Sure enough, the tailor kept talking. “It’s good to see such dedication. I freely admit that there is much about your Federation that I disapprove of, but the work ethic among you of Starfleet is quite unparalleled. I’d say it’s worthy of a Cardassian—which I suppose doesn’t mean as much to you as it does to me, but still, it comes from the heart.”
“I’m sure it does,” O’Brien said for lack of any better rejoinder.
“And, of course, you could have passed this on to one of your staff—especially given your antipathy toward me.”
O’Brien gritted his teeth as he searched for a programming cause for the door to be broken, but the computer functions were all fine.
Garak obviously noted O’Brien’s displeasure, as he added, “Now then, Chief, don’t try to hide it. I would be a poor shop owner if I did not have a certain capacity for observation, and even the meanest intelligence can see that you don’t like me. I’m sure you have your reasons, especially given your past history with my people, and I respect that. I respect even more your willingness to put that aside to help me out of my little difficulty.”
Does he ever shut up? O’Brien wondered as he checked the physical mechanism to see if it was jammed in some way. And who is he fooling, anyhow? It’s not like his past as an Obsidian Order agent is much of a secret anymore—if it ever was ...
“Then again, you seem to have a great deal more free time of late, what with your lovely wife and child spending most of their time on Bajor and you and Dr. Bashir having ended your friendship.”
That tears it. O’Brien switched off his magnospanner, stood up, and faced the Cardassian. “Look, I’ll fix your door for you, Garak—and I’ll also thank you to stay out of my private life.”
Looking shocked at O’Brien’s reaction, Garak held up his hands, and his mouth formed an O. “My apologies, Chief. Believe me, offending you was the last thing I intended.”
“Good.” He knelt back down and switched the magnospanner back on. Worf is one thing—he’s a friend. But he saw no reason to let this Cardassian pseudo-spy stick his neck in, as it were.
“Besides, it was a foregone conclusion in any case.”
A fervent desire for Garak to shut up warred with curiosity as to what he meant by that last statement within O’Brien’s mind. Against his better judgment, the latter prevailed. “What was?”
“You and the good doctor. The amazing thing is that you’ve been able to stand being in each other’s company at all. After all, you’re an enlisted man, an engineer, a family man. Dr. Bashir is an officer and a gentleman, as you humans put it, with no family to speak of. You don’t have the same interests, except for a few silly games. Indeed, your sojourn to the Gamma Quadrant quite admirably displayed just how little you two have in common. It was wise of you to go your separate ways. I doubt that any other outcome was even possible.”
Before O’Brien could even consider formulating a response to this, two things happened: A Lissepian walked in, and O’Brien noted that two isolinear rods were in the wrong place. While Garak asked how he could help the Lissepian, O’Brien put the rods in their proper slots, and then closed the door.
“Ah!” Garak said. “Excuse me a moment,” he added to the Lissepian, who bowed by way of affirmation. “Thank you, Chief. I am most grateful.”
Opening the door once again, O’Brien said, “I’d watch out for those vandals you mentioned. Someone switched a couple of the isolinear rods—it caused the commands to reroute. Any time the computer received an instruction to close the door, it was read as a request to open it.”
“I will maintain vigilance, as you suggest. Again, Chief, my thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.” Please don’t mention it. Without another word, he turned his back on the meddlesome tailor and headed to his quarters to change. He had a date with a holosuite.
* * *
An hour later, he was dressed in the one-piece black outfit with the blue-and-yellow highlights that he wore when he went kayaking. The suit kept him warm and dry, leaving only his head exposed. As he headed up the stairs to the second level of Quark’s where the holosuites were housed, the bartender flagged him down. “Chief, there’s been a slight change in plan—you’re in Holosuite Three. Rom has to do some kind of maintenance thing or other on number two.”
