Chapter Text
2371
Dax hummed to herself, tapping bright displays on the controls in front of her. “Listen, seven lifetimes makes you experienced in these kind of things.”
Dr. Bashir came from the back of the Danube-class runabout with a glass of Tarkalean tea. “Jadzia, seven lifetimes is no match for pure skill. I could face you anytime, anywhere.”
“Don’t get your hopes up, Julian,” she chuckled, watching the view screen as the stars twinkled around them. “Just because you were Captain of the Starfleet Medical Tennis Team doesn’t mean you’re the king of tennis.”
“You’re right,” he smirked, sipping his tea. “It means I’m a god.”
Dax laughed a little. “Right.” She tapped a couple more displays, the low humming of deep space against the hull of the runabout permeating the otherwise complete silence between the two.
“I tried to play against Garak once,” Bashir said finally, putting deliberate emphasis on the name.
“Really?” Dax remarked, raising her eyebrows.
“Really,” Bashir confirmed with a curt nod. “He’s not… terrible. I went easy on him, of course.”
“Of course.” Dax monitored the controls for a moment before spinning her chair around and leaning backwards. “How was your date last week, by the way?”
“I doubt you could consider it a ‘date’,” he replied. “We just sat and read.”
“To each other?” she asked, as if trying to invent some kind of interesting angle to an otherwise uninteresting story.
“To ourselves,” Bashir said. “Not every date has to be a vacation on Risa, you know.”
“Hmm,” Dax hummed. She sat up straight and produced a data PADD from a nearby console and began to read.
“What’s that?” the doctor asked.
Dax looked over at Bashir and shook her head. “Nothing interesting. Just readings of atmospheric elements around DS9.”
“Anything interesting?”
“No.”
Bashir nodded and stood, heading towards the back of the runabout. “If you need me, too bad. I’ll be sleeping.”
He opened the doors to the quarters at the back of the runabout and sat down on the left bed, sighing a little and stretching his back out.
“Oh, I’m getting old,” he muttered to himself, though truth be told, he was only thirty. But, it had been a somewhat long mission. He had spent three days aboard the Yukon and never thought he would be missing the stiff Cardassian mattress back on DS9 and, of course, his dear teddy bear Kukalaka. Then, he heard the small view screen blink and chime above the bed on the wall.
“Incoming transmission from Deep Space Nine,” the computer chirped.
Bashir sighed and accepted the transmission. The picture of a Cardassian suddenly appeared, and the man at the other end grinned from ear to ear.
“My dear Doctor!” Garak chuckled. “How is your mission? Rough, I take it?”
The Englishman had to say no more; the dark brown bags below his usually bright eyes spoke for him. “What do you need, Garak?”
“Oh, nothing much,” Garak chimed. “Just wanted to inform you that I’ve finished hemming those dress pants you dropped off. Oh, and the sleeves of the jacket.”
“Thank you,” Bashir mumbled. “But this could have waited until I return.”
“Well, frankly, Doctor,” Garak spoke curtly, folding his hands on the table in front of him. “I’ve grown quite bored.”
“Bored?”
Garak nodded.
“With all of those tasks you presumably undertake? I’m surprised the Chief hasn’t come in with a tear in his uniform.”
“Oh, but Doctor,” Garak pleaded in his dramatic sibilance as if Bashir would end the transmission. He wouldn’t. “I miss our lunches together. It’s quite dull just sitting and eating, no one to talk to about the wonderful new novel I’m reading. And it is quite wonderful.”
“Another novel by Preloc, I presume?”
Garak laughed. “But of course, Doctor! A literary mastermind, a legend.”
Bashir yawned, rubbed his eyes. “Predictable and boring, you mean.”
“I hope I can change your mind about that,” Garak sighed.
Bashir nodded slowly, blinked slowly.
“Any news, Doctor?”
Bashir immediately perked up, suddenly hyper again. “News? Oh, have I got news!”
Garak smiled, leaning on his hand. “I have all night.”
“Lieutenant Tinilau is no longer seeing Ensign Maridas,” Bashir started spouting out.
“Oh? I thought they were practically inseparable.”
“Were. Commander Riale caught the Lieutenant’s eye.”
“Riale?” Garak inquired. “Was Maridas distraught?”
