Not to the Victor the Spoils--Part II

[dark_sinestra]

Garak

Private Quarters

 

Garak waited only long enough to be sure that Lisane wouldn't return before checking his computer interface. He had to admit that she was fairly decent at hiding her activities, but it didn't take him very long to discover her fingerprints in the system. He smiled to himself when he saw that she had taken the obvious bait he left for her to find and never bothered to look for the real hook. He put together and sent a subspace transmission of his own to the same location that she had. It was regretful that Legate Pa'Ren was about to have such a thoroughly unpleasant day, but he really shouldn't have lied about his activities on Bajor during the occupation, at least not when there was even a remote chance that someone someday could discover the truth.

 

He left the sitting room to clean up the mess and wash himself free of a scent he had no doubt he'd never encounter again. There was no way she would ever let him touch her now. It was almost a pity. He had enjoyed playing that part of the game while it lasted, but he had to admit he enjoyed knowing how much she was suffering even more. The next day he checked for her at the infirmary only to hear that she had called in sick. He hummed to himself all the way to his shop.

 

He wasn't surprised when a few days later she unceremoniously broke things off with him. By that time, he had other things to occupy him, however. His final two reliable contacts on Cardassia Prime had disappeared after telling him of several civilian uprisings. People could say whatever they liked of Tain, but he realized now more than ever just what a stabilizing force the man and those under him had been, what a stabilizing force he, himself, had been. Maybe I should have risked going home when I had the chance, he thought more than once.

 

All of that was bad enough. Then the Klingons arrived. Tensions mounted to an alarming degree. It wasn't that the Klingons were being disruptive, loud, and boisterous. That would've been unpleasant. No, these were quiet. They murmured amongst themselves, and they shot him more hostile glances than he would have expected even given the history between the two empires. Every instinct told him they were up to no good, but how to discover what? He couldn't very well walk up to one and ask. However, maybe, just maybe, he could provoke one or more of them into revealing more than they intended.

 

He gave much thought to this, waiting for the proper opportunity and time. While breakfasting with Odo, it finally came. He risked informing the Constable of the situation on Cardassia, knowing that in providing such a confidence, he could motivate Odo to keep his ear to the ground for any news and share it with him. As they discussed the disturbing rumors, they saw Morn being harassed on the Promenade by a group of Klingons.

 

Odo rose, and Garak followed. As the Constable confronted them about their behavior, Garak made certain to antagonize them. He let them know he spoke their harsh, guttural tongue, and he was just pushy enough that he was sure they wouldn't be able to let it go. He stayed behind with Odo talking long enough to give them a chance to make their way to his shop, and bracing himself, he then went there himself.

 

As soon as he came through his doors, four of them stepped to block his exit. Better make this good, he thought, resigned to what he expected would be a thorough beating. “Let me guess,” he said with false cheer, “you're either lost, or you're desperately searching for a good tailor.”

 

“Guess again,” their ringleader growled and punched him hard enough to take the wind out of him. He fell to the floor, surrounded by a forest of kicking legs and punching fists. At first he began to think that he had miscalculated and that they would simply beat him senseless, or maybe even kill him. He knew he felt and heard bone snap, breathing shallowly to prevent any shards from piercing his lungs.

 

“That's enough!” the one called Drex barked. “Now, Cardassian,” he said, squatting and grinning a sharp toothed grin, so close to Garak's face that his foul breath washed him in a rank miasma, “you're going to tell us what you know of this station and its defenses, or we're going to finish what we started here. Who knows? Maybe Starfleet will even thank us for ridding them of a spy.”

 

“Have you seen their uniforms?” Garak wheezed. “They'll never forgive you.”

 

Drex punched him so hard that he temporarily lost vision in his left eye. “This is your last chance,” he said, pulling Garak up to a seated position by his tunic with one fist.

 

Haltingly, convincingly, the tailor gave them outdated information that he knew they could confirm with a few computer checks. He trusted that these particular thugs didn't have the wherewithal to hack the system, or they wouldn't be bothering with him, but of course, he couldn't be certain. He clung to consciousness with difficulty. Three more blows from Drex almost took care of that before Odo finally realized that something was amiss and put a swift end to his torment.

 

Julian

The Infirmary

 

Things had been almost too quiet since the arrival of the Klingons. That changed when Odo and three other security men carried Garak through his door. “Over here,” he said, moving to prep a biobed. He didn't like the way the tailor's head was lolling, his eyes unfocused and one swelling shut. “What happened to him?”

 

“A group of Klingons attacked him,” Odo said, sounding thoroughly disgusted. “He insists it was a...misunderstanding...and is refusing to press charges.”

