Julian has a gray hair. Hairs, even. At least a few, a tiny shock of gray at his right temple. He's not surprised. His father started going gray at 36. He's 35 now. He was at least hoping for another year or so, though.
He's not sure why he's so fixated on it with a small mirror near the crew berthing as he readies himself in the shuttle. It's not like Garak will care. And besides, he's the one that told him that someone living to old age on Cardassia without getting killed by their enemies was seen as a positive thing. Age had dignity.
In a strange way, though, he dislikes that each time he visits, he probably looks less and less like that wide-eyed young man that Garak decided to approach in the Replimat. If they'd met now, at their current ages, would he have reached out? Come up behind him and rested his hand on his shoulders?
It's ridiculous to fuss. He does it anyway. Just like he fussed a little over his outfit. He's on leave so he came in civvies. Nothing too out there. Just a very loud pattern with an asymmetrical neckline. His current assignment...has taken him fairly far from this region of space. He has to use the leave to have the time to visit, so that means coming out of uniform.
The wait is almost excruciating. The process of being approved to enter Cardassian space by their security forces takes ages. The transporter blocking tech around his residence is understandable but means he has to take a walk from the transporter hub. As usual, he sees discreet security forces around that clearly were instructed to keep an eye on him, to ensure both his safety and a lack of disruption.
He smiles when Garak's residence comes into view.
Ok, so apparently I meant afternoon instead of morning, BUT...
These days, his age only seems to show in his eyes. His face is the same carefully studied one, always so seemingly harmless. So carefully neutral. It's a thinner face, these days. He doesn't eat as well as he did on DS9. Or as often, quite frankly - the business of state is much more irregular than tailoring.
The irony of it pulls at him, from time to time. He'd been such a good tailor, and yet - here his life has ever been pulled. To service. And, oh, who knows what will come of it next. The Ghemor government is steady, but there are threats on all sides. Between rebuilding and near starvation, it is an ordeal just to make it from day to day. Some take pride in it, calling it a particularly Cardassian ordeal. But to Garak, it is punishment for their many sins; perhaps above all a punishment for their arrogance and blindness, which had led them down this path.
But at least his garden is in bloom - he'd written of it often to Bashir, the one thing that provided the satisfaction that good tailoring had done. Cuttings from it had helped start others, all over Cardassia. He was proud of that. Nobody would remember that, in time, he knew. Such things so infrequently got written down, especially in Cardassian history. But he'd know.
He waits at a small table, finishing the last of the day's paperwork. The Federation is a great help, but the price of their help is ever so much verbage. From time to time, he looks up with a look of minor dissatisfaction. Finally, with a sigh, he puts down the padd and stands up, moving the chairs for the ninth time. He nods, then sits back down to finish.
And there he is. Julian looks tired. There's something a little different in his gaze, something more distant.
But his voice is as warm as ever.
"We're not going to eat before you show me how your garden's come along, are you? With how much you've talked about it?"
It's lightly teasing and more importantly makes it clear he's showed very careful attention to what Garak cares about in his letters. He wants to see what he's so proud of. Take in its beauty. In doing so, he can make it clear he admires something that came from his hands.
He wonders sometimes if he misses that part of tailoring. When people genuinely admired his craft and found some of what he made beautiful. Statesmanship doesn't really cause most people to compliment your eye.
Julian steps forward and holds out his arms, waiting for him to get up from his seat. Garak knows what he's doing it for.
He had, when visiting him the first time, actually hugged him in greeting, because that first visit had happened after quite some time. And he had missed him fiercely. Lightly, not too confining or touchy-feely, of course. Cardassians could be tactile in some circumstances, like when showing affection to their children, but were less likely to be so with friends.
And Garak valued his space and didn't like to feel crowded in, for a variety of reasons. So he usually only did it with a brief, light hold of his shoulders.
They'll both look changed - Garak knows he's thinner than he was, even when the war ended. A bit gaunt, really. Annoyingly, he has to keep adjusting his trousers. His own, there not being many tailors on Cardassia to start with.