“Oh, heavily distraught,” Bashir replied, starting to pace. “So incredibly distraught… that he just had to start seeing Ensign Ril!”
“Ril!” Garak sat up. “What of her husband?”
“Divorced,” Bashir shrugged. “Or gone. I’m not sure, and I really don’t feel like asking. All I know is that he’s no longer in the picture.”
“Oh, and right after their son was born!” Garak lamented. “Poor Ril. I hope that in her next life she catches a break.”
Bashir nodded. “I’m more concerned about Maridas. He’s very sweet.”
“And overly sensitive,” Garak added.
“He’s probably only dating Ril to fill the Tinilau-shaped hole in his heart,” the doctor replied.
“You’re right,” Garak said, smiling wider. “This is some news.”
“And how are things on the station?”
“Oh, so boring,” Garak replied dramatically in a tone that could accompany draping himself over a piano. He didn’t; there were no pianos in his tailor shop. “All the senior officers just keep dragging on and on about some nebulae discovered in the Gamma Quadrant. No scandals, no conflicts, only a Preloc novel to keep me company, and no one to talk to about it.”
“You miss me,” Bashir stated, translating the convoluted melodrama.
“Terribly, Doctor.”
“I’ll be home by tomorrow. We’ll have lunch then.”
“That gives me something to look forward to,” Garak responded, smiling.
“So,” Bashir began, reaching for the button to end the transmission. “I’ll see you tomorrow then.”
“Wait, Doctor,” Garak interrupted just as Bashir was about to press the button.
“Garak,” the doctor pleaded. Garak did this every time. “I’m tired. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Garak sighed and nodded. “Tomorrow, then.”
Bashir nodded as well, then ended the transmission. It was quiet again, and now, he only had sleep on his mind. The soft rumbling of deep space against the hull of the ship was soothing in the dark quarters. He removed his combadge, placed it on the small bedside table, and crawled into bed. His head had barely hit the pillow before he heard his combadge chirp.
“Dax to Bashir.”
The doctor groaned and folded the pillow over his head, more in annoyance than an actual attempt to block out the sound. But, duty called.
“Go ahead.” Bashir kicked the covers off and sat up, reattaching his combadge to the right breast of his uniform.
“I’m picking something up.”
Bashir sighed and stood up, making his way out of the quarters and back to the small bridge of the runabout. He leaned over the lieutenant’s chair, looking at the blinking console. “What is it?”
“It’s a distress signal,” Dax replied, tapping at the console and trying to determine the source. “It’s coming from… that planet.”
“That planet?” Bashir inquired. “But that’s an L-class planet.”
“Barely habitable, I know.”
“Is it Starfleet?”
Dax stopped typing at the controls all of a sudden, pulling her hands back from the screen. “It’s Cardassian.”
Bashir froze alongside Dax. “Cardassian? But… that planet’s freezing, less habitable than Andoria. No human could survive that, let alone a Cardassian.”
“Unless they had a significant heat source. The distress signal’s coming from a Hideki class ship, and it’s severely damaged from what I can tell.”
“How many life signs?”
Dax paused. “One.”
“One?”
“Lucky guy.”
“Beam them up.”
Dax clicked a few more buttons on the console and the soft twinkling sound of the transporter beam came from behind them. Both officers turned around to see a broad, yet slightly emaciated Cardassian in a tattered and scratched infantry uniform. He was covered with a blanket, full of holes. It was patchwork, the same material as the fabric parts of his uniform. His jet black hair was unruly, full of pale leaves and twigs, and he was hunched over. He turned to face the two. His eyes were sunken, and his tough grey skin was pulled fairly taut across his skull, especially over the bony ridges that stuck out around his eye sockets and the teardrop-shaped indent on his forehead. He shivered violently; nevertheless, he found himself kneeling, reaching for the disruptor on his belt.
Dax and Bashir both grabbed their phasers and pointed it towards him. He, however, didn’t even look up as he unclipped the disruptor from his belt.
“I am Prail Khar,” he began, removing the power cell from his disruptor. “Former Gul of the Cardassian Mechanised Infantry, and…”
He handed out the unloaded disruptor, tossed the power cell to the ground, and finally looked upwards. “I humbly request amnesty.”