This is a follow-on from two earlier stories, Nom de Plume and Roman a
Clef, in which Garak and Bashir consecutively turn author. The
holoprograms of DS9 have always intrigued me: who actually produces
these things, I thought? This is my rather cynical answer to that
question, anyway. There's no sex, though m/m relationships are shown,
so if that isn't your cup of Earl Grey, don't read it.

PG -13, probably.

Hope you like it.

Disclaimer: : I fully acknowledge that Paramount has exclusive rights to
the Star Trek universe, All Rights Reserved, and that all characters
and locations are the property of Paramount television (except Mr
Ramirez and his dubious associates, who are mine). No infringement is
intended. STAR TREK: DEEP SPACE NINE is a Registered Trademark Æ of
Paramount Pictures.

Folie a Deux.

'Who do you think he is?' the doctor asked in an undertone. 'A spy?
An assassin?'
'Try not to let your imagination run away with you,' Elim Garak
replied. 'He might simply have been lost.'
'He was following you, and he spent at least ten minutes hanging
around your quarters. I've been watching him.'
The tailor bestowed an infuriatingly smug smile upon his friend.
'Perhaps he's just fascinated. Perhaps I have a fan.'
Bashir snorted.
'What did he look like, anyway?' Garak enquired.
'Human, average height and build, with sort of floppy dark hair and
grey eyes, I think. Bit younger than me.'
'Doesn't ring any bells.'
'I'm pretty sure I've never seen him before.'
'And where is he now?'
'In the Replimat.'
'Then, doctor, since it is nearly lunchtime, I suggest we adjourn to
that very place.'

Together, they watched as the young man carefully lowered his copy of
the Bajoran Morning Herald and glanced uneasily around the Replimat.
'Well,' the tailor said. 'He's definitely up to something. I don't
think he's a pro, though. He's much too obvious. I'll go and talk to
him.'
'You can't do that!'
The tailor's eyes widened fractionally.
'Why not, Doctor? After all, that's how you and I met.'
Before Bashir could protest, he was across the Replimat and leaning over
the young man at the table. To the doctor's discomfort, it was akin to
watching a replay of the past. The young man appeared thoroughly
flustered. He dropped his paper; Garak, ever the gentleman, retrieved
it, and sat down. Then, leaning across the table, he proceeded to
engage the young man in conversation until Bashir, frustrated by his
inability to hear, realised that he was overdue for his shift and was
obliged to return to the medical bay.

There's nothing quite like the classics, I always say. 'Wuthering
Heights,' all storms and dark passions; 'The Pickwick Papers', that
charming canter around the shires of old England; 'The Paper Knight,'
exposing the rotting underside of 22nd century Europe...All of them
inspiring, amusing, enduring exemplars of literature; ideal for the
total immersion experience that is the modern holonovel. Not that I was
allowed anywhere near them, mind you. No, all I got were such majestic
works as 'Julie Does Jupiter Station', or 'Claw: the Battle for
Justice.' I kept pleading with O'Connor to let me have a go at a
chapter of 'Ulysses', or even 'The Turn of the Screw', just to prove I
could do it, but no.
'Sorry, old son,' O'Connor said, the last time I asked him. 'But take
a look around you.' He waved at the less than luxurious offices of
Hol-O-Rama. 'Now I ask you. does that look like the workplace of a man
who can afford to publish 'Anna sodding Karenina?''
After a long, hard look at the peeling plaster and the grimy window
looking out onto Wardour Street, I had to admit that he had a point.
'If I had the latinum, I'd do it,' O'Connor said, tugging moodily at
his pony tail. He was going through a late twentieth century phase at
the time; it was supposed to be chic. 'But I haven't, so I don't. Here
you go.' He handed me a padd. 'Take that home and have a look at it.
And remember what I told you -'
'The three S's, I know -'
'Sex, sex and more sex.' O'Connor beamed at me in a particularly
avuncular and repulsive fashion.
'Gwyn, my lad, when I first set eyes on you I thought: that boy's got
a good sound head on his shoulders. He'll be a quick learner, I said to
myself. And I wasn't wrong, was I? Right, go and get on with it.'

When I reached the bottom of the staircase, I took a look at the novel
he'd given me. It was set, promisingly enough, in New Orleans, and it
was called 'Storeyville Suzie.' It seemed to contain every feasible
human sexual permutation, and some rather more improbable ones that I'd
have to set the holodeck editor onto. Oh, well, I thought, trying to be
philosophical. I suppose it's a living.

On my way back to the flat, I walked past the British Library. I always
rather fancied myself as a scholar, sitting surrounded by ancient tomes,
breathing in dust and knowledge in equal proportions. The fact that the
Brit. Lib. is now a gleaming haven of hygiene, and every single work is
stored on data crystals, makes no difference. In my imagination, it's
still the London of Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson and the Woman in
White; an autumn chill in the misty air and the sound of hooves on the
cobbles. I blame my old mum for turning me into such a romantic,
feeding me nineteenth century literature until it came out of my ears.
I should have become an academic, or a writer, but I've got a terrible
memory and I turned out to be to creative fiction what Attila the Hun
was to petit point embroidery. By the tender age of twenty two, I'd
accumulated so many rejection notices that my old Riga Quinto ran out of
memory. I complained about this to my uncle James, who taught twenty
third century metaphysical prose at UCL.
'Do you think I'll ever make it as a writer?' I asked him. He peered
at me over the top of his glasses.
'How old are you now?'
'Twenty two.'
There was a long, mournful pause, and then my uncle said
'Put it this way. Keats died at twenty four.'
He had a point, I suppose. I gave up writing fiction and got a job as
compositor for the New Manchester Guardian. When that folded I went to
work for Hol-O-Rama, adapting schlock and sex novels for the déclassé
end of the holodeck market. Sometimes, I'd look at myself in the mirror
and think: *Gwyn Byron Ramirez, you are a miserable failure and a
disgrace to your bardic heritage* and that always made me feel better,
in a moody, romantic sort of way.

