Chapter Text
Day 1
Garak was not in the habit of looking for the good in a given situation. Nevertheless, if pressed to name one positive aspect of his resumed exile, he quite enjoyed the sex he and Julian were now having.
He wouldn’t go so far as to thank Dukat’s sister for exposing his decoding work during the war. She’d proclaimed that he permitted the Federation to kill thousands of Cardassians, entirely ignoring the fact that Garak wouldn’t have needed to if her brother hadn’t idiotically decided to join the Dominion. It was revenge for her father’s death, of course; that family never was able to accept their members’ shortcomings.
So the Dukats had their revenge at last, and Garak was not foolish enough to think his window of opportunity for sex with Julian would be anything but too brief. Still, he’d given up on Julian being willing years ago and was resolved to make the most of this tryst while he could.
It was another evening enlivened by Julian’s arrival at his quarters. Garak replicated dinner while asking, “And how was your afternoon with young Miss Idaris?” more to make polite conversation than out of any great interest in Dax and Worf’s progeny. (Though he did appreciate their business shopping for her clothing.)
“More tiring than last time I babysat. Not even four months old and she’s already crawling at a good clip. That’s her Klingon heritage for you.”
Garak hoped that didn’t mean Julian was too exhausted for sex. He’d been looking forward to it all day.
“Jadzia will be by your shop tomorrow to order baby clothes with more durable knees.”
“I’ll check my fabric inventory,” said Garak. Dax had been a good customer before she became a mother. Now she was unquestionable Garak’s best.
He placed the plates on the table, turned to the replicator for beverages…
…and the next second was somewhere else entirely.
Julian very sensibly tried to hit his combadge, only to discover their clothes had not made the trip with them. This was not at all how Garak envisioned divesting themselves of attire for the evening.
The room they were in was a half-circle perhaps a third again larger than Garak’s quarters, with lighting, temperature, and humidity exactly as Garak kept his for Julian’s visits, which was to say the settings they’d agreed on as a compromise. There was a spacious bed, a corner which proved upon brief inspection to be almost an exact replica of a Deep Space Nine lavatory, and neither a door nor a window so far as Garak could tell.
“Hello?” called Julian.
Garak started looking for any minute indications of an egress.
“Hello?”
“I don’t think anyone who abducts people without warning is liable to respond to polite overtures,” said Garak.
“We have to start somewhere,” countered Julian. “Look, they left us clothes.” He unfolded two pair of formless ivory trousers, followed by matching shirts and slippers.
“How considerate of them.”
“It’s better than being naked.”
Garak wasn’t sure he agreed, but his feet were getting cold and if their anonymous captors wanted him dead, there were more sensible means of achieving that than slippers. He reluctantly put on the horrible outfit before resuming his thorough inspection of the room.
Other than the lack of egress, it was an unremarkable room. Garak could find no observation devices or means to ensure compliance such as a deliver system for electrical shocks, though that didn’t mean they weren’t there, only that they were exceptionally well-hidden and their captors were therefore sophisticated. He did find running water and toothbrushes, not the kind of consideration one usually anticipated from kidnappers who, speaking in generalities, were not noted for great devotion to dental health among their victims.
“Have I missed the door?” asked Julian some minutes later. He’d been conducting his own inspection.
“Not as far as I can tell.”
“Well, we’re obviously here for a purpose. It stands to reason that whoever took us will make that purpose clear soon.”
“That doesn’t mean we’ll like it.” Garak was hard-pressed to think of any aim for which he’d approve of being stolen out of his quarters. He wondered if the transport had registered on Deep Space Nine, or if no one would begin to look for them until morning when Julian failed to show up in the infirmary.
Julian sat on the bed with an annoyed huff. “I know that, Garak. I just don’t see anything else we can do at the moment.”
Unfortunately, neither did Garak.