“Whatever,” O’Brien said. He didn’t care which holosuite they put him in, so long as it had a kayak and a facsimile of the Colorado River in it. Working his way down the Colorado, with nothing to focus on but his arms’ movements with the oar, was just what he needed right now. He’d spent most of the last week cleaning up the mess Rom made of the Defiant when the aftermath of the True Way’s assassination attempt on the station senior staff necessitated hooking the warship’s transporter to the holosuites. Between that and his usual duties, he’d been going full tilt.
Now, though, he could lose himself in the rhythm of kayaking. Left stroke, right stroke, left stroke, right stroke. No need to figure out why the door is broken, or which Cardassian subsystem still, after over three years, wouldn’t interface properly with a Federation processor, or what Rom was thinking when he wired the Defiant transporter, or why everyone and her bloody sister seemed concerned with whether or not he and Julian were talking to each other.
If I can just get through this without hurting my shoulder again ...
Just as he had that thought, he came upon a sharp bend. O’Brien sliced his oar through the water on his left twice to get the kayak to turn, but he didn’t move fast enough. The kayak started to capsize.
Bloody hell. Water filled his mouth, nose, and ears as he found himself unceremoniously dunked into the river. Pinwheeling his arms and legs in an attempt to right himself, he tried to swim for shore, but the current took control of him. If I can just get my head above water, he thought frantically, I can get the computer to shut this damn thing off.
Pain shot through his left shoulder as it collided with something heavy, just as his eyes cleared. Realizing that he was at the shore, he clambered forward, hoping that it would take him away from the river and not back into it.
Coughing water, he managed to crabwalk his way out of the river, his kayak and oars lost to the current. But they’re not real, anyhow.
The pain in his shoulder lessened a bit. If I’m lucky, it’s just wrenched a bit, and I won’t have to see—
Feet.
O’Brien coughed some more, and blinked the water out of his eyes, but, as he lay there on the shore of the Colorado River, he definitely saw two feet. Human feet, shod in what looked to be leather shoes—too well polished for someone standing on the shores of a river, truth be known. Above them were immaculately tailored ankle cuffs.
He looked up.
Clad in an old-fashioned tuxedo and holding some kind of projectile weapon was Julian Bashir, who asked, “What are you doing here?”
O’Brien’s attempt to answer resulted in more coughing, as some of the water was still lodged in his throat. Bashir kindly helped him up and slapped him on the back in an attempt to get him to cough up the remaining water.
“How did you wind up kayaking on the French Riviera, Chief? I thought you preferred the Colorado.”
“French—this is the Colorado!” Then O’Brien looked up and saw the resort just a few meters away. He shook his head. “Rom.”
“Probably melded the programs by mistake. Or Quark misassigned the holosuites.”
“Or both.”
O’Brien stared at Bashir for a moment.
“Look, Julian—”
“Chief, I—”
An awkward pause followed.
“You first, Chief.”
“No, Julian, it’s all right, you go first.”
“Please, I insist.” Then Bashir let loose with that idiotic grin of his—the one that made O’Brien want to punch him the first time he saw it. “Age before beauty.”
The chief decided to just give in and go first. But seeing that damn grin made the apology he was going
to utter catch in his throat, as he found himself remembering all of the doctor’s most annoying qualities all at once. “You know, it’s funny, when we first met—I really really hated you.”
Bashir blinked. “I knew you didn’t care much for me—”
Snorting, O’Brien said, “If you did know, you did a lousy job of showin’ it. You were pretentious, annoying, irritating, self-centered.” He bared his teeth—it wasn’t really a smile. “You, Julian Bashir, are a ponce.” The not-a-smile waned. “And yet, I remember you tellin’ me one time that you admired me and respected me, and for the life of me, I couldn’t understand why. I mean, what in God’s name would you look up at me for? I’m just a regular engineer going to work every day. You, you’re a doctor, top of your class, you’re good-looking, athletic. You beat Vulcans at racquetball. You put together alien comm systems with just a dying engineer to give you half-baked instructions. You save lives. I just put machinery together. What the hell do you see in me to respect?”
Shaking his head, Bashir said, “Don’t you see, Miles—that’s it.”
“What’s it?”