I spent the night with Storeyville Suzie, in a manner of speaking, and a
depressing experience it was, too. It wasn't long before I started to
pay attention to the line message at the bottom of the screen, which
O'Connor had marked: important. Oh God, no, I thought. The note said:
REALTIME!! This meant that we couldn't just hire the usual suspects and
film the damn thing, or use the existing footage in the editing deck, we
would have to shoot some poor unsuspecting punter instead. This
voyeuristic aspect to the holobusiness is highly distasteful, but it's
certainly lucrative. Why pay to interact with actors when you can have
all the forbidden thrill of the real life experience, after all?

'How long do I have to stay like this?' Stella demanded.
'Just hold it like that...all right...lovely....' I said, from the
adjoining room.
'My knees will give out.'
'No they won't. You're a flexible girl.'
There was a disdainful snort from the direction of the bed.
'Right,' I told her. 'Now, just keep that up until the client comes
in....'
'I look all right, don't I?' Stella asked, anxiously. Everyone wants
to look their best on film.
'Wonderful,' I said, and then I had to be quiet, as the client stepped
through the door. He was a middle aged man, clad in a respectable dark
suit, and I'm much too modest to discuss his particular preferences. I
will say that we got plenty of footage. When he'd dressed and gone, I
went back inside the room. Stella was sitting on the edge of the bed,
doing up her corset.
'All right, dearie? Got what you wanted?'
'Thanks,' I said. I handed her the fee.
'And you won't forget about the royalties, will you?'
'As soon as it's off the editing deck. Stella, you're a star,' and
then, because I never could help feeling uneasy about the whole thing, I
added 'Are you okay?'
'Oh, yes. Don't worry about me,' she said, a little defensively.
'He's not the strangest we get in here, not by a long shot.' Stella and
I gazed at each other for a moment, lost in mutual astonishment at the
varied nature of human sexuality. Then, I took my little capsule of
holofilm back to the editing deck, polished it up, and slotted it into
the material that the computer had been generating during my absence.
It worked quite well, I thought. I ran the rough cut by O'Connor, who
sat nodding his head and muttering until the voyeur clip of Stella and
her client came on. The effect was electrifying. O'Connor sat bolt
upright and all the colour drained from his face. He pointed a
trembling finger at the images around us and intoned
'Bloody hell!'
'What? What is it?'
'Bloody hell...freeze program!'
'What?' By now I was thoroughly alarmed. He seemed to be on the
verge of a heart attack.
'Him! Stella's client! He's only a counsellor on the Federation
Ethics Committee, that's all. We can't put this out on release. Not
anywhere. You'll have to cut it.'
'How was I to know?' I wailed.
'You weren't, my son,' O'Connor said, recovering swiftly. 'You did a
good job. Now, you take yourself down the pub, and have a couple of
pints on me.'
'Okay,' I said, pleased. 'Cheers.'

I got into work a little late the next morning, and at first I wondered
if I'd strayed into the wrong office. Instead of the peeling plaster,
the Hol-O-Rama premises were now painted a gleaming eggshell blue, and
two fat sofas had replaced the rickety chairs.
'Mr O'Connor?' I said, perplexed. My employer, dressed in a rather
flashy velvet suit, emerged from behind a rosewood desk the approximate
size of a tennis court and clapped me on the shoulder.
'Gwyn, my old mate. Didn't I tell you we'd strike it lucky one day?
Well, that day has come.'
'Sorry?'
'D'you remember, oh, back in the winter, me telling you that I'd
applied for Federation funding to produce educational holovideos for
schools?'
'No.'
O'Connor gave me a beady look.
'Of course you do. Anyway, we've got a grant. From the Federation
Arts Council. Enough for us to get out of this filthy, sordid racket of
producing sleazoid sex packages and turn to aspirational literature,
just like you've always dreamed of.'
I wondered whether there had been something in that beer last night;
something hallucinogenic, perhaps. O'Connor waved a padd under my nose.
'This sort of thing, for instance. This great contemporary classic. A
work of genius. This is going to be Hol-O-Rama's magnum opus.'
'What is it?'
'It's called 'A Shadow over Evening'. Full of forbidden passion and
secret desires, but tastefully done. And the author's a marketing man's
dream - mysterious, enigmatic, living on the very frontier of the
galaxy. His publisher happens to be a mate of mine of long standing and
he's slipped me a few salient details. And you're going to research it,
visit the writer, find out what his views are on how this could best be
hologrammed.'
'I am?'
'A once in a lifetime opportunity, to see new worlds, new
civilisations...You're going to Bajor. Well, near Bajor. To a space
station. It's called Deep Space Nine.'

It would have been perfectly obvious to a bigger idiot than myself what
had happened. Clearly, O'Connor had been indulging in a spot of
blackmail, and now he was getting rid of his one unwitting accomplice.
I could have gone to the authorities, but what I'd done was illegal.
O'Connor had friends, too, with whom I was not eager to become better
acquainted. Besides, I'd always wanted to travel, so I decided not to
look this particular gift horse in the mouth. I went home, and packed a
bag.

It takes a long time to get to Bajor from Earth, especially on the
cut-price charter that O'Connor had booked for me. I didn't mind. I
had plenty to read, what with 'A Shadow over Evening' and its sequel,
'The Silence of Morning'. Somewhat to my surprise, E.G. Bashir turned
out to be two people, not one. I glanced at the copies of the
publisher's contracts: Elim Garak and Julian Bashir. 'Garak' didn't
sound like a human name, and the protagonist of the first novel was
Romulan, so I wondered whether he might hail from that corner of the
galaxy. Well, I would soon find out. Whatever the reasons for this
sudden change in my fortunes, I couldn't help being excited. At last I
was doing something worthwhile, something that would add to the sum of
human experience, rather than catering to the baser urges. I spent the
trip sitting in the coffee bar on the recreation deck of the freighter,
reading, making notes, and surreptitiously watching the other
passengers. All in all, the time passed quickly, and I was quite
surprised to find that we had entered Bajoran space and were nearing the
station.

