Proud Helios

by Melissa Scott

  "Protective only," Odo answered. "For the moment, that's all that can be justified."

  And that, Kira thought, is Benjamin Sisko speaking, not you. The Federation was a great respecter of the letter of the law, even when it came to potential felons—Her thoughts broke off abruptly, stopped by the memory of a Bajoran mob hot in pursuit of a collaborator. There had been a young lieutenant, a woman, part of the original Federation team that had made the first agreement with the provisional government, and she and her people—all two of them—had stepped in front of the mob. They had held off the angry Bajorans until the rest of Kira's troops had come up, and order had been restored enough to let them take the suspected collaborators away. Kira had been impressed by the young lieutenant, had stopped to speak with her: a thin, tired-eyed woman, with dirt on her face and a rising bruise from a rock someone had thrown. Do you want me to let you know what happens at the trial? Kira had asked, and the lieutenant had shaken her head. It doesn't matter, she had answered. You people will do what you like. Kira had been shaken by the anger, and it had been weeks—and several trials—before she had fully understood the other woman's answer. She shook away that equivocal memory, and said, "So far. What do you know about her habits?"

  "That they're innocuous," Odo answered. "She walks the Promenade, spends a few hours each evening at Quark's, and then retires to her quarters. She speaks to shopkeepers, and when spoken to, nothing more."

  "It's not much to go on," Kira said, and wrinkled her nose at Odo's sudden scowl. "I know, her behavior with Quark was still suspicious. I said I'd help. I'll drop in to Quark's tonight. If she's there, I'll try to talk to her, see if I can find out anything."

  Odo nodded. "Thank you, Major. I appreciate the help."

  "You owe me," Kira said, cheerfully, and, after a moment, Odo nodded again. They had both learned the value of favors under Cardassian rule.

  "I owe you."

  "Great." Kira pushed herself to her feet, headed for the door. As she stepped outside, a thought struck her, something Odo had said before. She caught the door before it closed, leaned back into the little office. Odo looked up quizzically, one hand on the intercom button.

  "Major?"

  "What the hell did you mean, you doubted she'd confide in me?"

  Odo smiled again, thinly, but with real amusement. "I didn't think you were quite her type."

  Kira had a sudden vision of herself as the Trehanna would see her: brash, free-striding, more like a Trehanna male than a fellow woman. She grinned in spite of herself—sometimes Sisko could be a little obtuse—and let the door close behind her.

  CHAPTER 6

  JULIAN BASHIR MADE HIS WAY through the crowd that thronged Quark's place, easing past Sardonian traders and courtesans of indeterminate sex, as well as the occasional Bajoran newcomer who looked as though he didn't know whether to approve or to summon clerical authority to cleanse the place. There were Ferengi as well, more than usual, and Bashir, who was tall even for a human, found himself having to divide his attention between his intended destination and the floor around him to keep from walking into the smaller people. He vaguely remembered that there was a Ferengi ship in dock—the Pickpocket, or Sticky-Fingers, or something like that—and wondered for an instant if he shouldn't have stayed at home in his quarters. But rumor also said that the mysterious Lady Diaadul spent her evenings at Quark's, and Bashir had heard the other stories that were sweeping the station. Not that she could possibly be as attractive as Dax, he assured himself hastily, but it was still incumbent on him, as a Starfleet officer, to be available should the lady need assistance. And besides, rumor said that she was very beautiful indeed beneath her veils.

  He fetched up against the bar at last, and stood leaning against it, catching his breath. All around him, the air was filled with the babble of voices, Bajorans dominating, though the sharp mutter of Ferengi formed a distinctive counterpoint. It was a weird and wonderful mixture, exactly the sort of thing he had joined Starfleet to experience, and he turned slowly, savoring the sights. A pair of humans stood outside one of the holosuites on the upper level, negotiating—arguing, more like, from the aggressive gestures—with one of Quark's henchmen; the rest of the balcony area and the main part of the bar were filled with species he had never seen before.

  "And what can I get for you today, Doctor?"

  That was Quark's voice, at once sharp and obsequious, and Bashir turned hurriedly back to face the bar.

