O'Brien turned to frown behind him, to where the a slight protrusion in the corridor walls created the illusion of segmented alcoves. And with this action, the speaker finally stepped into his view.
"Garak." The Chief Engineer's scowl deepened. "I'm kind of busy right now."
The enigmatic Cardassian exile stepped a little closer. He wore a stiff, dark green tunic with straight-edged bands of lighter fabric forming a symmetrical, geometric shape across the front. The outfit afforded him a congenial and vaguely patriarchal air, something to match the image of simplicity he'd always liked to maintain. But how much of that image was real, and how much affectation, O'Brien doubted even the tailor himself could have known for certain any more.
His expression as opaque as ever, Garak peered over O'Brien's right hand shoulder. "Yes - so I see." He paused. "Have you considered redirecting some of your excess energy through the secondary out-take valve?"
"As a matter of fact--" O'Brien smiled through his teeth at the watching Cardassian. "I have. What makes you so interested?"
"Oh, I do enjoy a bit of occasional tinkering." The reply was off-hand, dismissive, and almost certainly designed to arouse O'Brien's curiosity as much as to avoid giving any satisfactory answers. "It's a hobby."
"I'll keep that in mind," the engineer muttered under his breath.
Garak chuckled. "I'm sure you will."
"I don't have time for this." O'Brien's expression was darker than a storm cloud over Ferenginar. He turned back to focus on the pylon circuits.
A flash of random energy burst forth from the panel, sparks arching and falling more than a metre beyond the Chief's shoulders. He swore, still cursing as his grip slackened on the glowing implement he'd used to prod entirely the wrong open portal. Still with the image burned at the back of his eyes, he sat back and positioned a finger between his teeth until the resulting pain subsided.
"You've been working far too hard, Chief O'Brien," scolded Garak, who had dodged smoothly out of the way of the sudden neon discharge. "You really ought to take more care of yourself. Indulge in an occasional break - or perhaps even a raktajino or two…"
"What is with everybody today?" O'Brien complained, glaring openly at the Cardassian behind him. "I don't need a break. I just had a break. What I need is to get back to what I was doing, and…"
But Garak persisted. "Or you might even consider some time off. Take a vacation. Get away for a while. For instance, somewhere like… the military outpost on Velos II?"
A subtle change in the tone of one man's voice gave the other reason to pause. "Why?"
And now the tailor stood so close that O'Brien had to strain to look up far enough to see his eyes. "I still have some useful… let's call them 'acquaintances', on Cardassia," he continued. "Old friends, people who share my view of the current situation, and one or two with whom I have come to a somewhat more reluctant understanding. Now let's suppose, hypothetically, that one of these same former acquaintances just happened to stumble upon the location of a mutual friend of ours."
"Why ask me?" growled O'Brien, still frowning.
Garak's stare intensified, even though barely a muscle shifted upon his pale grey face. "I sincerely hope you wouldn't need me to provide the answer to that particular riddle. Suppose for a moment I were party to a modicum of intelligence concerning the good doctor. And suppose that I had cause to share this same information with you. The real question ought to be, what are you going to do about it?"
A tiny cubicle at the very rear of the Jem'Hadar ship had barely enough space for Julian Bashir to fit inside. He guessed it must have doubled as a cabin of some kind, but failed to visualise how the bulky Jem'Hadar could ever get themselves through that narrow door.
It was in this place where the servants of the Dominion had deposited and finally abandoned Bashir. The air within was uncomfortably heavy, and cold as though the walls themselves were set to channel the bleakest chill of space. There were no windows on board the warship. He could not feel its speed, and without a visible reference point, he doubted that he would have the opportunity to be certain of how far they had come. But even so, he could not imagine that they would have a reason to stop - not before they had crossed back into their own territory.
"Does this remind you of anything?" A coldly deliberate smile had touched the Vorta's face, as he stood at the entrance to their captive's most recent prison.
Solitary, thought Julian, with an involuntary shudder. A constricting, airtight box, silence broken only by the outside noises of feet pounding on metal, and the constant dull ache of hunger. Nothing at all to ease the constant uncertainty, the suspicion that his guards might one day simply forget to feed him, or even to replenish his supply of air.