Thoughtfully, O'Connor had booked a room for me; one of a suite of hotel
accommodation shells off the main Promenade. I unpacked my meagre
baggage, had a shower, and then went in search of refreshment. It was,
after all, nearly lunchtime and if you ever want information, the best
place to get it is in a bar. Quark's proved to be no exception.
Moreover, the beer was almost palatable, if a touch synthetic. Nursing a
pint, I took my place at the bar next to a large person of few words.
The barman, however, amply compensated for this conversational lack.
'So,' the Ferengi said, leaning on the bar. 'Where have you blown in
from?'
'London.'
'Really? Our chief engineer's from near there. Place called
"Dublin", I think. You know it?'
'Just down the road.'
'Are you staying long?'
'I don't really know. It depends how the work goes.'
'Oh? What do you do?'
'I adapt novels for holoprograms,' I said. The Ferengi's unlovely
face radiated pleased astonishment.
'A holowriter? Well, well. Are you freelance, or do you work for an
outfit?'
'I'm employed by a company called Hol-O-Rama.'
Quark's taloned fingers encased my wrist in a painful grip.
'Not that devious old bastard Brendan O'Connor?'
'I see you know him well.'
'O'Connor and I go way back.' The Ferengi gave a sentimental sigh.
'I suppose I owe everything to him. He sold me one of my first
holoprograms, at a very generous 15% discount in exchange for 10% of the
royalties. I've still got it somewhere. I rerun it about once a year,
just out of nostalgia...And your boss always sends me the latest
catalogue, with free samples.'
'Nice of him.'
'I think so. So, what are you adapting now?'
For some reason, I felt the need to dissemble.
'Oh, we've decided to diversify, so I thought I'd take a look at some
local material - maybe a few locations.'
'Good idea. Mind you, you won't get much change from the Bajorans.
Fine people: spiritual, god-fearing, respectable folk, but business?
Forget it. Now the Cardassians - they're something else again. Plenty
of scope there, if you can find someone who'll give you the right
introductions. If you need any help, you just let me know.'
'Thanks. Actually, there is something. Do you know a man named
Garak?'
'Ah, talking of Cardassians, eh? So you're after a new wardrobe? And
why not? Tell him I recommended you; we have a little commission
arrangement. His shop's over there - it's closed for lunch now, but
he'll be opening again later.'
I said to the Ferengi
'So Mr Garak runs a tailor's shop?'
'That's right.' The Ferengi's eyes narrowed and he leaned across the
bar. 'Of course, he wasn't always a tailor. Rumour has it - well, I
shouldn't say too much, but he's had quite a varied career - wait a
minute. I've just seen him.' He pointed to where an elegant figure was
sauntering across the room. Quark started from behind the bar, but as
he did so there was an irate roar from the other side of the Promenade.
'Quark!'
I turned to see a tall person in a brown uniform. I didn't recognise
the species, but I know a policeman when I see one. Instinctively, I
made myself small and unobtrusive. Quark seemed set to remain with the
law for some time, so I decided to do a little detective work on my
own. I followed Garak as he made his way along the Promenade, pausing
to speak to an appealing young lady on the way, and then I pursued him
to what were presumably his own quarters. All the time I was trying to
think of a way to introduce myself, but I couldn't think of an
appropriate way of doing so. Besides, 'A Shadow Over Evening' had
greatly impressed me and I'm afraid I was, for want of a better word,
rather star-struck by Mr Garak's literary talents. Then the Cardassian
vanished through a door and it was too late. I remained outside for a
while, thinking of various conversational approaches, but none of them
seemed to fit. Ah well, I thought. Perhaps I should rely on the
ingenious Mr Quark, after all. Giving introductions up as a bad job, I
went back to the bar.

I was sitting over my second pint of the day, lost in thought and the
local paper, when a polite voice said
'Excuse me.' I looked up. The enigmatic Mr Garak was standing before
me, smiling pleasantly. I'm afraid I gaped. I'd never actually met a
Cardassian before, you see, and I hadn't realised quite how impressive
they are. From the various articles and newsreels, I'd gained the
impression that they were a rather ponderous, heavy featured people, but
Elim Garak had a mobile, expressive face, and vivid blue eyes. He was
also leaning over me. Hastily, I pushed my chair back. Different
cultures have different conceptions of personal space, and it always
important to take these things into consideration. Now, I suspect he
did it purely to make me feel uncomfortable.
'Good afternoon,' I said.
'Good afternoon. May I join you? It's a little crowded in here
today...'
'Of course. Yes,' I told him, flustered.
'My name's Garak, by the way. And yours is...?'
'Gwyn Ramirez.'
'Delighted,' Garak said, taking my hand in his. It felt cool and
smooth. 'And where are you from?'
'London. Britain. Earth.'
'From three places? How ingenious of you,' he said. His smile
widened. 'You must forgive me, Mr Ramirez. We long term residents of
this station are so bored with one another that we take an unpardonably
intrusive interest in every new face.' His eyes were bright and cold.
'Especially when they follow us around and spend the better part of ten
minutes loitering outside our quarters.' Then the affable mask was
back. Garak sighed. 'Is it, I wonder, my personal charms which led you
to such a flamboyant course of action? Or simply some inexplicable whim
of your own? Well, no matter. I'm glad you're taking such an interest.
It gives me the opportunity to get to know you -' a pause '-better. And
I don't blame you for your enthusiasm, given some of the rumours about
me that persist in floating about this station. Considering what people
say, it's hardly surprising that someone's interest might be piqued. Do
you know, I've even heard talk that I was once an arms dealer?
Extraordinary! As I said, people get bored, you see; we're all sitting
here with little else to occupy our minds than gossip.'
'I see,' I said. I felt as though I'd been pinned to the wall; Garak
seemed to have taken on the aspect of the Ancient Mariner, what with the
torrent of words and the piercing blue stare.
'So tell me,' the Cardassian said 'About yourself.'
So I did. I was so unnerved that I told him everything, from my
disastrous love affairs to our horrible family holidays in Angola Faso,
to my current profession. It took perhaps an hour. It appalled me to
hear myself babbling on in this incoherent manner, but whenever I caught
Garak's encouraging stare I started up again.
'Well,' he said, amused, when at last I ground to a halt. 'Young man,
you're an interrogator's dream.' He favoured me with a rather predatory
look. 'So you say you want to turn 'A Shadow over Evening', and
possibly its sequel, into a holoprogram?'
Mutely, I nodded.
'But you do realise that E.G.Bashir is a composite of myself and my
friend Julian Bashir?'
'Yes, I know that.'
'So I'll need to discuss it with him, but I'm afraid my own
inclination is to decline your kind offer. You see, although it's not a
primarily erotic work, both novels have substantial passages based
largely on sexual fantasy and, to be quite honest with you, I'm not sure
that I want to see that holofilmed. I'm sure you can understand why.'
'It would be very tastefully done.'
'Yes, I understand they said that about 'The Moons of Venetia Prime'
and look what happened to that great sombre classic. Remember the
heroine, who's a member of a religious order who insist on a total lack
of physical contact and spend their lives in secluded meditation? Have
you *seen* the holo version?'
'Well, um... she converts, doesn't she?'
'She certainly does, yes. In the first five minutes. After that
she's initiated into a roving band of jongleur-dominatrices who collect
the bodily fluids of passing travellers for their leader to anoint
herself with. I'm all for picking up the literary ball and running with
it, but I really don't think that was quite what the author had in mind,
somehow.'
I was forced to concur that Garak had a point.
'And he sued, too. No, I'm not a great fan of holo-fiction; I almost
never use the 'suites myself. So I rather fear that you might have made
this long journey for nothing. Moreover, you might bear in mind that I
am capable of rather more than legal action.' This last was said kindly
but briskly, and I did not doubt that he meant what he said. Then he
added
'Anyway, I'm curious - who did you have in mind to play the
protagonists?'
'Vides T'Lari is a first rate actor, one of the stars of the Romulan
Restoration stage, and as far as the young man whom your central
character's supposed to be so hopelessly in love with -' I paused to
stare. ' - he just walked in.'
As the stranger came across, I realised that he was considerably older
than the protagonist of the novels, but he was, nonetheless, one of the
most beautiful people I had ever set eyes on.
'That,' said Garak, following my stare 'is my co-author, Doctor Julian
Bashir,' and then, of course, I realised.
'Oh,' I said, inadequately. 'Oh. I see.' Garak was watching me with
a curious expression, half way between amusement and self contempt.
'You may very well think that you do,' he cautioned, 'but I'd be
obliged if you'd refrain from mentioning it.'
'No, no, of course not. I mean, I wouldn't -'
'Doctor Bashir, meet Mr Gwyn Ramirez.'
After the introductions, and a few minutes of strained small talk, I
excused myself and sought the refuge of my quarters.

