–
Ezri twirls the straw in her mint julep, slumped over in a stool at the end of Quark's bar. She should be sleeping rather than drinking—she knows—but her heart thrums in her chest, waiting and ready for the bad news from Dr. Girani. Sleep doesn't seem like a viable option when every nerve in her body is on alert for the next disaster. And, honestly, she's afraid of what dreams will meet her. With Audrid's blocked memories fully emerged, she doesn't have to worry about more past hosts trying to break through her consciousness, but she knows from experience that the blood on her hands from former lives has a way of haunting her nightmares. The three souls Joran murdered seem small, petty, amateurish compared to how many Guardians were sent to the slaughter by the Symbiosis Commission at Audrid's orders.
How many Guardians are dead because of Audrid and the Symbiois Commission's Machiavellianism? Ezri can't fathom the number.
She takes a sip of her drink, again pleasantly surprised that Quark's mint julep tastes as good as the ones Leonard McCoy mixed for Emony.
“I knew the man,” T'Pring says, sitting down on the stool between Ezri and Morn. “Dr. McCoy and I met briefly while he served on the Enterprise NCC-1701.”
Ezri quirks an eyebrow. “I thought Vulcans were touch telepaths.”
“In general, yes. There are a few exceptions. Sybok, for example.”
“So, you're a freakishly talented mind-reader, too.”
“No. Like most Vulcans, I can sense the memories from past lives projected by joined Trill without physical contact.”
“Really? I had no idea.”
“It is not something we speak of. The Vulcan government, I believe, does not desire to be indicated in Trill's deception regarding their joined nature. The Federation council would not be pleased to know that Vulcans realized that Trill joined with symbionts centuries before the secret was revealed.”
“Wait, if Vulcan knew about it, why didn't they tell anyone?”
“I cannot speak for all Vulcans, but I maintained the secret out of respect for Trill culture. As a Vulcan, I understand why some species need rituals kept private from outworlders.”
“Yeah.” Ezri snorts. “So that they can get away with the horrific exploitation involved in those rituals without the Federation intervening.”
T'Pring bows her head. “Precisely.”
Oh. Ezri can think of a few secret Vulcan rituals that have come to light in Dax's lifetime. And T'Pring's.
T'Pring looks at her knowingly. “Yes. I was born into one of the final generations whose betrothals were arranged by parents during childhood.”
“You were a child bride?”
“Essentially. I was fortunate; I didn't marry my child-betrothed.”
“I thought women couldn't end their betrothals at that time.”
“We couldn't. I managed to manipulate our wedding ceremony so that my betrothed divorced me out of his own free will.” T'Pring takes Ezri's glass from her hands and downs its contents. “One of the eccentricities of the time was that Spock and his friends were more upset at the prospect of Spock and his captain fighting to the death for my hand than they were at the biological necessity of Spock lying with me against my will.”
“Spock? Ambassador Spock?”
“He was Commander Spock at the time.”
“I only know him by reputation, but I can't believe he would do something like that. Not that I'm doubting you. It's just awful to think that a man who fought for peace his entire career would. . .”
“It was Vulcan custom, one of many Spock followed to the letter to prove he belonged.”
“Does that sort of thing still go on? Even now that Federation knows about pon farr?”
“Not officially. The government assures us that every match they make results in entirely consensual sexual congress at least every seven years.”
“But unofficially?”
“Unofficially, there are people who desire change. I among them.”
Ezri taps the bar for another mint julep. “Ah, a fellow revolutionary.”
“I will aid you in your revolution if you promise to aid me in mine.”
“Sounds fair. . . . How do you know I won't blow off my end of the bargain?”
“Sybok has provided me with significant collateral in the form of information you would not want made public knowledge.”
“Is that about the Symbiosis Commission poisoning the Guardians? Because I'm ready to shout that from the rooftops right now.”
