“It is not our place to interfere.”
“Like hell. Julian’s my friend. O’Brien’s your friend. You delivered his baby!”
Quark blinked in something like shock. The bartender had an active imagination, but even he could not wrap his mind around the idea of Worf’s delivering a baby.
Dax continued. “We owe it to them to do whatever we can to bring them back together.”
Deciding that this was the point where he needed to reiterate his view, Quark said, “You’re wasting your time.”
Worf turned angrily on the Ferengi. “This is not your concern.”
“Hey, they’re my customers. And so are you,” he said to Dax, “and even you,” he added with a quick nod to Worf. Turning back to the Trill, he said, “Look, I think this is a waste of time. The commander here thinks this is a waste of time. Now, if the two of us agree on something, don’t you think it might have a bit of merit?”
Dax pursed her lips. “No. Excuse me.”
Quark and Worf watched her go. Silence hung between them for a moment.
“So,” Quark finally said, “you delivered Molly?” The Ferengi’s sensitive ears heard the growl build in Worf’s throat, probably before the Klingon was aware he’d done so. “Never mind—sure you don’t want more prune juice?”
Worf then also left the bar.
“Or not.”
Quark went back behind the bar, staring at the unused dart board. Maybe I’ll just take the thing down.
“I’m not sure what you expect me to do, Old Man. I can’t order them to be friends again.”
Dax sat in Benjamin Sisko’s office, watching the captain toss his baseball from hand to hand. She had been observing that particular set of gestures for years—it had gone from a method of burning off nervous energy to a habit that Sisko couldn’t, and didn’t care to, break.
“Well, why not?” At Sisko’s glower, Dax smiled. “I know, I know, I’m just frustrated. Worf and I have been trying to get them to open up about what happened in the Gamma Quadrant, but—”
Sisko almost dropped the ball. “Worf? How’d you get him to help out?”
Her smile widened. “He owes me one.”
“I don’t want to know,” Sisko said quickly. Dax was grateful. She had been able to play on Worf’s gratitude for saving the Klingon’s life during the search for the Sword of Kahless. However, the details of that search had of necessity been kept secret, even from Sisko.
“Anyhow, it’s not doing any good. They won’t talk about it.” Dax got up and started pacing across Sisko’s office. “And I can’t get any clue from their log reports to give me an idea.”
“You read the log reports?”
“Actually, I’d already read them—Julian’s theories on why Goran’agar wasn’t addicted to the white were fascinating reading—but this time I was looking at them to see what actually happened there. But the reports were—sparse.”
“You think they held back facts in their report?”
Sisko’s tone had hardened, the baseball now being clenched in his hand. He had temporarily stopped being her old friend Benjamin and gone back to being her commanding officer. Dax realized that she was now accusing two of her crewmates of falsifying a report. “No, nothing like that, just—” She sighed. “I don’t know—the context is missing. Some people file reports that are dry recitations of facts.” Chuckling, she said, “Remember the way you used to file every report to Curzon so spit-and-polish that he started asking you to provide a stimulant with the reports to keep from falling asleep?”
“I remember.” Sisko’s lips twitched in that almost-smile of his, and he started tossing the baseball again. “You told me that people would be reading these reports centuries from now, and you didn’t want them to think that all Starfleet officers were automatons.” In a passing impression of Curzon’s imperious tones, Sisko added, “ ‘Pretend it’s one of your father’s recipes, young Sisko, and put some spice into it!’ ”
Laughing, Dax said, “Exactly. Well, Curzon would’ve loved Julian’s reports. He’s always inserting philosophical asides and odd theories.”
“True.”
“But not this one. They crash-landed on Bopak III, Goran’agar asked Julian to try to find out why the planet cured him of the white dependence, Julian theorized that it wasn’t the planet, but that Goran’agar was born without the addiction, and then O’Brien engineered an escape.”
Sisko let out a long breath. “I’ve read the reports, too, Old Man, and—style notwithstanding—I didn’t see anything that’s a cause for concern.”