'Make a *what*?' the doctor asked. Garak toyed with his glass.
'A holoprogram. Of your book, and my book.'
'Is that neat kanaar you're drinking?'
'Neat and a triple, yes. If ever there was time for a stiff drink,
this is it. Would you like one?'
'I'll have a synthehol scotch,' Bashir told him, virtuously. The
tailor gave him a rather jaded look.
'When you get to my age, I hope you'll have gained the wisdom to
recognise that there is a time to drink hard liquor, and a time to
abstain.'
'It doesn't do one any good.'
'Neither does sleeping with ageing Cardassian spies,' the tailor
muttered. Bashir stared at him, appalled.
'Do you really regret that so much?' he asked.
'No. No, of course not.' Garak sighed. 'As I believe I might have
said at the time, it was worth the wait. But -'
'But it's not fair on me, or on my career, or any of the hundred and
one reasons you gave me not to continue our - I would say relationship,
but that implies a period of time longer than a night.'
'They are still good reasons,' the tailor said, gently. Bashir curled
his lip and said
'You lied to me.'
'I beg your pardon? I thought we'd established that some considerable
time ago!' Garak said, bewildered.
'You led me to believe something that was totally untrue.'
'I did not -'
'You connived and manipulated me into believing that you were an
amoral, self serving person, devoted only to some ideal of the
Cardassian State.'
'That's quite an accurate -'
'And you're not,' the doctor said, staring grimly at a point beyond
Garak's left shoulder. 'You're noble, and sacrificing, and selflessly
devoted to what you fondly believe to be my best interests. And I think
you're a -' he paused, searching some inner lexicon for the most
wounding word '- a sweetie.'
'That is the single most offensive thing anyone has ever said to me!'
'You're blushing, though.'
Angrily, Garak said
'I am considerably older than you are, and also considerably more
politically adept, and I am well aware, if you are not, of what can
result from unwise romantic liaisons -'
'Well, you started it. If you hadn't written that book...'
The tailor passed a hand over his eyes.
'Julian...I'm not going to go over all this again now.'
'Anyway, everyone else on this station is all in favour of it. Of
us. They think it's the most romantic thing they've ever heard.'
'That,' Garak said acidly 'is perhaps the single thing that is most
instrumental in my refusal to get back into bed with you. The
metaphorical thought of a simpering Starfleet chorus in the wings,
doubtless waiting to break into song at the moment of our union...Maybe
you should mention it to our Mr Ramirez. Then he could juxtapose art
and life, and turn the whole thing into a musical.'
Bashir blanched.
'Why can't we just be happy?'
Downing his kanaar in one, the tailor replied
'I've never been happy before, and I'm certainly not going to start
now. If you'll excuse me, doctor, I'm going to my quarters. Alone.'

All too clearly, I had managed, with my usual stunning luck, to wander
into some local drama, but I confess that the details were not entirely
clear to me. Garak's professionally impassive countenance had revealed
only what he had wanted it to, but I had caught the expression in his
eyes when Bashir had come into the room. Lord knows, I knew hopeless,
doomed love when I saw it. I'd observed it often enough in the mirror.
Garak was in love with his co-author, that much was apparent, and since
he had written the first novel I deduced that he had done so in order to
win the doctor's affections. Presumably, Bashir had responded in kind.
So what, I asked myself, had gone wrong? The reasons against such a
liaison seemed fairly evident: Garak must be a good twenty years older
than the young man, at least, and was moreover of a race with whom we
were, on and off, at war. There was a great deal that I didn't
understand. I thought that the Cardassians had vacated the station, so
what was Garak doing living here? And if he was merely a tailor, I told
myself, I'd get him to make me a hat, and then I'd eat it. Furthermore,
he'd had rather an unexpected effect on me, which went beyond literary
admiration and fear, and passed into the realms of physical attraction.
Oh dear, I thought. This is not good.