 

“What?” the doctor demanded, anger rising. He snatched up a tricorder and began to scan the man for damages, his jaw setting to a grim line.

 

Odo shook his head, his blue eyes steely. “I didn't actually see anything, Doctor. The Klingons are refusing to talk. I can assure you I will look into it further. Maybe you can talk some sense into him.” He glanced down at Garak, gave a soft “hmph”, and cleared his men out so that Julian could do his job.

 

He didn't try to talk to Garak at first, because he didn't want him trying to respond, not with those broken ribs. It was damned difficult to break Cardassian ribs. Their torsos were built like tanks with a latticed rib structure that protected their bellows-like lungs. After all this time, he still found it hard to keep professional distance when treating Garak for injuries. He wanted to soothe his hurts with more than just cold instruments. He allowed himself the small luxury of pushing back the glossy hair where it clung to his bleeding eye ridge. Garak's eyes followed him more alertly now. He opened his mouth to speak, but Julian stopped him with a touch to his shoulder. “Not yet,” he said gently. “Let the bone regenerator do its work.”

 

“Thank you, Doctor,” the stubborn man said anyway.

 

“Don't thank me for doing my job,” he retorted more harshly than he intended. He was worried, and he was furious that he didn't intend to press charges for something so blatantly criminal. He touched him again by way of apology and turned away quickly to check the monitor for his vitals.

 

“You're angry,” the voice came from behind him, matter-of-fact as was so often the case.

 

“I can't believe you're not pressing charges,” he said, not bothering to hide his frustration. If he expected Garak to help him with that, he was sorely disappointed. The tailor launched into his usual glib distraction tactics, seeming not to take anything about the incident seriously. What's really going on with you? Julian wondered. He knew Garak well enough to know that he couldn't take all the joking at face value. What don't you want me to see?

 

He couldn't justify holding him for any longer than it took him to get him mended. He wished that he could lock him away and force him to stay for as long as the Klingons intended to be there. For once, he wished that he could truly protect the man in a meaningful way and not just make his exile on the station a little more tolerable. He wished that he could hold him, and yet, he had been the one to walk away, long ago enough now that any attempt to do any such thing on his part could only be taken as cruelty, not kindness. He watched a bit sadly as Garak stood and tested his range of motion. “How do you feel?” he asked.

 

“A little sore and stiff, but not bad all things considered,” the tailor answered with a slight smile.

 

“I'd offer to give you something for the pain, but I already know it would just sit on your shelf like the migraine pills,” he said.

 

“I take them sometimes, Doctor,” Garak said with uncharacteristic gentleness.

 

“Are you OK?” he blurted. He hadn't intended to ask in that way. He hadn't intended to ask about what had gone wrong with Decla at all, but it just came out, prompted by what he had just witnessed.

 

Garak nodded, eying him speculatively. “Are you?”

 

“Yes. I'm just...worried about you, being alone. If you need to talk...”

 

“Ah,” the tailor said with an understanding smile. “I can assure you, I'm suffering no hurt. As you pointed out more than once, Lisane and I were not a good match. It's much better this way.”

 

“You can do better than her,” he murmured, not quite able to meet the brilliant blue gaze.

 

“Rom often told me the same thing,” he said lightly. “Come now, Julian, let's not discuss this here where your employees can overhear. I have no desire to cause Lisane embarrassment.”

 

“Of course,” he said, feeling a tad guilty. Garak had a good point. He shouldn't allow his professionalism to slip just because he had been shaken. “Well, if you do need anything...”

 

“You'll be the first to know,” Garak assured him, stepping close and squeezing his shoulder. “I should get back to my shop. Those Klingons made a mess of things, and blood is much harder to clean from carpet when it's dry.”

 

He felt the pressure of that hand long after Garak's departure, much as he had upon their first meeting. It didn't make him feel disloyal to Leeta, for he knew that she was aware he would always love Garak on some level. It was one of the things he appreciated about her. She was understanding of that, and she never seemed to judge him, either for breaking the relationship off or having it in the first place. When lunch came, he went to Garak in the shop, determined that the man wouldn't have to clean his own blood from the floor alone, no matter how much he tried to pretend it didn't bother him. It was the least he could do, and Garak seemed to appreciate it.

 

Garak

Garak's Clothiers

 

Garak was relieved that all of the Klingons had departed, save one. As that one clothed himself in one of the ludicrously chromatic Starfleet uniforms, he wasn't too worried about running afoul of his temper. He believed that as long as they stayed out of one another's way, neither would have reason to find if the other annoyed or irritated him. Business started to pick up again, even Morn feeling the need to clothe himself in something warmer. He sometimes wondered if the station really had grown colder, or if it was just a psychological effect of all the tension around them.