And one more thing he'd never experienced the desire to understand. On that day, months ago, when the powerful arm of a Jem'Hadar had thrust him hard against the wall, Deyos' face had worn the same empty, humourless smile.
They were not making any pretence at friendship. Of that much, Bashir was certain - although he was not at all sure how he felt about this particular discovery. It hardly mattered that a Jem'Hadar was posted at the exit, or that there were at least ten more set at various points in the corridors of the ship. Even had he succeeded in eluding every one, he was alone, with little idea of their current position and no possible way to leave his guards behind him.
Impossible odds.
It was not a thought he had wanted to have, but the words had already invaded his mind before he was able to put any defences in place. Weak and trembling with fearful anticipation, he crept into a corner and slid down to huddle in the place where one wall met the other. It was dark inside the claustrophobic space, tight and small as the deepest snake-hole. And the solid touch on two different sides was the closest thing to comfort that he could ever have found.
Bashir did not want to guess at what his blood pressure must have been. He sensed the throb of each heartbeat pass directly beneath his skin, and the last hint of light around him bore an eerie, necrotic tone that frightened him still more. All he could do was to wish that his memory were not so horribly clear. Deyos' calculated voice ran in a constantly cycling loop as clearly as if the Vorta were still speaking in his ears.
"If it were entirely my decision I would never consider resorting to such barbarity. But our Cardassian allies are far less advanced in their sensibilities, and they just had to insist that such actions are necessary. So you see…"
"I don't care who's idea this was," Bashir spat, lips curled reflexively into a snarl. He flinched invisibly, anticipating his captors' expected reaction. But for this time at least, there was none to anticipate.
Deyos shifted his weight to settle at his heels. "Do please try to be a little less stubborn, Doctor. It would save us all from having to make some very unpleasant choices, don't you think?"
"Didn't you hear me the first time? I don't have any information for you. Even if I had the slightest inclination to tell you, I just don't know."
"A pity." His captor spoke levelly, his voice betraying no hint of true regret. "Well, never say that I didn't try."
Bashir's stomach was squirming, particularly when he thought about everything the Chief had told him. Enemies of Cardassia had never been treated well when captured. And even without a proper point of reference, his conversation with Deyos had made him certain of one important thing. Whatever else, they had to be nearing Cardassian space by now. If they had not already crossed the border.
The passengers of the Federation transport shuttle had not been the first assortment of nervous, dishevelled visitors to be processed for entry onto Deep Space Nine. They were gathered by the airlock, still huddled together, glancing around, and muttering in subdued, bewildered voices. They were accompanied by a small, buxom Lieutenant Commander who introduced herself as one of the Darwin's senior counsellors.
"Did you run into any more trouble on your way?" Doctor Hayes asked, his words hushed - hopefully inaudible beyond a two or three metre radius.
The counsellor's reply carried only a fraction of the volume of his query. "If you mean did anyone come after us, I'd say the answer is no. It would seem that the Dominion got what they were after."
Hayes suppressed a frown, wishing that he could take the woman's answer as good news, and returned his attention to the Ragnarok's still frightened civilian passengers.
Hardly surprising that they should be nervous, thought Hayes. In less than a year, he'd encountered the Dominion too many times for it to be anything but familiar. The experience never failed to establish an uneasy chill beneath the skin of his back. Careful to maintain the appearance of a smile, he stepped forward to address the crowd.
"Ladies and gentlemen, if I could have your co-operation for just another moment…"
"What is that?" demanded a balding, round-bellied man with hair the colour of crows' feathers. Behind him, there was a brief glance of exasperation from the Darwin's counsellor.
There always has to be one, doesn't there?
"It's just a simple blood screening," Hayes assured him. "Standard procedure."
"There's nothing standard about that." The man's round cheeks quivered with every movement. "What now - you think we're all shapeshifters?"
"Of course not, Sir. It's just a precautionary measure…"
The same angry visitor recoiled from a vial that was clasped in the doctor's hand. "This is outrageous," he shouted. "In all my years of service I've never been subjected to such treatment as this. Where's your superior officer? I demand to speak with him…"
"That would be me," said a deep voice close behind Hayes' left hand shoulder.