Moreover, it hardly seemed likely that either of them would be willing
to see their plight immortalised on holofilm. I debated breaking the
news to O'Connor and decided, a second later, against it. As long as
the latter believed me to be engaged in active pursuits in deep space,
it was unlikely that I'd be troubled for a little while. It was also
obvious, however, that I was a liability to my employer. I knew, as
they say, too much. I put that thought to one side. I wanted to find
out more about Garak's relationship, and Quark, I knew without a single
doubt, would be the one to enlighten me.

'A tragedy,' the barman said, shaking his unlovely head. 'No-one
knows exactly what went wrong.'
'But those two books - I mean, they're classics. It's one of the most
compelling love stories I've ever come across. They're obviously
besotted with each other. What could have happened?' By now, I'd told
him the real reason why I'd come here.
'Garak's a complex man. So's Doctor Bashir, for that matter, despite
that apparent witlessness. He's not as naive as he makes out in some
ways, and in others, he's more so. There are all sorts of reasons why
it wouldn't be a good idea for them to have a relationship - did you
know Garak used to be a spy? For the Cardassian government? And maybe
he still is; no-one knows for sure. He was an assassin, too; I'm sure
of that.'
Quark must have been enjoying the look of astonishment that had taken up
permanent residence upon my features.
'And who knows what else besides? Anyway, they both of them came up
with those classics of yours, and then - nothing. They went on exactly
as before, having lunch once or twice a week. To the unobservant eye,'
Quark continued 'It would seem as though the whole thing had just
fizzled out. But I know better. I've seen the way they look at each
other, when they think the other one doesn't know. There's passion
there, all right. And why not? After all, it's not as though either of
them was female.'
'Pardon me? No, never mind, I don't want to know,' I added hastily.
I had no wish to be treated to a lecture on unreconstructed Ferengi
chauvinism. Quark was staring past me.
'Hey,' he said to someone behind my shoulder. 'Hey, come here a
minute. There's someone I'd like you to meet.'
She was tall and graceful and dappled. Perhaps they had regulations
about aesthetics in Starfleet; they certainly seemed to be more
ornamental than the rest of us.
'I'd like you to meet Gwyn Ramirez,' the bartender said. 'This is
Lieutenant Commander Jadzia Dax.'
Jadzia Dax smiled politely.
'Pleased to meet you,' she said, extending her hand.
'Guess what Ramirez has come here for? To make a holoprogram of E.G.
Bashir!'
Dax's blue eyes widened and she grabbed me rather painfully by the
wrist.
'That's it!' she breathed. 'Come with me.'
Leaving a gaping Quark in her wake, she dragged me from the bar.

Ordinarily, I'd have little objection to being forcibly marched to the
quarters of a beautiful young woman, but things weren't going quite in
the way that I'd always imagined.
'It won't work,' I said, for the fifth time. 'Garak doesn't want the
thing holofilmed.'
'Garak doesn't know what's good for him, and neither does that idiot
Julian Bashir.'
'That may be so, but it doesn't mean that they don't hold the
copyright,' I argued.
'You've got to do it. Apart from the fact that it would make a superb
holonovel, it might be a way of bringing those two together.'
'If that's what they want.'
'Of course it is,' Jadzia the romantic sighed. 'And it would put all
the rest of us out of our misery. If you only knew how many hours I've
spent listening to Julian whinge on about what went wrong between them
-'
'What did go wrong?' I asked, agog.
'Oh, politics, and Julian's career, and Julian being put in danger
because of Garak's old contacts....You know, little things.'
'Right.'
'When you're as old as I am, you learn that ultimately these things
don't matter as much as everyone thinks they do.'
I gave her a rather old-fashioned look at that point. She appeared all
of twenty nine. Then light dawned.
'Oh,' I said. 'You're a Trill.'
'The spots,' she said. 'They're a dead give-away.'
'But those are all quite important factors, I mean -'
Dax sighed.
'There comes a point when you realise that most people - apart from
me, I might add - only have one life to live. I don't practice what I
preach, mind you. I've had several lives, and hopefully will have more,
so the consequences of what I do tend to linger on, but the majority of
people tend to put things off, or turn things down, because they're
afraid. Garak and Bashir would find a way, if they put their minds to
it. They're both resourceful, intelligent people. It's not as if
Julian would be much of a security risk, after all - he's a doctor. And
if it's a question of him being in danger, I'm sure Garak could look
after him, if it came to it. No, they're just letting what they think
other people would say dictate what they do, and denying themselves any
real chance at happiness.'
'Well, you may be right,' I said. 'But I don't think I have any role
to play in reconciling them.'
Dax sighed.
'Perhaps that's so,' she said. 'Let me talk to Julian. I'll see
whether he'd be willing to sell the rights to his own work. As long as
they keep *talking*, that's the main thing, and break out of this
constrained state of forced politeness that they seem to have got
themselves into.'

Interesting though Deep Space Nine was turning out to be, I could no
longer see myself as the fortunate producer of the holoworks of
E.G.Bashir. I could not go home just yet, what with O'Connor's possibly
malign presence awaiting me, and so the most reasonable course of action
seemed to consist in making plans to disappear for a while, before
returning surreptitiously to Earth. That's what I thought before the
assassination attempt, anyway.

I was walking back along the corridor in the direction of my room, lost
in thought, when it happened. I suppose one of my heroes would never
have been taken at such a loss: Holmes would doubtless have anticipated
the course of events and established some clever plan to cheat death and
capture the villain. De Quincey probably dealt with a dozen attempts on
his life before breakfast. Even Mr Hartright, Wilkie Collins' mild-
mannered drawing tutor, with that redoubtable combination of
stubbornness and devotion, might have divined that an assault was
likely. But I'm no hero, as you might have gathered by now.