  "A terrevani tea, please," he answered, and Quark bowed, a little too deeply to be sincere.

  "Is the doctor certain he wouldn't like something a little more, um, adventurous?" Quark gestured expansively to the gleaming bank of replicators that rose behind him. "We've just received an entirely new programming set, and our menu has expended accordingly. We have all sorts of stimulants . . . ."

  "No, thank you," Bashir said firmly, and suspected he was blushing again. "Just the tea."

  "Suit yourself," Quark answered. "Though I know for a fact that Lieutenant Dax always has ale."

  "Tea," Bashir said again, wishing he didn't have to go through this every time Quark waited on him. "Just tea. Thank you."

  Quark bowed again, his smile showing a ferocious range of teeth. "As you wish."

  Bashir waited until he was out of earshot, and then allowed himself a long sigh of relief. Sometimes he thought the entire station had banded together to tease him for his novice status, and, while he knew such teasing was traditional, if not inevitable, it could be very tiresome sometimes. He glanced along the length of the bar, trying to guess the size of the crowd, and hoped that Quark would find someone else to wait on.

  That wish went, unsurprisingly, unanswered: it would have taken an entire shipload of Kaldanni tourists to distract Quark from his amusements. He reappeared in record time—sometimes Bashir thought he was the only person on DS9 who got prompt and efficient service at Quark's—and set the foaming glass on the counter in front of Bashir.

  "Someone's been asking about you, Doctor," he said.

  "Oh, really?" In spite of himself, Bashir felt his heart leap.

  There were a number of young women on the station who intrigued him, as well as the apparently unattainable Dax herself. Maybe, just maybe, one of them had deigned to acknowledge his interest . . . .

  "Oh, yes," Quark assured him, showing teeth again in the Ferengi parody of a human smile. "Quite a bit, in fact—you've made a hit, I'm sure."

  "That's—nice," Bashir said, and reached for his credit chip to pay for his drink. He was pleased that both his hand and his voice were steady—if anything, he thought, he sounded not entirely enthusiastic at the prospect, and that, too, was good. It wouldn't do to seem too eager.

  Quark waved away the stick. "No need, Doctor, your admirer's already taken care of it."

  "Really?" Bashir heard his voice rise in spite of himself, heard, too, the undignified excitement in his answer. It couldn't be Dax, she was still too aloof—and, to be fair, she was a little old for him, or at least half of her was—but Kira had been less hostile toward him since they'd gone out after Gift of Flight, and the major was undeniably attractive, if more than a little intimidating . . . .

  "Absolutely," Quark assured him, showing the full rank of pointed teeth, and leaned sideways slightly, gesturing toward the corner table. Bashir turned to look, schooling himself to a not too eager smile, and found himself looking directly at the ridged face of the only Cardassian left on DS9. Garak smiled back at him, the ridges curving alarmingly, and Bashir looked past the Cardassian's shoulders, hoping against hope to see Kira or Dax or anyone else waiting for him. The other tables in that corner were crowded with lizardlike Gemurra, and Garak lifted a long-fingered hand to beckon him over.

  "Yes," Quark said, "Garak thinks quite well of you."

  "How nice," Bashir said, through clenched teeth. "Quark—" But the Ferengi had already turned away, apparently oblivious to his calls, and Bashir knew from experience that Quark was perfectly capable of ig
noring him for the rest of the night.

  And there was really no reason to refuse the drink, in any case. Not only had Commander Sisko encouraged him, all of them, to be as courteous as possible to the Cardassians, but Garak could be, in his own odd fashion, a pleasant companion. Besides, spy or not, he did hear everything. Bashir threaded his way through the crowd to Garak's table. The Cardassian beamed up at him, and gestured to the empty chair.

  "My dear Julian. Do join me. I've had so little chance lately to enjoy your company."

  Bashir seated himself, setting the tea in front of him. He still wasn't entirely sure what game Garak was playing with him—the station grapevine swore that the Cardassian had only remained to spy on the station's new owners, though he suspected that there was more to Garak's friendliness than the sheer desire for information. "I've been rather busy," he said. Garak was watching him expectantly, still with that slight smile, and Bashir felt the blood rise to his face. "Thank you for the drink."