“No, this is a personal secret, one you believe would make your friends think you a monster if ever revealed.” T'Pring waits for the bartender to finish pouring Ezri's drink and leave them for another customer. “A part of you is glad that Jadzia died so that you can have this happiness with Kahn.”
Ezri wants to deny, deny, deny (which would be a lie, a lie, a lie), but her commbadge chirps. “Dax here.”
“Timor wants to see you,” Dr. Girani says.
“He's awake.”
“Yes. . . but he doesn't have much time.”
“I'll be right there.”
–
Ezri holds Timor's hand—cold and limp, only a faint pulse in his thumb indicating that he is still alive. “Dax,” he whispers. “I knew you would come.”
“I came as soon as I heard,” she says.
“For years and years and years, I knew you would come. I knew you'd be the one. From the moment we met.” He coughs, spraying the air with blood. Ezri reaches over and dabs the blood from his face with her free hand. Timor grabs her wrist using whatever strength he has left to pull her closer. Their faces are inches apart; Ezri is afraid of getting blood coughed on her, but he just smiles and says, “One half of the world cannot understand the pleasures of the other half,” before letting her go.
Ezri pulls away, rubbing her wrist. “Jane Austen. I didn't know you liked human literature.”
“There are more of us.”
“Jane Austen fans?”
“More like me.”
“I know.” Ezri squeezes his hand. “And we're going to help them. We'll get them out of the caves, I promise.”
“Not the caves,” Timor wheezes. “Everywhere.”
Before Ezri can ask what he means, he dies, like in a holovid of Julian's, except slow and painfully.
–
Lenara finds Ezri sitting with Timor's body not yet put into stasis for an autopsy. He looks so pale, paler than any corpse Kahn has seen—not that she has seen many. She realizes now that pigmentation everyone on Trill believes to be caused in Guardians by lack of sun exposure deep in the caves may truly come from overexposure to toxins in the caves. It's strange how such a common, unquestioned assumption can prove malevolent so quickly.
Lenara rests a hand on Ezri's shoulder, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “I'm so sorry,” she murmurs into Ezri's hair.
“Me, too,” Ezri says, laying her hand on top of Lenara's.
“This isn't your fault.”
“I know. This is the Commission's fault. And they better watch their asses, because we're coming for them.” Ezri turns in her chair. “We are done playing nice. We are done hiding. It's time we bring the fight to them.”
Chapter 12: Living in Revolting Times
Garak is so preoccupied with last-minute preparations for today's event that he doesn't notice Bashir loitering around his department until he quite literally bumps into the man. “My dear, what a pleasant surprise!” he exclaims, careful to adopt a tone that keeps up the illusion of illicit romance between them for the benefit of his colleagues milling around the office floor. “Whatever are you doing here?”
“I thought I'd stop by for a visit,” Julian says. The smile and hand on Garak's elbow indicate that he too is in on the deception. (At the very least, Garak has managed to convince Julian to pretend to be his lover. That's a start.)
“What about your volunteer assignment? Don't tell me you're playing hockey just to visit little old me.”
“Hooky,” Ju
lian corrects. “And I'm not. The transporters are down again. This time security has the entire corridor blocked off.”
“Well, we couldn't let any curious outworlders get harmed by faulty equipment, could we? Truly, it is all for your own good.”
“I'm sure of it.”
Garak cranes his neck, looking around the office floor. “Where's your constant Klingon companion?”
“One of his patients is very nearly due; he couldn't miss a check-up. So he found transport up to our worksite.”
“But you couldn't?”
“No. There wasn't room in the hovercar. But, as they say on the northern continent, tiyal nokt hoon.”
The entire department falls to silence except for the sounds of multiple items being dropped to the floor in shock. Garak feels every eye in the room on him. “Uh, don't you mean, 'tiyul nokt hun?' The sun always rises?”
Always quick, Julian picks up. “Yes, 'Tiyul nokt hun.' That's what I meant.”
“My dear doctor, you must practice your accent.”