Dax shot him a look. “You didn’t?”
“I’ve worked with both of them for over three years now, and I know that they would never leave something out of an official report without a damn good reason, and that they wouldn’t do anything to harm Starfleet or this station.”
“So you’re saying you have no cause for professional concern.”
Getting up and walking around to the other side of the desk to face Dax, Sisko said, “That’s right. As for personal concerns—” he tossed the ball in the air toward Dax, who caught it unerringly “—that’s outside my purview as their commanding officer.”
Again, Dax sighed. Sisko’s implication—that it was outside the science officer’s purview as well—was, strictly speaking, true. And his comment about leaving something out of an official report hit closer to home than he even knew. Or maybe he does know. Benjamin’s gotten pretty good at keeping his cards close to the vest. Curzon taught him well.
Holding up the ball for him to take back, she said, “Point taken, Captain. Thanks for letting me vent.”
“My door is always open.” Sisko grinned, took the baseball back, and walked back around to his desk chair. “And Dax? I’m not telling you not to pursue this, either.”
Worf reveled in the feeling of the serpent worms wriggling down his gullet.
The transition to living and working on Deep Space 9 after almost eight years on the Enterprise was proving more difficult than Worf would have imagined. But those problems were mitigated by the presence of the Klingon restaurant. As much as the replicators on the Enterprise had been fine-tuned to provide decent enough Klingon fare, there was simply no substitute for live gagh.
When he was done with the meal, he flagged down Chef Kaga and ordered a rokeg blood pie for dessert, then took out a padd to read over the latest fuel consumption report from the Defiant while he waited.
“Commander, do you have a minute?”
Looking up, he saw Chief O’Brien. This surprised Worf, as O’Brien had—justifiably—been avoiding him for the past few days, probably by way of dissuading further questions about Bashir. If Worf were not so indebted to Dax for saving his and Kor’s lives on the Hur’q planet in the Gamma Quadrant, he would not have engaged in such tasteless behavior in the first place. The status of the chief’s friendship with the doctor was no more his concern than it was the Ferengi bartender’s.
“Of course, Chief. Please, sit down.”
O’Brien gingerly took the seat across from Worf. The chief’s nose was wrinkled in the manner that many humans’ did around Klingon food. Worf had never understood how a species with such inferior olfactory senses could be so averse to food that actually had a smell to it.
“I was wondering if I could ask a favor.” At Worf’s affirmative nod, O’Brien continued. “I’ve been thinking a lot about—about what happened. With Julian. In the Gamma Quadrant.”
Worf blinked. He had not expected this. “How is it that I may be of service regarding that?”
“When we crash-landed on Bopak III, we were immediately surrounded by a platoon of Jem’Hadar. They kept us alive, and were referring to us as ‘targets’—right up until Julian said he was a doctor. After that, they put us in a holding cell. We both figured they needed medical assistance. I told Julian not to help them. If we had any kind of power over them, we needed to use it.”
“Naturally.”
“The Jem’
Hadar First was named Goran’agar. He had kicked the addiction to that white drug of theirs, and he thought it was because of something on the planet. Julian and I pretended to help him while I worked out a way to escape, but another Jem’Hadar caught me at it.” He shuddered. “I thought they were gonna kill me there, but this Goran’agar was determined to get all his men to kick the white habit, and he knew Julian wouldn’t keep working if I was dead. Goran’agar was playing Julian, telling him what he wanted to hear. You know what he’s like—as soon as he gets a medical problem to sink his teeth into, he won’t let go until he’s solved it. It never occurred to him to think of what the consequences might be. I mean, he’s always been a little naïve, but this is the Jem’Hadar we’re talking about.”
“I assume you reminded him.”
O’Brien nodded. “But he insisted. He even ordered me to keep working at one point.”
When O’Brien’s pause went on for several seconds, Worf prompted, “What happened?”