 

He saw the big Lurian out, only to hear his comm beep. Turning, he circled behind his counter to answer it. Captain Sisko's voice came clear over the line, “Mister Garak, I'd like to see you in the wardroom immediately. And bring your tailor kit.”

 

“I'll be right there,” he told him, puzzled. He gathered what he needed and started down the Promenade. He wondered if Sisko intended to pressure him yet again about pressing charges for the attack of several days ago. No, that didn't make sense. He wouldn't need his tailor kit for that. He'd know soon enough.

 

He stepped into the wardroom and stopped short at the sight of the gathered senior staff. What was this? He heard Dax saying something about over one hundred ships and cut a glance at Sisko. “I'm sorry,” he said. “Am I interrupting?”

 

Sisko stood and said, “I'd like to be measured for a new suit.”

 

Garak blinked, taken aback. When Sisko assured him that he was serious and wanted him to measure him right then, he began to comply. The entire day seemed to take on something of a surreal quality in that moment. No sooner had he begun to wonder if the Starfleet captain had cracked under pressure than he tuned back in to what Dax and the new Klingon officer, Worf, were saying. The Klingons were invading Cardassia? Despite his best efforts, his entire body tensed. Everything suddenly made a terrible kind of sense. Starfleet must have given the captain orders not to interfere, and officially he wasn't. He felt a surge of gratitude toward the man and realized that at least some of his efforts to be cooperative over the years had paid off, but would it be too late?

 

As soon as he could, he left the meeting. He ran toward his shop, faster than he had run in years, feet flying. He didn't care who saw him and narrowly avoided several collisions on the way. They had to be warned. His people had to be told what was coming for them, what would be there in less than an hour. The last person he expected to see when he contacted the Detapa Council was Gul Dukat. There was no time to question him. He tersely explained the situation and wondered if it was Dukat he was speaking to at all, or a Founder. Wouldn't that be the cruelest of ironies?

 

He wished that he could reach through his screen and shake the man when first he reacted with disbelief and then tried to exchange a few barbs. Of course, it was exactly the sort of thing Dukat would do, so perhaps he wasn't a Founder after all. The gul told him to convince Sisko to stop the Klingons, as though one Starfleet captain could do a thing against one hundred or more Birds of Prey. After a final barb, Garak cut the transmission. They didn't have time for such nonsense! He hated the fact to the core of his being, but for once, he desperately hoped that Gul Dukat would succeed in mobilizing the military, what was left of it after the coup, at any rate. He wanted to tear his hair out. Of all times to be stuck in a glorified tin can in space instead of home where he might actually be of use!

 

He abandoned his brief impulse toward histrionics in favor of more rational action. He intended to do as Dukat had asked, to speak to Sisko on behalf of Cardassia. He had to do something, and in light of the situation, it made sense. Clearly, the captain was already inclined to help them, or he'd never have called Garak into the wardroom the way he did. The questions were how deep did those sympathies lie, and would Sisko have enough pull with his home government to sway them?

 

Julian

The Defiant

 

It was times like these that Julian truly appreciated the kind of man he served under, the kind of man who thought nothing of traveling through a thicket of hostile Klingon vessels in order to save an entire government of people who weren't his friends or allies, but who didn't deserve what the Klingons were doing to them. He still couldn't believe that just like that, the treaty was over and done with. The Klingons were enemies once more. It seemed so short sighted of them in the face of the Dominion threat. It didn't make sense, and even if Founders were responsible for the recent civilian coup on Cardassia, what would an invasion accomplish? The Founders could look like anyone or anything. They could easily lie in wait for the new Klingon overseer, assassinate him, and take his place. No, he knew there was something he was missing, something they all were, but what? That puzzle would have to wait for a better time. He knew that soon he'd have his hands full.

 

He wished that Garak could have come with them. He knew how difficult it was for his friend to stay behind when his homeworld was at stake. Garak had never been the sort who wanted to wait in the wings. Whenever he could, he managed to throw himself into the action or at least get himself into more than his fair share of trouble. On the other hand, he was glad he wasn't there. Julian would have worried about him and possibly lost needed focus in the process. As they traveled at maximum warp toward Cardassian space, he hoped that they weren't too late. What would happen to Cardassia if they lost all of their leaders in one fell swoop? The loss of the Obsidian Order had been bad enough.