“You’re a regular engineer going to work every day. Yes, I’ve done all that you say. All my life, I’ve always known the things I wanted, and whatever they were, I got them—easily. Things have always come easily to me. Yet there you were, happy with your family, your life, your career—much happier than I’ve ever been able to be. I found true love in medical school, and I gave it up for my career. You found true love on the Enterprise and made it work with your career. Not only that, but look at what you’ve done: fighting the Cardassians, the Borg, the Romulans, yet all the while you’re still—you. Still happy, still content, still—” Again, he let that damn grin loose. “Still the chief. You don’t know how much I envy you, Miles. Because with all I’ve accomplished, it can’t even begin to compare to what you have.”
Remembering Garak’s words, O’Brien said, “I guess what we have in common is that we don’t have anything in common.”
“Perhaps.” Bashir started to pace around the rocky shore. “And that’s what made Bopak III hurt so much.”
Here it comes.
“Yes, I admire you, respect you, as much or more than anyone else on the station. That’s why what you did hurt so much. And it also made me second-guess myself.”
O’Brien put a hand on Bashir’s shoulder. “You’ve got nothing to second-guess, Julian.”
“Don’t I? You were right, about everything. Leaving aside every other possibility, I was never going to figure out a way to work around centuries of genetic engineering with one makeshift laboratory in the twenty-six hours I had left before the platoon’s white ran out. If we stayed behind, we would have died, whether or not I found any kind of cure.”
“Maybe—but you swore an oath to save lives. To do no harm. And I took an oath as well, to obey my superiors. Even though I disagreed with you, I never should have acted the way I did. I should’ve raised my objections, not lectured you like you were some kind of Academy cadet. And if you still insisted on helping Goran’agar, then it was my duty to do as you said, not undermine you like that.”
Bashir turned to face O’Brien. “Remember what you said after Goran’agar refused to come with us?”
“I’m not sure,” O’Brien said. In fact, he was fairly sure he knew what the doctor was referring to, but if he was wrong, he did not think it would be politic to remind Bashir of it.
“You said, ‘He’s their commander—they trusted him.’ I was your commander, and you didn’t trust me.”
O’Brien found he couldn’t look Bashir in the eyes. “No, I didn’t. I guess—” He hesitated, then chuckled. “I guess I was still thinking of you as a ponce.”
Bashir smirked. “Well, I do make a good one.” He looked down. “Especially in this outfit.”
“I’m sorry, Julian.” The words that wouldn’t come before came tumbling out of O’Brien’s mouth now. “I shouldn’t have thought so little of you to disobey you so easily.” Now he did look the doctor in the eyes. “It won’t happen again—sir.”
Bashir returned the gaze for several seconds, then that grin came out again. Somehow, though, O’Brien didn’t find it irritating this time. “Don’t call me ‘sir’—I work for a living.”
The chief snorted. “Nice try, Lieutenant.”
“Come on,” Bashir said, “why don’t we let Quark know that the holosuite’s not working—and then see if the dart board’s free.”
The dart board rang out with the sound of a bull’s-eye.
Quark thought, Someday, someone’s going to have to explain to me what a “bull” is, and what its eye has to do with this game.
The sound was certainly not unwelcome. It mixed in nicely with the cries of “Dabo!” from the wheels, the hum of conversation from the tables, and the wails of anguish from the two Tellarites Jake Sisko was hustling at the dom-jot table.
Of course, the visuals were a little bizarre, even by Quark’s high standards. Usually when Bashir and O’Brien played their dart game, they were in uniform. Now, however, O’Brien was wearing that unfortunate one-piece thing that he always wore when he kayaked, and Bashir was dressed in that outfit Garak referred to as a tuck-see-doh. Quark was considering taking bets on which one of them looked more foolish, especially since it was impossible to choose between them.
They were also laughing like old friends.
At the end of the bar, Dax sat next to Morn, nursing an attira punch and grinning ear to ear. “Well,” Quark said, approaching her, “I haven’t seen you looking this happy since the last time you fleeced me at the tongo wheel.”
