Chapter Text
“I don’t care if it is Legate Kell coming to the station, I’m still not a bodyguard!”
Julian angled his head towards the entrance unconsciously, catching the mention of the legate’s name even over the din of the dabo table. A quick glance up revealed two Cardassian officers entering the premises. Julian recognized the speaker as Russol, a regular patron of Quark’s. The other was unfamiliar.
“You’re a member of the military,” Russol’s companion reminded him as they wove their way to an empty table. “You go where you’re told. Besides, think of it as an opportunity for advancement.”
“If anything, escort duty is a demotion.”
Julian went through the motions of encouraging bets, but his main focus was straining his ears to pick up their conversation. Dukat’s boss had avoided the station for years, according to Quark, and now Kell was on his third visit in the span of six months. Something was afoot. If Julian could just figure out what, if he could learn something new to tell Kira…
“Not if you make a good impression,” the unfamiliar Cardassian argued.
“If Kell is impressed by anything, it’s Dukat who’ll get promoted. That’s what always happens, Toran.”
So the other one was Toran. But Julian was not interested in hearing more about whether or not Dukat gave inferiors sufficient opportunity for advancement; he needed the conversation to circle back to the legate’s suddenly renewed interest in Terok Nor.
“Yes, but then who will Dukat promote? You need more ambition, Russol.”
“Easy for you to-”
The rest of the sentence was overpowered by the noise of gamblers reacting to the latest spin. The bar was unusually crowded, packed with the off-duty members of a freighter crew that had docked to pick up an ore shipment.
Julian’s present job was to circulate, flirt, and encourage everyone to spend more, which provided the perfect excuse to take matters into his own hands.
He made a show of noticing the two newcomers with a wide grin and wave.
“Russol, come and join us for a round!” He raised his voice to be heard, energetically indicating the wheel.
Toran scoffed, but Russol laughed.
“I still owe Quark from the last time,” he called back, although that was a lie and they both knew it. Cardassians were scrupulous about repaying acknowledged debts.
“That’s too bad.” Julian detached himself from dabo and made his way to their table, pausing before he spoke again. The decreased distance allowing him to lower his voice. “I was hoping you would buy me a drink.”
He positioned himself directly next to the chair of Russol, whose hand found its way to his lower back.
“Perhaps I could be persuaded.”
“I’ll make it cheap for you, how about that? I’ll drink anything but kanar.”
The hand moved lower, to his rear.
“You still haven’t found a vintage you like? Toran, can you believe a beautiful young man like this doesn’t appreciate kanar?”
“I can’t believe you waste your time on dabo spinners,” Toran grumbled. Julian was not sure if he was jealous or just considered himself too good for Quark’s, but decided to ignore him either way.
“If you have one in mind, I’m open to suggestions.” Julian reached over and lightly stroked Russol’s right shoulder ridge, exposed by the wide neck of his uniform. That would speak much more loudly than any complaint Toran could offer.
“Then I think we’ll order a bottle of 2327 vintage,” Russol said, “and some company to go with it.”
Julian smiled through the sharp pinch on his ass.
“I’ll be right back,” he promised.
He would find an excuse not to drink along with them, but liquor always loosened lips, and he wanted as much information about Kell’s visit as could be provided.
He wouldn’t have admitted it out loud, but Julian thought of his work in Quark’s as being undercover. He may have been more Bond girl than James himself, but dabo duty had a higher purpose, providing money and information that could be put to use aiding the Bajorans on the station. He chose a persona based on what he felt would best lure in the target- naive and bubbly or femme fatale- and on occasion even enjoyed himself in the process.
Julian contemplated the best angle of attack on Russol as he leaned across the bar, waiting for Quark to find the right bottle of kanar (or to slap the right label on whatever bottle was first available).
“Can they really taste the difference of the year?” Julian wanted to know. All kanar tasted the same to him, thick and syrupy sweet.
“You’d be surprised. I once knew a Cardassian who could taste it down to the month.” Quark looked a little mournful about the fact, presumably because it made it harder for him to upsell the cheap stuff.
A voice behind Julian said, “Well, Quark, aren’t you going to welcome me?”
Julian stiffened immediately, but Quark merely smiled obsequiously.
The world inside Quark’s was always fun and games. That was the business model- escapism for a reasonable price. At times, in the hustle and bustle and excitement, Julian could feel the grim world on the other side of the Promenade slipping away, caught up in his own spy fantasy.
