This story is a sequel to Nom de Plume, I recommend that you read that first if you haven't already as it will make more sense.

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. No infringement is intended. STAR TREK: DEEP SPACE NINE is a Registered Trademark ® of Paramount Pictures.

'Is it true that I was afraid of loving you, or is it only that the young

are always cruel? Now that I am young no longer, and the only

pleasure that remains to me are the games of draughts in the cafe

with the other old men, I look across at where we used to sit and

sometimes I think I see you there. There's no reproach in your eyes,

for what do the dead care about love?

Ch. (I), The Silence of Morning, pub. New City Lights, San Francisco.

'Override auto function, engage remote cell, code DAX alpha phi zeta three.'

The screen flashed crimson and the computer's honeyed voice said

'I am sorry. Access has been denied. There has been an error.'

Jadzia Dax let out a long breath of frustration.

'I thought we'd fixed this bug ages ago.'

'Well, it's always been a real old botch,' Miles O'Brien comforted her. 'I suppose we're lucky it worked as well as it did for so long.'

'Some comfort that is.'

'Just leave it; it's not that important. I'll have another look at it tomorrow.'

'You know why I don't want to let it alone? It's irritating me. If I don't do it now, I'll just lie awake all night thinking about it. I'll have another crack at it, chief, and then I'll admit I'm beaten.'

'Suit yourself. I'm going to have a crack at a synthale and a game of darts, myself.'

Two hours later, among the labyrinth of Cardassian code, Dax told herself that she would give it just another five minutes before she gave up. She hacked through the reams of commands, the translator scrolling two languages down the screen, and then she was through. Clear instructions and minimal code. She peered at it. This wasn't the scanning log. This was someone's personal files. *Wonderful* Jadzia thought, bitterly. All that work, and she'd bypassed the central system altogether. She had better drop a note to whoever this belonged to and apologise for violating their privacy. She had no intention of reading the person's private files, but she found herself taking in just a little of what was appearing on the screen. Never mind, she thought, it wasn't anything very personal, just a series of what appeared to be lecture notes:

*When Kh. mts narr. in bar it's the wrng eveng*

*Kh. and Mirhn?!* *A Shadow over the Sky???*

*A Shadow over Evening* Y!

That, Dax remembered, was the title of that novel that she had so loved, the one about the old Romulan who falls in love with a young poet, but can never bring himself to reveal his love. The book, by one E. G. Bashir, had taken the station by storm a few months ago, and Jadzia had pestered everyone to read it. Small wonder that someone had decided to study it...but this looked more like the kind of preliminary notes for something. Curiously, Dax engaged the program files and sat staring at the screen. There was the owner of the file: Elim Garak. EG.

*Jadzia* Dax said softly to herself *you are too stupid to live, let alone be a Starfleet officer.*

And in the warmth of the Nesserene night I used to lie

there and all I could think about was you, and it seemed to

me that if I wished hard enough, I could almost see you there,

the lamplight gilding your skin, dappled with shadows, watching

me, waiting...

Ch. (ii), The Silence of Morning

Once the words were out of her mouth, she waited. The silence between them was immense and electric, and for a terrible moment she knew that she had done the wrong thing. Jadzia had kept the knowledge to herself for three days, consulting no-one, turning the problem over and over in her mind. Finally, she had resolved to say nothing to anybody, least of all the doctor. She was privy to information to which she had no right, a secret which was not hers to tell. She would forget all about it. Then, she had watched Bashir as he sat alone in the bar one evening, surrounded by people and talking to no-one, and her heart contracted. Without letting herself consider the wisdom of her actions, she had walked up to him, put her hand on his shoulder and said

'Julian? Could I have a word with you for a moment?'

Now, the doctor could not seem to stop shaking his head.

'That can't be right.'

'The notes for the novel are in Garak's personal files. The pseudonym's a combination of his initials and your name. The story's about you, don't you see? Oh, come on, Julian, please don't be so wilfully obtuse.'

He glanced at her and she could see the misery in his face. She said, wonderingly

'You already knew, didn't you?'

He nodded.

'I suspected. It took me a long time, Jadzia. People are right; I am naive, sometimes. But I wasn't sure, and I didn't want to make a fool of myself, and well, I was just afraid - of hurting him, of hurting myself. I suppose I thought that if I pretended it wasn't true, the whole situation would magically solve itself. I don't know what he really wants.'

'Oh Julian, the man's written and published a two hundred and fifty page love letter to you and you still don't know? Can you imagine what it must have cost someone as reticent and private as Garak to reveal everything like that? I mean, that book's so painfully personal...' she paused. 'How do you feel about him?'