Day 2
“This doesn’t make any sense,” said Julian, prodding his lunch with a fork. It was an uncannily exact version of the Replimat’s Betazoid maritel casserole, including the crust Betazoid personnel usually agreed was slightly too soft for authenticity but Julian liked, which had been transported in moments earlier. “Whoever kidnapped us has taken pains to recreate our environment down to the meals but hasn’t given any indication of who they are or why they took us. What’s their goal?”
“Perhaps they’re communicating with Colonel Kira or Starfleet,” suggested Garak.
Julian hoped so. Everyone would be looking for them by now, without a doubt. He’d be perfectly happy to be rescued any time. All the same, it would be nice to have a bit of agency in his own situation, which was impossible at the moment, and if he felt that way Garak was probably thrice as displeased.
Life on DS9 had been slowly returning to something which vaguely resembled normal, if you imagined that Miles, Odo, and Captain Sisko all took leave at the same time, but of late there had been no particularly difficult misadventures. In retrospect, they were probably overdue.
A kotra set appeared in front of them. If the board hadn’t lacked a scratch from being throw across the room when Garak was recovering from the deactivation of his cranial implant, it could have been his, and he started at it intently.
“They want us to play kotra?” asked Julian.
“I have no intention of making this easy for our captors.”
“I didn’t say we should.”
At least the food was better than the Dominion had served.
Day 3
Julian spent the afternoon (or what they presumed to be afternoon, as it was difficult to be certain under the circumstances) elaborating on his theory that Earth’s so-called Enlightenment philosophers had counterparts in many other Federation cultures. Garak was at a disadvantage in this conversation, but he didn’t let his unfamiliarity with the nuances of Federation member worlds stop him from challenging Julian’s most obviously flawed points. He wanted to revisit some of them once he had an opportunity for research.
When the conversation reached a lull, Julian started doing lunges.
“Are you sure that’s wise?” asked Garak. Not that he objected to the view, mind you, but he wasn’t one to let his libido override strategic considerations.
“Exercise is important.”
Garak leaned over to murmur into Julian’s ear on the off chance doing so thwarted any listening devices. “It also ruins the element of surprise.”
“I’ll take your concerns under advisement,” said Julian. He used the tone which indicated actual consideration, so Garak had some hope he’d mind what he displayed. There was no reason to demonstrate their physical capabilities for their captors’ edification. That might prove a critical advantage later on.
Once Julian finished his exercises, he used the sonic shower, and they learned another peculiar feature of this kidnapping: there was a laundry service. Julian exited the lavatory to find fresh clothing waiting for him.
“This is the strangest abduction,” he said, and Garak couldn’t disagree.
Even though he was loathe to play into their captors’ hands, he would benefit from a shower and Julian had suffered no ill effects from his, so Garak reluctantly took a brief one. He did feel slightly better once clean and in a new, if identical, set of clothes. What he’d previously been wearing swiftly disappeared. He therefore considered races known to place high value on personal hygiene as potential captors, though this avenue was not as fruitful as might have been desired. To that moment, their experience did not strike Garak as familiar in any way, and since he was well-versed in the operations of various organizations and benefitted from an excellent memory even by high Cardassian standards, this was saying something.
A stack of books appeared. Julian immediately looked through them and declared, “Two Cardassian, translated into Federation Standard, and two human, in English. They know I can’t read Cardassi but you can read Standard.” And that English and Standard were similar enough for mutual comprehension, which in some circles was not as common knowledge as Garak might have expected. Their captors clearly weren’t Nausicaan.
“They’ve clearly done their research.” The Tal Shiar, perhaps. They were very thorough. Section 31 was a possibility, if a more distant one. Still, Garak’s instincts told him neither organization was responsible for his current situation.
“Garak, whoever took us is trying to make us feel at home.”
“It’s not working,” he replied, for their captors’ benefit.
“You’ll hate Wuthering Heights.”
Garak resolved to find some redeeming feature, no matter how small, in the book. Later. “Why do kidnappers try to make their victims comfortable?” he mused aloud. To gain the upper hand, of course, but the exact line of reasoning might prove illuminating.
