"I retired to my quarters after Doctor Bashir had examined me for
ill-effects from the phaser blast. When I was attacked by another
changeling, I was too weak to adequately defend myself and I was
forced in to..." Odo nodded towards the octagonal box on Sisko's desk,
"*that*."

It had taken Chief O'Brien fifty minutes to break the encryption code
and deactivate the anti-theft mechanisms which had been built into the
device. It had taken another thirty minutes for Odo to regenerate
enough to compose his shape. Sisko regarded him carefully, noting the
small warbles in the constable's appearance. Whatever the other
Founder had done to him combined with the after-effects of the phaser
blast two days ago, it was going to take Odo awhile to recover.

"Was there just one changeling?"

"As far as I could tell, yes." The constable's face rarely conveyed
emotion; he seemed to prefer vocal inflections over grimacing or
smiling or smirking. From the tone of voice, Sisko could tell Odo was
embarrassed -- his professional reputation damaged by what had
happened -- and humiliated -- another one of his people had
infiltrated DS9 under his watchful eye. Also thrown in the mix was
self-recrimination -- he couldn't fend off the attack by another
Founder.

Sisko was ready with the "you couldn't have known" speech, but the
constable silently informed him such sympathy and absolution would not
be tolerated. The captain could read the message in the stare and held
his tongue.

Kira broke in, "Why didn't Doctor Troi sense your presence on the
Promenade? If you were there the entire time...."

"Major," Odo sighed gruffly, "you said these people sequestered
themselves. The only times Troi was on the Promenade was when
she first arrived and then when her crewmates were at Quark's. From my
understanding of Betazoid telepathic powers, proximity is a key
factor. Even if she is a highly skilled empath, she may not have been
able to detect two separate changelings."

The captain looked up and found Bashir poised to enter his office.
Waving the doctor in, Sisko returned his attention to his chief of
security. "You seem sure of this, constable."

"Lwaxana Troi is considered one of the more powerful Betazoid
telepaths," the changeling reiterated, his tone becoming harsher. "If
I had assumed the form of a chair, she could sense my presence but
could not necessarily *locate* me. This Doctor Troi, as Bashir has
already explained, is only half-Betazoid."

Sisko nodded, noting the succinctness with which Odo had
answered. Julian was still standing, obviously unsure of what to do
next. He looked tired, his eyes were puffy, and his face was set in an
odd, grimly contemplative look. "Doctor, how is your patient?"

"Stable but in critical condition at least for the next few hours," he
told them, sounding slightly distracted as if he were trying to puzzle
out something else while delivering his report. "Due to the nature of
the wounds, Troi and I had to perform multi-organ replacement aside
from neural and vascular restorations. Given the size and location of
the injury, the motive was more than likely to ensure a graphic
death."

"Doctor Troi is still there with him." It was a statement of fact, not
a question. The Infirmary had been placed under strict security
surveillance and Sisko had been alerted when Captain O'Brien had
departed. "What are the chances of the ambassador's survival?"

"If he were to remain here, I'd say almost one hundred percent."
Bashir met his eyes with a steady gaze. "But given what we've seen of
the lifestyle our alternates lead...." he trailed off, unwilling to
complete the sentence. As if to compensate for his inability to admit
the ambassador didn't stand much of a chance once the alternates
crossed back, Bashir busied himself with rudimentary scans of the
constable.

"Captain," Odo pushed aside the doctor as he leaned forward in his
chair, "you have a bigger problem than wondering if the ambassador is
going to live or not. The Dominion will be expecting a report from the
Founder who was killed. We don't know how he was communicating with
them, but when they realize the reports have stopped, they're going to
wonder why."

***

The silver crest glittered in the low light. Had it been difficult for
the ambassador to manufacture? Perhaps not, but the fact the
ambassador actually had the gadget already made *before* Garak had
shown up at the ambassador's quarters was almost chilling. The gesture
reeked with premeditation.

Just as foolish and naive as Doctor Bashir, the ambassador had
offered Garak passage to that other universe. The universe where
Garak could be reinstated in a position of power. Where he was no
longer an exile. Where he would be masquerading as the "the most
decorated gul in Starfleet." Being a tailor did have its merits. The
role was much easier to play. He was unobtrusive. People only
scrutinized his work, not his personal habits. They left him alone.

There, in that other universe, he would be under constant
supervision. It was something he could not tolerate, even if it meant
having an adoring lover in the mirror image of Julian.

Elim sighed. Unlike Gul Garak, he preferred the shadows in which
to accomplish his tasks. Always behind the scenes and the whisper of
his name striking a chord of terror amongst those in his ranks. Not
because he was some brash and daring gul, much in the manner of Sisko
or Dukat, but because he was subtle and that characteristic he fully
believed was the epitome of being Cardassian.

As tempting as it was, to have the power and the prestige... to have
Julian... the life of Gul Garak was not for him. If Garak was going to
live a lie, he at least wanted the ability to choose exactly which lie
he was going to live.

The door chime rang. Unusual for so late in the evening. Unusual for
it to ring at all. He rose from his chair and cautiously approached
the door.

"Computer, identify the person standing outside of my quarters."

"Chief O'Brien."

Well, these past two days had been very peculiar, events happening
which only seemed to happen whenever Starfleet was involved. Things
like this never took place on Cardassia. Alternate universes. Subspace
anomalies. A man created by a transporter accident. And now, the hero
of Setlik III, the man who still referred to Garak's people as
"Cardies," was visiting.

Garak stepped back, making sure he could dive to safety if tonight the
chief decided he was tired of having a "Cardie" on the station.
"Enter." The doors slid open. Garak conjured up his most pleasant
facial expression. "Chief? What a pleasant surprise!" O'Brien didn't
look comfortable. Then again, calling on one's former enemy never set
anyone at ease. "Is there something... wrong?"

O'Brien held up a padd. "Work order."


<Work order? At this time of night?> And then Garak understood.
He should have seen it when he first looked at O'Brien. It was
patently obvious. He gestured for the imposter to enter and waited
until the doors slid shut. The Cardassian smiled enigmatically, "You
really should allow me to make the proper alterations to your
uniform...."

Captain O'Brien held up a hand. "The only reason I didn't beam
directly in here is because you'd probably blow my head off. I
already have one officer down. We don't need another."

"How considerate of you."

"A piece of advice."

That was a surprise. "For me to give to you or vice versa?"

"You have to prevent it."

"Prevent what, captain?"

"If you have the opportunity, you must take it."

"Captain, while I appreciate your ambiguousness on an aesthetic
level, I really have no clue as to what you are referring to."

"In our universe, there was a stratagem originally called the Tain
Offensive. It was so named because Enabran Tain, much like here, knew
that destroying the Founder homeworld would cripple the Dominion. The
plan was carried out, somewhat successfully, by the Commander of the
First Order. It's why we're still alive and kicking against the
'Hadar. The tactic has since been renamed in honor of the gul who
completed the mission. If you have a chance to rid yourself of a
planet full of Founders, take it. It's the only way you'll survive."

The look on Garak's face must have been amusing. Of course, there were
few things which could cause Garak's jaw to drop open; Miles O'Brien
telling him genocide was the only way to incapacitate the Dominion was
now one of them.

O'Brien's eyes flicked around the quarters before settling on the
silver crest Garak still held in his hand. The captain quirked an
eyebrow. "He offered you a berth on my ship?"

The Terran didn't sound surprised or annoyed. He was simply
confirming a hunch. Garak nodded once, but found he couldn't
speak. 

"We're shipping out in about eight hours. Let me know by then."

It wasn't the reaction Garak was expecting. He asked cautiously,
"Then you approve?"

"I never said I approve or disapprove, Garak. Most people I know,
given this situation, wouldn't have given you a choice. You'd be
trussed up somewhere. Better yet, they'd throw you in stasis to make
sure you couldn't escape until we'd crossed over. But Julian isn't
like that."

"Are you?"

"You're not my type." O'Brien snorted and shrugged his shoulders. "The
ambassador will need a new uniform. Think you can have it done by the
time we leave?"

Maybe, just maybe, Garak could live with people like this. It
certainly would never grow dull. "I'll do my best, captain."

"And Garak? Remember what I said. Take the opportunity if you
have it." O'Brien tapped behind his left ear and disappeared in a
shimmer of transporter.

***

The last two hours had been grueling, almost as bad as the surgery.
First, while still in Sisko's office,  Julian had to answer all of
Sisko's questions and examine a recalcitrant Odo (who incidentally
refused to admit anything was wrong with him aside from the need to
regenerate). Then Nechayev had charged in, called a staff meeting, and
fired question after question at DS9's command crew once they had
assembled in the wardroom. After they had been dismissed, everyone had
gone back to their quarters except for Julian because he had to check
on the condition of his patient.

"The ambassador is stable, but unchanged," Jabara announced,
handing him a padd as he walked into the Infirmary. "Doctor Troi
woke up about an hour ago and checked on him. She asked me to
give you this preliminary update and then went back to sleep in the
quarantine area."

"Thanks," he said, accepting the padd and activating the screen, as he
wandered into his empty office. Julian looked around, half-expecting
the alternate of Dukat to be lurking there, especially after what
Jadzia had reported.

"He's very protective of the ambassador. They seem to be good
friends; I don't think Dukat would tolerate the ambassador's teasing
if they weren't. Maybe that's why he's more fanatical about the
ambassador's safety than anyone else's, including his own captain's."

So when Julian found his office deserted, the doctor immediately
wondered how long it was going to take for Captain O'Brien to send
someone here to "guard" the ambassador from the Collaborators.

Julian yawned and mentally shook himself. He slumped into his chair
and began reading Troi's progress report Jabara had given him. Despite
the plethora of drugs and equipment to help stabilize him, the
ambassador's body chemistry remained out of sync as it tried to adjust
to the new organs. So far, everything had gone by the book. Blood
pressure, pulse, temperature, white blood cell count, red blood cell
count.... All within normal parameters. Troi's report was impeccable,
giving the precise details of what Julian needed to know, but he
wanted to check on the ambassador himself.

He couldn't explain why. Perhaps he wanted to see how surrealistic
such an experience could be. Perhaps because, while he did trust Troi
to a certain extent, he was the type to be paranoid enough to want to
run the scans himself.

The doctor left his office and entered the ICU. The only sounds
were the equipment beeps monitoring the ambassador's vital signs.
Julian sighed as he began the second set of post-operative exams. Troi
had made some notes about healing minor bruises along the ambassador's
neck, upper shoulders, elbows and knees. She stated the injuries were
more than likely from helping repair the Defiant.

"Let me guess. You took engineering extension courses at the
Academy, too?" the doctor murmured, wondering what type of
training the ambassador had. Given what little Bashir knew about
the alternates, a proficiency in multiple disciplines was probably
essential. After all, the ambassador had proven himself a skilled
negotiator as well as a competent tactical officer.

Suddenly, the doctor recalled the reaction of the alternate crew
when he had first beamed over. Both the first woman he had treated as
well as Nog had said almost the same thing: "You have medical training
*too*?" If the alternate Garak was anything like Garak the tailor
*and* the ambassador was/had been Garak's protege, then knowledge of,
if not an expertise in, several areas was probably expected. Garak
would have insisted. At least, the Garak Julian knew would have.

He continued the scan, filling in the odd blanks Troi had left.
<Inflammation of the...?> Julian blinked and redid the scan. <Oh.>
Maybe Troi wasn't exactly truthful about how the ambassador received
those bruises, believing the diplomat's private life was no one else's
business. Was it relevant to the ambassador's current injuries?
Perhaps not. But still, it was a surprising find. <What's this? Traces
of Cardassian... Oh. Oh boy. I guess Dukat and the ambassador are more
than 'just friends.'>

Different universes. Different political structures. Different
professions. Different lives. But... Gul Dukat? No. Julian had never
entertained any thoughts about himself and Dukat. Gul Dukat, after
all, had been the Prefect of Bajor, the Commander of the Second Order,
military advisor to the new Cardassian Government, and now the rogue,
ruthless killer of Klingons. There was part of Julian that could, on
some level, respect the new turn the gul's career had taken.

Still... it was disconcerting. Of course, Julian *was* jumping to the
conclusion that Dukat was the ambassador's lover simply because of
association. The two, with the exception of the time on the Promenade
when Julian and Garak had met with the diplomat, were always together.

<It's none of your business,> came the prim voice of
professionalism. True. It was none of his business.  Before he could
continue his musings, Jabara dashed in. "Doctor, we need you in the
quarantine area."

***

"I am in no mood for arguments, doctor." 

With her fists settled on her hips, Troi regarded the looming
Cardassian with an insolent stare. Dukat knew she was still tired; her
exhaustion made her more irritable than normal and that always led to
direct challenges of his authority. They stood in the middle of the
Infirmary's quarantine area, facing each other. When he had woken her
up and told her he would stand guard over Bashir, she had bristled and
told him no, citing the usual doctor's rhetoric. He had cut her off
once already, her belligerence unwanted especially when it could be
overheard by the nosey DS9 medical staff.