But - ah, yes, there it is. Oh, dear Julian, as if he hadn't known why you greeted him this way for ages. The restraint was palpable.
And appreciated.
Yet, he does like to surprise. Which is why he tells himself he brings the Doctor closer for a brief, human-style hug, with a pat on the back. Perhaps, being enmeshed in the internecine nonsense of the state, something human is a wonderful break in routine.
"I'm not the one coming off of a lengthy trip," he replies, stepping back. "You look a bit tired, my dear doctor, perhaps it would be best to eat first -" he raises a hand, voice taking on just that tiny theatrical note he'd loved to use in their lunches together. "I'd hate to have you nodding off while I'm describing the flora."
When Garak pulls away, Julian isn't hiding his delight at the warmth his friend is showing him.
Mention of lunch just gets a wider grin.
To be honest, as much as he wants to look at Garak's garden, this is the thing he'd missed most. Lunch. Capital L. Almost ritualistic in its nature now. The distance has been an unhappy thing. It's hard for him to get to Cardassia and Cardassia usually needs Garak to stay there.
It makes him feel connected again, makes the distance easier to bear for a while.
"Well, I suppose we don't want anything to get cold, do we?" he says, taking his seat and rubbing his hands together. "Please tell me you have some of those ikri buns like last time."
"Ah, a good, practical reason," he agrees, taking his own seat and moving his napkin to his lap with the precision of a man whose hands were...well, not those of a surgeon, but used to their own precision and deftness.
"You're in luck, there - thanks to your Federation replicators, the fruit used to make them is once again in decent supply. Not quite the taste of the usual - but in time, the, er...Real McCoy, yes? Will make its return."
Everything on Cardassia is rebuilding. Becoming something new. Even him.
"The real trouble was the icing. I have a few, modest talents, I confess - but baking has never been one of them."
"Just a few, modest talents," Julian repeats with a mock modesty in his voice, an imitation. The teasing is a joke. It's honestly the oldest joke between them. About how Garak is but a humble tailor.
Even now, he downplays his various talents.
It's all the more amusing by virtue of the fact that Julian knows at least some of the most important of his secrets. Not all of them, but that he was a spy, that he was in the Obsidian Order, that Tain was his father, and many of his vital skills.
He picks up one of the buns and gestures with it a little as he talks.
"Given your proclivity towards a surprising aptitude with many of those talents - and this recent turn at very deft statesmanship - I can understand why you never really found the time."
He takes a bite, looking satisfied over more than just the delicious flavor. It is the smug look of someone who has slowly been proven right over the years, who feels even more right than ever. After all, what humble tailor could fall that easily into being a government official and kingmaker without missing a beat?
"Necessity, my dear Doctor Bashir, necessity - the need for unemployed, previously exiled tailors is remarkably low; the need for members willing to risk constant plotting to try and rebuild Cardassia, however..."
He sighs, shaking his head.
"Though the amount of documents I have to write and put my name to - now that is unusual. The debates are understandable - but a paper trail..."
He smiles, taking a bite of his own food, with a satisfied sigh.
"I recently had to verbally spar with Lwaxana Troi in front of the Federation Council - my definition of a capable opponent has been re-written, let me assure you."
He grins, thinking of how formidable the Betazoid ambassador had always been.
"I am not even the least bit envious. I'm glad my work is so far out of the public eye, other than the occasional medical paper or medical conference." That was the cover, after all, some research position at Starfleet Medical. And he was given just enough of a leash to do the actual work so he could publish those papers and do those speaking engagements, to maintain cover. "Speaking of diplomacy, though, I finally read Eternal Stranger."
Another Cardassian repetitive epic.
Except, instead of his usual skepticism, his expression is different this time. More thoughtful.