“I had to get a component from the runabout, but I managed to escape using the transporter. While the Jem’Hadar were searching, I went to get Julian.” O’Brien bit his lip. “He wouldn’t come. He told me to go ahead and leave if I had to, but he was going to stay behind to try to see if Goran’agar’s condition could be duplicated. I knew that nothing I said was going to change his mind—he was gonna stay there. Never mind that the Jem’Hadar are the enemy, never mind that more Jem’Hadar might show up and try to kill them all, never mind that Goran’agar’s own men were as likely as not to turn on him.
“So I blew up his research.”
“You disobeyed a direct order.”
“I didn’t have a choice!” O’Brien said defensively, even though Worf was not accusing him of anything, merely stating a fact. “If he stayed behind—” He hesitated. “Of course, he also might’ve found a cure. And who knows, it might’ve been the best thing in the end—but we didn’t know! At the time I was so sure of myself, but now—” He regarded Worf with an almost pleading look in his eyes. “What would you have done in my place, Commander?”
Worf leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. “I would not have been in your place. I outrank Dr. Bashir.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“My point is, Chief, this is your story. I cannot act in it, only interpret it.” He paused. “In Klingon tradition, obedience is paramount. As a rule, one does not even question the order of a superior.”
“As a rule?”
Nodding, Worf said, “But—if a superior is acting in an irrational manner, Klingon Defense Force regulations require a challenge to remove that superior rather than obey an order from such a warrior. Do you feel that the doctor was acting irrationally? He was, after all, consorting with the enemy. Aiding them.”
“Well, I don’t know that I’d go that far.”
“But you did what you felt was right.”
“Yes.”
Kaga came by then with the blood pie. After he set it down, he asked O’Brien if he wanted anything. “The taknar gizzards are fresh today!”
Again, the chief’s nose wrinkled. “No, thanks, I’m not staying.”
“As you wish.” Kaga bowed and took his leave.
Worf took a bite, which was the best he’d had since the last time he’d had his human foster mother’s pie. “If the doctor was consorting with the enemy, then your actions were proper, and you were true to yourself. In the end that is all we can aspire to.”
“Well, he was and he wasn’t.” At Worf’s questioning glance, O’Brien added, “I mean, he’s a doctor. To him, they weren’t Jem’Hadar, they were patients. He was trying to cure them. That’s what he does.”
“Then he was true to himself. In which case, neither of you has anything to be ashamed of.”
“Maybe.” O’Brien got up. “I’ll leave you to your dessert, sir. Thanks for your help.”
“You are welcome,” Worf said, though based on the fact that O’Brien looked as perturbed when he exited as he had when he came in, the Klingon doubted that he truly provided a service.
On the other hand, perhaps now Dax would leave him alone on the subject ...
* * *
“Mind if I join you?”
Dax turned around to see Bashir catching up to her on the Promenade. “I was just heading to the replimat to get a raktajino. And of course you can join me. I even promise not to say a word about Chief O’Brien.”
At that, Bashir chuckled, which Dax took as a good sign. She’d asked the occasional probing question over the past few days, with even less luck than she had the first time in Quark’s, to the point where the doctor seemed to be avoiding her company.
“Actually, the chief is what I wanted to talk about.”
They each ordered from the replicators—Dax her Klingon coffee, Bashir a mug of chamomile tea, claiming that his stomach was a bit upset—and found a two-person table.
After an awkward pause, Bashir finally started to speak. “You’ve read the reports we wrote about what happened on Bopak III?”
Dax nodded.
“What we didn’t include in the report was what happened between Miles and myself.” Bashir hesitated, drank some of his tea, then proceeded to tell Dax about the Rubicon crash landing, their capture by First Goran’agar, and Bashir’s ever-more-futile attempts to find out what in the planet’s atmosphere led to that one Jem’Hadar’s ability to produce the health-stabilizing enzyme that others of his kind could obtain only from ketracel-white. “Miles didn’t want to have anything to do with it. He said we shouldn’t help them under any circumstances.” Bashir blew out a breath. “Actually, his exact words were, ‘We do not help them, and that’s the end of it.’ ”
At that, Dax had to put down her raktajino or risk spluttering it. “He said that?”