Julian shrugged. “I’m not a psychologist, but I’d say to win sympathy or pretend they are kinder than your average kidnapper.”
No, not likely to be the Tal Shiar at all. Garak was truly at a loss, which he detested nearly as much as being abducted in the first place.
Day 4
One moment Julian was listening to Garak’s opinions (uncomplimentary, of course) on Starfleet dress uniforms: “…the previous design, I’m sorry to say, was preferable…” and the next he couldn’t move.
This was an extremely advanced transporter. It operated without a noticeable liminal phase, which Julian found disconcerting, though much less troubling than other, more pressing issues such as his inability to move from the neck down.
He took in what he could see, which wasn’t much. The ceiling and walls were the same shade of cream as the clothes he and Garak had been given, the room seemed much wider than it was long, and what appeared to be a large computer monitor on the wall displayed his vitals, or so he assumed from the heartrate monitor he could just make out. The lighting was bright and the temperature was about two degrees cooler than the room from which he’d been taken. Nothing struck him as familiar enough to guess who’d taken them, though he was going on very limited information.
There was a sound. Was this when he finally got to meet their captor?
He strained to see out of the corner of his eye. Yes, there. He could just make out a humanoid torso, although the movement didn’t align with bipedal locomotion. Whoever it was started speaking, or so Julian assumed from the chirping noises. The language wasn’t familiar to his UT, then. That was bad news for communicating. Subdermal UT implants were still in the experimental stage and Julian hadn’t been impressed with his when it came to learning new languages. According to the last update he’d read on the subject, subdermal UTs required much more exposure to have even a hope of translating an unknown language, and even then it was far from guaranteed. He wanted his combadge with its fully functional UT.
Well, he wanted a lot of things at the moment which he appeared unlikely to receive. Freedom, firstly.
A Starfleet officer was supposed to observe and gather information when placed in an unexpected situation. This was considerably more challenging when immersed in a paralytic field, but Julian did what he could. He’d never seen a race with skin this shade of lavender, nor eyes quite so squared off. Their captor was bald, with three antennae clustered on top of its head and a small mouth. Oh, and two sets of arms, it appeared, as Julian now saw four hands.
“What do you want from us?”
The chirping continued.
At a guess, he was being thoroughly scanned. Lacking any other option, Julian decided to try diplomacy, and therefore said, “If you’re interested in medical data, the Federation is always willing to consider open exchange of information.”
Nothing. It had been worth a try.
He was gone no more than two minutes before he found himself back in their room with an extremely concerned Garak.
“Were you harmed?”
Since he was once again able to move, Julian said, “No. I think…”
Evidently it was Garak’s turn now. Left alone, Julian sighed and mentally revisited hostile negotiation lectures from the Academy.
Day 5
Julian didn’t have any success in his second attempt to converse with their captor. Garak wasn’t surprised. They didn’t even know if the being could understand them. Garak, of course, had no hope of understanding the strange squeaks which likely comprised their abductor’s language. He did not have the benefit of Starfleet’s latest translation technology being embedded into his body the way Julian did. At the time Julian received his translator implant, Garak had been skeptical, as an implant hadn’t worked out overly well for him. Now he was grateful at least one of them had a remote chance of communicating with this alien.
As for Garak, he made no more progress in forming an escape plan. The only way out, barring perhaps possession of a very strong torch to cut the wall (which was undesirably risky when any given wall could be exterior on a ship), was by transporter. Being unable to move while under examination did not give Garak any opportunity to overpower this alien. Having been held in paralysis twice now, he assumed this was likely to be their captor’s standard procedure.
In short, the situation was dire.
Undoubtedly Kira and Dax would be hard at work looking for them, and Worf keen to battle for their freedom, but their abductor had superior technology at its disposal and Garak was perfectly well aware that the longer they went without rescue, the worse their odds became. If Julian knew this statistical fact, he chose to ignore it.