Until something- or someone- came along to remind him why spying was necessary.
“You’re always welcome here, Dukat!” Quark’s grin put all 45 pointy teeth on display. “What can I get for you?”
Not that Dukat needed to come to the bar to drink, since his quarters were equipped with private replicators, real food and alcohol straight from Cardassia Prime, and Bajoran women specifically kidnapped for his pleasure.
“I’d like a word with your human.”
In a perfect, James Bond-esque world, Julian would have been able to respond to that with cool composure. Instead, he accidentally bit down on his tongue and almost yelped aloud at the sudden sting.
Conversation with Dukat presented two difficulties.
Firstly, if Dukat grew curious about the presence of a human on the station, or suspected that Julian was aiding the Bajorans, he could have the human arrested with a snap of his fingers. Being arrested would be the best outcome, in fact, because Odo was as close to fair and reasonable as anyone could get on Terok Nor. Torture, interrogation, and execution were the far less optimistic possibilities.
Secondly, Julian hated him.
It was hard not to loathe Dukat. Even if the other Cardassian soldiers could be excused as only following orders (a flimsy and insufficient defense), Dukat was one of the architects of Bajoran suffering, and he took pride in a job well done.
“Julian’s right here,” Quark said, as if Dukat had somehow managed to miss that fact. “You can say as many words as you’d like.”
“Without an audience, if you please.”
“Oh! Oh, of course. I’ll just go check on Rom.” Quark gave Julian a look that might almost be called pitying, and made his way out from behind the bar.
There were others around, of course, so it wasn’t exactly private. But it still had the effect of making Julian uncomfortable.
“You’ve been very busy since you arrived on my station, Julian,” Dukat began.
Julian didn’t miss that. My station. Terok Nor was Dukat’s private planet, and everyone else just happened to be living on it.
“Quark does keep me busy,” Julian agreed lightly, “but I’m enjoying it. I’ve made so many new friends through working here.”
“Including our resident tailor, I’m told. An amiable fellow if there ever was one, that Garak.” Dukat hit the k in Garak’s name as if it choked him.
If this was just some strange peacocking born of Dukat and Garak’s mutual hatred, that would be fine. Inconvenient, certainly, but unlikely to result in death.
“Yes, Garak’s very kind. He’s been introducing me to Cardassian literature.” It wasn’t the literature that Julian enjoyed, but the arguments. Debating with Garak was the most intellectual stimulation he’d had in years, and he did not have to worry about holding back his intelligence or coming on too strong. Of course they could never discuss personal topics, and they never answered each other’s questions, but it was the closest Julian felt to being himself since he had fled Federation space.
“I would be careful, if I were you,” Dukat advised. “His taste isn’t always… trustworthy.”
That was an unnecessary warning. Anyone who paid attention could tell that Garak was not what he claimed to be, a tailor who never opened his shop and took no customers yet never seemed to want for money. It was not a set of circumstances that inspired trust. Still, Julian did not quite mind. He was lying to Garak, after all. What did it matter if Garak did the same in turn? They both pretended that they were mundane, and that the other person couldn’t tell it was a facade.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Julian replied simply, and hoped that would be the end of the conversation.
No such luck.
“Are you discussing literature with the Bajorans as well?” Dukat prodded.
That called for obfuscation of Julian’s least favorite kind.
“I didn’t realize any of them could read!” he laughed. A queasy, guilty feeling permeated his stomach, as it always did when he was forced to say things like that.
When spies went undercover in the kinds of novels Julian liked to read, it was only for a finite period of time, with justice always served by the final page. Julian himself, on the other hand, did not have the luxury of a fair end in sight.
He could always leave. Quit Quark’s and go back to the life of fleeing he had been living before. But now that he had seen the pain and struggle firsthand, he couldn’t turn his back on Bajor, even if his efforts would never be enough. He stayed because he would not have been able to live with himself if he didn’t do something.
But it rankled, standing there and having to play nice with the man who was not only responsible for the devastation of a planet, but also seemed to see it as some kind of perverse paternalistic duty.
Perhaps, in that moment, Dukat saw something in Julian’s eyes, a glimpse of the rage and resolve within.
Perhaps the only thing Dukat saw in others’ eyes was his own reflection.
Either way, he turned over his shoulder and called out to the bar, “Quark! I’m taking your human for the evening.”
Both Quark and Julian’s protestations were ignored. Dukat swept out of the bar and expected Julian to follow.