Her voice was rough from sleep but tinny with outrage. Her cheeks were
flushed, nostrils flared, and lips pursed so hard they formed a thin
white line. "Listen, Dukat...."

"Your presence is needed on board the Defiant. Don't make me
explain the obvious." The words were hissed, angry, and sharp. His
display of anger did not intimidate her. It rarely did, but it should
have been a large enough hint that this was not the time nor the place
to have such a discussion. They could not show a weakness, not to
these people who had only allowed him into the Infirmary because he
bullied his way past two of the larger Bajoran medics.

"I am concerned about his safety...."

"I learn from my mistakes, doctor."

"Not well enough, it seems."

Dukat froze, the unexpected humiliation slamming into his chest,
and he watched the triumph light her eyes. She knew. His skin
flushed a murderous storm gray, his face twisted into a harsh sneer,
and his hands flexed until his knuckles popped.

"If you wish to insult me, doctor," his voice was soft, deadly, "then
choose a more appropriate location. There is no need to drag this out
for eavesdroppers."

"That damned Cardassian pride of yours, Dukat," Troi snapped
back, "is why he's almost dead. I wonder what the Board will say to
this one?" Her voice became louder, almost shrill, and attracted the
undivided attention of the DS9 medical staff. He could hear them
gathering outside the door, murmuring amongst themselves, obviously
enjoying this indignity.  "You're the reason the commander of the
First Order is dead." 

He swiftly grabbed her chin, pulling her close as he peered directly
into those blazing green eyes, not caring that none of the station's
medical staff had the courage to enter this den of humiliation and
stop him. "Doctor, you are treading on very dangerous ground. If you
are as skilled an empath as you would like us to believe, then you
realize this course of action is unwelcome."

"You had to relive it, didn't you? All those reports... they were
falsified!" she shouted. "He never knew what happened! He should have
known and you didn't tell him!" 

"This is not the place."

"But it is, Dukat. It *is*! You know I'm right. If you would have told
him, he would have known!"

"That is *enough*!" Doctor Julian Bashir's voice boomed through
the small quarantine area as he stormed up to the pair. "Dukat, let
her go NOW. Take this argument elsewhere. I will not tolerate this
behavior in my Infirmary!"

Dukat released Troi's chin immediately, his hands dropping to his
sides. Gathering up what little dignity he had left, he nodded slowly
at Bashir. "My apologies, doctor. I did not wish to disturb your
patients or your staff. It seems our disagreement has done so."

"Save your pontification for someone who gives a damn," Bashir
growled.

"Of course, doctor. Now, Doctor Troi, the captain has requested
your presence," the Cardassian smiled, glossing over his obvious ire
with a perfected, affable expression. He stepped away, putting a few
meters distance between himself and Troi. "After all, we cannot change
what has happened."

She belligerently glared at the Cardassian and then stormed off,
without so much as a good bye to Doctor Bashir. The station CMO
looked appropriately offended and ordered his staff to return to their
duties. Then he focused his attention upon Dukat. To the Cardassian's
amazement, the doctor's expression softened.

"I don't take kindly to people arguing in my Infirmary." The
reprimand was a far cry from the hard edge the doctor had spoken
with just moments ago. It did make Dukat uneasy; he had no idea of the
reason for the doctor's sudden change in attitude, as if the argument
in front of his staff had just been for show. Interesting to find a
UFP Starfleet officer sympathetic toward a Cardassian. Then again,
this one did spend a lot of time with the exiled Garak, at least
according to the station security chief's logs. Still, to have one tip
his hand....

The Trill had been cordial, right up to the point when Dukat stopped
being the "Congenial Cardassian" and resumed his role as a security
officer. Once his attitude had changed, so had hers, and he could
still hear the Trill's tone of disappointment, as if saying, "And I
thought you were going to be different," without actually speaking the
words.

"I apologize for the commotion." Dukat carefully modulated his
voice to sound sincere as he watched Bashir's reaction. It wasn't the
one he was expecting. The doctor had an odd sparkle in his eye, the
type which, whenever the ambassador had it, meant he had a pretty
interesting secret and he was debating on whether or not to share it.
The doctor even flushed slightly. Dukat tried not to sound impatient.
"I would like to see the ambassador." 

"I figured as much. Actually, I'm surprised you weren't here earlier."

"Doctor Troi was here to tend to the ambassador. However, since
Captain O'Brien has requested her presence on the ship..."

"I know, I know. You're here to take her place."

"That is correct, doctor. There are other reasons as well...." He
deliberately trailed off, noting with surprise how relatively easy it
was to read the human's emotions. Then again, this Julian Bashir
hadn't spent an extended period around Cardassians either. No. There
was something else. Something about the way the doctor was staring at
him, almost in disbelief. Dukat smirked to himself. He might as well
completely scandalize the doctor, taking another hard swipe at the
human's misconceptions about just what Dukat, chief of security of the
Defiant, was like. When the doctor did not prompt for Dukat to
continue, the Cardassian carefully held his hands at his sides,
assuming the most neutral and non-threatening pose he could. "The
ambassador *is* of the Faith...."

"Faith?" Bashir echoed curiously.

"He believes in the Prophets, doctor."

"Oh."

"Are you familiar with any of the Bajoran religious customs?"

"Not many, actually." Bashir coughed, embarrassed, and was
probably trying to figure out exactly where Dukat was going with
the conversation. Clearly, it wasn't the response the doctor had been
waiting for.

"I'm sure if Bajor had more of a hand in shaping your Federation, you
would have many more believers," Dukat replied. "But that does not
matter here. Since the ambassador is of the Faith, there are certain
rituals which must be performed. You are more than welcome to join
me."

"Rituals?" Bashir's attention was now focused completely on him.
"What kind of rituals?"

"Simple prayers. That is all."

The Terran's eyebrows shot up skeptically, but he sounded intrigued.
"Ones which only *you* can perform."

"My dear doctor," Dukat stretched out his arms in a supplicant
gesture, "do you not also serve as a counselor as well as a physician?
Do your duties not also include aspects which may not be directly
associated with medicine?"

"Well... yes...."

"There. You see?"

"I'm supposed to appreciate the irony of a security officer who is
also the chaplain?"

"The ambassador does find it quite amusing. Now, please. May I
attend to him?"

"There are vedeks on board the station." Then Bashir's eyes
widened, as if realizing the stupidity of his statement, but before
Dukat could disagree, Bashir held up his hand. Again, the sparkle of
unnamed understanding shone in the doctor's eyes. "I know, I know.
Their religion may not be the same as yours. How long will it take?"

Dukat met the doctor's gaze. "I wish to stay until he regains
consciousness. It is a tradition among our people, and by 'our,' I
mean our collective peoples. He will be disoriented when he wakes. I
do not wish this to be more traumatic than it already has been."

"Under normal circumstances, it would not be permissible." The
words were spoken slowly, as if they were only a token protest.

"But, doctor, these are hardly normal circumstances. Surely you can
appreciate the security issues."

A smile barely quirked across Bashir's lips. "To a certain extent."
The doctor gestured toward the ICU. "There's only a chair, not a
comfortable one at that, and you must understand you will be monitored
at all times. The ambassador is in critical condition."

"I realize that, doctor."

They walked to the ICU, Dukat aware of how the station medical
staff gawked at him and they murmured racial slurs. It had been
quite awhile since the Cardassian had heard the insult "spoonhead." He
ignored them, tuning out their harsh comments.

Slowly, the Cardassian approached the bed, looking down at the
ambassador and trying to remember the Psalm of Serenity in
pre-Denorios Bajoran when Bashir's voice broke through. It startled
Dukat; it was quite disconcerting to be staring down at the peaceful
yet pale features of the ambassador and then hear him speak. The
Cardassian glanced over, noting how the door between the ICU and the
rest of the Infirmary had been closed, and the doctor stood in front
of the door, watching him warily.

"I take it you don't need a book."

"No, doctor. I simply place my right hand to his temple and pray.
Would you like me to teach you the words?"

Bashir looked at him disbelievingly, almost shocked that the
Cardassian intended to do precisely what he had stated: pray. "I
don't believe in the Prophets, Dukat."

"Then may I continue?"

Bashir nodded once.

The Psalm of Serenity was perhaps one of the most beautiful prayers in
the Faith, especially in pre-Denorios Bajoran. Dukat's fingers brushed
the ambassador's temple gently; he bowed his head and recited the
words Naprem had taught him.

Just as he had done that other day....

*** End Part 17 ***

//Garak stumbled forward, gasping awkwardly for air and clawing
at his throat.  Blood poured profusely from his nose, his left eye
swollen shut, glorious ridges gashed and gaping, uniform shredded.
Naprem rushed forward only to be stopped by a translucent security
field.

Dukat furiously worked the controls, trying to break through the
Dominion shielding which had somehow activated in the corridors
of the storage facility on Margo IV. How the shifter had kidnaped Gul
Garak was inexplicable; how Dukat knew where to look for the missing
gul even more mystical. The Kai's vision had actually been helpful and
understandable.

The shielding. It meant the 'Hadar had been on this outpost before.
How else could they have set up the controls like this? The forcefield
was one of the few technologies Starfleet hadn't quite figured out how
to overcome, simply because when the 'Hadar employed it, they executed
their target and then left, taking the technology with them.  

The sensors buzzed in Dukat's ears that a shapeshifter was near,
Naprem's frantic hand signal confirmed them, but just where the
thing was didn't register.

Suddenly Dukat's stomach turned as he realized where his enemy
was.

In all his years as a military officer, in all his encounters and
training, he had seen the most horrifying things possible.  Pathetic
Klingon raiding parties pillaging Federation outposts, diseases
running rampant and making their victims insane, grotesquely mutilated
civilians left as signposts of Dominion handiwork.  He'd watched as
'Hadar soldiers butchered families with the only witness a security
camera.  But never had a shapeshifter ever entered a humanoid.

All things were possible, Dukat knew it was only a matter of days
weeks months before a shifter would go that far.  The Dominion had
been very effective in terrifying the masses and the Founders still
searched for a way to break the bonds each member of the First
Federation had with the other.

The grisly execution of a vaulted Federation captain would
certainly destroy morale. After all, Garak seemed immortal. It had
been Gul Garak who had led the Wolf 359 offensive against the Borg and
had miraculously remained unscathed. It had been Gul Garak who had led
the Tain Offensive against the Founder homeworld. So important and
respected was Garak that Dukat himself had beamed down to Margo IV to
search for the missing captain.

Dukat looked into the captain's eyes. Garak knew his fate; there
was no preventing what was about to happen.  Strangely enough,
there was a certain amount of serenity in his eyes mixed with
satisfaction. Garak knew Dukat and Naprem would explain what
had happened to Julian, the entire Starfleet clan would avenge his
death, and they would not stop until the Dominion was completely wiped
out.

The forcefield reflected any phaser fire and nullified the equipment
which prevented shifters from changing forms. Comm/transporter signals
had been scrambled the moment Dukat's team had materialized here.
Dukat and Naprem had gone down to the furthest level; they were the
only ones here. The doors to the only turbolift, the one exit from
this level, had slammed shut behind them. They were trapped until his
crew found them. Dukat and Naprem were the only witnesses to this....
They and the shifter which had violated Garak.

Garak stumbled sideways and Naprem cried out.

Garak's ear had been severed, probably to get at the subdermal
communicator.  There was so much blood, all pooling at the
Cardassian's feet, but the captain refused to simply lay down and die.
Cardassians never died without a fight. Garak offered a salute, Naprem
pounded on the forcefields and screamed, but Garak did not answer.

Dukat continued to work, wondering if the Prophets would grant
him his singular wish to lower the shields and prevent what was
about to happen, but the Prophets had gone away for some time
now, at least for him.

Elim righted himself and stood perfectly still, a perfect military
stance he mercilessly teased Julian about. Dukat looked over. Elim
mouthed the words, "Tell Julian. . .."

And then his body exploded.

Naprem's agonized shriek pierced Dukat's eardrums.  Flesh and
bones flew from the spot where Elim had stood, slamming into the
forcefield so hard it caused it to sizzle as it slid down to pile on
the floor.

The Prophets suddenly decided to work with Dukat, although as
always, their timing was completely off.  

The forcefield dropped, Naprem sunk to her knees, palms flat on the
floor and surrounded by what had been Elim, sobbing and praying. Dukat
focused on the shifter reforming into its smooth faced, humanoid
appearance. The Cardassian recognized this Founder, the diplomat...
the one who, at Gul Macet's suggestion, had taken the name "Kirsen
Yavren." The word "kirsenyavren," from which the Founder's name had
been taken, literally translated from Kardasi meant "body which moves
like water." Colloquially, it meant "to urinate." Only Macet could
have such a crude sense of humor.

The Founder had fled Bajor five days ago, somehow abducting
Captain Garak from the Starfleet training center on the Bajoran
moon Jaros II.

Anger boiled up in Dukat, inflamed by Naprem's wails and the
death of someone too proud too honorable too brilliant to deserve such
a brutal death.  Kirsenyavren cackled with glee.