 

These bleak thoughts occupied him until Worf spotted debris on his sensors. They dropped out of warp, and suddenly the view screen sprang to life, revealing the ominously drifting wreckage of three Cardassian Galor class ships. There could be survivors. The doctor in him wanted to investigate, but the officer in him recognized the sense in Worf's and Sisko's insistence that they didn't. Any Cardassian aboard those vessels would make the same argument. In light of who was at stake, they were expendable. He protested leaving without trying, but he knew he would be overridden. He felt a little sick inside as they left behind the ships and re-engaged warp drive.

 

More time passed with none of the usual banter that usually made missions on the Defiant more tolerable. None of them knew what to expect at the rendezvous point, if there would even be a Detapa Council left to save. When they finally neared, Worf indicated that he had three Birds of Prey on his sensors attacking a badly damaged Cardassian craft. They picked up an audio distress signal from Gul Dukat. “This is Gul Dukat of the cruiser Prakesh. We're under heavy fire. Our shields are failing. I don't

know how much longer we can hold out. Send reinforcements immediately. I repeat, this is ...”

 

He grudgingly admired how calm the gul sounded despite the situation. There was urgency in his voice, yes, but he was in control of himself. He turned his attention to the screen along with the rest of the bridge crew, wincing as a Bird of Prey strafed the Cardassian vessel with disruptor fire. There was no way the ship could take much more punishment.

 

“Orders, Captain?” Worf asked.

 

“Two decades of peace with the Klingons, and it all comes down to this,” Julian said, his stomach clenched. He didn't need to hear Dax's assessment of the Cardassians' chances to know what they were about to have to do. He wasn't surprised at the captain's orders to arm the torpedoes and decloak. There was no more time for thinking or regrets.

 

“Red alert,” Sisko said, giving him a nod.

 

He returned the nod and hastily exited the bridge. They had their work cut out for them, and he had his own to attend. There would almost certainly be injuries and casualties from the Cardassian vessel. He had to be ready for them. He was glad of all the time he had spent converting the ship's pathetic excuse of a medical bay into something he could actually work with and of the staff he had hand picked for the assignment, all but one of them with previous medical experience in combat zones. They were as ready as they could be, and they had vials set aside for collecting blood samples. If any of the people they beamed aboard were Founders, he intended to be ready for them.

 

The ship rocked with an ominous rumble. They were under fire. So far, it seemed as though the shields were holding, but for how long? “All of you,” he told his staff, “brace yourselves and stay away from the consoles until we need them. If any of them blow, I don't need to tell you what can happen, and I need every one of you in top form.”

 

They nodded and did as he ordered. He braced himself on one of the biobeds, feeling the deck plate under him vibrate every time they took a hit. He felt the ship lurch sharply and then a particularly violent tremor. One of the consoles showered sparks. Sisko's voice came over the comm. “Sisko to Bashir. Prepare to receive casualties, Doctor. And have security standing by. I want our guests to undergo blood screenings.”

 

“Understood,” he said, thinking, Way ahead of you there, Captain. “You heard him! Get ready, and I want a full security detail standing by. No one gets in our out of this area without an escort.”

 

“Yes, Sir,” he heard from all around.

 

Within moments, the first of the council members began to arrive, all of them older even than Garak or Dukat. Julian realized that there were far more of them than would fit into the medical bay, and he quickly organized them into a queue and sent them to the mess hall, close enough to keep an eye on them and large enough to keep them from being too crowded. He kept a keen watch for injuries or shock, pulling a few from the line and sending them to sick bay. Overall, they were in better shape than he expected. He wasn't sure the Defiant crew would be able to say the same if they kept getting hit so violently without their shields. The entire deck rocked continually as though in an earthquake.

 

He was glad that he didn't have to tell any of them to stay calm. They handled themselves far better than most Terrans would. Gul Dukat stepped into the mess hall, easily keeping his feet, even when a particularly devastating blast threw several of his fellows to the floor. Dukat's ice chip eyes lighted upon him, and he closed the distance between them. “Thank you, Doctor,” he said. “Now if you don't mind, I'd like to go to the bridge.”

 

He held up a syringe, taking some small satisfaction in discomfiting the gul after the several times the man had been able to do so to him. Once he was sure that he wasn't a changeling, he let him go on his way with a security escort and made his rounds to help his staff with the rest of the screenings. Some of them submitted willingly; some gave him more trouble. In the end, he had his way. He felt the shift in the ship as they engaged warp. We made it this far, he thought with satisfaction but not exactly optimism. Judging by the lights, they were no longer able to cloak, and it was going to be a long trip exposed to their enemies.