Half a step behind, the human did so, fervently searching the Promenade for possible distractions. Wherever Dukat was taking him, he was sure it was not a place he wanted to be.
“I think you’ve lied to me,” Dukat said conversationally as they walked. He seemed to have no qualms about discreetness, since anybody walking by could overhear them.
“About anything in particular?” Julian tried to keep his tone playful, as if waiting for the punchline.
If the universe had any kindness, this would just be about how much Dukat and Garak hated each other. But Julian’s luck was in short supply.
“I know you’ve been playing doctor to the Bajorans. I’ve been very generous to let it go on this far, don’t you agree?”
Far from generous, it was the literal bare minimum that Dukat could do, but there was no point in saying so.
Technically, distributing bandages and birth control was not against the law, but only Odo was likely to care about such a distinction. Using falsified security codes to override limits on Quark’s replicators was very much against the rules, but more likely to result in a beating than being thrown off the station.
The real death knell would be if they realized Kira was Julian’s contact in the resistance. If they did, they would interrogate him.
If they interrogated him, they might realize that Julian’s body did not respond to torture the way a human’s was supposed to. Julian had not decided if it would be worse to be discovered or killed. He didn’t relish either option.
“I’ve always thought you were a generous man,” he lied. There did not seem to be much else to do, particularly not while striding down a Promenade lined with armed guards.
“Now it’s time for you to repay my kindness. You and I, Julian, are going on a little trip.”
A firm hand grasped the junction of his neck and shoulder, a cruel parody of his earlier attentions to Russol. Julian knew the vise-like grip steering him down the corridor meant danger.
He was strong enough to break free, but all it would get him was a disrupter to the face from someone on patrol. If it looked like he was harming the Prefect, they probably wouldn’t hesitate to shoot him.
They passed the security office without a sideways glance, crushing Julian’s faint hope that he might be saved by Odo’s sense of justice.
The next turn took them to the habitat ring.
“If you wanted me to come back to your quarters, all you had to do was ask,” Julian tried. It was a last-ditch effort; Dukat’s predilections ran in a decidedly female direction.
“I’m afraid we have other plans.” Dukat glanced back at him with a look Julian did not like at all. “Besides, I think your friend Garak would rather keep you to himself.”
“We aren’t together,” Julian said quickly, just in case all this was a manifestation of a grudge against Garak and clarifying that misunderstanding might save him.
(Whether or not he wanted to sleep with Garak was a different issue, and one he would not discuss with Dukat under any circumstances.)
“Indeed,” Dukat said.
They crossed the threshold of the passageway that led to the outer docking ring.
Throwing someone out of the airlock was not usual Cardassian style. They murdered in surreptitious secret, the victim dead before they had the chance to realize what was happening, or else broadcasted the execution as a public lesson. There was no in-between.
Well, that wasn’t entirely true. The step in between was interrogation.
They wouldn’t get any useful information out of Julian. He didn’t have any to give. His only contact was Kira, and she could easily be going by a false name. There were definitely other members of the resistance on the station, but Julian hadn’t the faintest idea who any of them were.
He wouldn’t betray the Bajorans, but that was cold comfort.
If the Cardassians realized he was genetically enhanced, would they kill him, or turn him in to the Federation, or condemn him to life as a lab rat or tool?
Maybe death was better. Maybe he should make a run for it, and then if he was vaporized by phaser fire at least it would be his own choice.
They stopped at a docking port with only one guard.
“Ready to depart, sir?” the soldier asked.
Julian had not yet made up his mind on a course of action, but it was now absolutely necessary to do something. He chose to wrench himself free of Dukat’s grasp.
The guard aimed, but did not fire.
“Where are you taking me?” Julian demanded, dropping any remaining pretense.
Dukat’s smile sent chills down Julian’s spine.
“It’s more exciting if it’s a surprise, don’t you think?”
If Julian were, hypothetically, to disarm and knock out both Dukat and the guard, he then have to either hide out in the ducts like a vole until he could stow away on the next freighter out, or steal a shuttle.
If he was going to steal the shuttle anyways, it made sense to let Dukat get it out of dock first. Then Julian would have time to learn the controls, and once they were out in space he could neutralize Dukat and transport him somewhere.
There was nothing for it but to screw his courage to the sticking place.
Lay on, Dukat, he thought, and damned be him who first cries ‘Hold, enough!’
He hoped Macbeth on the mind was not a bad omen.