“I know. Perhaps I need more of your lessons.”
Garak takes Bashir by the elbow and all but throws him into his office, locking the door behind them. “What were you thinking?” he hisses. “Do you have some kind of death wish? Do you have any idea what you just said?”
“Yes. Tiyal nokt hoon.” Garak sighs exasperatedly. “It's common phrase. Like 'c'est la vie.'”
“No.” Garak leans far into Julian's personal space bubble and whispers, “It means, fuck the State in the cloaca.”
“Oh my god,” Julian gasps. “I hear people on the northern continent use that phrase all the time. Why would they say something like that?”
“Because, my dear doctor, they are so discontented with the current government that they don't care if they are killed for cursing its name.”
Julian scrubs his hand over his face. “Honestly, that makes sense given how bad things are on the northern continent. Especially compared to this part of the city. I don't blame people for being resentful.”
“Resentment is one thing, this is another.” Garak leans against his desk, casually disengaging the reformed Obsidian Order's listening device with his backside. “Cardassia is facing a time of great change. The old guard, those with status who managed not to be assassinated by the Dominion desire a return to tradition: hierarchy, surveillance, xenophobia, extreme poverty for anyone who isn't a gul or a legate. The service class obviously doesn't agree—and they haven't for some time; don't take The Never-ending Sacrifice at face value. But now they are joined by residents of the outlying continents whose bare-bones autonomy was destroyed by the war. For the first time in several centuries, people on the northern and southern continents are dependent on the State for their most basic needs. . . To say the State is out of practice in fulfilling those needs would be overly generous.”
Bashir crosses his arms over his chest. “From what I can see, the State is barely trying. And I'm hardly the first person to have noticed.”
“Therein lies the problem. To the State, inequality is benign, perhaps even healthy. But the revelation of that inequality can spell death.”
“What are you saying? You think there's going to be some kind of resistance movement? An overthrowing of the government?”
“Oh, no. Nothing so. . . Bajoran, I hope. But there will be change, drastic change, radical change. If the dissidents have their way, in a few decades, the Cardassian dictatorship you learned about at Starfleet Academy will have faded away completely, replaced by that other d-word the Federation holds so dear.”
“Do you really think that's possible? This is Cardassia we're talking about.”
Garak walks to his office window to gaze at the plaza below. “Before you arrived, Dukat's statue in the Imperial Plaza was toppled, melted down, and recast into a statue of Kira Nerys, revolutionary hero. I'd say anything is possible on Cardassia now.”
Julian joins him at the window, squinting at the statue. “That's supposed to be Nerys?”
“As I told you, most of our best people are lost. Including our sculptors. Unfortunately for the aesthetics of our cities.” Garak glances at the timepiece on his desk. “I'm afraid I must be going.” And he is, he truly is. “I have an event I must attend. Something my office planned.” He hesitates. “You're welcome to join me. The company should be interesting.”
–
Garak sets down his hovercar in a dark, secluded alley—much like the one Julian followed Garak's doppelganger down. The memory makes Julian's skin prickle. “Taking me to meet Deep Throat, are you, Garak?” he asks. “Deep Throat was—”
“I know who Deep Throat was,” Garak says.
“Of course. Nixon, Watergate, the Committee to Re-elect the President. I imagine you found that chapter of Earth history rather fascinating.”
Garak unclips his seat belt, opening the the driver side door. “As one might enjoy the first steps of a child. I must say your people have come a long way since then.”
Bashir unhooks himself and gets out the car. Over the hood, he says, “Indeed. The level of underhandedness in the Changeling virus conspiracy would have impressed even Tricky Dick.”
“True.” Garak steps out of the car, locking the doors. “But I was referring to your species having the sense to no longer name important historical figures after crude and anatomically improbable films.”
Julian follows Garak out of the alleyway onto the main street. The neighborhood is not the best, but still standing—an accomplishment on Cardassia. “So, I take there isn't a Cardassian equivalent of Deep Throat?”
