Strange New Worlds 2016 (21 page)

“So your story was true. Our new resident recognized you, and now your good deed is
the talk of the station.”

Garak turned to fuss with a beaded gown hanging on a dress form, but not before Bashir
caught a twitch at the corner of his mouth. “That pet shop fellow. He’s mistaken.
I’m sure to Bajorans we Cardassians all look alike.”

The doctor moved around until he was facing his evasive friend. “Shaloza Trestan’s
famous for his memory. Nurse Jabara told me. Last year on Bajor, he won a popular
quiz show. That’s how the brothers got the money to start a business.”

Garak shrugged. “Well, I suppose I should be grateful. Young Trestan’s confusion will
boost my Bajoran clientele.”

“Typical.” Bashir shook his head. “Out of all the lies you’ve told me, the one you
vigorously defend is that you don’t have a good heart.”

Garak raised his chin. “Your gullibility in clinging to a story I spun under the effects
of endorphin withdrawal never fails to astound me. If I had been an Obsidian Order
operative and a Central Command gul had brought me a gaggle of urchins for interrogation—and
instead of twisting out their secrets, I gave them my spare latinum and pushed them
back on the streets—you think that would reveal a good heart? Hardly. Not realizing
that the youngest ragamuffin was the brother of one of the most formidable assassins
in the Bajoran Resistance—that would reveal a brainless dereliction of duty.” Turning,
Garak straightened the fold in a diaphanous sleeve. “Good thing that fool wasn’t me.”

If Doctor Bashir’s visit had proved uncomfortable for Garak, the appearance of the
grown-up guttersnipe was worse. Bad enough that nothing he said could convince Shaloza
Trestan he was mistaken. What worried him more was the horrible use the pair of customers
he was expecting would make of the story. If the next Garak-related information Tain
heard was that during the Occupation, his pet pupil had missed an opportunity to coerce
Sleepwrecker, master of the hunter probe, into surrendering—well, the only way his
exile would end would be in his execution.

“I know why you won’t admit it,” said the young pest. “You’re shy.”

Garak bent down to stack bolts of cloth beneath his counter. “Just like you.”

When Garak stood up, he could see his sarcasm had made Trestan grin. “I lived on the
streets for eight years. If I weren’t pushy, I’d have died.”

“I congratulate you on your survival. And I’m thankful to my countryman who contributed.
If some of the good will he earned accrues to me, business at my humble tailor shop
should increase.”

“Have it your way.” Trestan’s mouth spread wider. “What you did for me was outside
everything I knew about Cardassians. You’re the reason I want to study xenopsychology.
Let me interview you for my admission essay. I won’t go until you say yes.”

Wiping nonexistent dust off his Merak II sizing scanner, Garak sighed. “If you leave
me to work in peace now, you may come at eight tomorrow morning before I open.” Leaning
forward, he narrowed his eyes to the same menacing degree he’d used to scare the Bajoran
street brats out the back gate of the Obsidian Order Intelligence Center. “Now, shoo!”

Constable Odo cast his awareness around the security arrangements for that evening’s
event. The First Contact Symposium wouldn’t actually be held on Deep Space 9. The
station was too peripheral to the academic centers of the Alpha Quadrant, and its
assembly rooms were too small to host the proceedings of such a grand organization.
The Cardassian Central Command that had designed the station had favored conspiring
in select cabals. Democracy was alien to them, and their floor plans reflected this.

From the perspective of efficiency and safety, Odo saw their point. If the professional
opinion Doctors Dal and Lubaar would be announcing via subspace communication was
so controversial, then why not use a closed space with restricted access? Instead,
Kai Winn herself had decided to put on a show. So many dignitaries had been invited
that a stage had been raised on the Promenade.

Odo glanced at Major Kira. “The only faction that really cares whether the moon of
Tasadae is ready for first contact is the Ferengi. Their consortium was forced to
halt plans for gouge mining when word it was inhabited got out.”

Kira cocked her head. “Oh, I think the issue’s a bit loftier than that. This is a
chance to show that the treaties between the Federation, the Klingons, the Romulans,
and the Cardassians actually mean something. If those powers agree to protect a tribe
as tiny as the Tasadae—despite commercial interests—that’s of great significance to
independent planets like ours. And for Bajoran scientists to be considered expert
enough to carry out that evaluation—that’s inspiring.”

