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At 0800 hours Julian was awoken by a pounding knock on the door, followed by the whoosh of an override open.
“Order 273,” a voice barked into the darkness. “Out in the corridor, now.”
There was not much else to do but comply. He crossed his arms over his bare chest (it was too warm to sleep fully clothed), and hopped from one bare foot to the other. It wasn’t as if he was accustomed to a good deal of modesty, given that his usual uniform shirt only really covered his back and arms, but it was still embarrassing to be pushed out half-dressed. Hartla and Etana, also standing in the hall, cast sympathetic glances his way but knew better than to try to start a conversation.
Julian had not sufficiently appreciated before that he was living with the relatively lax version of Cardassian security. Since the explosion on the Promenade last week, Dukat had been baying for blood, and the soldiers were taking full advantage of their legal right to search quarters (order 273), detain people (order 146), and confiscate property (order 207) at their own discretion.
The situation was untenable, and unsustainable, and that was what worried Julian the most. Every day, they inched closer to the boiling point.
This time, at least, they didn’t take anything. Not that he had much to take. Dabo spinning at Quark’s was not a lucrative career, and Julian’s funds went into emergency medical supplies. A box of Trill cotton had been overturned, the pre-cut strips strewn across the floor. Unfortunate, considering he wheedled that fabric from Garak specifically for bandages to keep wounds from getting infected, and his floor was far from a sterile surface. Still, the damage could have been worse.
Setting the small room to rights, Julian found a scrap of paper tucked away. In blocky Cardassian writing, it ordered him to report to the outer docking ring primary airlock at 0600 the next day.
That meant an appointment with Ziyal, which in turn meant that an aggressive unannounced search was Dukat’s idea of discreet communication.
At 1200 hours Julian went to Garak’s Clothiers for a spot of tea. A middle-aged Bajoran man was ducking out as he approached, which was odd. It was unusual for anyone to be in Garak’s shop at all, but particularly for a Bajoran. Unlike Quark, Garak didn’t have a work detail, and the only Bajorans with enough money to buy new clothes were collaborators.
Julian paused across the Promenade and watched the man walk, below the ever-present guards patrolling the second level. He didn’t so much as spare them a glance, which meant he either felt very comfortable around armed Cardassians, or was trying not to draw attention.
Another movement further down drew Julian’s eye- Dukat, exiting Odo’s office. His mouth was forming words, maybe not loud enough for Cardassian hearing to catch from this far away, but Julian’s enhanced auditory capabilities caught the phrase one week, and that’s all- and then the Bajoran man stepped up to actually approach Dukat, which was even stranger.
The clap of Garak’s hand on Julian’s shoulder made him jump.
“See anything interesting?” he asked in a knowing tone.
“New customer?” Julian responded. Garak smiled brightly.
“My dear, what is the point of a lunch break if we use it to discuss business? I’d much rather hear about your morning. I understand you had some unexpected visitors.”
“I guess we’ve both been busy.” It was always a dance with Garak, the back and forth of who would reveal something first.
“Indeed. Now, for lunch, I was thinking of trying something new. Have you ever had Barzan or Chryssalian cuisine?”
Julian responded, but his mind continued to dwell on Garak’s visitor. He had the niggling feeling that the man’s face was familiar for some reason.
They spent lunch resolutely not answering each other’s questions, and quarreling about Iloja of Prim’s odes.
“If they exiled him, I say good riddance to them. I don’t see why he spent all of his time writing about the glory of the union,” Julian complained. Garak tsk’ed.
“Exile is not necessarily a permanent state. He hoped to be repatriated.”
The more fool him, Julian thought. Going back could never be the same, once you’d been sent away.
On the other hand, Iloja wasn’t a fugitive. Julian’s exile was self-imposed, the sentence he stole for himself rather than live locked up in an institution or become a weapon for elements that might or might not exist.
“There are some who suggest that Iloja’s odes weren’t written to Cardassia at all,” Garak added.
“Well, he’s certainly not writing about Vulcan.”
“The prevailing theory is that he may have been writing to a lover that he had left behind.”
Julian met Garak’s eyes and held the silence for a moment, considering.
“What do you think?”
Garak spread his hands wide.
“There is no greater love than Cardassia, my friend.”
“If there was, would you admit it?”
“Of course not.” Garak’s eyes twinkled. “Haven’t you ever heard the saying, the walls have ears? I’m told it’s a human expression.”
“Worried about what the prefect might say?” Julian probed. Garak made a face as if he tasted something sour.
“Dukat is not the only man in the Cardassian Union, no matter what he might think.”