All vows and oaths and promises and morals dissolved from the
Cardassian's body at that precise moment.

Dukat tossed the containment shield at Kirsenyavren's feet, the
Founder continuing its cawing as it watched the field surround it.

"Fool!" the Founder shouted.  "This cannot hold me!"

Dukat flipped the polaron emitter on.  Kirsenyavren was frozen in
mid-shift -- its arm gelatinous while the rest of it remained whole.
Dukat glanced down at the tricorder which showed the changeling's aura
nulled.  A sadistic smile spread across the Cardassian's face.

"Think of it, changeling, as a going away present."

Dukat joined Naprem in gathering Elim's remains; it was the only
way Julian could properly grieve, the only way Elim's adoring
human lover could ever hope to endure the pain of Elim's death. It
was, perhaps, the only way any of them could come to terms with the
murder of one of the Federation's finest captains.

She chanted the ancient Cardassian Rite of Vengeance, her distinct
Netapka dialect curdling her Kardasi vowels, as she stared at the
enraged changeling.

"With the honor of Guls past and by the power of Great Gul,
I take thy name.
With the spirit of those fallen and by the might of the Great Gul, I
take thy soul. With the fury of those no longer living and by the
passion of the Great Gul, I take thy body. With the heart of our
devoted and by the blood of the Great Gul, I declare thee nothing. So
it has been said, so shall it be: *Oro odoital*... You are nothing."

Dukat ignored the rants of Kirsenyavren, and after two hours of
painstaking effort, he finished his task, all the while knowing he
could never reveal the precise events of what had happened. No one
needed to hear this. No one needed to know exactly how Gul Garak died.
That he was dead, that Dukat's hands were bathed in Elim's blood, was
painful enough. No. The story would not leave these walls.

Dukat and Naprem then sat. While Elim was not of the Faith,
Naprem insisted on the Psalm of Serenity and since Dukat was of
equal rank, it was he who said the prayer. He could not press his
knuckles to Elim's eyeridges.... It was a wonder Dukat was not
overwhelmed by the stench of carnage.

He finished, and together they began the Rite of Celestial Passage,
watching as the shifter decomposed in front of them.

It took seventeen hours.///

"... for the Prophets shall carry you..."

///"Why can I not see him?"

"Ambassador...."

"The 'Hadar... those... those bastards! They... They... desecrated
him...."

"He is with the Prophets now, ambassador. We have performed the
rituals, there where he was. I asked for Serenity, she declared
Vengeance, and together, Naprem and I conveyed his pagh to the
Prophets."

"But... he doesn't believe..."

"Julian, it was his wish."

Pause.

"Gul... Captain... Dukat... Tell me again how he died."///

Tain had insisted on the truth. While the head of the Federation
Security Council had appreciated Dukat's discretion in the official
account of Gul Garak's death, Tain demanded full disclosure of events.
The hearing had taken place in closed chambers with Tain presiding,
Naprem as his witness, O'Brien as his peer, and T'Pan as his advocate.
The records had been sealed. The public had been told Gul Garak had
been killed in an explosion as he escaped from imprisonment by the
Dominion. It was somewhat the truth.

Julian had asked for the story at least forty times during the first
year. Dukat and Naprem retold it exactly the same each time, never
adding or subtracting a detail. She had been so kind to the
ambassador, going so far as to insist Julian become part of Dukat's
crew. 

"You know the ache he feels, *sahneshta,*" Naprem had said to
Dukat, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and setting her chin on
his neck ridges. Her lips were close to his ear as if she knew her
next comments would be unwelcome but necessary. She always knew
precisely what to say to convince him. "You were like that when your
wife died... when the Borg took your children. He has no home." So
Julian had been reassigned to Dukat's ship, the ambassador's status
allowing them to dine frequently together without causing outcries of
favoritism.

As he stood over the deathly pale ambassador, Dukat despised
himself for lying so convincingly to Bashir. He knew O'Brien felt the
same. And if Naprem were still alive, if she had not been brutalized
by those 'Hadar soldiers, she would have agreed.

Doctor Troi's announcement about the falsified reports infuriated him.
These Starfleets, they were a curious lot, and if Doctor Bashir had
heard any part of the conversation, he would be asking questions.
Perhaps not now, but before Dukat retreated back to the Defiant, he
was sure the doctor would question him about the argument.

Damn Troi. She had used her empathic ability to glean information from
Dukat. It was distasteful. It was a violation. Oh, he knew why she had
done it. She decided to play counselor with him, to throw this at him
so he would release his anger. Had it worked?

He did not want to think about it. That particular discussion would
wait. He would allow O'Brien to deal with Troi. She was much more
terrified of the Terran captain than of him. O'Brien knew all her
dirty secrets.

"O Prophets, how shall Ye reply?
Thy wise words, from the Temple on high
Deliver us, blessed Divinity
And grant your Faith serenity."

***

After Dukat spoke the first three or four verses, Doctor Bashir had
moved to the side of the door, close enough to so that it would only
take two steps to leave the area, but far enough away not to trigger
the door opening mechanism. The sight before him was simply unreal.
There was no other way to describe it. Still, Julian felt as if he
were intruding. It *was* a private moment, albeit fascinating. How
many times did one witness a Cardassian, especially the alternate of
Gul Dukat, praying in Bajoran at the side of a Terran ambassador? 

The Cardassian's voice was so different from the clipped, almost
leering tone which Gul Dukat normally used; perhaps it had
something to do with the translator which did not render this Dukat's
Bajoran into flat, Federation standard. Plus, unlike other Bajoran
prayers, those repetitive chants Julian had heard during his tenure as
CMO, this one sounded more like poetry. That, combined with the smooth
cadence of Dukat's tone, almost set Julian at ease.

Then Julian noticed it, the look on the Cardassian's face...

His heart froze. He recognized it. Garak had the exact same look
during his ordeal with the implant: shame.

What did Dukat have to be ashamed of? The fact that he had
blustered so much about being observant only to have a Founder
take such arrogance and literally slam it back into Dukat's face?

Brahms' words echoed, "We trusted that Founder and it
murdered...." Which was exactly what the Founder impersonating
Odo had almost done: murdered one of them.

Julian could understand the shame, the embarrassment, from all this.
Cardassian pride must be a multi-universal characteristic. He had only
limited contact with Cardassians; he could hardly judge an entire race
just by Garak nor use Garak as a benchmark for all Cardassian
behavior. Still, the two he dealt with most often, Garak and Dukat,
had the pride and the arrogance that Julian had seen in the universe
he'd visited with Kira and now with these people.

The only mistake those alternates, this Dukat without a rank, had made
was to... trust Captain Sisko. Trust the command staff of DS9. Trust
Shakaar. Trust Gul Dukat. 

Details from Starfleet security briefings six months ago regarding the
Dominion came back to Julian, especially how the Dominion used
paranoia as a tool to conquer. The Klingon invasion of Cardassia was
proof of just how effective such an instrument could be. But for three
days, a brief moment compared to the decades of war these alternates
had endured, Captain O'Brien, Dukat, and the ambassador had given in
to their desire to trust people who they believed to be like
themselves.

It was phenomenally unfair. Their one night of celebration... ruined.
Julian recalled how thrilled those alternates had been just to be in
Quark's, how they had cheered lustily during the dart game, how
quickly they had set aside their fears and reservations and enjoyed
themselves, and how they had laughed, smiled, and relaxed, only to
have it come to a gruesome end.

No one deserved to have that happen to them. No one.

Captain O'Brien and Dukat, who had orchestrated this "gift" to their
crew, would share the blame. What was supposed to improve morale had
perhaps destroyed what little was left. In the end, no matter if
Captain O'Brien eventually decided to hand over the tech, the Dominion
had won. 

When the Cardassian stopped speaking, Julian stared at him again,
noting Dukat's eyes were closed. Julian had never heard the Psalm of
Serenity before so he didn't know if silence was part of the ritual or
not, but he approached Dukat.

Immediately, icy blue eyes were upon him. No tears. No self-pity.
Remorse, perhaps. Garak had the same expression when he had apologized
for attacking Julian during those hours of withdrawal. There were
plenty of emotions dancing in Dukat's pale eyes; the doctor did not
want to venture a guess as to exactly what they were. 

"I hope I didn't interrupt," Julian said sincerely.

"No, doctor. I... simply lost my place...." Dukat looked down at the
ambassador. "It has... been a long time since I've spoken pre-Denorios
Bajoran. Most of the Faith's prayers have been converted to our
Federation standard."

"Oh." What else could be said? Julian didn't claim to have an
understanding of the Bajoran faith to begin with, let alone an
alternate version of the Faith (as Dukat had termed it). Pre-Denorios
Bajoran? Obviously it was an older form of the language, perhaps akin
to Middle English or even Latin.

Dukat gave a half-smile, as if remembering something. Then he was
staring at Julian again. His skin was a paler gray than normal. His
eyes were bloodshot. He simply looked weary. And the longer Julian
stayed with the Cardassian, the more the doctor felt compelled to
extend some type of courtesy.

"May I get you anything? Something to eat? To drink, perhaps?"

"Thank you, Doctor Bashir, but no." Dukat paused as if a decision were
being made. "We will be leaving soon. Our journey back will be...
difficult. We will have to place the ambassador in stasis if he is to
survive the crossover."

"So you've done this before."

"This is not the first time nor will it be the last. It is the bane of
technology, doctor. We do not do this on purpose, but we must live
with the possible outcomes." The Cardassian laughed ruefully, "This is
the first alternate reality I have journeyed to where I have not had
to... where *we* have not had to constantly defend ourselves."

"Then you do have the means to return to your reality."

"Yes."


"And not one of your people wishes to stay here?"

Dukat paused, watching him carefully before responding, "Such an
interesting question, doctor. You're implying this place, *your*
universe is an ideal. I'm sure your Federation has its merits, but it
is not ours. We may find what we have lost, yet it will not be the
same. It is close, but not close enough. Even the ambassador would
agree."

The Cardassian closed his eyes again, concentrated for a few
moments, and then the corner of his mouth lifted into a bare smile.
"Ah... I found my place." 

He resumed praying.

To witness any more felt as if the doctor were being sacrilegious, an
odd emotion for him, since Julian had spent over four years among the
religious Bajorans. Did Dukat worship the Prophets as well? 

Did it matter?

Julian knew the monitors would detect any change in the
ambassador's status and his staff would alert him immediately if
anything happened. The doctor left the ICU, telling Jabara he was
going to his quarters for the remainder of the morning and instructing
the rest of his staff not to harass Dukat.

The looks they gave him said it all: they truly thought he had lost
his mind.

Perhaps he had. But if prayer and belief in the Prophets was
something that kept those alternates going, who was Doctor Julian
Bashir to bar them from practicing their religion?

He walked out to the deserted Promenade. Apparently, security
wasn't letting anyone roam freely in the early morning hours. Julian
could hardly blame them.

Trudging past Quark's, Julian couldn't help but glance inside. As
tired as he was, he wanted to talk to someone. He didn't know what
about. He didn't know why. He just wanted company. He was even willing
to subject himself to listening to Morn's stories about his brothers
and sisters if it meant spending a few hours not talking about
alternate universes. 

Why he had decided to pass by Quark's, close enough to the open
"window" that he could call to someone inside, he didn't know. He just
did.

The lights were considerably darker inside, as if Quark was ready to
close down for the night, but Julian saw a familiar, solitary profile
sitting at the bar, nursing an electric blue drink.

"Garak." Julian didn't even realize the name had slipped out until the
Cardassian turned, blazing sapphire eyes locking onto him.

"Care to share a drink, doctor?" the tailor called affably, holding up
his glass and tilting it toward Julian in a silent toast. "I'm sure
Quark won't mind another paying customer."

The doctor  nodded and hurried into the bar, noting how Garak's
attention had returned to the liquor in the glass in his hand. Julian
hopped onto the stool next to the Cardassian and flagged Quark over.
"Single malt whiskey, straight up."

"Difficult evening?" Garak inquired.

He snorted, "One could say that."

"So what are the odds?" Quark piped in as he filled the drink order.

"Don't tell me you've started a *pool* on the man's life!" Julian
snarled, outraged.

The Ferengi threw up his hands in defeat. "It wasn't *my* idea,
doctor. People just started making bets and you know the rules in my
bar. I *always* get a piece of the action."

"My dear doctor," Garak soothed as he patted Julian affectionately on
the forearm, "you can hardly expect him to break a habit of a
lifetime. I guess now wouldn't be a good time to reveal the elaborate
betting schemes which occur every time the Defiant goes out on a
mission. Really, Quark... I hardly think 'how many times Chief O'Brien
says 'bloody hell' during the course of the assignment' is
appropriate."

Quark thunked the beverage in front of Bashir. "Well, it certainly is
more profitable than the ones placed on you, Garak. Now if you
gentlemen don't mind, I need to count my latinum."

"By all means, Quark. We'd hate to interrupt such a *monumental*
task." Garak's voice had become almost sing-song in tone, clearly
mocking the bartender. The Ferengi hissed and then left for his
office. Julian and Garak sat in silence for a few moments, nursing
their drinks, until the tailor sighed. "You never did answer his
question, doctor."