  Garak's smile widened. "My pleasure, I assure you, Julian. It's a very small thing to do for one I consider a friend."

  "What was it you wanted, Garak?" Bashir asked, and was instantly ashamed of his suspicions.

  Garak spread his hands. They were incongruously beautiful, and the Cardassian used them to unexpected advantage. "Why, only to pursue our acquaintance. What else could I want? More would be—most inappropriate."

  What more could he want? Bashir wondered, and a new and appalling series of possibilities seemed to open in front of him. He shook the thought away. "I'm sure."

  Garak studied him for a moment longer, the lines at the corners of his eyes giving him an almost mischievous look, then leaned forward slightly. "And, in way of friendship, Julian…I think I should pass along to you something that I heard in my shop. I think it would interest you, and that you, of all people, would know what to do with it."

  "Now you are making fun of me," Bashir said. The words slipped out involuntarily, and he felt himself blushing again. If Quark hadn't given him a hard time, and Dax before that, he would never have said such a thing, and especially not to Garak.

  The Cardassian smiled openly this time, an expression so unlike his usual affectations that Bashir almost didn't recognize it, but said only, "Not—not in the information, Julian. I do think you will find it useful."

  Bashir blinked, and the moment vanished. "I'll do what I can," he said, doubtfully, and Garak simpered at him.

  "I'm sure you're more than capable, Julian. Much more." He leaned forward again, lowering his voice. "I had a customer in my shop today—one of the Aniona, such a difficult people to fit, especially with the asymmetric arms. It's one thing to have an odd number of arms, but the placement! A poor tailor's nightmare, I assure you! But that's not my point." The smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared, and Bashir tensed. "What my customer told me was that there's quite a lot of activity on the Cardassian side of the border—he usually brings his ship in through Cardassian space, it saves him time in the long run, always assuming the Guls don't confiscate his cargoes. He was quite worried, as you might imagine, didn't want to risk bringing in a cargo if he was just going to lose it in some attack. But what he was told, by a Gul with whom he's had some very profitable dealings, is that this activity, this massing of a fleet and all the troubles it's caused, hasn't a single thing to do with the Federation. Apparently there's a pirate loose on their side of the border, someone who's been something of a nuisance for quite a while now, and Gul Dukat has decided to put it down once and for all. However—"

  He paused, and Bashir thought he saw a look of unholy satisfaction flit across the Cardassian's face.

  "However," Garak continued smoothly, "Gul Dukat's efforts have been less than successful. My customer tells me that the day he cast off from the Sheraona Colony, everyone was talking about the pirate's escape. It seems that it hid in a sun's corona, and ambushed Gul Dukat's fleet. Several ships are said to have been badly damaged—Cardassian ships, I'm afraid—and the fleet has lost the pirate. But they're still looking, of course, and I understand that Gul Dukat is furious."

  I just bet he is, Bashir thought. His mind was working furiously, untangling the implications of the story. If it was true—and it could be, it would fit all the other facts they'd gathered, and even the Cardassians would have no reason to love the pirate—then DS9 had less to worry about than they had thought. Of course, that could be exactly what Gul Dukat wanted them to think. He took a deep swallow of his tea, barely tasting it, and then nearly choked on unexpected carbonation. Quark had been adjusting the replicators again . . . .

  Garak reached out solicitously, patted the younger man between the shoulder blades. "Are you all right, Julian? Yes, it is shocking news—but not, I think, precisely bad news."

  Bashir took a deep breath and recovered himself, inwardly cursing Quark, Garak, the pirate, and all the other things that were making his life impossibly difficult just at the moment. "No," he said, "I suppose not . . . ."

  "Though of course it does change everyone's calculations, doesn't it?" Garak went on, with bright, spurious sympathy. "Dear boy, what you're drinking! Do let me buy you something more to your taste."

  Bashir shook his head. "No, thanks," he said, and took another hasty swallow of the tea.