"I found it...intriguing. Some of the other books you've given me depicted the concept of service to the state as something concrete and absolute. Singular. But both Velik and Satir are depicted as sympathetic. Even though Satir is considered a traitor by the current ruling government, his actions were to preserve the empire and to act on the will of the previous long-standing government before the recent revolt, and would ultimately benefit the people the most. The story reinforces that the current path may actually not be what the empire needs, due to the motivation behind the coup being acquisition of power rather than service. And it's actually treated as a tragedy that he and Velik are brothers in not seeing eye to eye on the exact way to serve."
He adds, "I could even almost stomach the repetition this time. It felt like a poetic refrain, repeating the themes over and over for emphasis." Another pause. "A very, very, very, very long poetic refrain."
He's done it. He's actually done it, and gotten him to appreciate a piece of very long-form Cardassian literature. Sort of. Almost.
"It's an old example of the genre - it was banned by the Obsidian Order, of course, which made it the most popular illicit literature imaginable. But now, it's freely available again - I could make a metaphor about fire producing new blooms, I suppose."
He sighs.
"It has a new lease on life, to put it mildly. Though I suspect it will not last - new styles, new authours will soon make the repetitive epic the preserve of scholars. I suspect within my lifetime."
It's a delicate subject, the state of Cardassia. Or at least Julian tries to treat it delicately, though he knows Garak expects a frank honesty about the state of things.
There are some in the Federation that hope to see their downfall, bitterness over the war. But he's actually been here enough times to want to see them rebuild. Their society is ancient and there were times long ago before the fascist control of the state when things were different.
"Cardassia has a rich culture and long history. I'm sure that even if necessity begs for new invention, it won't be entirely divorced from what came before. There's a rich earth for everything to grow from; that's what happens after a fire." A smile quirks on the corner of his lips. "I'm sure they'll find whole new ways to loop stories around in circles, and you'll have brand new books to frustrate me with before long."
Hope springs eternal.
And the war has not deadened this. Even though he's much more tired, the good will is there. The hoping for Garak's world - and hoping for Garak's hope - is there.
"That's the question, isn't it?" he replies. "What will we become? There are many who are afraid of what the future holds. I must confess to cautious optimism. I know, me of all people."
He sighs, taking a bite of his food.
"Emphasis, of course, on cautious. But the greatest of my worries, a resurgence of the old guard, hasn't materialized. Tradition and duty have proven inadequate to the moment - much as some crusty old Guls might wish it otherwise. No, I'm proud to say the state is quite dead, and not coming back."
He chuckles.
"Making me something of an outlier and a relic, I suppose. But they, too, have their purpose."
Garak confessing to cautious optimism makes him smile a wide smile. It's certainly something he never expected to hear. And his assessment of the changes, of the old guard not resurfacing - and a progress that doesn't need to exclude Cardassian culture and history even if it excludes the rigidity of its long period of military fascism - sounds like a future that will be rewarding, if tragically hard-won.
"I'm glad to hear it. And sure, you may be a relic of a certain time - but that leaves you even better poised to guide things away from the hazards that caused damage in the past. You know how humans have a saying about it." He's mentioned it before, while discussing literature at their many lunches. "'Those who don't know history are doomed to repeat it.' You can help -"
All of a sudden something beeps from a pocket, the un-mistakeable sound of a commbadge. It sounds...off. A slightly different tone than the usual Starfleet commbadge.
"Sorry, I have to take this."
He palms it from his pocket, stands up, and walks halfway into the nearby hall. He's framed by light from the window to the garden. A strangely pleasant background for what becomes a terrible moment. As holds it near his ear and listens, he asks quietly, "Are you sure?" A pause. "Why are you contacting me?"
His body goes rigid. Something is wrong.
He looks over at Garak with a dawning horror, then says flatly, "Yes. Yes, I can handle it. Understood."
His hand drops. But the decision comes with almost no hesitation. He throws the commbadge to the floor. It's not the usual color, it's black. But Garak will only have a moment to notice this before he stomps it, breaking it.
Then he pulls out a second commbadge from another pocket, one that flashes with the usual gold and silver.