Julian blinked, startled out of whatever private reverie he was in,
and turned his tired eyes to the Cardassian. "I'm not quite sure. He's
alive now. But when he goes back with them.... who knows."

"Ah."

"'Ah?' That's it?"

"Doctor, we both know the reason for your current mood. Despite
your surgical skills to save this man's life, you and I both know once
he crosses back...." He trailed off. "A sad thing, really. I quite
liked him."

"You hardly know him!"

"Perhaps."

Silence.

Julian glanced down at the glass between his hands, forcing himself to
relax. His mind, however, refused to obey. Now that he was sitting
next to Garak, all those earlier musings started to resurface in his
head. Images from the Promenade. Snippets of conversations. The
discovery in the Infirmary. Dukat praying over the ambassador. They
all swirled together, becoming a confused jumble of thoughts. He
wanted to talk about what he had been through, what he had seen and
had experienced. Speaking the words aloud would somehow make
everything clearer, as if hearing the words from his own mouth would
help him get his thoughts in order.

Dax had suffered through his indignant rantings on several
occasions. She'd become his emotional sounding board. And Miles,
despite their occasional difference of opinion, had also been a "Voice
of Reason" when Julian needed him. It was too late to bother either of
them; Julian didn't want to wake them up as he babbled on endlessly
about Cardassians (a subject which made both officers roll their eyes
when they thought he wasn't looking).

He snuck a glance at Garak, noting the contemplative set of the
tailor's features. Again, images popped up in his mind. Yesterday's
incident on the Promenade, how the ambassador protected Garak from the
pseudo-Odo. What happened this evening... the ambassador sacrificing
himself to save Garak's life. Garak, in turn, comforting the
grievously injured ambassador. But why had the tailor done that? Why
had Garak pulled the ambassador close to him?

Because Garak's alternate was the ambassador's mentor and the
tailor felt some obligation to his alternate? No. That didn't make
sense. Why would Garak place himself at such a risk? Why?

"Garak...."

"Yes, doctor?" The tailor didn't look over. He knew the questions the
doctor was going to be asking. Bashir was an excellent physician.
There was the slim possibility the doctor had overlooked certain
forensic details regarding the ambassador; the comment "you hardly
know him" gave credence to that. Perhaps Doctor Troi had erased the
evidence from last night's tryst. Those alternates didn't like to give
away details about themselves. Maybe that was one of the ones they
chose to keep hidden.

"What... what happened out there? I mean, why did...."

<Do you really want to discuss this *here*?> No. The amount of
latinum needed to keep the Ferengi silent would be astronomical.
The embarrassment to the doctor would be phenomenal. Garak
smoothly interrupted.

"My dear doctor," the tailor cut in before Bashir could finish his
sentence, "the ambassador was window shopping. As I was closing up for
the evening, I noticed he lingered in front of my store... it is nice
to have someone appreciate your merchandise... and I merely commented
upon his uniform. Between you and me, doctor, I believe *they* have
the better design. Honestly. Lavender turtlenecks! What were your
designers thinking? Black, on the other hand, is simple. Elegant."

"Well... most of our uniforms *are* black," mumbled the doctor and
Garak smiled to himself. Yes, the poor physician was just tired enough
to be easily sidetracked. "The trousers... the sleeves...."

"Ah! But it says so much about your people. One could say your
Starfleet is proudly complacent."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Their uniforms are borne from functionality. If the Jem'Hadar, or any
invading force for that matter, were to board *this* station, and had
*any* intelligence reports, they would know teal is science and
medical, mustard is engineering and security, and cranberry is
command. That's hardly a Federation secret, much like the meaning of
your rank pips."

"A map to our commanders...." Julian murmured.

"Precisely."

There. He'd redirected the doctor's thoughts to something
innocuous. He sipped his drink.

"Garak, you haven't answered my question."

Had he forgotten how tenacious the doctor could be, especially
when he was tired? "Which question is that, doctor?"

"He... the ambassador," Julian needlessly clarified, "He thought
Odo... I mean that other shapeshifter... was going to kill you."

Ah. So they were starting at the events from yesterday, the time
when the doctor had astutely (and surprisingly) observed how much
Garak and the ambassador sounded alike, and then building to what
happened this evening. Garak teased, "That is a statement, doctor."

Julian's voice took a rougher, more insistent edge. "*Both* times."

Garak paused, the rim of the glass touching his lips, and glanced
over. The doctor sat slightly hunched over his drink, bad posture for
a man who usually held himself with such dignified grace. Of course
the doctor was exhausted; the puffiness around the eyes and sunken
features were a testament to that. He looked so much like the
ambassador now.... And he had begun piecing the puzzle together. Garak
did not reply.

He couldn't. He had no idea what Julian knew and if there was one
thing Garak was particularly good at, it was parceling out information
to find out just what his opponent knew. But was Julian his opponent?

An opportunity.

An opportunity to reveal his feelings. How fitting if it would happen
in a Ferengi bar. Garak couldn't. He wouldn't. He knew he just had to
wait and eventually the doctor would explain his line of reasoning.

Garak only had to wait a few minutes.

"At first," Julian began, his voice soft, "I thought the ambassador
had listened to my reasoning, had been impressed with my 'take charge'
attitude yesterday. I know, I know. Very arrogant. Very human. Very
me. Trying to impress my own doppleganger! How foolish! Then I began
thinking... about what you said, about what he said.... He didn't
shoot Odo yesterday not because *I* intervened, but because *you* told
him not to." Julian's eyes sought his.

Garak shrugged. "Now why, dear doctor, would a diplomat of the
First Federation listen to a plain...."

Julian waved him silent. "You said something to him. I don't know what
it was, but I *heard* you. And then this business with the nodding,
those Cardassian salutes. They all do it! Their doctor... him... even
their captain! It wasn't until *Captain O'Brien* did it that I
realized what had been nagging at the back of my mind. The
ambassador... his was different. When he addressed you... it was more
formal. And then the way he phrased his sentences...." Hopeful
understanding glimmered in his hazel eyes, as well as a challenge for
Garak to deny his next statement. "He wanted you to know."

Vague. Deliberately vague. Unusually vague. The doctor had been
far more observant than Garak had given him credit for; however,
the tailor wasn't quite sure what conclusions Julian had drawn.

He knew it would only irritate Bashir more, but such a tactic given
the doctor's current state would give him the results he wanted.
Raising an eyeridge in an innocent expression, he queried, "'Know,'
doctor?"

*** End Part 18 ***

Julian didn't scowl. He didn't grimace. He just gave Garak a frank
stare, the same one he used whenever delivering a bit of medical news
a patient didn't want to admit to, and stated quietly, "You are his
mentor."

"No."

Anger blazed in Julian's eyes and he was about to spit out a terse
comment when Garak looked away.

"*Gul* Elim Garak was, not me."

"Is that why when you spoke to him, he calmed down?"

"When?"

"Out on the Promenade. After that Founder did that to him... I saw the
way you...."

"Surely, doctor, you don't think I am *that* heartless! He was
injured. I offered my assistance until you could tend to him."

"But you said something to him then, too. I heard you."

The sigh was theatrical, almost disdainful. "Doctor, you should be
pleased. These years on this station... your Federation morality and
sense of duty have infiltrated the blackness of my Cardassian
soul...."

"Damn it, Garak! I'm being serious."

"So am I. I believe I was complimenting you on your efforts to make me
into a better person, a better person, that is, from a Federation
viewpoint."

"But..." Julian sighed heavily, as if the question pained him to ask,
"what were you thinking?"

The tailor blinked. <What should I tell you, doctor? When that
Julian Bashir shouted my name, his voice revealing the terror he felt
as he thought I was going to die... that... that... that for the first
time in my life, I... I was truly... deeply... loved. To him, I was
Elim. I was his Chosen. It didn't matter where I was from or what I
had done. I was his Chosen....>

Garak forced himself to prod, "When, doctor?"

"When... then... as he...." Bashir's voice was distant. So curious.

<Do you want the truth?>

Elim waited long enough so Julian was looking at him, searching for an
answer to a question the doctor couldn't bring himself to ask.
Exhausted, terrified... the human was desperately trying to make sense
out of everything. Why else would he pursue this conversation so
doggedly? Ice blue eyes locked on to hazel ones, and the hushed truth
spilled from Elim's lips. "I told you once how I felt about our...
conversations.... How much I enjoyed them." The words flowed faster.
"How I much looked forward to them. I am selfish when it comes to a
few things, quite possessive about others. You have treated me with a
respect, albeit misguided, that few people do. So yes, doctor, I am
concerned for your welfare."

The doctor did not respond. Elim wasn't expecting a reply. The
doctor knew the truth when he heard it, he understood how difficult it
had been for Elim to confess it, and perhaps the doctor felt the best
way to recognize the privilege bestowed him was to remain silent.

They resumed their quiet vigil over their half empty glasses.

Julian was stunned. The revelation was unexpected. Welcomed, but
unexpected. If Garak wanted to shock Julian with the truth, he'd
done a damned fine job of it. "Concerned for your welfare." Just like
Miles, Garak would never openly admit he valued Julian's friendship.
Julian wasn't offended... well... at first he had been. But once he
realized that the silent appreciation was perhaps the greatest
testament to their friendship, Julian had stopped prodding for the
verbal confession. Well... almost had stopped prodding. He only did it
to Miles to annoy the chief.

The doctor twirled the glass between his fingers. Had the scene on the
Promenade affected Garak so deeply he did not want to return to his
quarters? That he wanted to see Julian emerge from the Infirmary to
reassure himself the doctor was alive and well?

<Just who do you think you are, Jules Bashir? You're Garak's friend.
He was worried. Who would take your place? Tora Ziyal? Does he really
care *that* much for you?> He again stared at the tailor's profile,
his thoughts now directed at the Cardassian. <Or does the notion that
somewhere, in some alternate universe, you are in a position of
power... respected by all... feared by many... you still have what had
been taken away from you here.... What if those alternates... those
desperate people... what if they were to offer you....>

"Would you go?"

The question was so unexpected, Garak looked sharply at the
haggard features of the doctor. Had the ambassador said something
before he had been anesthetized, calling out Garak's name and begging
him to go with him? Was that the reason for those questions, those
distasteful inquiries about emotions? The tailor forced his voice to
sound baffled yet amused, "Go where?"

Julian rolled his eyes. "Garak... please."

<He knows....> The thought momentarily froze Garak's vocal
chords. He was becoming soft... unprofessional... to think that
particular revelation would be so important to him. The Cardassian
again made himself sound light-hearted. "Ask me a question I can
answer, doctor, and I will."

The doctor stopped fidgeting with his glass but refused to look over.
"If you were given the opportunity to leave with them, go to a place
where you're respected..."

<By the Great Gul... he knows....>

"... go to a place, to a universe," Julian continued shakily, "where
you don't have to...."

"No, doctor." This was not the time. This was not the place. They were
both too emotionally worn out to confront such feelings. Again, Garak
resorted to the absolute truth... no matter how much it hurt to say
it. "Their Cardassia is not *my* Cardassia." 

Was that relief he detected in Julian's features or just surprise?
He'd revealed far too much... the attack on the ambassador had
affected Garak more deeply than he expected. Julian was treading on
unfamiliar ground, which was the reason the usually garrulous doctor
now talked in partial sentences. What was Garak supposed to do?
Confess his soul? How he and the ambassador pretended... how Garak had
never pursued his feelings because it would be detrimental to Julian's
career not to mention ruin the one friendship he had cultivated on
DS9? Was he supposed to lean over and.... No. 

<Leave it here. Leave it now.>

He motioned toward the now empty glass in front of the doctor.
"Another round?" 

"No." The word was spoken slowly, drawn out as the doctor stared
at him. "Thank you, Garak."

The tailor wasn't quite sure what he was being thanked for but
nodded once all the same.

"Jabara to Bashir. Please report to the Infirmary immediately."

***

O'Brien was right. They were growing old. Ten years ago Dukat
would have never dozed off while standing in the middle of enemy
territory, especially while praying. Ten years ago Dukat would have
never permitted alternates to tend to the injured ambassador as they
had here. Ten years ago they never would have even docked on DS9.

Ten years ago... He still had Naprem. He had his own ship. He had his
own crew. He had just promoted Damar to be his first officer.

He missed those days.

What woke him was the change in beeps from the medical
equipment. When his eyes snapped open and the first thing he
focused on was the diagnostic dome, he gripped the side of the bed.

<Naprem....>

No. She was dead. She died six months after Garak had.

This was Julian. The man he had failed to protect.

"Step away from him!" the Bajoran nurse, the one the doctor had
referred to as Jabara, ordered harshly. He glanced up, half-expecting
her to be aiming a phaser at him. Dukat then caught sight of the two
burly medics, flexing their fingers... eager for a fight.

The Cardassian obeyed her command, moving away from the bed
but in the opposite direction of the medics; Jabara's eyes widened,
obviously shocked he would actually listen to her, much less comply
with her request. Then, her attention returned to the ambassador.

