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dark_sinestra) wrote2010-06-14 10:25 pm
- astraea,
- bajor,
- bajoran occupation,
- cardassia,
- cardassian,
- cardassians,
- dax,
- deep space nine,
- doctor bashir,
- doctor julian bashir,
- dr. bashir,
- dr. julian bashir,
- ds9,
- dukat,
- elim garak,
- enabran tain,
- fanfic,
- fic,
- garak,
- garak/bashir,
- garak/julian,
- gul dukat,
- jadzia dax,
- jake sisko,
- leeta,
- mila,
- nog,
- occupation,
- odo,
- quark,
- relationship,
- slash,
- star trek,
- tain,
- the oralian way,
- tolan,
- tolan garak,
- tora ziyal,
- ziyal
The Circle in the Spiral, Part III--Conclusion
Garak
The Infirmary
Garak watched Mila blink and peer at the screen, pulling her shawl closer around her shoulders. “Elim?” she asked. “What is it? Do you have any idea what time it is here?”
“I'm sorry,” he said. “I know it's late, or rather...early. I need to ask you something.”
“I hear nothing from you since we lost your father, and suddenly you call me? Still the same selfish boy,” she scolded. “Well, go on then. I'm awake now. I may as well hear this.”
“Who is Astraea?” he asked.
Her crystalline blue eyes widened slightly. She hid the reaction well, just not well enough. “I don't know what you're talking about,” she snapped.
“Yes, you do,” he said. “You need to tell me.”
“Need to tell you, do I?” she asked, narrowing her eyes and drawing herself straighter. “I don't think so.” He saw her hand reaching toward the control to sever the connection.
“Mother, please!” he said, holding her gaze with an intensity of emotion he rarely displayed. “I have to know. Who is this person, and what does she have to do with Father?”
“Nothing,” she said, frowning. “Nothing whatsoever to do with Tain.”
“You know who I mean,” he said. “You know what I'm talking about, more than I do.”
“Some things are best left dead and buried, Elim,” she said softly. “Why are you bringing all of this up? Don't you know it's hurtful?”
“Then at least tell me I'm not going insane,” he demanded, holding his control by a thread.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“I saw him. Tolan, your brother. Here.”
She stared at him long and hard. “This had better not be another one of your deceitful tricks. I'll never forgive you if it is.”
“Mother, do I look like I'm lying?” he fixed her with a glassy stare. “I saw him, as plainly as I'm seeing you now. He said, 'Through Astraea much is possible'. What does it mean? What's happening to me?”
She sighed, and it seemed as though some of the strength and liveliness drained right out of her along with the breath. “Have you been handling that recitation mask he gave you?” she asked.
“No. I haven't touched it since the day he gave it to me on his deathbed,” he said.
“Don't lie to me now,” she cautioned.
“I'm not lying,” he said evenly. “I haven't touched it. Why would I? The Way is dead, and I have no interest in superstitions.”
She husked a dry sort of laugh. “Apparently, some 'superstitions' have an interest in you.”
“This is funny to you?” he demanded, feeling a flare of anger.
“No,” she said. “No, if you're telling me the truth and not playing some elaborate game, it's not funny. I want you to listen closely to me. I'm only going to say all of this once. Repetition of such things over subspace, even supposedly secure channels, is just asking for trouble. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” he said, nodding. “I understand. Thank you.”
“Don't thank me yet,” she said dryly. “I don't think you're going to like any of this.”
He was still seated in front of the screen with the Starfleet logo, his hand resting against the panel, when Julian returned to the room. He wished that he could have touched her hand, just once. It had been so long, longer yet since he had truly felt like her son, until now. He crammed his conflicting emotions back inside, the fit imperfect so soon after his uncorking. When he turned to face his doctor, his friend, it was the bland face of the tailor he wore.
“All right,” Julian said. “I allowed you the transmission. Now tell me what's going on. What happened to you?”
“A vision of the sacred guide,” he said hollowly.
“What?” Julian asked, drawing closer, his brow furrowed.
“Believe me. I'm as skeptical as you are,” he said, “but I'm afraid I've run short of explanations that make sense. Astraea, the sacred guide of Oralius. Apparently, my people haven't always needed orbs to have visions. According to my source, there are many accounts of others who have had experiences similar to mine.”