Bashir gazed at Dax with his wide eyes. “I actually had to give him an order to cooperate. It was an odd feeling, I can assure you.”
“You were the ranking officer, Julian. What I can’t believe is that you had to do it in the first place. Chief O’Brien had no authority to make a statement like that.” Even if he had a point, she thought, but didn’t say aloud. O’Brien’s concerns were legitimate, though Bashir’s enthusiasm also wasn’t without cause.
“I sent him to the Rubicon to retrieve a part, but he used the transporter to escape. The Jem’Hadar went off to chase him down, and he doubled back to get me. He wanted to leave—but I couldn’t. I told him to go ahead and take the runabout, but I was staying behind. I couldn’t just abandon the Jem’Hadar. Leaving aside any other considerations, they only had a limited supply of white left. If I didn’t find a cure soon, they were all going to die.”
Dax knew where this was going. She knew both men well enough to know that neither was likely to back down in these circumstances. “He destroyed your research?”
“Yes,” Bashir said, surprised. “He said I could bring him up on charges later, but now we had to leave. There was nothing keeping me there now.” Bashir finished off his tea. “It was—odd. I mean, he’s the chief. He’s been in Starfleet for ages. And he’s my friend. I thought he had more respect for me than that. But to so utterly dismiss my orders, my opinion—me—like that ... By just saying I could bring him up on charges obviously meant that whether I did or not was irrelevant. That I was irrelevant. And that he was unrepentant.” He shook his head. “That’s ultimately why I didn’t—bring charges, I mean. What would be the point?”
“I can’t believe he did that,” Dax said, though truthfully, she had no trouble believing it. “He had no business even questioning your orders like that—and to out-and-out ignore your authority, it’s just—” She slammed her mug down. “It’s not like he doesn’t know you. I mean, there are some noncoms who think that officers are all useless, but I thought O’Brien had more sense than that—especially regarding you. Honestly, Julian, I think you should bring him up on charges. I know it’s been a few weeks, but I think Benjamin will understand. You—”
Bashir put a hand on Dax’s wrist. “Jadzia—”
About time, Dax thought. “What?”
“I don’t think Miles would have done what he did without good reason. If he didn’t think it through. If he didn’t—didn’t believe in what he was doing.”
“Did you think through what you were doing?”
Bashir straightened, and only then did Dax realize that, uncharacteristically, the doctor had been slouching throughout the conversation. “Of course! I had a chance to cure them! I could hardly turn my back!”
“Have you told the chief that?”
Whatever puppeteer returned Bashir’s posture then clipped the strings, and he slouched again.
They sat in silence for several seconds before Bashir got up, went to the replicator, and ordered another tea.
But instead of returning to the table, he wandered off toward the infirmary.
Letting out a growl worthy of Worf, Dax finished off her raktajino. This is worse than I thought.
When Miles O’Brien entered Garak’s tailor shop, he realized with a start that it was the first time he had set foot in the place since it blew up a year ago. O’Brien had never trusted Cardassians—he’d seen too much during his time on the Rutledge—and Garak was especially untrustworthy. However, the shop’s door wouldn’t close, which was something of a security concern, so O’Brien—at the request of both Garak and Odo—went to fix the problem.
Garak spoke amiably when O’Brien arrived with his toolkit.
“Thank you for coming, Chief. While I am normally loath to take you away from what must be more pressing duties, I fear that my shop would be far too tempting a target for vandals if the door were left wide open at any time other than normal business hours.”
“No problem.” He knelt down and pried the cover off the door control panel. There were no customers in the shop at the moment, which disheartened O’Brien. It meant he was in serious danger of being the only object of Garak’s seemingly endless capacity for conversation. There were people O’Brien could talk to while working—Dax, Worf, most of the Defiant engineering staff, the captain—but Garak was most assuredly not one of them.
STAR TREK: DS9 - Prophecy and Change Page 12