Julian wondered who else would be listening, but the conversation drifted on, to comparing serialist poetry with repetitive epics and debating the proper speed at which one should eat soup. (Julian, allegedly, ate far too quickly. He wondered if he had always eaten fast, or if it was a habit he developed when he stopped knowing where his next meal would come from. He thought it was the former, but sometimes he couldn’t be sure.)
At 1321, Julian had it. Kubus Oak, a liaison to the Cardassian Union under the Bajoran Occupational Government. He spent most of his time down on the surface, and had only come to Terok Nor once before in Julian’s time.
Whatever was bringing him aboard the station now couldn’t be good. And was he really only going into Garak’s to commission clothing?
At 1730, Julian reported for his shift in Quark’s.
“You’re late,” Quark snapped, which wasn’t remotely true, and Julian knew meant they were going to have to argue about his pay later. “We’ve got a busy night tonight. Two new ships came in.”
“Anyone we know?” Julian asked, thinking about Kubus.
“Gul Ocett and your friend Boheeka. Be prepared to make nice.”
Ocett was the first female gul Julian had ever met, and she wore her hair in twin plaited pigtails incongruous with the rest of her military severity. She ordered her one free glass of kanar (the first glass was always free, a Cardassian custom that caused Quark no end of horror), drank it stonily, and left at 1802.
Julian partly watched her, and Boheeka, and the crowd, but in particular his eye was drawn to Ornak’s shoulder.
Ornak was part of Quark’s clean up crew that day. He was one of the itinerants of the station, who were shifted from duty to duty as their overseers saw fit.
And it was clear his shoulder was bothering him.
Since that first incident on the station, when Julian had interrupted Cardassian soldiers beating Ornak into the ground, he had felt a special concern for the Bajoran man’s health. That initial assault had dislocated his shoulder, and while he had recovered nearly a full range of motion, the grimace on his face and his relying heavily on his other arm told Julian that perhaps subluxation had occurred.
At 1817, Julian caught Ornak’s eye and tapped his own shoulder quickly. Ornak nodded.
“Here you go.” Quark’s voice came from behind Julian, forcing him to turn back to the bar. “This is Boheeka’s drink. I’m giving you the bottle, see if you can get him to finish it.”
Julian turned and locked eyes with Ornak again. A moment’s decision, a split second’s signal, and he stepped forward and barreled directly into the other man, dropping the glass on the floor to shatter and the bottle to spill.
The reaction was immediate. Julian dropped to his knees to help clean up and babbled apologies while Quark squawked behind the bar about how expensive that was (as if he hadn’t replicated it) and that it would be coming out of Julian’s wages (well, they were going to argue about those anyways). The Cardassians in the room eyed the scene with varied expressions of amusement or disgust.
“I’m so sorry,” Julian repeated again. “I’ll get a replacement from the back.”
With more fussing and apologizing, Julian and Ornak found themselves alone in Quark’s empty back room.
Ornak shook his head.
“Don’t you know how to do anything quietly?”
Julian shrugged sheepishly.
“Sorry. But the shoulder’s not something I can do quickly in passing. It is bothering you again, isn’t it?”
“Feels the same as last time.”
Julian knew better than to ask what happened, just in case it was connected to sabotage. (Could setting the explosion on the Promenade have led to this?) He confirmed that the shoulder was re-dislocated, and popped it in back in with the directed application of force.
“Can you pass a message to Kira?” he asked in a low tone. “Kubus Oak is on the station. And Dukat told Odo he has one week to make arrests for the bomb. If Odo doesn’t turn someone up, I imagine Dukat will take matters into his own hands.”
Ornak nodded solemnly.
“I’ll tell her.”
Julian did not know who, exactly, was responsible for the explosion, because he did not ask. But he was not an idiot. If it wasn’t Kira, it was someone else in the Resistance.
And if the investigation became Dukat’s, there were only two terrible possibilities. Either he’d find the right culprit, and the cell on the station would be exposed, or he would execute an innocent.
At 1820, Julian was back out on the floor at Quark’s and delivering a fresh bottle to Boheeka with a winning smile.
“You have to try this vintage,” Boheeka insisted, as they all did, because apparently kanar was a point of planetary pride and no Cardassian could leave well enough alone when they learned Julian couldn’t stand it.
“Let me pour you a glass first.”
Julian had a keen sense of time. That had come with the genetic enhancements, although he didn’t know if it had been intentional or a byproduct of the meant meddling. It wasn’t as if he had ever asked his parents about it. If the subject came up, it was an argument.
He could feel the time passing, each day he was on Terok Nor, and he felt that they were all hurtling towards something, although he couldn’t say what exactly, only that the house of cards was coming perilously closer and closer to tumbling down.
At 0200, Julian was back in his own quarters. It took a long time for him to fall asleep.