had to be bad news….” He glanced up, his eyes glittering, and looked straight at Sisko. “You really can say this for the Romulans, Captain—when it comes to fighting a war, they do make exemplary allies.”
Sisko stared at him for a moment, and thought about just how much better or worse he would feel if his fist got another chance to connect with Garak’s jaw. Then he shook his head, and laughed, and looked away. You really are a bastard, Garak.
“All in all, this is something of a success,” Garak said, and then he laughed himself. Another bitter sound, Sisko thought. “Particularly,” Garak continued, “as Cardassian losses are comparatively few. I would find it more than a little galling if our Romulan allies killed too many Cardassians.”
Sisko looked over at him again. Garak was smiling.
“All these ironies, Captain,” he said, putting down the padd, and smiling at him. “Whatever shall we do about them?” He handed the padd back to Sisko, and reached for his mug again.
Sisko began thumbing at the padd halfheartedly. It was good news from the Benzar system, and it was long past time for some good news. He thought tiredly of the failed offensive at Sybaron.
“I believe,” Garak said, interrupting Sisko’s strategizing, “that I may at last have come to an understanding with Earl Grey.”
Suppressing a sigh, Sisko turned to look at Garak again. He was staring down into his mug.
“An understanding?”
“The problem, I have decided,” Garak continued, “is that it tastes of flowers.”
“Flowers?”
“Flowers. And the smell—”
“This coming from a man who drinks fish juice.”
Garak ignored him. “And I do find myself wondering precisely what it says about a culture that it drinks flowers—”
“Again, I’m thinking of the fish.” Sisko threw aside the padd he had already been struggling to read. “And it’s not flowers. The oil in Earl Grey tea comes from the rind of a citrus fruit.”
“A fruit?”
“A fruit.”
“Like prunes?”
With an effort, Sisko covered his smile. “Yes.”
Garak waved his hand, as if encouraging Sisko to say more. “And what insights do you think I should gain about Earth and its culture from this information, Captain?”
Sisko shrugged, and tapped his own mug, resting by the abandoned padd. “I don’t know. I prefer raktajino.”
A silence fell between them, disturbed only by the quiet but persistent hum of the runabout’s engine, the soft and repetitious pulse of the systems on the console at the fore. On the padd, the marker in the text flashed, urging Sisko to turn back to the work still as yet undone. He picked it up again, and stared down, but did not begin to read. There was a slight clatter as Garak put down his mug. Sisko watched from the corner of his eye. Garak had begun to run a gray finger along the console. Sisko waited.
“It has not escaped my attention,” Garak said at last, “that we have not spoken again in depth about our recent…collaboration. Not, at least, since you visited me in the shop and expressed such great displeasure about the turn of events.”
That was certainly one way of putting it….
“I meant what I said the other day,” Garak continued, seemingly engrossed by the slow back-and-forth motion of his finger, “that I have nothing more to add to my report. And I sincerely hope that you have nothing more to add either.” He turned his head, quite suddenly, to look at Sisko, who managed to resist the urge to look back. “War is a very unpleasant business, Captain—I don’t need to tell you that. And covert war is even more unpleasant. For which reason—among others—it should remain just that. Covert.”
Sisko turned his head now, slowly, until they were looking straight at each other. Neither of them blinked. Then, on the console, just within Sisko’s field of vision, he saw a green light wink at him—and it passed through his mind once again to wonder whether Vreenak had even had the chance to see the lights turn red. He blinked. Then he saw Garak’s eyes widen, ever so slightly; bright blue and icy.
“Oh,” Garak said, as if something had just become manifestly clear to him. “I see.” He eased himself back in his chair, and Sisko watched with a rising wave of distaste. He had spent enough time around Garak recently to recognize a prelude to one of his monologues.
“Cardassians, Captain,” Garak began, “have an intimate relationship with guilt. We are, as a rule, very familiar with it, in all of its hues and shades. And yet, despite this shared cultural experience, it can be a very private relationship. For example, we tend—as a rule—to consider it ill-mannered to require that those around us become intimately involved in our own crises of conscience.”
“What the hell are you getting at?”
“What I’m trying to say,” Garak said, leaning toward him, “is that I sincerely hope that troublesome conscience of yours isn’t going to make you do something stupid—”
“Stupid…?” Sisko rolled the word around his mouth, as if unsure of the taste.
“All right then, if you prefer—don’t do anything that I will regret. You do fully grasp the gravity of the situation in which we could find ourselves—?”
“We’re already in a pretty serious situation—”
“Let me impress upon you that nobody knows the full extent of it—”
“Starfleet Intelligence already knows about the biomimetic gel. They already know about Tolar, they know about the forgery—” Sisko counted off the points violently, one to each finger.
“Oh, please!” Garak pushed back in his chair and looked at Sisko scornfully. “Don’t delude yourself! You think becaus
e they let us off some petty crimes they’ll pass over the larger ones?”
Sisko bit down on his anger, bit down hard.
Garak leaned in again. His voice had gone quiet. “It was murder, Captain—twice over. And I didn’t do it just so you could lose your nerve and go begging for forgiveness from your superiors. So if your conscience is whispering again—a little late in the day, I might point out—you’d better not forget that you owe me.”
At that, Sisko could not help but laugh out loud. “I owe you?” he said.
They were almost nose-to-nose now, and Garak’s eyes had become very cold. “You came to me—just remember that. Not the other way round.” He had raised his hand from the console, and now he lifted a finger, as if in warning, and jabbed it at Sisko. “You asked for my help—”
“Well, you know what they say, Garak,” Sisko replied, staring back at him. “No good deed goes unpunished.”
A long moment passed. Garak didn’t move a muscle. And then he withdrew. Sisko nodded across at the mug. “Finish your tea, Garak,” he said softly. “Before it gets cold.”
Garak picked up the mug, and looked down into it. “Do you know, Captain,” he said, after a moment or two, “I sincerely doubt I’m ever going to acquire the taste.” He glanced up. “Nothing I’ll regret,” he said again—and then something passed very quickly across his face. Something new. His eyes lit up with amusement. Sisko felt his skin begin to crawl.
“Perhaps,” Garak said, his voice smoother than silk, “I shall have more success with other human delicacies. I’m very much looking forward to sampling the offerings at your father’s restaurant. In fact, I’m just looking forward simply to meeting your father.”
My father…
He had so much to do lately, and it had always seemed to be the last thing on the list, or it was night back in New Orleans…Then, yesterday, the call from Ross had come in so late…. He’d had to see Odo about the transport ship, speak to Kira, speak to Jake…. So much to do he had forgotten to let his father know he was coming home. Sisko rubbed at the back of his neck—and then another thought crossed his mind.
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