"Send out the alarm, Tyche is starting to move." A pause. "Of course it's probably meant to be a test but we can't risk it - yes, yes, I can handle the extraction alone, they wanted me to do it with him so I'm only one here. But you need to contact the loyalists around Ghemour, Lang, and the others." A pause. "Ghemour, obviously. He's at most risk. I'll have them sound internal alarm."
The concern in his voice is obvious.
"Understood. Bashir out."
When he looks back at Garak, he's breathing hard from what is clearly a stressful situation.
"Garak, old friend, there's much I'm going to ask of you in a very short amount of time. If you have a disruptor or phaser in the house, you need to get it, and then I need you to come with me. If you don't, you're going to die."
He goes back to the table, planting his hands against it, looking desperate.
"If there were to ever be a time in your life that you trusted someone, I need it to be right now."
He is silent a moment, the look of surprise fading rapidly as even just Bashir's side of the conversation tells him quite a lot. By the end, his face is a study in neutrality, his hands folded in his lap.
"Difficult to make an appeal to trust when only bringing my attention to a plot now," he finally says, rising and carefully folding his napkin. "Well," he says, with a sigh, his voice just the tiniest bit cold. "We'll have to have a word with customs about properly searching even VIP luggage - it seems we're failing to detect all sorts of interesting devices."
But then he's walking back towards the house, or rather to a small shed that looks very much like just a gardener's shed. But like so much in his life, nothing is ever quite what it seems.
He opens a drawer - and then the false bottom below that - pulling out a few unusual looking cylinders - and an old-fashioned Cardassian disruptor. He slides in a new power pack. Now, at least, he's armed - or as armed as he's willing to admit to. Right now, even for someone who is a dear friend, his trust level is running rather low.
"Very well," is all he says thereafter. Lead on, Bashir.
"About devices -" He reaches into his clothes and sheepishly pulls out what looks like a very innocuous medical tricorder - until he presses in the right buttons and it releases some mechanism that lets him manipulate its shape, making its true purpose apparent.
It's a small phaser, disguised as a medical tricorder. Something he certainly wouldn't have been allowed as a visitor to a government official, regardless of being his friend. But he'd played the naive Starfleet doctor role so convincingly, and it'd been so innocuous when scanned, he'd been allowed it. It was just a tricorder. And this was a Federaji known to have provided medical relief a few times to the rebuilding Cardassia. For all they knew he planned to offer some aid at a clinic during his visit - he'd done it before.
"Don't be so hard on your security officers. This is... professionally provided."
Transforming secret weapons built to fool sensors is definitely getting into territory that is perilously close to some of Julian's holodeck fantasies, enough that what he says next probably won't come as a surprise.
Julian starts looking around Garak's place carefully, around corners, mentally preparing for the attack that is most likely about to come soon. He gestures for him to go into the house. They'll be better off fending off any attackers with cover.
"I only know someone is trying to kill you because - well -" He finally looks back at him with a painfully earnest expression "- because they just asked me to be the one to do it. For over the last year I have been working for elements in Starfleet Intelligence that have been trying to take down Section 31...after allowing myself to be recruited as a Section 31 agent."
Acting double agent is a monumentally stupid thing for him to have done. It is wildly dangerous. It is nothing like the games he used to play.
But he actually knows this. And one thing he knows it is also a thing very few other people could do. It was so rare for Section 31 to recruit. Even after Sloan's death, they'd wanted him. In fact, being partly responsible for Sloan's death and extracting one of his secrets with illegal Romulan mind probes had made them want him more. He couldn't let the opportunity go past. It was rare for someone to have the kind of intellect to occasionally outsmart them.
And now there are things he has seen. And done. Even if he'd still held onto himself, he has come perilously close to losing who he is, in his obsession and desperation.