"Status?" Doctor Bashir called out as he breezed into the ICU,
quickly surveying the scene before turning to face Jabara.

The nurse spouted off medical information as the doctor tapped the
controls on the dome. Dukat understood what they were saying; after
all, he did have medical training although they hardly compared to
this doctor's capabilities.

"He's coming 'round," Bashir announced and then waved Dukat
over. The doctor glanced up to Jabara and then to his medics.
"You're dismissed." The three Bajorans looked as if the doctor had
just committed the most heinous act imaginable. The doctor's voice
took on a harder edge, "Now."

They departed, leaving Dukat and the two Bashirs in the quiet of the
ICU. The doctor had moved to the left side of the ambassador as the
Cardassian approached.

The diplomat's eyes fluttered slightly as he tried to speak. Dukat
placed his knuckles against the ambassador's right temple and gently
hushed, "Ambassador, you are safe."

"The... captain...." The ambassador wheezed.

"The captain is well. He... he was most impressed with your efforts."

"Du--kat...."

"Yes, ambassador?"

"The... shifter...."


"That Founder will harm no one else. Chief Sisko has made sure of
that."

"The... other... one."

"You need not fear him, ambassador. You have my word, my oath
of honor."

"Doctor... Bashir... here?"

Dukat watched as the startled physician spoke. "Yes, I am,
ambassador."

The ambassador's eyes suddenly opened and focused with wide-eyed
fervor upon the doctor. "Know... him...."

"Know him?" the doctor repeated with confusion, searching Dukat's
features for an explanation. When the Cardassian did not answer, the
doctor leaned closer to the ambassador. "I don't understand."

"Know him... as I have...." and the ambassador drifted back into
unconsciousness.

For a moment, Dukat expected the doctor to grab a hypo and revive the
ambassador, but Bashir only stared uncomprehendingly at the
now-sleeping ambassador before dragging his gaze to the Cardassian.
The uneasiness was plain in the physician's face.

<My dear ambassador... such a romantic quote... You are fortunate that
Naprem also loved that particular verse, otherwise....>

The doctor was now running a tricorder over his alternate, making
minor adjustments to the equipment before pointing toward the corner
where Dukat had retreated to earlier. "I know I can't pry you out of
this room, Dukat, but I would like to know what he meant."

"Of course," the Cardassian obliged and they both moved away from the
ambassador. They did not look at each other, content to watch over the
unconscious diplomat.

In truth, Dukat did not want to remember. His voice was rougher
than he wanted it to be, laced with more emotion than he cared to
reveal. Yet for whatever odd rationalization Doctor Bashir had come to
in allowing Dukat to remain at the ambassador's side, it seemed as if
the doctor was also offering himself as a listener. After all, who
would care about the personal life of the alternate of a despised
Cardassian military leader who had fallen from grace?

"Have you ever read, 'Shades of a Thousand Steel,' doctor? It is a
collection of Cardassian poems, written by Kell."

"No. I haven't."

<Ambassador, I cannot do what you have asked of me.>

But Dukat owed it to Bashir. It had been Bashir who prayed over
Naprem... Bashir who had declared Vengeance against the 'Hadar
for what they had done to Dukat's beloved... Bashir who had
conveyed her pagh to the Prophets....

"I will make sure you receive a copy before we leave." Hopefully, his
voice didn't sound as desolate as he thought it did.

It was obvious that Dukat did not want to continue the
conversation; Julian could tell just by the tone of the Cardassian's
voice. Instead, Julian thought about what the ambassador had said.
Concern for his captain. Fear of the shapeshifters hurting anyone
else. Both sentiments were admirable, things which only heros would
say after surviving a brutal assault.

But Captain O'Brien had been no where near Ambassador Bashir
when the shapeshifter had attacked. Why would the diplomat be
worried about O'Brien... unless the ambassador had thought...
Wait... Garak had said his alternate was a gul. But how did the tailor
know that fact? The ambassador had to have told him. When? On the
Promenade. Of course.

What had Troi and Dukat been arguing about earlier? He recalled
what Troi had shouted: "You had to relive it, didn't you? All those
reports... they were falsified! He never knew what happened! He should
have known and you didn't tell him!" Dukat had said something, too low
for Julian to hear, but Troi's response had almost echoed throughout
the Infirmary. "But it is, Dukat. It *is*! You know I'm right. If you
would have told him, he would have known!"

What had Dukat relived? An attack by a Founder on a Starfleet
officer. No, it was more specific. It had to do directly with the
ambassador. Garak was involved somehow as well. The ambassador's
protectiveness of Garak. Garak... his mentor....

"You witnessed the death of Gul Garak," Julian said slowly, not
quite sure why he was confronting Dukat with this.

"Doctor..." Dukat warned.

"Did a Founder... kill him?"

The Cardassian's skin flushed a darker shade of gray, the same color
as when he was arguing with Troi. The answer was obvious.

"And if the ambassador had known a Founder had killed Gul
Garak," Julian continued, knowing he was thoroughly enraging
Dukat but he could not stop the words once he had started, "he
would have not allowed Odo... I mean that other Founder... to
approach without drawing his weapon first. The ambassador would
have killed the Founder."

"Your ability to jump to conclusions, doctor, is absolutely amazing."
The harshness of Dukat's voice betrayed the truth.

Julian *had* guessed correctly. He faced the Cardassian. "I
overheard your conversation with Troi. It was difficult not to. I also
know that you and the ambassador are very... close. If you," he paused
and forced the words out, "care for the ambassador, he deserves to
know exactly what happened to his mentor. The ambassador would want to
know. I know I would."

What was the old Terran saying, "being blind-sided"? Dukat stared in
open disbelief at the doctor, trying to figure out how the doctor had
come to the preposterous deduction that he and the ambassador were....

For the first time... for the first time in many months, Dukat began
laughing. "Oh, my dear doctor... you do have a vivid imagination!"

Bashir looked somewhere between mortified and indignant. It was a
quite charming expression. Then again, humans were so expressive when
they wanted to be. The doctor began stammering, "I-I..."

Dukat waved him silent, clasping the doctor on the shoulder as he
continued to chuckle. A fond smile broke across the Cardassian's
features. "We have served together for a little over two years." Dukat
looked distant for a few seconds before adding, "We have seen our
share of battles. The ambassador and I have a lot in common, but not
that. There is no need to be embarrassed that you have jumped to that
conclusion. Given the circumstances, I suppose it is logical." The
Cardassian's full attention was now directed at Julian with an
intensity the doctor wasn't expecting. The grin faded from Dukat's
features as he studied Julian more closely.  "As to who the ambassador
entertains..."

Dukat was about to complete his sentence when he abruptly
stopped. His eyes moved as if were listening to something, probably an
update via his subderm, and his mouth snapped shut, lips forming a
thin line. He was unhappy, extremely unhappy by the set of his
shoulders and the way his hands now balled into fists.

He looked up, anger which was not directed at the doctor simmering in
his eyes. There was something else, something else Julian Bashir would
have never expected to see in Dukat's features: genuine fear.

"The 'Hadar have followed us." The Cardassian's voice was rough,
full of outrage. "Four attack cruisers. We need to transport the
ambassador to our ship."

"No!" Bashir protested and quickly approached the ambassador's
bed. Dukat followed and the doctor turned to stand face to face with
the Cardassian. "Fight your battle with the Jem'Hadar and *then* come
back here. I will not release him."

"You don't understand!" Dukat thundered as he took on the air of
authority. It was a startling transformation, something Julian had
never witnessed, and the Cardassian spoke with the voice of command,
the tone which Julian automatically responded to. "These are *our*
'Hadar. They will scan this station for subdermal communicators. If
there is so much as a dampening field, they will board this station!
Prepare him for transport now!" 

The sudden howl of the red alert klaxon startled Julian, even more
than the outraged Cardassian seething in front of him. "He will die,
Dukat."

"The needs of the many, doctor, outweigh the needs of the few."
The words were now softer, more persuasive, as if Dukat knew how
to appeal to him. "This is our battle. Are you willing to sacrifice
the lives on this station for an enemy that is not yours? You have
seen what they are capable of doing. They want *us* for the same
reason your captain, Shakaar and that gul do: technology. The new
weapon they used? The one which caused us to crossover, doctor? It was
designed to leave the ship *intact.* Starfleet still has a few tricks
the 'Hadar have not figured out yet."

Bile burned at the back of Julian's throat. A coldness washed over him
as his mind forced him to concede Dukat was right. "Five minutes."

Again, Dukat's voice was uncharacteristically compassionate, "I'm
sorry, doctor. We only have two minutes before the 'Hadar arrive at
this station." He paused, cocked his head, furrowed his brow, and then
stared at Bashir again. "Doctor Troi is ready. We're initiating
transport now." The distinctive red-gold cascade enveloped the
ambassador and then he was gone. Dukat had not broken eye contact with
the doctor as he clasped the doctor's hand firmly. "Thank you again,
my friend, for your efforts."

Then, he too was gone.

Julian placed a call to Ops.

*** End Part 19 ***

<So much for the odds,> Captain O'Brien thought sourly as he read the
results of the long range scan. Four of the five 'Hadar ships they had
escaped from two days ago now approached DS9.  <They want to finish
what they started, those methodical, unrelenting bastards.>

Tension among his crew, however, had disappeared. They were
about to fight an enemy they knew in an environment which
perfectly suited them. They had regained their equilibrium. They
seemed almost happy to be in a red alert situation.

Albert announced that Bashir and Dukat had been beamed on board
so the captain gave Lavelle the order to launch from DS9. Maybe
some of the UFP's luck would rub off. One could always hope.
Plus... they had received a blessing from the Emissary.

O'Brien heard the doors swish open and he turned to watch as Dukat
strode in, immediately taking over tactical from Rekelen. "Raise
shields!" Dukat ordered. "Battle stations!"

"Lavelle, use approach pattern Alpha One Five," O'Brien called out as
he punched up the tactical view on the screen. "Brahms! How did they
find us?"

"There are residual subspace field fluctuations due to the rip in the
space-time continuum. That pulse wave of negatively charged ions they
used which we thought were meant to dissolve our shields must have
left some type of trail. They could have used that to create a stable
wormhole. That's my best guess."

"Like bread crumbs," the captain murmured to himself. So much for the
odds of 1.7 million to one the 'Hadar could find them. Louder, he
asked, "Status of enemy ships?"

"Type One Alpha, shields at 75%; Type One Beta, shields at 70%;
Type III, shields at 82%; and Type IV, shields at 85%," Dukat
announced. "The trip through the wormhole must have been more
detrimental to their defense systems than they initially estimated."
He tapped a few more controls. "Long range sensors have detected one
Klingon Bird of Prey and one Klingon Vor'Cha class cruiser. They are
cloaked. DS9 has raised shields. The Defiant has not launched. The
Cardassian Bird of Prey has departed the station and is at stand-by."

***

Every bit of Ambassador Bashir's briefings flooded back to Ben. The
Jem'Hadar creating stable wormholes. The disclosure a new type of
weapon had been used on them prior to crossing over. The odds of the
Jem'Hadar following them through. Was it like this all the time for
Captain O'Brien's crew? For those officers of the First Federation's
Starfleet? Never knowing when a wormhole would appear and a fleet of
enemy ships waltz in?

One thing was for certain: Captain O'Brien was very unlucky.

"Captain, all communications have been jammed," Kira announced.
"The Defiant is ready to launch."

"And Gul Dukat?" Sisko prompted.

"He's departed from the station but taken a position near upper
Pylon 3. I don't think he's going to join in unless the Jem'Hadar go
after him."

Nechayev stood at Sisko's side in the center of Ops. "The Malinche,
Portland, and Prokofiev are twenty minutes away, but they are being
called in strictly to protect this station and Bajor. As Captain
O'Brien said, this is his fight. Unless those Jem'Hadar fire upon us,
we will not...."

"Admiral, they assisted in defending us two days ago when our
Jem'Hadar decided to pay a visit." Sisko's voice was deceptively
calm. "We should at least return the favor."

"Once the Defiant leaves this station, we won't be able to
communicate with the crew."

"I realize that, admiral. But your orders are quite clear: we don't
join in until the Jem'Hadar engage us."

Reluctantly, she gave in. "Oh, and Captain Sisko. I want to make
sure the officers of the Defiant fully understand my orders. You'll be
commanding the Defiant."

***

"We're in weapons range, sir!"

O'Brien gripped the armrests of his chair. "Lavelle, pattern Beta Two
Two. Let's get them close together."

"Aye, sir!"

"Captain, all the 'Hadar ships are firing their torpedoes. Eight
total!"

"Evasive maneuvers, Lavelle!"

The ensign did his best to anticipate the assault, but two torpedoes
clipped the port warp nacelle, sending many of the bridge crew
tumbling from their stations.

"Damage to shields... down to 95%," Dukat called out. "Port
stabilizer is at 85%. Enemy torpedoes detonated. Captain, they
emitted high levels of neutrino waves."