Julian put his hand on his shoulder. “Garak, if we don't get your glutamate production under control, you're going to be dead within three days. What you're telling me isn't helping me. It's scaring me.”
“That makes two of us,” he said with a soft sigh. “Because according to my source, the only way to stop these visions is to submit to them.”
“How reliable is your source?” he asked.
“I would trust this person with my life,” he said, and essentially, that was exactly what he was doing. “I need to go back to my cell and be left alone, and I need you to do me one more favor.”
“You're asking me to take a great deal on faith I don't have,” the doctor said grimly.
“I don't have it, either, Doctor. Nonetheless, it's what I need to do. Will you bring me a locked box? It's under a pile of old, folded clothing at the back of my closet.”
“What's in it?” he asked suspiciously.
Smart man, Garak thought with satisfaction. “A mask,” he said.
“That's it? Just a mask? It's not some sort of mechanized device or weapon?” he pressed.
“Just a mask,” he answered. “You're welcome to scan the box before you deliver it to me. Let Odo scan it, too, if he must.”
“And then what?” Julian asked, clearly worried.
Garak shook his head and shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine,” he said. “Maybe nothing. Maybe my brain chemistry settles down. Your nurse is good, Julian, and he's Bajoran. He's had access to their medical files on people who have had orb experiences. If there was anything in there that could help me, he would've found it by now. I'm not responding to medication, and I promise you, I've been taking it without so much as a peep of protest. What's the worst that can happen? You need a night to fully catch up on my case anyway. Let me go back to the cell, and let me have the box. That's all I'm asking.”
Julian nodded, hesitant to agree. “You have one night, and vision or not, I'm hauling you back in here for more aggressive treatment. I would very much appreciate it if you don't fight me about this.”
Garak smiled faintly. “Believe me. You and I have the same goal. I don't have a death wish.” He stood and took a closer look at the man. Something was off. He couldn't tell exactly what, yet he knew him well enough to know the signs. “I thought you weren't due back to work until tomorrow morning,” he said mildly.
“I'm so well rested, I couldn't resist,” the doctor replied glibly.
Beautiful liar, Garak thought. He decided not to press it. He needed to get back to his cell. Although he dreaded what might happen, he was more worried about what would happen if he didn't. “I don't know what they've done with my clothes,” he said.
“I'll find them,” Julian said.
He felt foolish, sitting on his bunk with his heart racing while staring at a locked box. He knew what was inside it. He had put it there himself many years ago and never touched it since. Why didn't you just get rid of it? he wondered. It had traveled with him everywhere he went, from assignment to assignment, to Romulus where he betrayed dead Tolan's faith in him, to this place, sterile exile that could hardly be further from the life that surrounded him in his childhood.
His hand trembled slightly as he reached to press his thumb across the print pad and key in his code. The lid of the box lifted with a soft shift of air. Garak took it between both hands and slowly swung it back on its hinges. The recitation mask lay on a drab piece of cloth he had swiped from Tain's house the day Tolan died, its empty sockets confronting him with mystery and eliciting atavistic fear. He had never noticed it before, never had reason to notice, but something about the mask's face wasn't fully Cardassian. Were there hints of ridges at the nose? His fingers reached to brush it before his reason could stop him.
Nothing happened, and he relaxed slightly. Were you really expecting to be thrown back into a vision the moment you touched it? He felt disgusted with himself for being so fearful. Carefully, he lifted it from the box and turned it over in his hands. He traced the inner ridge patterns with his fingertips, like the fossilized remains of ancient sea creatures he had occasionally found in Cardassia's badlands. Did you make this? he silently asked the dead and received no reply.
No longer afraid, he wanted answers. Lifting the mask, he settled it upon his own face. It was an imperfect fit but not so off that it didn't stay when he drew his hands away. One of the reasons it had always been so easy for him to pass as Tolan's son was because he took more after the Garak side of the family than the Tain. He regarded his cell from the reduced field of vision through the eye holes, expecting revelation, something. Anything. “I'm here,” he said aloud, feeling testy. “You got my attention. You've even got me wearing this ridiculous mask. The least you can do is to show yourself.”
Minutes passed with his face feeling damp from his own breath trapped behind the fire hardened wood. He plucked the mask from his face and turned it to face him, holding it up to eye level. “Did you hear me?” he asked. “I said I'm here, and I'm listening.”