"Section 31 is not above demanding last minute demonstrations of loyalty - or even spontaneous covert actions; they're planners but they're also opportunists. And they wouldn't have wanted to warn me too far ahead of time. Starfleet Intelligence hasn't even had wind of concrete plans, they've just planned for contingencies, knowing Cardassia might be an appealing target at a delicate point in history."
It's clear from his expression that he knows he just failed Section 31's loyalty check. He knows that this was an obvious test where they most likely expected him to fail. But he's not killing his friend and he's certainly not letting the new Cardassia's government to come to ruin.
"Section 31 just demanded I kill you, and that is a demonstration of loyalty of which I have just failed - utterly."
It's all logic that he could have worked through - he knows the way Section 31 thinks because it's the same way the Obsidian Order had done. Though even he will admit Section 31 had a commendable lack of overtness. The Obsidian Order had been something that citizens were made to fear, and while that was an effective tool it also acknowledged its existence. Had made it part of the state.
Section 31 was still shadows. It had no known headquarters, no obvious bases or shipyards. But there are still similarities in the way they think. Still traces he knows all too well.
He's silent as Bashir explains it all.
"Well," he finally says, as if most of the conversation hadn't happened, "I'll admit I'm happy you didn't attempt my assassination. Very well, you clearly have a plan - lead on, Doctor."
Because Garak knows one thing above all to be true: you don't plan out everything. You just steer when you can, towards an ultimate goal. He'll see what comes next.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
For Garak
He's not sure why he's so fixated on it with a small mirror near the crew berthing as he readies himself in the shuttle. It's not like Garak will care. And besides, he's the one that told him that someone living to old age on Cardassia without getting killed by their enemies was seen as a positive thing. Age had dignity.
In a strange way, though, he dislikes that each time he visits, he probably looks less and less like that wide-eyed young man that Garak decided to approach in the Replimat. If they'd met now, at their current ages, would he have reached out? Come up behind him and rested his hand on his shoulders?
It's ridiculous to fuss. He does it anyway. Just like he fussed a little over his outfit. He's on leave so he came in civvies. Nothing too out there. Just a very loud pattern with an asymmetrical neckline. His current assignment...has taken him fairly far from this region of space. He has to use the leave to have the time to visit, so that means coming out of uniform.
The wait is almost excruciating. The process of being approved to enter Cardassian space by their security forces takes ages. The transporter blocking tech around his residence is understandable but means he has to take a walk from the transporter hub. As usual, he sees discreet security forces around that clearly were instructed to keep an eye on him, to ensure both his safety and a lack of disruption.
He smiles when Garak's residence comes into view.
Ok, so apparently I meant afternoon instead of morning, BUT...
The irony of it pulls at him, from time to time. He'd been such a good tailor, and yet - here his life has ever been pulled. To service. And, oh, who knows what will come of it next. The Ghemor government is steady, but there are threats on all sides. Between rebuilding and near starvation, it is an ordeal just to make it from day to day. Some take pride in it, calling it a particularly Cardassian ordeal. But to Garak, it is punishment for their many sins; perhaps above all a punishment for their arrogance and blindness, which had led them down this path.
But at least his garden is in bloom - he'd written of it often to Bashir, the one thing that provided the satisfaction that good tailoring had done. Cuttings from it had helped start others, all over Cardassia. He was proud of that. Nobody would remember that, in time, he knew. Such things so infrequently got written down, especially in Cardassian history. But he'd know.
He waits at a small table, finishing the last of the day's paperwork. The Federation is a great help, but the price of their help is ever so much verbage. From time to time, he looks up with a look of minor dissatisfaction. Finally, with a sigh, he puts down the padd and stands up, moving the chairs for the ninth time. He nods, then sits back down to finish.
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But his voice is as warm as ever.
"We're not going to eat before you show me how your garden's come along, are you? With how much you've talked about it?"
It's lightly teasing and more importantly makes it clear he's showed very careful attention to what Garak cares about in his letters. He wants to see what he's so proud of. Take in its beauty. In doing so, he can make it clear he admires something that came from his hands.