To say that the attack was unexpected is putting it mildly; it took me
utterly by surprise. In fact, the first thing I knew about it was when
my head was bounced painfully off the floor and I found myself gazing
down the muzzle of a phaser. Desperately, I rolled to the side in time
to avoid a searing flash. The smell of burning carpet filled the air.
Then, there was a second burst of blinding fire and I became aware that
someone was shouting incoherently; it was, of course, myself.
'Calm down, Mr Ramirez,' a familiar voice murmured into my ear.
'You're perfectly all right.' The Cardassian raised me up so that I was
sitting up rather than trying to burrow into the charred carpet. I'm
ashamed to say that the first thing I did was bury my head in his
shoulder. I couldn't stop shaking. Still, we can't all be brave.
'Help,' I said, inadequately. I realised at that point that Garak was
quivering too, but the cause was rather different. With an obvious
effort, he stopped laughing, gripped me firmly by the nape of my neck
and kissed me. It was a long, surprisingly gentle kiss and it took me
so greatly by surprise that when Garak drew away, I just sat there and
stared at him.
'There,' he said, calmly. 'Better than cold water or a slap in the
face, anyway. Mind you, I wouldn't have taken such a liberty with
everyone, but I got the impression that you might not mind.'
I shook my head.
'Don't mind. No. Not at all.'
The piercing blue eyes stared into mine for a second longer, then Garak
said
'Well. Let's take a look at your assailant, shall we?'
He was, it turned out, a Tarkalean; a species I'd never even heard of.
'Are they known for their ruthlessness and violence?' I asked.
'No. Though they do make a mean cup of tea...I wonder what you could
possibly have done to invite such attention? You're not by any chance a
coffee trader in your spare time? Really, Mr Ramirez, you become more
interesting by the minute. I suppose we should call Constable Odo, and
have this undesirable person investigated.'
I thought back to the inflexible figure I had seen in the bar.'
'Please,' I said, speaking from some unwholesome instinct. 'Not the
law.'
'Not, hmm?' Garak regarded me speculatively. 'Very well.'
He rifled the assassin's pockets, found nothing, ran a small tricorder
swiftly over the body, then set his disrupter on full, causing the
corpse to vanish in a blast of light.
'Now, I suggest we take ourselves to my quarters and you can tell me
anything that you haven't already told me.' Garak's mouth twitched.
'That shouldn't take long.'

Once again, I found myself pinned by that icy stare while I explained
why Brendan O'Connor might just possibly want to have me killed. When I
had finished, Garak shook his head in wonder.
'And all this is simply a result of some politician's sexual
proclivities. You humans certainly make things complicated for
yourselves, if I may say so. Relationships, now, they're a complex
matter, but sex? Whatever does it matter what someone does in bed?'
'You see,' I said 'We're not as primitive now as we used to be. I
mean, hundreds of years ago, we used to think homosexuality was
completely beyond the pale. Why, in some countries, it was even
criminalised. Bizarre...Obviously, certain things will always be
unacceptable in human society - incest, child abuse, that sort of
thing. But there are still forms of behaviour that the Federation
ethicists find it difficult to tolerate except under highly controlled
circumstances. Sado-masochism, for instance. We're supposed to be
beyond that kind of thing now. They'll tolerate it in high-safety
holosuites, but not really outside that.'
'Yes,' Garak mused. 'I can see how that would take all the fun out of
it. The Federation doesn't really like its citizens having access to
sharp things, does it? Makes it squeamish...Whereas on Cardassia, it's
all regarded as part of life's rich pattern. I'm surprised, to be quite
honest, that they tolerate your own operation. I always got the
impression that everything was above board and healthy, and that - well,
I couldn't quite see them allowing pornography outlets to exist,
somehow. Or is that just Federation propaganda?'
I nodded.
'They turn a blind eye. We're supposed to be living in utopia, after
all, but there'll always be a demand. The Federation prefers to
maintain that this sort of thing just doesn't go on, but you can't
control people's sexuality. Talking of which, um, how do Cardassians
conduct themselves?' I found that I had developed a sudden burning
interest in the sexuality of that particular species.
'Well, unless one's married, one's pretty much free to do whatever one
pleases. After marriage, one becomes a little more constrained, but
there are still outlets...One can entertain oneself with members of the
same gender, or with a professional courtesan, but nothing is actually
outlawed. Except promagamation, of course, and the Sacadian vices, and
I suppose some sections of society rather look down upon imission, but
really we're very open and tolerant. Oh, and balkaning, of course,
though I confess I've never personally seen the appeal of that. Anyhow,
I rather get the impression that humans enjoy the thrill of the
forbidden. Novelty seems to stimulate you, as well as the taboo. But
your species seems a little lacking in facilities to me. You don't seem
to have our public bath-houses, for example. Now, when I was living on
Cardassia Prime, I used - anyway, you don't want to hear my tedious
reminiscences.'
'Can I ask you a personal question?' I began, tentatively.
'You can ask. I might choose not to reply.'
'You're the only Cardassian on this station apart from that little
girl. Do you - um, I mean, are there - facilities here?'
Garak smiled.
'Oh, my sex life is doubtless a matter of considerable speculation -
assuming anyone cares, of course. I manage to remain reasonably
diverted.'
'But you told me that you never use holosuites, and massage parlours
aren't permitted - I'm sorry, I'm being really intrusive. Of course you
have lovers, you must do, you're very -' The voice that lives in the
back of everyone's head was hailing on all frequencies, I realised, and
it was instructing me to be quiet, at once. Garak laid a hand briefly
across my lips.
'Back to the matter in hand, I think. I take it your politician's
preferences lay in the direction of the unorthodox?'
'Well, yes. And he's on the Ethics Committee, which makes things
worse.'
'So your employer decided to indulge in a spot of blackmail. Hmm.
How do you know it's Mr O'Connor who's trying to kill you? Suppose that
your politician found out who'd filmed him and decided to cover his
tracks?'
In my debilitated state, I hadn't thought of that. I felt myself grow
pale.
'What am I going to do?' I asked, pathetically.
'*We*,' Garak corrected. 'What are we going to do. You're hardly a
damsel in distress, Mr Ramirez, but you're the next best thing, and I
find rather to my surprise that you've aroused my, ahem, protective
instincts - quite a feat, I might add, since they're fairly vestigial.
Anyway, I've decided to help you.'
I have rarely felt so grateful to anyone.
'Thank you,' I said, heartfelt, and then my inherent cynicism raised
its unappealing head and I added 'What's the price?'
Garak gave an unreadable smile.
'Oh, I'm sure I'll think of something appropriate,' he murmured. 'Now
you sit here and have a cup of tea while I make some enquiries. Lapsang
souchong, I think, given that the Tarkalean blend might bring back
uncomfortable memories.'