"Nice to know they still want our ship," muttered O'Brien as he
realized what the 'Hadar's objective was. Louder, he said, "Bring us
around, Lavelle. Pattern Beta Four Three. Dukat, return fire."

"Aye, sir!"

"Captain," Dukat announced, "another wave of torpedoes have been
launched. Same configuration as last time."

"Evasive maneuvers!" O'Brien ordered.

"Targeting incoming torpedoes... firing phasers... torpedoes
destroyed!" the Cardassian reported.

"Sir, neutrino waves don't have the same effect on our shields as they
do on the 'Hadar's," Brahms stated as she turned to face the captain.
"All this is doing is placing a high amount of neutrinos out there."

"Alpha is breaking off, captain!" Dukat interrupted.

"Lavelle," barked O'Brien, "follow that ship! Dukat, launch
torpedoes at the other three."

"Torpedoes away! Direct hit on 'Hadar Beta... shields down to
50%... Type III, shields at 82% and Type IV, shields at 85%. Alpha is
in range... firing phasers. Direct hit to port thrusters."


"Close in on them, Lavelle." 

"Aye, sir," although it wasn't as crisp as before.

O'Brien looked over to the ensign manning conn. Lavelle was
competent, but he wasn't Paris. He wasn't Bashir. He didn't have the
experience. He wasn't a natural pilot. O'Brien knew just by the way
Lavelle's hands slightly paused as he plotted a new course, every
demon that ever haunted the ensign was now paying a visit.

Lavelle was a security officer. He was used to wielding phasers,
targeting ships, and hand-to-hand combat. He only had two months
of helm experience, and that had been under Paris' direct
supervision.

Paris was dead. Killed in the line of duty. Killed while manning that
station. Killed just two days ago fighting against the same ships in
almost the exact situation as they were facing now. Lavelle was
spooked. There was only so much O'Brien could ask of his crew, only so
much he could ask from this ensign.

The captain did the only thing he could; he sent Lavelle to
engineering. There was no explanation why. The ensign didn't
protest. He didn't scowl. He simply scurried from his spot and
allowed the captain to fly the ship.

O'Brien began tapping in coordinates. "Bringing her about, pattern
Delta Two."

"Targeting 'Hadar Beta." The Cardassian's hands flew across the
console. "Firing torpedoes. Direct hit to Beta engineering! Shields at
20%. Hull breach to Beta. Alpha firing. Incoming!"

"Evasive maneuver Omega Six."

"Beta destroyed. Locking on to Alpha.... 'Hadar Delta and Gamma
regrouping... They are firing all weapons...."

"Evasive maneuver Gamma Three!" the captain shouted, forcing his
ship to make an incredibly tight turn, and he hoped the inertial
dampeners could take the pressure. 

"Direct hit... aft port shield failing." Dukat reported. "Alpha is in
range... FIRING! Alpha destroyed."

This was wrong. Something was definitely wrong. The Type III  and VI
ships were barely firing their weapons when normally they would have
been pounding on the Defiant. O'Brien read the readout again.
According to sensors, those ships should be able to fight back more
viciously than they were. Either the 'Hadar had figured out how to
fool Starfleet sensors or....

"One of them is carrying their new toy."

***

"The Defiant... our Defiant..." Kira paused, trying to figure out how
to differentiate the two ships.

Crewman Muniz, again manning the operations console, offered
helpfully, "When the Jem'Hadar attacked yesterday, Chief Sisko
referred to our Defiant as the NX. Maybe theirs could be the NCC?"

"Thanks, Muniz," Kira smiled and then continued her report. "The
NX has taken a position halfway between the station and the battle.
Dukat has done the same."

Nechayev hunched over the display terminal, shoulder to shoulder
with Kira. "What type of weapons is the... NCC using?"

The major shrugged her shoulders. "Modified quantum torpedoes,
approximately five times the firepower of standard quantum
torpedoes. Their phaser array is channeling an awful lot of power for
a ship that size."

"Major," the engineer called out, "I'm detecting high levels of
neutrinos around the battle."

"So am I," Kira confirmed.

"But they are not coming from the NCC. The Jem'Hadar... their
torpedoes are releasing the neutrinos. During the last attack, Dukat
used the neutrino waves emitted when the wormhole opened to overload
the Jem'Hadar's shields," Muniz explained.

"Do you think they're trying to create another wormhole?" Nechayev
asked, turning to face the engineer.

Muniz, unused to being questioned directly by an admiral, paled
slightly and stammered, "I'm not sure, admiral."

"That new weapon..." Kira snapped her fingers, drawing the
admiral's attention back to her. "The preliminary report Ambassador
Bashir gave us? They mentioned a new weapon the Jem'Hadar had
employed. Maybe this is part of it."

***

"Incoming message, sir!" Lieutenant Riley Shepard announced from
communications. "Broadcasting on all frequencies."

"Captain Miles Edward O'Brien, Commander of the First Order,
surrender the USS Defiant and your crew or aggressive action will be
taken against the inhabitants of this universe."

O'Brien, recognizing the tinny voice of the Vorta, glanced over his
shoulder and grinned at Dukat, "That demand sound familiar?"

The Cardassian shrugged his shoulders. "Perhaps the Board will
believe your story better than they did mine."

"See what they're hiding on their ships, Brahms. Shepard, open a
channel, audio only."

"Channel open, sir."

"Well... good morning, Eris! I didn't know you were hosting this
particular little party."

"Captain O'Brien, you will surrender your ship to the Dominion.
Your crew will be released into the custody of the Wadi since they
will not be held accountable for Starfleet's actions against the
Founder homeworld. However, you and Gul Dukat will stand trial for
those crimes against the Founders. In addition, Gul Dukat will be
charged in the death of the Founder named Kirsen Yavren. You will
comply with our demands..."

"Otherwise you'll send an invasion fleet here?" the captain guessed.

"That is correct, Captain O'Brien."

Miles motioned for the link to be closed. His science officer looked
at him, features pale. "Sir, that new weapon? It's on both those
ships. It seems to drain a lot of power, which may be the reason they
haven't fired at us much."

"The sub-space field fluctuations are still there, captain," Dukat
advised, "as is the bias in the space-time continuum."

"Have they sent over any cloaked vessels?"

"According to our scans, no."

////"You know, Garak, you live life once, but if you do it right, once
is enough."

"An interesting phrase, O'Brien."

"I'd thought you'd appreciate it, Mister Carpe Diem. Oh, by the
way... You'll love the Peldor Festival. Trust me."/////

"Hajar, do you have that probe ready to launch through the
anomaly?"

"Yes, sir. It should scan the other side of the anomaly for enemy
ships, relay our message to Starfleet, and then send any information
back to us."

"Good. Standby for my order."

"Yes, sir!"

O'Brien flexed his hands against the console. "Open the channel,
Shepard."

"Channel open, sir."

***

On the bridge of the USS Defiant NX-74205, Captain Benjamin
Sisko, Lieutenant Commander Jadzia Dax, and Commander Worf
whispered the same two words:

"Kobayashi Maru."

The no-win scenario.

Either way, Captain Miles Edward O'Brien was going to lose.

And everyone witnessing this showdown knew it.

"I believe the warning of 'aggressive action will be taken against the
inhabitants of this universe' constitutes as a direct threat to the
United Federation of Planets," Sisko said evenly.

"As Strategic Operations Officer and first officer of the Defiant, I
agree," Worf rumbled.

"As second officer of the Defiant, I concur," Dax stated.

Sisko didn't need their permission; he didn't need their confirmation
either. The captain glanced to the other bridge officers who met his
eyes as he looked to each of them. No, Dax and Worf were simply
voicing the opinions of every Starfleet officer on this ship, perhaps
every officer on the station as well.

They did not want Captain O'Brien to face the Jem'Hadar alone.
O'Brien was a captain. A Starfleet officer. He was an *O'Brien*... the
alternate of the chief... and whatever protective feelings any of
Sisko's officers had toward the chief, it now extended to the man who,
last evening, had proven to them all just how much their two universes
were alike.

Captain O'Brien's voice echoed on the bridge of the NX-74205.
"You want my ship? You want my crew? If that's the case, Eris, then
you have to come and get us. The hard way."

"Commander Dax," Sisko's voice was soft, "take us in."

***

"Moving within 2,000 kilometers of the anomaly," O'Brien called
out as he maneuvered the Defiant past the two 'Hadar ships. "Hajar!
Launch the probe!"

"Probe launched, sir!" Hajar called back.

"The probe has entered the anomaly," Brahms confirmed.

The Types III and IV 'Hadar ships remaining, now termed Delta and
Gamma by Dukat, reacted immediately as they charged toward the Defiant
as the Starfleet ship bolted away from the anomaly. Another barrage of
torpedoes were exchanged. The Defiant shook hard again.

Dukat alternated between firing the weapons, calling out the
Defiant's damage reports, and relaying ship positions. The Defiant's
bridge began to spark, consoles suddenly erupted in flames, and
officers were thrown from their stations.

Worst of all, Captain O'Brien couldn't use the phase drive. He
couldn't retreat. He couldn't leave DS9, Captain Sisko... even Gul
Dukat in his Bird of Prey... fighting against one Type III 'Hadar
warship and one Type IV 'Hadar warship. O'Brien had seen enough
battles and sat in the center seat long enough to know the outcome of
this.

So did Dukat.

Maybe they would get lucky. Dukat had faced a similar situation.
Granted, the Cardassian had lost his ship in the process, but maybe
Hajar's probe would relay a message to the ships Starfleet had
hopefully sent to investigate the two day-old skirmish. That's what
had happened with Dukat.

A torpedo from the 'Hadar Gamma detonated just off the port
nacelle and O'Brien forced the Defiant to roll hard away from it.
Dukat targeted the Gamma and fired the phasers; the 'Hadar warship
reeled from the intensity.

It had been far too long since O'Brien's ship had that much power
packed into the phaser array.

"Gamma has lost shields. Torpedoes away! Gamma has been
destroyed."

Miles could feel the confidence surging through the bridge.

"'Hadar Delta is firing weapons!"

"Executing evasive maneuver One One Seven."

"Direct hit to forward shields! Shields at 50% and dropping.
Rerouting auxiliary power to shield generators. Targeting Delta...
Torpedoes away. Direct hits to engineering and port nacelle. Their
shields are down to 20%. Delta is breaking off. The NX moving to
intercept."

"Captain!" Brahms called out, "A second Type IV ship emerging
from the wormhole."

 O'Brien thought to
himself.

"Type IV launching torpedoes! Direct hit, port nacelle, structural
damage. Hull breach, Decks Fourteen, Eight and Seven. Transporters,
off-line. Warp drive, 40%. Shields at 20%, long range sensors 50%,
short range sensors 75%, main power at 63%, starboard phaser array
overloading. Shutting down."

"Throw everything we have at them."

"Direct hit to Type IV, aft section. Their shields are buckling.
Incoming torpedoes! Starboard warp nacelle, structural integrity at
15%. Fire suppressants, off line. Captain! Type IV is firing the new
weapon."

***

"Mister Worf! Status!"

"The Jem'Hadar's shields are at 20%."

"Find a weakness, Mister Worf, and fire a full spread. We may not have
the same power as our counterparts, but we do have quantity."

"Aye, sir. Targeting port nacelle. Torpedoes away. Firing phasers.
Direct hit. Jem'Hadar shielding has failed."

"Captain," Dax called out, fingers dancing across her console, "I'm
detecting a massive build up in the ship's engineering section. Their
warp core may be overloading."

"Mister Worf, fire again!" Sisko ordered as he leaned forward in his
chair.

"Aye, sir! Torpedoes away. Direct hit on the port nacelle."

***

"The NX has destroyed Delta. They are on an intercept course,"
Dukat announced.

"ETA?" O'Brien asked as he entered another course change.

"Forty-five seconds." The Cardassian then called out, "Torpedoes
locked on target. Firing! Type IV has lost shields. Captain, they are
firing their new weapon again."

"Evasive maneuver O'Brien One Two Eight."

"The weapon has detonated. The NX's shields have been
compromised. They are moving off. The weapon has no effect on
our shields."

"Thank the Prophets for small favors," O'Brien smirked.

"Thank them indeed, captain," Dukat replied. "Targeting engineering
sections. Torpedoes away. Direct hit. Target destroyed."

No one cheered. No one ever did anymore. No smiles were
exchanged. No shouts of triumph echoed on the bridge. Another
battle fought. Another ship destroyed.

By the Prophets, no wonder morale was so low. Even *he* didn't
cheer.

They had won, and...

"That's for Tom Paris, you fucking bastards," Shepard growled.
O'Brien glanced over. The lieutenant straightened, unsure of the
captain's reaction to his vehemence. The rest of the bridge looked on
curiously.

"I think, Mister Shepard," the captain said casually, "it starts with,
'With the honor of Guls past and by the power of Great Gul, I take thy
name.'"

There was a moment of silence. Then came an almost inaudible,
irritated sigh. Miles laughed to himself; Dukat hated when people
hesitated, especially when it came to certain things. Rites of
Vengeance, for example. The Cardassian spoke the second line. "With
the spirit of those fallen and by the might of the Great Gul, I take
thy soul."