“Sounds like a bunch of talking to me,” Tolan's voice came from behind him.
He froze. The fear was back. “You're not Tolan Garak,” he said with slow deliberation.
“Are you Elim Garak?” the same voice asked.
“If you really were Tolan, you'd know the answer to that,” he said. He felt the insect leg sensation of disquiet over his scales at having someone to his back.
“You misunderstood the question.”
He turned slowly, afraid of what he might see, more afraid that he'd see nothing at all and discover that now he was just hearing voices. A voice, to be more precise. Tolan stood leaned against the far wall of the cell with his arms folded loosely across his chest. He looked the way Garak remembered him from childhood, strong and hale, his hair iron gray and his face weathered from years laboring beneath the pitiless Cardassian sun. His blue eyes, twins to Garak's own, held a wry light. “Since when did you become philosophical?” Garak asked, trying his best to keep his internal tremor out of his voice.
“Did you know I was an Oralian before I gave you that mask?” the gardener asked pragmatically.
“No,” Garak said, shaking his head. He couldn't believe he was having this conversation at all.
“Then maybe there are other things you didn't know about me,” he said.
Garak sighed. “I still don't believe you're my uncle.” The figure of Tolan underwent several rapid transformations, face after face, body after body, male and female, young and old, fit, emaciated, and many in between, all of them Cardassians. “Stop it!” Garak said, not liking the high note in his own voice. He felt his stomach crawling and thinking about rejecting the dinner he ate about an hour ago.
“I'm making a point, not trying to scare you,” the figure, now all Tolan again, said. “I'm a gardener. Planting seeds is what I do.”
“Seeds of what?” Garak demanded. “Madness? Good job! I'm halfway there. What's to be the coup de grace? Do you intend to turn into Tain and berate me for being an idiot?”
Tolan pushed away from the wall and approached. Garak stood quickly from his bunk, muscles taut, prepared for anything at all, or so he thought. The man reached to him and settled broad, strong hands to his shoulders. He had felt that touch fewer times than he would have liked in his life. Tolan had never been the most demonstrative of parents, his affection and his approval shown in more subtle ways. This unexpected touch was benediction to hurts he hadn't even been aware he carried. He briefly closed his eyes. “You always were a smart boy,” Tolan said. “Sometimes too smart for your own good. You're not going to grasp this by staying in your head. You're right. I'm not Tolan Garak.”
Before Garak could think to ask him who he was, he found himself staring into his own features. He promptly blacked out. He awoke to an almost identical repeat of his first awakening in his cell, only this time it was Julian with the tricorder and only Odo representing security. “What happened?” he asked. “What did you see on the security feed?”
Odo shook his head, perplexed. “Not much. You examined the mask. You put it on, took it off. Then you froze for a little while, just sitting there. When you slid to the floor, I summoned the doctor.”
“So it's all in my head,” Garak said, frustrated.
“Not necessarily,” Julian said. “The times that Captain Sisko has been exposed to the wormhole aliens he has also had readings like this. I'm not saying that it's a clear certainty, but there is a distinct possibility that you're receiving some sort of visitation. Your glutamate levels are back to normal. Other than slight elevation in some of your neuropeptides and the ongoing problems we've had with your cortisol, there's no sign that anything untoward happened to you at all. What did you see?”
Instead of answering, he looked to Odo. “May I view the security feed?” he asked.
Odo glanced at Julian. He nodded, frowning at Garak but moving to help him up. The three of them went into the security office and stood around Odo's desk. He triggered a reversal of the feed to the proper time stamp. In reverse, Garak could see that things were pretty much exactly as Odo described. However, when he tried to get the loop to play back, nothing but static met them. “That's odd,” Odo said. Garak watched him try to clean it up to no avail. “It was here. We all saw it in reverse,” he added, looking at Garak and Julian. They both nodded.
“I'll have Dax do an analysis on any odd energy readings,” Julian said. “I want to do some blood work on you tonight, Garak. Whatever is going on, I intend to get to the bottom of it.”
Although he had no doubt the doctor intended to try, he had considerable doubt about the results of any such tests. On the way to the infirmary, he thought about the vision, dissecting it in his mind. Strangely, he now believed that whatever or whoever it may have been didn't mean him harm. Had it, it could have simply sent his glutamate levels into critical overload and killed him on the spot. The disruption to the security feed had him convinced there was more at play here than implant scars or a mind trying to crack in captivity. Was that the point of it? To convince him it was real?