Sisko had approached from the corridor, where he kept his most level gaze on the crowd of people before him. "What seems to be the problem?" he asked after introducing himself by rank and name. Hayes soon found himself entirely focused on that deep, steady voice. It was a tone which experience had taught him to associate with imminent danger and deliberate false patience.
The outraged civilian stormed forward, every footfall as loud as crashing rock. "It's about time, too. When is somebody here going to stop shunting us around like outdated cargo and treat us with a modicum of respect?"
"I'm sorry that you feel that way." Sisko raised an eyebrow. "And you are?"
"Horace Pembleton, and I'm still waiting for an answer."
Hayes was quick to recognise the exasperation behind his captain's eyes, and doubted that he'd had any real success at concealing his own.
"Mister Pembleton--" Sisko's voice remained as slow and deep as he could make it. "I'm sorry if that's the way you feel. We won't hold you up for long, but I'm afraid that none of this is open to negotiation. As soon as it's over I promise that you will be free to leave."
The man opened his mouth to protest again, but was interrupted by another, quieter, slightly timid voice behind him.
"Here." The speaker was a woman, taller than Pembleton, with gleaming chocolate-brown hair draped halfway down to her waist - and skin and eyes the colour of dark caramel. Hayes also noticed that there were tired, dark smears beneath the skin of her lower eyelids. Her mouth twitched slightly in a failed attempt at a smile.
"I'll go first," she told them, with a careful glance at Pembleton, behind her. She stepped towards the waiting officers and returned her attention - with deliberate calm - directly to Hayes' own watching blue eyes.
"I just want it to be over," she said. Hayes nodded. There was no need for an explanation, for him to understand that much at least.
The same woman let go of a quiet sigh, steeling herself for things to come. "What do I have to do?"
O'Brien was glad to find that Quark's Bar was quiet enough that he did not have to surround himself with the raucous shouts of customers, too many of whom were feeling so much luckier than he did. The bar itself was close to deserted. Only two Bajoran engineers sat at one end. And of course there was also Morn, sipping a glass of bitter tan-coloured ale, bulky enough as usual for his hefty frame to dwarf his favourite stool.
With almost no-one to wait upon, the Ferengi waiters were using the time to take apart the props of yesterday's ceremony. Strange, thought O'Brien. But their activity somehow gave the bar an even more subdued feel than would have settled upon the place if these backdrops had simply been absent.
The Chief made his way to one far-off end of the bar, and did his best to divert his scowl from the glaring lights on the wall opposite. Barely seated, he spied the odd jumble of shapes that was Quark the bartender, already moving his way. The small Ferengi was not moving with particular haste, but even so he reached his target much more quickly than expected.
It was near impossible to define for sure, but… There was something even more irritating than normal about seeing that oversized head, protruding ears, and too-gaudy jacket with light and dark segmented into a pattern like salmon flesh. Quark flashed a momentary grin, showing a mouthful of sharp, uneven teeth. "Greetings, Chief. Always a pleasure to find you here…"
Glowering quietly, O'Brien opened his mouth to snap at the disturbance. But before he had a chance, he discovered that Quark had set a drink onto the bar in front of him.
"What's that?"
"Something from my best case of Saurian brandy," the Ferengi lisped as he poured another glass for himself. "And I'm willing to offer it at a very reasonable…"
He hesitated, seeing the Chief's mood darken still further, and pushed one glass across the counter towards him. "…On the House."
O'Brien looked up, slowly and warily. "What's the catch?"
"No catch. I only wanted to share a drink with you."
"Share?"
"Just don't let it get around." After another short pause, the Ferengi raised his own glass.
"A toast," he continued. "To absent friends, wherever they may be."
"What have people been telling you?" O'Brien demanded, his scowl deepening.
"Telling me? I'm not at all sure I know what you…"
Breathing hard through his nose, the engineer glowered at Quark with enough ferocity to have turned the bartender to a smouldering cinder - if only he had been able. Words rose inside him, bubbling like overcooked stew, melting into each other, and finally slipping back into shady corners even he could not hope to reach. Still glaring, he staggered backwards for two steps - away from his barstool - and just as suddenly whirled around and cut a direct path towards the main exit of the dimly lit establishment.
"Fine!" shouted Quark after him. "Then I'm keeping the drink."