It wasn't much. It was something. Normally, they didn't have time for
such a rite. Now...

"With the fury of those no longer living and by the passion of the
Great Gul," Hajar's voice sounded a bit shaky, as if unsure it was her
place to say the third line, but after Dukat looked directly at her
and smiled, she became confident, "I take thy body."

"With the heart of our devoted and by the blood of the Great Gul,"
Brahms said, surprising the bridge crew by participating, "I declare
thee nothing."

Shepard looked over to the captain. O'Brien gave a slight nod. The
communications officer finished, "So it has been said, so shall it be:
*Yeri odoital*... They are nothing."

Miles could feel the comraderie returning to the bridge and grinned to
himself. He'd enjoy it for just a few more seconds.

"Sir?" Brahms suddenly paled. "The probe is sending back
information. Ten 'Hadar ships, various classes, are heading toward the
anomaly. ETA... 4 minutes. According to the probe, there are no
Starfleet or Federation vessels within two parsecs."

The news temporarily stunned O'Brien. Eris hadn't lied. The
Dominion had planned on invading this universe after all.

"The neutrinos..." Brahms added, fighting to keep her voice calm, "are
strengthening the tear in the space-time continuum. They're trying to
make a permanent gateway."

One choice.

There was only one choice.

A command officer didn't make this type of announcement from the
pilot's chair. It was a captain's statement, which had to be delivered
as a captain. The captain motioned Hajar over and indicated she take
over the helm. She was afraid; they had just barely escaped being
annihilated by five 'Hadar ships, but pride radiated from her as she
accepted his vacated seat.

It was time.

There was no escaping this.

Miles reclaimed the center seat, knowing his bridge crew was
sneaking looks at him. They had to know what was coming.

"Attention all hands, this is the captain speaking." O'Brien drew in a
deep breath. "As officers of Starfleet and representatives of the
First Federation, we have taken oaths to protect all peoples from
possible Dominion invasion. It is our duty. It is our privilege to do
so. These people, this Federation, this Bajor, this Cardassia... they
cannot fight our battles for us. A probe sent through the anomaly has
detected 10 'Hadar ships on their way to this side. We have to
collapse the bias in the space-time continuum to ensure they do not
crossover.

"In all my travels and in all my years," he paused and stood, looking
at each of his bridge officers in turn, "I have yet to serve with a
finer crew. I thank you for that honor. May the Prophets protect us,
may the Great Gul give us strength, may the Goddesses grant us
salvation, may God bless us, and may all the Deities watch over us."

His bridge crew bowed their heads or glanced away, each probably
saying their own private prayers. Miles... he thought of his son...
he'd always thought of Jake as his own since the moment Benjamin Sisko
had named Miles as the godfather of Jake... his son... down in
engineering... maybe... someway... sometime... Jake would hopefully
understand.

Miles thought of Neela.

He looked at the tactical screen.

It was time to go home.

"Prepare to collapse the anomaly."

"Aye, sir," his bridge crew acknowledged. They had no fear.

O'Brien's subderm beeped. "Sisko to O'Brien."

Hopefully, his voice didn't catch. This could be... this probably
*was* the last time. "Yes?"

"Could you send Shepard down? I'm going to need him to help
launch the mines in the anomaly when we go through."

The communications officer was looking over his shoulder at the
captain as if he knew the request was being made. O'Brien gave a
half-smile. "You're needed in engineering, Shep." The lieutenant
nodded once and then left the bridge. "He's..." Damn. Miles choked on
the word. Smoke. Yeah. It was definitely because there was smoke on
the bridge. "He's on his way down."

"Thanks. Oh, and Dad? Cool speech. Sisko out."

***

"The Defiant is heading into the anomaly, captain," Jadzia reported.
"Incoming message. Text only. It reads," her voice broke, "'Keep your
shields up.'"

"No..." Ben whispered as he slowly stood up. "He couldn't be...." He
stared at Dax. The only way to keep more Jem'Hadar ships from coming
through was to collapse the anomaly. "Hail them!"

"Channel open."

"O'Brien, I know what you're going to do! You don't have to do
this! We can close the anomaly from here! We can modify our
deflector arrays. Respond!"

***

Ben Sisko's voice rang in Captain O'Brien's head. It took a few
seconds for the captain to realize the message had not been
broadcasted on the bridge comm line, only to O'Brien's subderm.
The captain turned toward Dukat.

The Cardassian tilted his head slightly, confirming O'Brien's
suspicion that he had routed the message directly to O'Brien. Dukat
then spoke. "The NX is moving to intercept us."

Damn. They had no shields. The force of the blast... those mines
Jake and Nog had cooked up... Without shields, Sisko's Defiant
wouldn't stand a chance.

"Dukat... send a copy of the probe's findings to Sisko. I don't want
him to think we're doing this just to be theatrical."

"My pleasure, captain."

***

"No response to our hails, captain," Dax told Sisko.

"Bring us around, then! Cut them off!"

"We're too far away."

"Damn it, NO!" Sisko raged and surged forward until he was over
Dax's shoulders and stabbing the helm controls. "They don't have to do
this!"

"We don't have any shields." Dax placed her hand over Sisko's. "It's
too late. They've already entered the anomaly."

The captain whirled around and stormed back to his chair, trying his
best to contain his emotions. Dax was right... they didn't have any
shields, and whatever Captain O'Brien planned to do probably involved
a lot of firepower. "Move us to a safe distance, commander."

Dax nodded once. "Yes, sir."

"Godspeed, Captain Miles Edward O'Brien," Sisko murmured, his
eyes riveted to the screen.

***

"What are they doing?" Nechayev demanded.

Starfleet admirals. The extra pips on their collars must drain their
common sense.

"They're going to collapse the anomaly," the major snapped
impatiently. The realization of just what that meant hit her. She
murmured, "By the Prophets, no...."

"Shields are at maximum strength," Muniz reported, far from the
crispness he had spoken with earlier. He knew as well.

"May the Prophets protect you," Kira whispered.

*** End Part 20 ***

The explosion that followed hurled the USS Defiant NX-74205
backward; all of the ship's sensors went off line.

The explosion that followed caused the two cloaked Klingon ships,
which had been undetected by the USS Defiant NX-74205, DS9 or by Gul
Dukat, to be destroyed.

The explosion that followed overloaded the shields and sensors of Gul
Dukat's Bird of Prey.

The explosion that followed burned out one shield generator and the
long range sensors on DS9.

***

"They are true warriors. They died with honor."

"They had faith in the Prophets. May the Prophets grant them
eternal peace."

"They swore to protect those they could against Dominion attacks."

"... and that is... that is exactly what they did."

"My God... they sacrificed themselves for us...."

"They didn't have a choice."

"They were damn fine people. Something should be done for them... they
have to be remembered for what they did."

***

He could have salvaged the suit. One quick run through the
sanitation device and all the blood would be removed from the
material. It was that simple. The smell would be eliminated. The
colors would return to their former vibrancy.

Garak chose not to.

For the same reason he discarded the suit, he had finished Julian's...
No, the tailor mentally corrected, it was the *ambassador's* uniform.
Black Incarian wool was the same material the finer Bajoran militia
uniforms were made of. To use an inferior cloth would have been
unacceptable. The ambassador deserved the finest Garak had to offer.
The tailor even constructed a formal jacket like the one the
ambassador had worn during their first meeting, complete with
expensive gold trim made from Bolian silk.

Garak didn't even have measurements; he had just began cutting and
sewing. He didn't even sketch out a pattern. He just began.

It was so unlike him. He wasn't the type to mourn over his losses. Oh,
he had fooled himself into believing fashioning a suit without proper
measurements was a challenge, but he knew the truth. He wanted an
excuse to remember; it had simply been too long since....

No... it hadn't been "too long." The truth pained him. No one had ever
treated him as the ambassador had. Such loyalty. Such respect. Such
devotion. Such passion. Such love.

Garak tucked the silver Empire crest between the folds of the tunic.

He had been lying in bed, lulled almost to sleep by one of Ariakak's
symphonies, when O'Brien's voice had boomed from the commbadge
Ambassador Bashir had given him.

"Is the ambassador's uniform ready?"

The station's red-alert klaxon had sounded.

<Now or never.>

"I'm afraid not, captain. Please pass along my apologies to the
ambassador."

"Of course. O'Brien out."

He didn't know which had surprised him more: the fact Captain
O'Brien would even consider allowing an exiled Cardassian with a
mysterious past on board his ship to travel to another *universe,* or
that O'Brien had contacted him prior to leaving. Perhaps the captain
owed something to the ambassador. Perhaps the captain knew, if he had
been in a similar situation, he would be doing the exact same thing as
Bashir. O'Brien had said anyone else would not have given him a
choice. Garak would have been kidnaped, put in stasis, and revived
once on the other side without being asked.

"Garak?"

Julian's voice... The *doctor's* voice.... There were differences.
They were not noticeable except when certain words were pronounced.
Garak's name, for example.

<You are *Cardassian*! Stop being so sentimental! Stop wallowing
in self-pity!>

The tailor dragged his eyes from the pile of cloth to his right on the
cutting table and found Doctor Bashir standing in the doorway to the
back room of the shop. It was evident the doctor was still depressed
over what had happened.

Two days ago, Captain O'Brien and his gallant Starfleet crew had
sacrificed themselves. According to the report Garak had acquired, the
First Federation captain had had no choice. Ten Jem'Hadar warships had
been poised to attack the woefully unprepared Alpha Quadrant. Perhaps
this would spur the complacent Starfleet into more aggressive weaponry
and Dukat into giving up his one-ship fight against the Klingons and
strengthening Cardassia.

Yesterday, the station had been in mourning, to recognize what
those alternates from that other universe had done.

Garak had locked himself in his quarters. He knew his emotions
would betray him.

The Cardassian forced a smile across his face, no matter how much he
wanted to....

<No wonder the ambassador was so morbid. Is this what he went
through every time he saw me?>

"Ah! Doctor Bashir! I didn't hear you come in."

"I've been practicing my stealth technique." It was meant as a joke,
but the words fell flat. Only when Bashir ventured further into the
room did Garak notice a leather bound book tucked under the doctor's
arm.

"Another piece of Terran literature?" Garak inquired and pointed to
the tome.

"Oh! This...." A shadow passed across the doctor's face as he pulled
the book from the crook in his arm and stared at the cover. "It...
it's a gift.... From Dukat... Not *our* Dukat... Theirs... No...
actually, it's from the ambassador. At least, I think it's from him.
Dukat said the ambassador wanted me to have it. How he knew that, I
don't know... The ambassador only regained consciousness once and said
nothing about giving me this. All he muttered was something about
'know him as I have' and Dukat seemed to understand what the
ambassador was implying. Dukat then told me he would forward a copy to
me, but I never thought he would forward an actual *paper* volume.
Then again, Dukat probably already knew they were going to die and the
ambassador would have no use for it ever again. I'm surprised Dukat
even sent it... When did he have the time? One minute we were talking
about the ambassador then Dukat was shouting about the Jem'Hadar...
they called them the 'Hadar, you know... sort of the like the chief
calls Cardassians... oh... well, you know what I mean... well, then he
and the ambassador beam out of the Infirmary.... Then... then.... You
heard what happened."

Bashir's words were a babbled blur; Garak followed along the best he
could as the doctor's voice rose and fell in emotional pitch. However,
the last sentence which Bashir had mumbled almost as an afterthought
immediately caught the tailor's attention. Garak gently replied, "Yes,
I did. They were brave souls. They understood what they were doing.
And somehow, I have the feeling they would not have had it any other
way."

The doctor did not respond right away, so Garak waited. Slowly,
almost reverently, Bashir opened the book and gently turned the
pages. "It's all in Kardasi, or at least that's what the computer
says. I can speak a few Kardasi phrases, the ones I've learned from
you and from that linguistics program, but the only words I can read
are 'Stop,' 'No access,' and 'Danger.' Oh... there are a few others...
the ones on the station signs that haven't been converted yet...."
Bashir glanced around the room, his uneasiness becoming more apparent
with each moment he stood there. "Um... Have I interrupted you?"

"I was just finishing up for the evening." To prove his point, Garak
stood and brushed a few idle threads from his lap. Quickly, Bashir
closed the book and held it closer to his chest. The movement
intrigued the tailor; obviously there was something the doctor did not
want him to see or perhaps was not prepared for Garak to view just
yet. What? Did it have illustrations?


"Um..." The doctor's confidence was clearly rattled. It reminded
Garak of the first few times he had engaged the young Starfleet
officer in conversation outside of the Infirmary. Anxious...
Nervous... a bit fearful but phenomenally curious.... "Would you...
um... like to have... um... dinner? That is, of course, if you haven't
already eaten because if you have I understand perfectly and...."

The Cardassian held up his hand and Bashir abruptly stopped, his
mouth closing as he began shuffling his feet. It was quite an
endearing move, actually. "No, I haven't already eaten." Was that
relief the tailor detected in Bashir's hazel eyes? The next question,
however, would definitely set the stage. "Quark's, perhaps?"