“Oh, I’m happier than that. Look at them.”
“Do I have to? Look at them, I mean.”
“Fine, don’t.” Dax laughed. “Just take their money.”
Grinning, Quark said, “That I’m glad to do.”
Dax then regarded him with those beautiful eyes. “Thanks, Quark. I owe you one.”
“Oh, you owe me more than one. You know how long it took Rom to rewire the holosuites so those two would each think they Were in the right program?”
“Knowing Rom, about fifteen minutes. Nice try, Quark. I owe you one.”
Quark shrugged. “Can’t blame a Ferengi for trying. I’ll settle for a rematch of that tongo game. Tonight, after closing.”
“You’re on.”
“Good. Now, if you’ll excuse me, both of our dart players have empty glasses. I need to rectify this appalling situation.” He then grabbed a tray and approached the pair just as Bashir’s dart hit very close to the middle. “Gentlemen,” Quark said. “Who’s winning?”
Bashir looked at O’Brien. O’Brien looked at Bashir. Each then pointed to the other and said, “He is.” Then they started laughing.
On the other hand, maybe those two have had enough. After a moment: Nah. “Can I refill your drinks?”
“Definitely,” Bashir said.
“And keep ’em comin’,” O’Brien added.
Quark smiled. “Your wish is my command.”
And for the rest of the evening, O’Brien and Bashir’s dart board remained used.
... Loved I Not Honor More
Christopher L. Bennett
Historian’s note: This story is set during the fifth-season episode “Soldiers of the Empire.”
Christopher L. Bennett
At the age of five and a half, Christopher L. Bennett saw his first episode of Star Trek, believing it to be a show about a strange airplane that only flew at night. As he continued watching, he discovered what those points of light in the sky really were. This awakened a lifelong fascination with space, science and speculative fiction. He often made up Trek-universe stories set a century after Kirk’s adventures (an idea years ahead of its time), but soon shifted to creating his own original universe. He eventually realized he did this well enough to make a career out of it. Years of rejections failed to disabuse him of this arrogant notion, and the magazine Analog Science Fiction
and Fact fed the delusion by publishing his controversial novelette “Aggravated Vehicular Genocide” in November 1998 and “Among the Wild Cybers of Cybele” in December 2000.
“... Loved I Not Honor More” is Christopher’s second work of professional Trek fiction, following the eBook Star Trek: S.C.E. #29: Aftermath, published in July 2003. At this rate, he may never recover from his delusions.
The universe was finally starting to make sense again.
Quark was back in business—licensed Ferengi business, to be precise. His yearlong exile from entrepreneurial civilization was over, thanks to his dogged perseverance, his unwavering faith in the Rules of Acquisition, and his shrewd negotiating acumen. Well, that and the fact that his mother was sleeping with the Grand Nagus, but he wasn’t about to mention that to anyone; not only was it a scandalous state secret, but it wasn’t an image he wanted to think about if he could avoid it. To sweeten the deal, that officious FCA greeworm Brunt had been put in his place (namely the unemployment line), Quark now had the ear of the nagus himself (well, Moogie did, but there was another image to be avoided), and to top it all off, his beloved Marauder Mo action figures, kept in storage by Moogie all these years, now stood proudly displayed in his quarters here on DS9. Yes, Quark thought as he strode through the Promenade this fine morning, life is good.
And the stern, suspicious look on Odo’s face was a special bonus. As he walked past the security office, Quark could see it in the constable’s simulated eyes—he was worried. Odo had held an edge in their ongoing game for a time, but now Quark was no longer handicapped. Already he was on the prowl like never before, making new deals, seizing opportunities, weaving his old Ferengi connections together with the new ones he’d made during his exile—and capitalizing on the insider information he’d gained during his fleeting career as the Nagus’s financial secretary. In the few days since getting his license back, Quark had already erupted onto the business scene as a force to be reckoned with, determined to make up for lost time, with interest. And Odo could tell the momentum had shifted in Quark’s favor.
STAR TREK: DS9 - Prophecy and Change Page 13