He wonders sometimes if he misses that part of tailoring. When people genuinely admired his craft and found some of what he made beautiful. Statesmanship doesn't really cause most people to compliment your eye.
Julian steps forward and holds out his arms, waiting for him to get up from his seat. Garak knows what he's doing it for.
He had, when visiting him the first time, actually hugged him in greeting, because that first visit had happened after quite some time. And he had missed him fiercely. Lightly, not too confining or touchy-feely, of course. Cardassians could be tactile in some circumstances, like when showing affection to their children, but were less likely to be so with friends.
And Garak valued his space and didn't like to feel crowded in, for a variety of reasons. So he usually only did it with a brief, light hold of his shoulders.
He's done it every time in greeting since.
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But - ah, yes, there it is. Oh, dear Julian, as if he hadn't known why you greeted him this way for ages. The restraint was palpable.
And appreciated.
Yet, he does like to surprise. Which is why he tells himself he brings the Doctor closer for a brief, human-style hug, with a pat on the back. Perhaps, being enmeshed in the internecine nonsense of the state, something human is a wonderful break in routine.
"I'm not the one coming off of a lengthy trip," he replies, stepping back. "You look a bit tired, my dear doctor, perhaps it would be best to eat first -" he raises a hand, voice taking on just that tiny theatrical note he'd loved to use in their lunches together. "I'd hate to have you nodding off while I'm describing the flora."
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When Garak pulls away, Julian isn't hiding his delight at the warmth his friend is showing him.
Mention of lunch just gets a wider grin.
To be honest, as much as he wants to look at Garak's garden, this is the thing he'd missed most. Lunch. Capital L. Almost ritualistic in its nature now. The distance has been an unhappy thing. It's hard for him to get to Cardassia and Cardassia usually needs Garak to stay there.
It makes him feel connected again, makes the distance easier to bear for a while.
"Well, I suppose we don't want anything to get cold, do we?" he says, taking his seat and rubbing his hands together. "Please tell me you have some of those ikri buns like last time."
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"You're in luck, there - thanks to your Federation replicators, the fruit used to make them is once again in decent supply. Not quite the taste of the usual - but in time, the, er...Real McCoy, yes? Will make its return."
Everything on Cardassia is rebuilding. Becoming something new. Even him.
"The real trouble was the icing. I have a few, modest talents, I confess - but baking has never been one of them."
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Even now, he downplays his various talents.
It's all the more amusing by virtue of the fact that Julian knows at least some of the most important of his secrets. Not all of them, but that he was a spy, that he was in the Obsidian Order, that Tain was his father, and many of his vital skills.
He picks up one of the buns and gestures with it a little as he talks.
"Given your proclivity towards a surprising aptitude with many of those talents - and this recent turn at very deft statesmanship - I can understand why you never really found the time."
He takes a bite, looking satisfied over more than just the delicious flavor. It is the smug look of someone who has slowly been proven right over the years, who feels even more right than ever. After all, what humble tailor could fall that easily into being a government official and kingmaker without missing a beat?
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He sighs, shaking his head.
"Though the amount of documents I have to write and put my name to - now that is unusual. The debates are understandable - but a paper trail..."
He smiles, taking a bite of his own food, with a satisfied sigh.
"I recently had to verbally spar with Lwaxana Troi in front of the Federation Council - my definition of a capable opponent has been re-written, let me assure you."
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"I am not even the least bit envious. I'm glad my work is so far out of the public eye, other than the occasional medical paper or medical conference." That was the cover, after all, some research position at Starfleet Medical. And he was given just enough of a leash to do the actual work so he could publish those papers and do those speaking engagements, to maintain cover. "Speaking of diplomacy, though, I finally read Eternal Stranger."
Another Cardassian repetitive epic.
Except, instead of his usual skepticism, his expression is different this time. More thoughtful.