  "And someday," the Cardassian continued, with what sounded to Bashir like suddenly genuine concern, "you must come by my shop and let me dress you properly. It's a great shame that such a nicely built young man should be reduced to Starfleet uniform."

  "That's regulations," Bashir said, relieved to have such an innocuous answer for once, and Garak sighed.

  "Oh, I know. But you'd think they went out of their way to make humans look unattractive. Tell me, were the uniforms designed by a Vulcan?"

  "By a committee, I think," Bashir answered. "A long time ago."

  "That," Garak said darkly, "is fairly obvious."

  Bashir drained what was left of his tea in a single gulp. "Thank you very much for the drink, Garak, but I really must be going now."

  "Of course," Garak murmured. "And you're very welcome. I hope we can have another chat sometime when you're less—pressed."

  "Definitely," Bashir agreed. "Thank you, Garak."

  "Doctor," the Cardassian said.

  Bashir turned back, lifting his thin eyebrows in unspoken question.

  "The pirate ship is called Helios," Garak said. "And her captain is Demaree Kolovzon. Or so they say."

  "Do they," Bashir echoed blankly, and wished he could think of something more intelligent to say. "Thank you, Garak, that's very interesting." He turned away, heading for the door, but not before he heard the Cardassian's murmur.

  "Not at all . . . ."

  Once back out on the Promenade, Bashir paused for a moment, collecting his thoughts. It was mercifully quiet, after the noise of Quark's, and he was glad of the chance to pull himself together before he called Sisko. Not that he had any choice—even someone as inexperienced as he was could see that this was the sort of information that, true or false, should be brought at once to the commanding officer—but he wasn't looking forward to disturbing Sisko at home.

  * * *

  Sisko was still in Ops when his communicator sounded. He frowned for just an instant—he was already behind schedule on half a dozen routine matters, and he knew from bitter experience that a comm call at this hour meant falling at least another day or so behind—but then mastered himself and touched his insignia. "Sisko here."

  "It's Dr. Bashir, Commander."

  As if I wouldn't recognize that voice, Sisko thought. He said, "Go ahead, Doctor."

  "Sir, I've just—I wonder if I might have a word with you? In private?"

  "Is it important?" The moment the words were out of his mouth, Sisko regretted them: he would not have questioned any other of his officers that way. Fortunately, Bashir didn't seem to notice.

  "Yes, sir. I think it is."

  Sisko sighed, assessing the firm voice. "I'm still in Ops,
Doctor. Come on up."

  He was never sure if he'd heard an answering sigh of relief. "On my way," Bashir answered, and cut the connection.

  Bashir was as good as his word. He appeared in Sisko's doorway within minutes of signing off, tall and gangling, a look of almost comic perplexity on his improbably handsome face. Sisko eyed him without favor, but motioned him to the guest's chair.

  "Well, Doctor?"

  To his surprise, a faint, delicate color suffused Bashir's cheeks. "I've been approached—no, contacted, by Garak again," the doctor said, and Sisko looked down to hide his sudden grin. Garak enjoyed his little games, and his information was generally reliable enough to allow him to get away with it.

  "What did Garak have to say?" he asked.

  Bashir took a deep breath. "Even shorn of the irrelevant material, quite a lot, actually, sir. But I don't know how reliable it is." He outlined what Garak had told him, that Gul Dukat's pursuit of Helios was responsible for the rumors about a Cardassian military buildup, and that the Cardassian fleet had actually succeeded in cornering Helios briefly, before it broke away, leaving Gul Dukat with damaged ships and, though Bashir was careful to stress that this was his own guess, damaged pride. "The final thing Garak told me," he finished, "was the name of the pirate ship—and the captain's name. Demaree Kolovzon."

  "Well done, Doctor," Sisko said. And very well done, Garak, to get this to us so quickly—but is any of it true, I wonder? Or is it just what Gul Dukat wants us to think? He and Garak are old rivals, but when all's said and done, they're still both Cardassians. If it's a bluff Garak's effectiveness would be permanently destroyed—we'd never trust him again—but that would be a very small price to pay for destroying DS9. He sighed, shaking himself back to the present, and Bashir cleared his throat uncertainly.