Why Tolan and not Tain? Was it because of Tolan's Oralian beliefs, or was it because of his own feelings about the man? It said it was trying to make a point, all those shifting faces. “Garak? Garak!” Julian's voice drew him out of his thoughts.
“I'm sorry,” he said. “I'm with you. I was just thinking.”
“Why don't you want to tell me what you saw?” he asked, getting him to sit on an exam table for him.
“Because it's personal,” he answered. He wished that he would just shut up and let him think. He felt that he was on the cusp of grasping something, if only he'd be given the time for it. Already, details of the vision were blurring, something he wasn't accustomed to. Trying to grasp it was like trying to hold water in a tight fist. The harder he thought, the quicker it dissipated. You're not going to grasp this by staying in your head. Then how was he to understand it?
Julian had turned away, fiddling with something on a counter top. It occurred to him that what he said may have hurt him. He hadn't meant it that way, yet he was disinclined to take it back. It would only lead to more questions. He allowed him to take his blood. The doctor finished the rest of his scans and rubbed at his face. “I'm not finding anything else unusual. Medically, I don't have an easy answer for you, and although I'd like to spend a great deal more time on this, I've got a burn conference coming up in less than a week. Until Starfleet sees fit to assign us more doctors, I'm having to turn this back over to Frendel. I'm really sorry.”
“Do I look concerned?” Garak asked.
“You ought to,” Julian retorted. “You were days away from dying. Now you suddenly aren't, but I have no explanation for it. That means an hour from now, two days, two weeks, who knows? You could be right back in the same position all over again, and without me here...”
Garak slid from the table to stand and take him lightly by both shoulders. “You just got through saying you have no idea what's going on. You couldn't get me to respond to the medication.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” the doctor asked bitterly.
“Actually, yes,” he said, dropping his hands back to his sides. “I'm not telling you that you're a terrible doctor or blaming you for not having all the answers. I'm saying that whether you're here or not, whatever is happening to me is out of your hands. If anything that should be comforting. It's not your responsibility. I'm not your responsibility.”
“If I told you Cardassia isn't your responsibility, would you listen to me?” Julian asked.
Garak snorted softly. He had him there. “All right,” he said. “Worry if you must, for all the good it will do either of us. Are you done with me for the night? If so I'd like to get back to my cell.” He was hoping that he might dream if he could get to sleep, that maybe a different part of his mind might step up and make some sense where there was none.
“Yes, I'm done,” he said. “Come on.” Julian walked him back to the security office in silence, and Garak couldn't help but to suspect there was much he was holding back, himself. He wondered what happened on that vacation of his to send him into such a morose turn. It wasn't as though he hadn't known he and Leeta were to be performing an ending ceremony. Perhaps it hit him harder than he expected.
Everything comes to an end sooner or later, he thought. Or does it? Does a circle begin or end? Now who's the philosopher? Just before they stepped through the security doors, he paused. “Thank you,” he said.
“For what?” Julian asked, looking slightly wary.
For believing I'm worth saving, he thought. However, he answered with nothing more than an enigmatic smile. Julian simply shook his head, turned him over to Odo, and walked away.
Julian
The Promenade
The night before his scheduled departure for the conference, as Julian was leaving work, he noticed Jake lingering on the second level of the Promenade in the same spot he had grown accustomed to seeing him and Nog. He debated internally for a moment and decided to approach him. He made it almost completely up the stairs before the young man noticed him. “Oh, hey, Doctor Bashir,” he said. “I didn't even see you there. Sorry.”
“You looked pretty deep in thought,” Julian said, coming up beside him and leaning his forearms on the railing in much the same way as Jake did. “Considering a new story?”
“Not so much,” he said. “I was thinking about Nog. You know he'll be back soon?”
“Really?” he asked, surprised. Had it truly been that much time already? He supposed it had.
“Yeah. I'm thinking about rooming with him,” he said, giving a half smile. “It's about time I got out on my own. I can't stay with Dad forever.”
“Have you mentioned this to your father yet?” he asked.
Jake shook his head. “I'm waiting for the right time, you know? He has been under a lot of stress lately. I don't want to add to that.”