"I found it...intriguing. Some of the other books you've given me depicted the concept of service to the state as something concrete and absolute. Singular. But both Velik and Satir are depicted as sympathetic. Even though Satir is considered a traitor by the current ruling government, his actions were to preserve the empire and to act on the will of the previous long-standing government before the recent revolt, and would ultimately benefit the people the most. The story reinforces that the current path may actually not be what the empire needs, due to the motivation behind the coup being acquisition of power rather than service. And it's actually treated as a tragedy that he and Velik are brothers in not seeing eye to eye on the exact way to serve."
He adds, "I could even almost stomach the repetition this time. It felt like a poetic refrain, repeating the themes over and over for emphasis." Another pause. "A very, very, very, very long poetic refrain."
He's done it. He's actually done it, and gotten him to appreciate a piece of very long-form Cardassian literature. Sort of. Almost.
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"It's an old example of the genre - it was banned by the Obsidian Order, of course, which made it the most popular illicit literature imaginable. But now, it's freely available again - I could make a metaphor about fire producing new blooms, I suppose."
He sighs.
"It has a new lease on life, to put it mildly. Though I suspect it will not last - new styles, new authours will soon make the repetitive epic the preserve of scholars. I suspect within my lifetime."
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There are some in the Federation that hope to see their downfall, bitterness over the war. But he's actually been here enough times to want to see them rebuild. Their society is ancient and there were times long ago before the fascist control of the state when things were different.
"Cardassia has a rich culture and long history. I'm sure that even if necessity begs for new invention, it won't be entirely divorced from what came before. There's a rich earth for everything to grow from; that's what happens after a fire." A smile quirks on the corner of his lips. "I'm sure they'll find whole new ways to loop stories around in circles, and you'll have brand new books to frustrate me with before long."
Hope springs eternal.
And the war has not deadened this. Even though he's much more tired, the good will is there. The hoping for Garak's world - and hoping for Garak's hope - is there.
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He sighs, taking a bite of his food.
"Emphasis, of course, on cautious. But the greatest of my worries, a resurgence of the old guard, hasn't materialized. Tradition and duty have proven inadequate to the moment - much as some crusty old Guls might wish it otherwise. No, I'm proud to say the state is quite dead, and not coming back."
He chuckles.
"Making me something of an outlier and a relic, I suppose. But they, too, have their purpose."
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"I'm glad to hear it. And sure, you may be a relic of a certain time - but that leaves you even better poised to guide things away from the hazards that caused damage in the past. You know how humans have a saying about it." He's mentioned it before, while discussing literature at their many lunches. "'Those who don't know history are doomed to repeat it.' You can help -"
All of a sudden something beeps from a pocket, the un-mistakeable sound of a commbadge. It sounds...off. A slightly different tone than the usual Starfleet commbadge.
"Sorry, I have to take this."
He palms it from his pocket, stands up, and walks halfway into the nearby hall. He's framed by light from the window to the garden. A strangely pleasant background for what becomes a terrible moment. As holds it near his ear and listens, he asks quietly, "Are you sure?" A pause. "Why are you contacting me?"
His body goes rigid. Something is wrong.
He looks over at Garak with a dawning horror, then says flatly, "Yes. Yes, I can handle it. Understood."
His hand drops. But the decision comes with almost no hesitation. He throws the commbadge to the floor. It's not the usual color, it's black. But Garak will only have a moment to notice this before he stomps it, breaking it.
Then he pulls out a second commbadge from another pocket, one that flashes with the usual gold and silver.
"Send out the alarm, Tyche is starting to move." A pause. "Of course it's probably meant to be a test but we can't risk it - yes, yes, I can handle the extraction alone, they wanted me to do it with him so I'm only one here. But you need to contact the loyalists around Ghemour, Lang, and the others." A pause. "Ghemour, obviously. He's at most risk. I'll have them sound internal alarm."
The concern in his voice is obvious.
"Understood. Bashir out."
When he looks back at Garak, he's breathing hard from what is clearly a stressful situation.