Thus far, too, Julian had been right. Garak hated Wuthering Heights. He was not remotely impressed with the desolation of moors, and the only character he liked was the dog.
He had planned to ignore the books, but conceded to read because the potential benefits (providing their captor with information sufficient to alter the situation, should this prove a strange form of first contact, and avoiding punishment should not reading displease their captor) outweighed the risk (providing sufficient information and being killed as no longer useful, which seemed unlikely after the trouble their kidnapper had taken).
“How did you finish this insipid, depraved book?” he asked.
Julian looked up from the enigma tale he’d selected. “I haven’t read it. I once had a date take me to a theatre performance of Wuthering Heights. When you’re done, I’ll read it.”
Garak thought even Shakespeare would be a better play than this. But if their kidnapper thought the books were lulling him into a sense of complacency, it was entirely mistaken.
Day 6
Julian had been in worse situations. Namely, Internment Camp 371 while a Changeling stole his life and tried to blow up the Bajoran sun. In that case, as bad as it had been, he’d known who took him and why. This time, he had nothing but questions.
“The same?” he asked when Garak materialized lying on the bed.
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“I think they have six legs.” He’d need a slightly better glance to be certain. It would fit with the body movement he’d seen peripherally, so it was a solid working theory with absolutely no practical value. He didn’t even know if they were seeing the same individual every day or not.
“Your translator hasn’t made any progress?” asked Garak.
“Don’t you think I would’ve led with that?”
Julian knew Garak was not happy about his own lack of translator, but there was nothing to be done about it. ‘Nothing to be done about it’ summed up their entire situation, in fact, and Garak didn’t handle powerlessness well.
Meanwhile, Julian was thoroughly sick of being kidnapped. The last few years he’d had more than his fair share of it. It’d taken him nearly a year to truly recover from his time in Dominion custody, even if he’d never admitted as much to anyone and spent the first months not even admitting the problem to himself. Then Section 31 came along, and his quarters had never seemed quite as safe after that. Now this. How many times could a person be kidnapped before they constantly feared it? Julian worried he’d find out.
Day 7
Julian was not back on time.
The previous three days Julian had been transported away for approximately two minutes, followed immediately by Garak’s turn to be examined. It had been at least twenty minutes now and Julian was still absent from their room (or, more accurately, their generously furnished prison cell).
If one of them was to be tortured or killed, Garak would much prefer it to be him. That this went against everything Tain had ever taught him – namely, how he ought only to sacrifice himself for Cardassia or the Order, as his life was not worth any lesser cause - did not bother Garak in the least. It was difficult to pinpoint exactly when Julian’s life came to mean more than his own. In any event, it did, and unlike Garak, Julian had a promising future if he survived their current predicament. Garak would not hesitate to sacrifice himself, but at the moment lacked even that option.
Finally Julian materialized on the bed. Unlike previous occasions, he was not conscious. Where did humans check for a heartbeat? The neck. Garak thus put one hand on Julian’s chest to confirm it continued to rise and fall with each breath, and the other on his neck.
Julian was indeed breathing, but Garak couldn’t find a heartbeat. He was therefore much relieved to hear Julian murmur, “Wrong spot.”
“What?”
“Your fingers are too low to check my pulse.” He proceeded to guide Garak’s hand to the correct spot for future reference Garak sincerely wished not to need.
“What did they do to you?”
“I don’t know. I was sedated almost instantly. How long was I gone, anyway?”
“Over twenty minutes.” More or less. It became difficult to judge time without any external indicators.
Julian sat up and winced. Garak wanted to kill their captor(s) even more than he already had. “What is it?”
“Without a tricorder, I can’t say for certain. My abdomen is sore.” He gingerly ran his hands over the area. “Nothing feels ruptured, at least. Twenty minutes, you said? Presuming the chirping noises are in fact speech, that will give my UT more with which to work.”
Only Julian Bashir could be subjected to an unknown but clearly invasive procedure and manage to look on the bright side.