The doctor suddenly developed a keen interest in the carpet.

Ah. Maybe the doctor did know about Garak's liaison with the
ambassador. Then again, Garak could be jumping to conclusions
again.

"Actually... um... this is... um..." Bashir was still focused on the
carpet. "The replicator in my quarters is much better than Quark's.
The chief just fixed it last week. He said it didn't make a proper
Dutch pretzel to go with his Irish stout. Um... It may not have many
Cardassian dishes, but um... I've noticed you really don't eat
Cardassian cuisine that much...."

A request for privacy. Interesting. And Bashir wanted to feel safe,
hence the desire to meet in his quarters.

"Of course, doctor. Why don't I meet you there at say... 1900
hours?" There, that should give the doctor adequate time to either
calm down or become more nervous. Plus, they wouldn't be seen walking
to and entering the doctor's private chambers which would at least
fend off the embarrassing questions for the immediate moment. "I do
have a few things I must tend to before I leave for the evening."

"That sounds... fine... 1900 hours is fine.... I'll... um... see you
then."

***

Sisko forwarded the formal protest from the Cardassian civilian
government for botching the exchange of anti-Dominion technology
to Nechayev. Let her and her group of diplomats work with that
mess. Ben was simply too tired to deal with it. As unusual as it was,
Gul Dukat had not stormed into Sisko's office, demanding an
explanation of why Captain O'Brien had rescinded his offer to share
technology. The logical conclusion, the one Nechayev and Shakaar, not
to mention the rest of the command crew, feared was Gul Dukat had been
given the information which had been denied Starfleet and the BPG.

Still, it was odd for Dukat not to gloat. The gul had left without any
parting message almost immediately after Captain O'Brien destroyed the
anomaly.

If O'Brien hadn't given Dukat something, than perhaps one of
O'Brien's crew had. There had been at least eight Cardassian
officers, besides the chief of security, on board the Defiant. Tora
Ziyal had been part of O'Brien's crew. Maybe she wanted to make sure
the alternate of her father was suitably prepared for a Dominion
attack. It was logical. It was even understandable.

Nechayev seemed obsessed about that point. She didn't even seem to
care that two Klingon ships had been destroyed during the blast and no
demand for explanation from the Klingon High Council had come down.
Plus, the Romulans had not made an official appearance yet. The
alternates had been there for almost three days and not a single word
from either government. Perhaps the Romulans had been lurking around
DS9 in their cloaked warbirds as well, waiting to see what happened.

In the end, the only ones who seemed to care that Captain O'Brien and
his crew had made the supreme sacrifice had been those stationed on
DS9. Oh, and Shakaar. At his suggestion, the station temple had held
prayer services for the thirty-nine officers who had died. After all,
he had said, they had faith in the Prophets.

Dax and Chief O'Brien hadn't given up on the tracking system. They
were determined to get it to work, even if it meant a multi-shift
marathon. Nechayev only encouraged them.

Ben stared out of the portal in his office, tossing his prized
baseball lazily between his hands. Jake was making dinner this
evening. His son had to endure more hugs in the past two days than he
had had to in the past two years. Jake had not protested either. He
understood.

The captain placed his baseball back on its perch and was almost out
the door of his office when Chief O'Brien stepped off the turbolift
and headed right toward him.

"Sir," the chief glanced around Ops, tapping a padd impatiently
against his leg, "can we discuss a few things?"

"Of course." Once seated inside the captain's office, Sisko noted how
uneasy the chief was. "Is there a problem?"

"Well... Keiko said Jake dropped by our quarters two nights ago.
The only reason she was still up was she was finishing some reports
for a conference she's speaking at in two weeks. Anyway, he gave her
this," the chief held up the padd, "and told her to make sure I get it
as soon as possible. She asked him why he couldn't give it me
personally, and he said his father would be mighty angry if he knew he
wasn't where he was supposed to be."

"So she brought it you right away."

"Well... not exactly.... The station went on red alert and she put it
with her other padds. Honestly, sir, I haven't seen my wife in the
past two days, with the repairs to the Defiant and all."

"I see."

"But when she did get it to me... well..." The chief handed it to
Sisko.

The captain activated the screen. What he saw stunned him. "Phaser
modifications?" He then remembered the first battle with the Jem'Hadar
and how Jake protested that the station did not have a particular type
of phasers Captain O'Brien or Dukat (Sisko hadn't been too sure which
one) had asked for. If it had been the polaron emitters Captain
O'Brien had mentioned earlier, Sisko would have known the information
came directly from the captain. However, this... the captain again
looked at the specs... this was something specific to the station. Had
his son... no... *Chief* Jake Sisko wasn't his son....

"Sir," the chief interrupted, "I have a feeling he didn't clear this
with anyone. Being their chief engineer, if he had wanted to beam
someplace and beam right back, he could have done it without anyone
knowing."

"But why?" The soft-spoken words were meant to be rhetorical.
"Why would he have risked...?"

O'Brien gave a cough of embarrassment. "The supplies we sent
over? I took the liberty of adding a few things that weren't on their
list."

Sisko shot the chief a look. O'Brien only shrugged, but it wasn't as
apologetic as the captain was expecting. Then the captain realized he
was staring into the features of a former soldier. Of someone who had
lived through and understood war. Of a compassionate man. Of the one
person on the station who had used his position as operations chief to
forge an alliance. The chief wasn't normally the one to pull such a
stunt; Doctor Bashir was. Yet whatever the chief had done, whatever he
had given them (and Sisko really didn't want to know), it had spurred
Chief Jake Sisko into breaking a slew of laws, going against his own
captain's orders, to repay a kindness shown.

"This was his way of thanking you?"

The chief didn't even smile. "Officially, I prefer not to think of it
that way, captain."

***

Plates had not been set out, neither had placemats nor eating utensils
nor glasses. Oh, the dining table had been cleared off, but not
prepared for two people to share a meal.

The book was in the middle of the table.

To say Garak was curious was an understatement. To say Doctor
Bashir was nervous was also an understatement. The physician
paced around his quarters after the tailor had arrived as if working
up the courage to ask...

Ask what? Confirm medical findings? Talk about...

Ridiculous. Unless....

Garak hadn't moved from behind the chair in the main living area, the
place he had stopped at when he had first entered Bashir's quarters.
Normally, he would have preferred to stand closer to the door, giving
himself a convenient and unblocked exit. However, given the doctor's
erratic behavior, such a tactic would only make the doctor more
unsettled. Garak wanted to present himself as a listener... among
other things.

"The book..." Bashir began without preamble but refused to stop
pacing, "it's a collection of poems by Tavor Kell."

"Kell? The architect?"

The doctor suddenly halted and stared at Garak. "Architect?"

"My dear doctor," Garak said pleasantly, "Tavor Kell designed this
station. It is quite pleasing to the Cardassian eye, I must say, but I
do fear some of the more intricate nuances of the station have been
lost on those unfamiliar with traditional Cardassian architect. The
'Nor' stations, as they have been termed, are perhaps the boldest
constructions of the Empire. It is unfortunate he died shortly after
completing this work."

"Someone wasn't happy with the archways?" Bashir asked, a half-smile
touching his lips.

"He wasn't assassinated or had some ill-fated accident. Kell died from
a neurological disorder."

"Oh...."

"But it is rather interesting, though. Both Kells were creative in
their own way."

Bashir looked over toward the table. "The book..." he breathed but did
not elaborate.

"Doctor, what is the matter? You're hardly acting like yourself,"
Garak observed, but made sure his voice sounded concerned yet neutral.
Normally, he was patient. Normally, he would allow Bashir to attain
some level of comfort before the tailor began searching for
information. Yet Garak knew unless he pushed Bashir, the doctor would
never make his point. "I realize how disconcerting it must be to
receive a gift from your alternate under such distressing
circumstances...."

"It's not just any collection of poems, Garak."

"Then what, my dear doctor, is it about?"

"I had the computer translate the text yesterday. I read it last
night."

"And...?"

The doctor suddenly walked to the portal. "They are sonnets...
odes... hymns...."

"And what, my dear doctor, is so upsetting about those types of
poetry? I believe I have endured many penned by your esteemed
William Shakespeare, Tennyson, Keats, and Wordsworth, among
others. I do have to admit a certain fondness for Edgar Allen Poe.
Such delightful images."

Julian blew air between his lips, an unusual gesture of frustration,
as if angry with himself for being unable to bring himself to the
point. He then walked to the table, picked the volume up, and
approached Garak. "What is... what is odd is that *this* particular
copy... it has notes written in the margins."

Ah. So that was it.

But... so obvious?

<By the Great Gul, please don't have my alternate have been some
love-sick military officer with a penchant for bad poetry, wooing a
young, naive boy to his bed.>

Bashir opened the book, turned a few pages and then edged closer
to the tailor. "Here." He held out the book and pointed to the
elegant swirls and symbols across the paper. "There are two distinct
handwritings... both in Kardasi script. I... um... I found my... um...
name written here and... yours... there." His hand was steady as he
indicated two sets of characters; the rest of his arm trembled. "Well,
um... given what we know about our alternates, a good guess would be
that they... um... that this was the ambassador's."

"Yes... it is a likely conclusion."

"I..." Julian took another step closer. "I didn't ask the computer to
translate the written notes. It would have been... too... impersonal."

Garak didn't challenge the lie; Bashir was skittish enough as it was.
However, it was doubtful the doctor could have deciphered their
respective names unless he had that first page translated. Whatever he
had found there....

Carefully, with the same reverence displayed before in the shop, the
doctor held out the book; Garak accepted it.

The tailor looked over the page Bashir had opened the book to and
stopped when he saw the notation along the bottom left page: "Envoy.
No doubt you studied Kardasi literature while at the Academy. However,
one must keep learning. If you are to impress those new to our
Federation, a splash of culture always makes a good introduction." It
had been signed "Gul Garak" followed by numbers which looked like a
date but it did not conform with the Cardassian, Terran, or Bajoran
calendars or the Federation's system of "stardates." The tailor wished
he could have read this in private so he could at least prepare a
proper response to what would no doubt be embarrassing questions.

"The other Garak is dead, isn't he?"

Garak kept his gaze focused on the page. "Yes, doctor."

"The ambassador must have been..." Julian faltered, "he was
*pleased* to see that in some other universe, we were... are... also
friends."

Garak said nothing, wondering if he should correct the doctor's
choice of words. What should he say? How should he phrase it? He
glanced down at the elegant script and realized precisely what this
volume of poetry meant to the ambassador.

It had been the beginning.

And whether or not the alternate-Dukat had misinterpreted the
ambassador's request, the quote had meant enough to Dukat that he
recognized the importance of it and had forwarded such a personal item
to the alternate of the ambassador.

Carpe diem. Seize the day. The words now sounded foolish.
Childish. Distastefully naive. Complete and utter tripe.

Aware Julian was watching every movement and scrutinizing his
every expression, Garak thumbed through the pages of the book and
glanced at the titles of the poems. Most of them had to do with the
Cardassian state or the Federation (political poetry... at least Kell
had some taste). They were the pages most filled with underlining of
phrases and notations in the margins. Then, he found what he had been
looking for: the brittle page which looked as if it had been sprinkled
with water and allowed to dry. It was the only page in the entire
volume to be in that condition. The tailor read the opening stanza to
himself:

"If you know him as I have, you will understand his words
Beyond the precious glimmer of innocent meanings.
The truest meaning can be found
in the purest form of the ancient language.
If you know him as I have, you will understand his words
For they are faceted like finest jevonite.
The truest meaning can be found
once you listen for what is not.
If you know him as I have, you will understand his words."

By the Great Gul, he hoped the rest of Kell's poems were better than
that. Otherwise... what? Would Garak turn down this chance?

He noticed Julian was now holding his breath as the tailor lingered
over the page. There were no handwritten notes to accompany the text;
it was the only poem Garak had seen so far without such markings.

"We both know our alternates were mentor and protege," Garak
stated slowly, allowing Julian to absorb his words. Of course, no
matter what he said now, Julian would dissect them to find a double
meaning. "It appears this... served as the catalyst between them.
Perhaps... perhaps when the ambassador saw us dining in the replimat
together, in obvious discussion, he... he remembered."

The silence was immeasurable.

"We don't have to... um... talk about it tonight," Julian's voice was
now hushed. "It looks like they traded the book back and forth." Garak
looked up and found the doctor's wide hazel eyes staring at him,
trepidation and fear of rejection mixing in their depths. "Perhaps...
we could... um... I wouldn't be averse to the...."

Poor Julian. He couldn't even say the words. Did he even know what he
was asking? Did he know that two nights ago, Elim Garak had been loved
(there was simply no other term to describe it) by the ambassador?

Did it matter?

Perhaps. But not here. Not now.

"Doctor, I would enjoy discussing this particular work with you,"
Garak gave a genuine smile, one which the doctor recognized and then
returned. "It would be positively fascinating."

Not to mention, a beginning.

***** Finis *****