"Garak, old friend, there's much I'm going to ask of you in a very short amount of time. If you have a disruptor or phaser in the house, you need to get it, and then I need you to come with me. If you don't, you're going to die."
He goes back to the table, planting his hands against it, looking desperate.
"If there were to ever be a time in your life that you trusted someone, I need it to be right now."
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"Difficult to make an appeal to trust when only bringing my attention to a plot now," he finally says, rising and carefully folding his napkin. "Well," he says, with a sigh, his voice just the tiniest bit cold. "We'll have to have a word with customs about properly searching even VIP luggage - it seems we're failing to detect all sorts of interesting devices."
But then he's walking back towards the house, or rather to a small shed that looks very much like just a gardener's shed. But like so much in his life, nothing is ever quite what it seems.
He opens a drawer - and then the false bottom below that - pulling out a few unusual looking cylinders - and an old-fashioned Cardassian disruptor. He slides in a new power pack. Now, at least, he's armed - or as armed as he's willing to admit to. Right now, even for someone who is a dear friend, his trust level is running rather low.
"Very well," is all he says thereafter. Lead on, Bashir.
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It's a small phaser, disguised as a medical tricorder. Something he certainly wouldn't have been allowed as a visitor to a government official, regardless of being his friend. But he'd played the naive Starfleet doctor role so convincingly, and it'd been so innocuous when scanned, he'd been allowed it. It was just a tricorder. And this was a Federaji known to have provided medical relief a few times to the rebuilding Cardassia. For all they knew he planned to offer some aid at a clinic during his visit - he'd done it before.
"Don't be so hard on your security officers. This is... professionally provided."
Transforming secret weapons built to fool sensors is definitely getting into territory that is perilously close to some of Julian's holodeck fantasies, enough that what he says next probably won't come as a surprise.
Julian starts looking around Garak's place carefully, around corners, mentally preparing for the attack that is most likely about to come soon. He gestures for him to go into the house. They'll be better off fending off any attackers with cover.
"I only know someone is trying to kill you because - well -" He finally looks back at him with a painfully earnest expression "- because they just asked me to be the one to do it. For over the last year I have been working for elements in Starfleet Intelligence that have been trying to take down Section 31...after allowing myself to be recruited as a Section 31 agent."
Acting double agent is a monumentally stupid thing for him to have done. It is wildly dangerous. It is nothing like the games he used to play.
But he actually knows this. And one thing he knows it is also a thing very few other people could do. It was so rare for Section 31 to recruit. Even after Sloan's death, they'd wanted him. In fact, being partly responsible for Sloan's death and extracting one of his secrets with illegal Romulan mind probes had made them want him more. He couldn't let the opportunity go past. It was rare for someone to have the kind of intellect to occasionally outsmart them.
And now there are things he has seen. And done. Even if he'd still held onto himself, he has come perilously close to losing who he is, in his obsession and desperation.
"Section 31 is not above demanding last minute demonstrations of loyalty - or even spontaneous covert actions; they're planners but they're also opportunists. And they wouldn't have wanted to warn me too far ahead of time. Starfleet Intelligence hasn't even had wind of concrete plans, they've just planned for contingencies, knowing Cardassia might be an appealing target at a delicate point in history."
It's clear from his expression that he knows he just failed Section 31's loyalty check. He knows that this was an obvious test where they most likely expected him to fail. But he's not killing his friend and he's certainly not letting the new Cardassia's government to come to ruin.
"Section 31 just demanded I kill you, and that is a demonstration of loyalty of which I have just failed - utterly."
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Section 31 was still shadows. It had no known headquarters, no obvious bases or shipyards. But there are still similarities in the way they think. Still traces he knows all too well.
He's silent as Bashir explains it all.
"Well," he finally says, as if most of the conversation hadn't happened, "I'll admit I'm happy you didn't attempt my assassination. Very well, you clearly have a plan - lead on, Doctor."
Because Garak knows one thing above all to be true: you don't plan out everything. You just steer when you can, towards an ultimate goal. He'll see what comes next.