“I think he'll be all right,” he said. “He'll probably put up a bit of a fuss. It's his job to protest his son's growing into a man right before his eyes. Don't take it too personally.”
Jake gave a light chuckle then asked, “How did your parents take your coming all the way to Deep Space Nine?”
He exhaled slowly, adopting a humorous expression he didn't feel. “That's an entire dissertation, perhaps for another time.”
“That bad, huh?” he asked.
“That bad,” he answered, nodding. He let his gaze track out over the foot traffic on the Promenade below them. The boy took the hint and followed his lead, the two of them standing for some time in companionable silence. Internally, he worked up to what he wanted to say, needing some form of closure at least for one issue before having to strike out on his own again to yet another conference. He felt as though he was away from the station more than he was allowed to be at home these days, and it was wearing on him. “I read your article,” he said without looking at him.
“My art...oh,” Jake said. Julian saw him glance at him from the corners of his eyes. “Umm, what did you think of it?”
“You're a very good writer,” he said. “That's not what I wanted to talk to you about, though.” He forced himself to look him in the eyes. “I'm sorry I took you into that situation.”
Jake glanced away, embarrassed. “That's not what I wanted you to get out of what I wrote,” he said. “I don't blame you for any of it.”
“I didn't think you did,” he clarified. “I blame myself, though. And I wanted you to know something else. It wasn't an easy place for me to be, either. There are things about that place that I think will haunt me to the day I die.” He paused and added, “Off the record.”
“I'm glad you said it,” Jake said. “And I'm glad you were there with me. You made it easier to take. You may not have felt like you knew what you were doing, but you sure looked like you did.”
He smiled, touched. “Thank you, Jake,” he said, clapping him on the shoulder. “I'm off to pack.”
“Pack?” the reporter instinct visibly perked in the boy's dark eyes. “Where are you headed?”
“To an incredibly interesting burn conference. Shall I tell you of the intricacies of treating heat induced tissue trauma from plasma?” he asked, teasing him.
Jake quickly held up both hands. “No, no. That's OK. I...” he glanced over the railing, “have somebody I want to catch up with anyway.”
Julian glanced over the edge, too, and saw Ziyal making her way toward a Replimat table with her sketch pad and a small box with a handle. “Something you want to tell me?” he asked.
Jake rolled his eyes and gave a half grin that took years off his face, reminding Julian of the young boy who first arrived on the station five years ago. “It's not like that,” he said. “She's neat, though. She has seen and done a lot I never have, and she's Gul Dukat's daughter. She's got an inside perspective on a story that may be worth writing in the future. Besides all that, she's nice. It's fun to have somebody close to my age to hang out with since Nog isn't here. I just hope that when Nog gets here, he doesn't start all his Ferengi stuff about females around her.”
“I'm sure you can handle it,” he said. “Enjoy yourself. I'll see you around when I get back.” He left for the turbolift feeling better. Leeta had been right about Jake. He seemed to be doing OK, not suffering major trauma from his experiences. He was the same Jake he had always been, just a little more experienced and philosophical. It wasn't a bad change. Maybe when he returned from Meezan IV, he could deal with the other issues plaguing him.
Elsewhere
Julian groaned and slowly opened his eyes. His limbs had a strange pins and needles sensation tingling through them. His mouth was dry and tasted vaguely metallic. The lighting was entirely wrong for his hotel room, and the scent of unwashed bodies assaulted him as awareness grew. He realized he was lying face down and pressed himself up from the hard surface. A voice he hadn't heard in years froze him in place. “I see you're finally awake, Doctor Bashir. Allow me to be the first to welcome you to Hell.” He turned his face and found himself staring straight into the murky eyes of Enabran Tain.
The End
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Fantastic as always! Certainly making me feel better after my sick day.
Now go on! Write that Weyoun/Damar story! Go! I command it! *waves arms as though shooing away* (- I might do some art for it if yah want. )
;D
M
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And I'd love art. That would be totally awesome! Thanks!
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Write that fic and I'll be right on it. I'll post it on Devart and then send you the links. :3 my pleasure! :D Hopefully it'll be good enough!
M
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Julian's talk with Jake was made of all sorts of awesome and though I may need to read what happened with Garak one more time to make sure I've got the details down ... I am blown away by the web you are weaving! Bravo! SCORE! (in honor of the World Cup). tee-hee.
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