I watched him as I sipped my tea. I'd rarely met anyone who was so
capable of intense concentration; it was as though I'd ceased to exist.
Adrenaline, and the unexpected kick-start to my hormones, made me
restless. I fidgeted on the couch while Garak scanned the screen of his
console. Jadzia Dax, I reflected, was quite right. Bashir must be an
idiot, if he was unprepared to fight for the affections of this
remarkable person. Maybe it's simply that I was unused to aliens, but I
felt as though a unicorn had laid its head in my lap. It wasn't that I
merely suspected myself of entertaining feelings for Elim Garak. No,
infatuation had galloped out of nowhere, thrown me across the saddle and
was now heading at high speed into the opposite direction. I shook my
head and tried to breathe deeply. At that point, the door chimed.
'Who is it?' Garak asked.
'It's me,' replied the cultured tones of Julian Bashir. 'And Odo.'
Garak sighed.
'All right. Come in.'
The doctor was ashen with worry. He stepped across to Garak and gripped
his hands. I plunged into the abyss of insensate jealousy.
'Elim, are you all right?'
Garak looked at his friend as though he'd gone mad.
'Of course I am. Why wouldn't I be?'
'Because,' Odo said heavily 'The station's scanners picked up traces
of phaser fire close to here, and one of them had the signature of a
Cardassian disrupter.'
'How odd. No! Wait a minute. I did fire my disrupter, an hour or so
ago - stupid of me. I was showing Mr Ramirez how it worked.'
'You were what!'
'Pressed the wrong button by mistake - you know me,' he added with a
light laugh. 'More used to sewing machines than firearms.' He beamed
at the incredulous countenances before him.
'Garak,' the constable said. It was a growl.
The Cardassian spread innocent hands.
'All there is to it. Sorry.'
Odo snorted.
'Indeed. I must say, you've excelled yourself. I'll let it go for
now, since neither of you appear to be hurt and I have a number of
matters to be getting on with.'
'Perhaps you'd be kind enough to walk Mr Ramirez to his quarters,'
Garak suggested. 'He's not too sure of his way around as yet; he might
get lost.'
There was no point in protesting. I knew finality when I heard it. I
followed Odo from the room and we returned to my minute accommodation in
silence. I spend the rest of the night in sleepless agitation, dwelling
alternately on the twin threats to my life and my peace of heart.

'What was *he* doing here?' Bashir asked, suspiciously.
'Well, I'm sure I don't know. You brought him, after all. He kept
saying something about a disrupter blast -'
'Not Odo! I mean that cut-price pornographer!'
'Oh, *Mr Ramirez*...Delightful, charming boy, and such an extensive
conversationalist. We were just chatting.'
'About what?'
'This and that.'
'Garak,' the doctor said, unhappily. 'I don't understand you. First
you push me away, and now you're trying to make me jealous.'
The tailor's expression softened.
'No. No, I'm not. But Gwyn Ramirez comes with problems attached and
I don't want you involved in them, that's all.'
'Really? Or are you trying to get over me, by distracting yourself
with someone else? Gwyn's safe enough, isn't he? No Starfleet career,
no permanent position here on the station where he might be vulnerable
to the ill will of your former colleagues....Is that it, Elim?'
Garak stared at him for a long moment.
'I don't know,' he whispered. 'You're a hard act to follow.'
'You don't have to follow me,' Bashir said, fiercely. 'I'm still
here.'
'I know. That's what makes it hard. I'm sorry, Julian. I'm just
leading you in circles, come here, go away. I know that. I should
never have begun this.'
'I'm glad you did,' Bashir said. Reaching down, he touched Garak's
hand and said bitterly
'I'll be in the infirmary. Let me know when you've worked out what you
want.'

10.

Next morning, I awoke to discover that someone was at the door.
'It's only Garak,' that gentleman said. I felt my heart begin to
pound as I let him in.
'Do you know a Stella - what's her last name? Rivington, Rimington,
something like that?'
'Yes, she's a - well, they sometimes call them 'marital
co-counsellors.''
'I'm afraid I have bad news,' Garak said. I knew what that meant.
'Oh, God, no,' I said. 'She's dead, isn't she?'
'Unfortunately, yes. There was a small item in yesterday's Times.
I'm sure you can see the possible connections as well as I can.' He sat
down opposite me.
'I can't help feeling that I may have been a little harsh in denying
you the chance to holofilm 'A Shadow over Evening'.'
'Never mind about that now!' I told him, thoroughly unnerved.
'But it's been worrying me. In fact, the more I think about it, the
more I feel that it's high time I became involved in the holofilm
industry. Mr Ramirez, you have a deal.'

I spent the day in the company of my hero, so to speak, explaining the
intricacies of the holofilm business. Next morning, Garak's publisher's
announcement that filming was to begin on 'A Shadow over Evening' had
reached the news networks. By noon, the news was all over the public
art channels, and by four o' clock a team had arrived from Cascadia
Three to interview its producer - me - about the project. My face,
name, and a hastily edited biography were broadcast across the
Federation. Then, Garak and I sat back and waited for the next assassin
to show up.

11.

An unanticipated outbreak of Bajoran summer flu kept the doctor confined
to the infirmary for the next couple of days, and he found that he was
almost glad. He had tried to reassure himself that Garak's sudden
friendship with the young film-maker was no more than a passing whim, or
the sort of avuncular interest that he displayed in Torah Ziyal, but he
still found himself resentful at being so thoroughly barred from the
tailor's life. He did not dislike Gwyn Ramirez; on the contrary, the
young man was pleasant enough, despite a rather dubious choice of
profession. At least he was no hypocrite. Yet Bashir was uneasy, all
the same. Garak, so briefly his lover, had proved unexpectedly
over-scrupulous where the doctor was concerned; having made the first
move, he had retreated behind his emotional barricades. Gradually,
Bashir had come to realise that 'A Shadow over Evening' was no more
than an elaborate fantasy; the attempt of an isolated person to
communicate the love that he was otherwise unable to reveal. When it
had produced results, Garak had been taken by surprise. Realising the
possible consequences of their relationship, he had withdrawn. Bashir
leaned against the edge of the couch and rubbed his eyes. He recognised
the validity of Garak's reasoning, but he could not accept it.