“The historical figure, no. The film, however. . . you might be surprised at the variety permitted by the State.” Garak leads him by the elbow past a newly constructed building and into its courtyard. “Such matters are best discussed elsewhere.”
Julian wonders where exactly that would be, if there are state sponsored smut shops lying in plain sight around the city where Garak has struck up conversations with off-worlders about the cultural magnificence and superiority of Cardassian pornography. The thought simultaneously inspires amusement, horror, and jealousy in Julian, because he likes to think he's the only alien Garak teases with innuendo-laced State indoctrination. If he's been replaced on that front, he may as well just return to DS9.
Then Julian looks up, reads the banner hanging across the courtyard, and realizes that literally anywhere else would be a better place to discuss Cardassian pornography.
South Capital Orphanage Opening Ceremony! the banner reads in bold, bright colors.
Underneath it, children in plain cotton clothes stand about watching the reporters on the opposite end of the courtyard with trepidation, while the the reporters watch them with equal if not greater trepidation, holding on to their PADDs and cameras like Kukalaka in a thunderstorm. Their eyes light up in palpable relief as they spot Garak, who is apparently less frightening than a gaggle of skinny children. (If they only knew. . .)
“The fourth estate beckons,” Garak says. “Feel free to introduce yourself to the children. Beware: you're probably the first Human they've seen in the flesh.”
“I'll try not to frighten them too badly.”
Garak and Julian take off in opposite directions, Garak strutting into the press area like he owns the place (and the press, which he might), while Julian proceeds cautiously into the children's stronghold.
He holds his hands up where they can see them. “Hello. My name's Julian. I'm one of Garak's friends. He said I could come over here and talk to you.” He kneels on the ground in front of them. “Is that alright?”
The kids don't appear entirely sold on the idea, most staring at him blankly while a few shy ones duck to the back of the group. One girl, perhaps seven years old, approaches Julian slowly but purposefully. About a foot in front of him, she raises her arms and Julian can feel the warm, welcoming, unconditionally-accepting hug of a small child—universal in any species—before she wraps her arms around his neck and yanks his ea
rs down hard.
Julian makes a screeching noise that momentarily distracts the journalists from their interview with Garak.
“You're not a Vorta,” the girl says, removing her hands.
“No, I'm not.” Julian clamps his hands over his aching ears. “That hurt.”
The children giggle and soon crowd in on him, grabbing at various other facial features with grubby, but mercifully gentle hands.
A little girl in a dress strokes Julian's forehead. “You're soft.”
“Thank you.” He grins. “I moisturize.”
“What's that?”
“Well, uh, that's when. . .” He tries to frame this in term they would understand. “It's when you put a cream or an oil on your skin to keep it soft and healthy.”
“Like when you molt?” another child asks.
“Yes, but humans don't molt. Well, we do, but not like you do.”
A boy of no more than four pinches Julian's left eyebrow. “Why d'you have hair here?”
“It's to keep dirt from falling in my eye,” Julian says while a toddler pulls on his bottom lip. “Humans don't have eyeridges like you do, so we need hair to catch dirt and debris.” Living on a planet that is at present two-thirds debris, the children don't need to ask for a definition of that particular word.
Julian hears footsteps behind him and the children disperse, running back to the safety of their corner. Julian turns his head, expecting to see Garak, but finding. . .
“Leeta!” he exclaims, getting to his feet.
“Julian!” Leeta brings him in for a hug.
When he pulls away, he asks, “What are you doing here?”
“Oh, you know, first lady business.”
“Really? On Cardassia?”
“Yeah. I'm leading an aid trip. See those kids over there.” Leeta points to a dozen or so Ferengi youths loitering near the courtyard's entrance. “Those are Ferenginar's very first volunteers.”
“Volunteers? I thought 'anything worth doing is worth doing for money.'”
The Trail: A Star Trek Novel (New Frontier Reloaded Book 1) Page 14