Odo made one of the little noises humanoids employed to express skepticism. He found
it one of the most useful in his repertoire. “Dal and Lubaar’s reputation for analyzing
newly discovered life-forms started with me. I’ll be forever grateful they advocated
that I was sentient—against Mora’s wishes, I might add—but I cannot forget that both
scientists failed to appreciate that their unknown specimen was sapient as well. Instead,
they treated me like one of those creatures the Shaloza brothers want to sell: a pet.”

Kira gave Odo’s shoulder a squeeze. Though the shape he assumed gave the appearance
of a body clothed in a Bajoran militia uniform, in reality the substance she’d touched
was Odo. Out of all the casual bumps and jostles he routinely endured aboard the crowded
station, only her touch gave him the peculiar thrill he was feeling now.

Odo made a grunt of acquiescence. “This event is important to Bajor—to you as well.
Don’t worry. Nothing will happen to Dal or Lubaar at the First Contact Symposium.”

The first thing Thebroca Horven asked when she entered Garak’s Clothiers was, “Is
this place under surveillance?”

Such a question from a woman who’d grown up with the same constant monitoring he had
so surprised Garak that he left his welcoming gesture hanging midair. Collecting himself,
the tailor dropped his arm. “Naturally. When they departed, our compatriots destroyed
as much station infrastructure as they could—surveillance equipment included—but I’m
a businessman. Sensors are expected of me, so I installed them. Carefully placed.”

“But not in your sizing chamber?”

With a glance at her husband, Garak hastily added, “Of course not. My shop is equipped
according to Federation standards, not Cardassian.”

Thebroca disappeared into the chamber—leaving Garak to try to shepherd Gul Horven
into one of the corners of his shop where sensors had carefully not been placed. No
luck. Instead of seeking insights from the “eyes and ears of Cardassia” at the gateway
to the Gamma Quadrant, the man plunked himself down in front of a viewscreen to meander
through the undisciplined hodge-podge with which the Federation proudly filled their
intergalactic network. Garak could see how lack of censorship might be tempting, but
how could watching the bizarre mating habits of obscure Beta Quadrant entities be
more interesting than talking to him?

Garak’s mouth twisted. Horven had always been useless. Ironically, his lack of ambition
was the reason the Bajorans found him an acceptable dignitary to attend tonight’s
ceremony. During the Occupation, he’d never committed an atrocity against the rebel
forces. He’d been too lazy to bother.

Doctor Bashir was not finding lunch with the visiting neurocognitive biologist and
cultural anthropologist to be as collegial as he’d hoped. Sure, Dal and Lubaar were
polite to him; they just weren’t polite to each other.

“Ethics—apart from what we’ve received from the Prophets—can’t exist outside time
and space.” Lubaar banged his fist on the table. “Everything’s relative to history,
culture, biology. We can hope for commonalities across species like family loyalty—but
even that boils down to one inelegant, physical, time-bound imperative: survival.”

“Degenerate,” Dal muttered and swallowed another mouthful of
hasperat
soufflé. Her eyes were watering, but whether from the spicy food or the marital spat,
Bashir wasn’t sure.

Taking a deep breath, he set down his Tarkalean tea. “I agree with Lubaar that ethics
can’t exist inside a vacuum.” When his wife’s jaw dropped, Bashir waved his hand.
“But I agree with Dal that within specified perimeters, ethical standards can be absolute.”
When both of his lunch companions glared at him, he scrunched back in his chair. “Let
me explain. As a physician, my duty is to heal the sick. The worst criminal imaginable—a
perpetrator of genocide—could be my patient, and I’d be honor bound to do everything
in my power to make him well.”

“Exactly.” Daintily, Dal wiped her lips, then tossed her napkin onto her plate. “I’m
a scientist. If I’m given an investigation, I investigate. I check and double-check
my findings. When I reach a valid conclusion, I report it. Period.”

Lubaar stabbed his knife into his uneaten steak. “So . . . if the Cardassians had
asked you to evaluate the cognitive effects of that aggression enhancer they developed,
you’d have honestly informed them it caused neural damage—lost that chance to see
their soldiers attack each other?”

“They didn’t assign me that task, now, did they?”

“Of course not. Because Cardassians favor pragmatism too much to believe any alien
would be so simpleminded as to champion scientific validity over their people’s lives.
That’s why the Resistance had to infiltrate their computer system and alter the findings
themselves. Survival.”

Dal jumped to her feet. “Oh, you like to twist things.”

Lubaar kept his eyes trained on hers. “But you know I’m right.”