Now that the secret of his genetic modification was common knowledge, at
least among the command staff, he found that he took a more sanguine
view of the world. If he had weathered that particular crisis, he felt,
he could survive anything, but Garak's reticence was playing havoc with
his concentration. Exasperated with himself, he marched out of the
infirmary in search of the tailor.

12.

'So,' Garak said. 'This is an editing deck, is it?'
They were standing in the grid of holodeck three, in front of the
display mechanism. Gwyn pushed his hair out of his eyes and said
'That's right. Here, we've got the neomodifier; the zip switch runs
along the back and here at the front we've got the warg. See how you
can adjust the colour control?'
'Hi,' Bashir said with forced cheerfulness, as he stepped through the
door. Gwyn and the tailor looked up.
'Hello, doctor,' they said, in uncanny unison. Bashir came forward and
said
'So what are you to up to? Programming?'
'Just going through some specs,' Gwyn said. Bashir frowned. The
young film maker seemed strangely complacent; lacking his usual
edginess. A cold suspicion began to grow in the pit of Bashir's
stomach. There seemed to be some innate complicity between them;
something that he couldn't quite pin down. He smiled encouragingly at
the tailor, and Garak obligingly smiled back, but there was an emptiness
behind the smile.
'Garak?' the doctor said, and at that moment there was a tiny clatter
on the floor by his feet. He bent and picked up a little object; it
looked like a control button. Bashir stared at it, trying to make sense
of it. It had apparently rolled from the direction of the main
holomechanism.
'I think something's come loose,' Bashir said. Accompanied by Garak,
he strolled over to the main deck and peered at it. There was a rustle
at the back of the deck. Bashir got down on his hands and knees and
blinked into the darkness and then he was abruptly grasped by the arms
and pulled through into the narrow space. Behind him, the holosuite
erupted in a soundless wave of rosy fire.

12.

When they finally pulled us out we looked, as I believe I may have
remarked at the time, as though we'd all been rolling in the coal hole.
Bashir's uniform wouldn't be seeing the light of day again; nor would my
second best trousers. Even the imperturbable Cardassian appeared
somewhat smudged and ruffled, and that was before the tongue lashing he
got from Constable Odo, Captain Sisko, and Quark, in that order.
'Fortunately,' the bartender said. '*Fortunately*, the holosuites are
covered by the insurance. Otherwise, I shudder to think what outlay I
might have been obliged to make.'
'I didn't think he'd use a bomb,' Garak said, defensively. 'I was
expecting him to shoot Gwyn. Good thing we distracted your attention in
time, doctor. The consequences could have been unpleasant.'
We were sitting in Garak's quarters, away from the public gaze.
'Could I have another scotch, please?' I requested.
'Dead men don't drink scotch,' the doctor said, in sepulchral tones.
'This one does.'
Despite the wrath he had incurred from the station command, Garak
appeared sleekly pleased with himself. He had, after all, saved my
life and effectively prevented --- from being filmed; I wouldn't be
pestering him now for the rights. How could I? I had officially been
declared dead.
'Now all we have to do is supply you with a new identity,' Garak
said. 'Who would you like to be?'
'It's like a story,' I said. 'You can make yourself up as you go
along.'
'Ah, my dear Mr Ramirez...We all do that, hadn't you realised? Why,
I've - well, never mind that.'
We never found out who the assassin was. We know that he was watching
the scene in the holosuite, because he had tampered with the monitor
links, but since the whole point of the charade had been for him to
watch my holo doppelganger killed so that he could report back to
whoever had hired him, Garak managed to persuade Odo not to pursue the
matter.
'But,' the doctor said. 'But - there's a murderer out there
somewhere. Suppose it is that man on the Ethics Committee? Shouldn't
Starfleet be told?'
'Oh, I shouldn't worry about it,' Garak told him, dismissively. 'If
it is the counsellor, he won't last long. People who start
pontificating about other people's morals always have something to
hide. And they almost always turn up sooner or later, in a hotel room
with a prostitute and a bloodstream full of prohibited substances. I
should think there's a good chance of that in this case. Now,' he
turned a baleful eye on the doctor. 'What did you think you were doing,
taking it into your head to start wandering round the holosuites just as
we laid our little trap?'
'I was looking for you,' Bashir said, affronted.
'Oh? Why?' the Cardassian's voice was at its chilliest, but he was
smiling, nonetheless. I sighed. Love's all well and good, I suppose,
but when you've narrowly escaped being killed, it doesn't seem quite so
important, somehow. Or perhaps it does; I've read too many romantic
novels not to know passion when I see it. Some last regret might have
shown in my face, however, for Quark rescued me.
'Come on,' he said. 'We'll go the back way to the private rooms -
they're full of people who can't afford to be seen; no-one will notice
you there. I'll buy you a drink. In fact, I have a rather interesting
little business proposition which I think might engage your creative
instincts...'
Quietly, we went through the door, and left them alone.

13.

'You'll have to send me a holo-card,' the Cardassian said at the
freighter airlock. 'Wherever you end up.'
I laughed.
'Quark's put me in touch with a few people,' I said. 'Producing demos
for an outfit on Jaradis Prime - I've always wanted to go there.
Garak. Thank you.'
He shrugged.
'Don't mention it. It's been a mildly diverting little episode.'
'Garak?'
'Mmm?'
'Are things all right now, between you and Julian?'
He shook his head, more in bewilderment than negation.
'Oh, I don't know. For now, yes, they seem to be, but who can ever
say? If only life were as predictable as a holo-novel, eh? But you
can't fast forward the ending, no matter how much you'd like to
try...Look after yourself, Mr Ramirez, or whatever you're calling
yourself now. Go well.' and for the last time, he kissed me.

I knew, who better, that he and I would never have any kind of future
together, and perhaps we would never meet again, but I also knew that
I'd never forget him. If it wasn't for dreams, where would we all be?
I was in the business of making dreams of a sort, after all. I stared
out of the grimy porthole of the freighter until the station was no more
than another star, and then was gone.

END