'I don't know. I - I think about him sometimes. I mean, you know. Actually quite a lot of the time.'

'Well, you can't carry on like this. I know I've never got on particularly well with Garak, but there's obviously whole swathes of his character that I'd never even imagined. It was such a remarkable book.'

'But what am I going to do?' Bashir whispered. 'You're right, that's the whole point, the novel is so painful, so remarkable. I don't know if I can live up to it.'

'It's the most romantic way of getting someone's attention that I've ever heard of - pass me those tissues, please - you'll have to find a way of responding that's equal to it. That's all.'

'When you were trying to let go of the hold that the drug had

over you, I thought for the first time that we might become closer.

I wanted so much to be your redemption, but all you could tell me

was how much you hated me.

Ch. (v) The Silence of Morning.

'Terrible problem,' the doctor said, rather wildly. 'Occupied hundreds of minds from Galen onwards, never reached a solution. Much too complicated to explain to the layman.'

Elim Garak gave him a rather narrow look.

'Try me, doctor. I do have some limited understanding of the world of medicine. I don't think I've ever come across Vorrimer's Disease before.'

'Well, that's just it. It's not very well known. That's why I decided to do some research on it. Thought it might get me in the running for the SCC's fellowship - they only grant one every decade, for cutting edge medical research, Might be worth a try.'

'But you're positively obsessed. I've hardly seen you for the last three weeks. Our delightful Trill tells me that you've been spending most of your time in your quarters; I wondered whether everything was all right.'

'Yes, yes, just doing a lot of reading.' The doctor essayed a light laugh which sounded to his own ears utterly unconvincing. Garak said

'Hm. Well, let me know if you decide to take some time off.'

'I certainly will, yes. You've got Ziyal, though.'

'It's not the same,' the tailor said, glumly. 'Educating someone is not like a mutually informed discussion.'

'She is very fond of you. I mean, so am I, of course.'

'What an appalling word. 'Fond' entails fetching someone their slippers and asking if they want their soup warmed up. I'm not that old. Yet.'

'But if it means anything to you now, in the cold country of

the dead, I'm glad we did, at least, stay friends.'

Ch. (viii) The Silence of Morning.

'How's the research going?'

'What?' the doctor seemed to return from a great distance. He blinked. O'Brien took the dart delicately between finger and thumb and flung it at the board with a grunt of satisfaction.

'I hear you're studying Vorrimer's Disease. What's that, then?'

'Oh, it's just a - just a disease sort of disease. Really very boring.'

'Sorry. Didn't mean to start talking shop. Here. It's your turn.'

'...had a dream in which we were together, it was raining

outside and the only thing that mattered was your mouth

and your hands, and you within me, and silk and skin, and

your breath in my ear.'

Ch. (x) The Silence of Morning.

Seven months later, Sisko said

'There's a medical conference coming up on Arctus Four; I don't know if you're interested?'

'Oh, no, I don't think so. I don't really have any subjects for a paper in mind at the moment.'

'I thought you were doing all that work on - what was it? Vorrimer's?'

The doctor waved a vague hand.

'I had to let that go. It wasn't really going anywhere.'

'What a pity. Research is like that, so they say.'

'...sat up for the whole night, hoping that it would be me

that you'd turn to, after your father died...'

Ch. (xiv) The Silence of Morning.

The door chime sounded again and again. Dax leaped from the bath, flung a towel around her dripping body and raced into the main room.

'Who is it?'

'It's me.'

'Kira! What - is there an emergency? The Dominion?'

The Major waved a small compact package at her.

'Much more important than that. Guess.'

'No, tell me.'

'It's the sequel to 'A Shadow over Evening'! E.G. Bashir's done it again!'

'You're joking.'

'I haven't finished it yet. I've made you a copy. It's just so good.'

She took hold of the stupefied Dax by the arms and shook her gently.

'You have got to sit down and read this right now. You remember the story? Well, this is from the point of view of the young poet, except he's not young any more, it's written when he's grown old and he realises that this man was so much in love with him, and he's regretting that he never had the courage to respond. I'm not surprised you look thunderstruck, Jadzia. And it's written in a completely different style, as though it really was by a different person...Apparently it's up for the Saladin Literary Award. Anyway, I'll let you get back to your bath.'

'I pretended that I didn't miss you. I didn't know what to think, it

all seemed so unnecessarily confusing. I was just young. I was a fool.'

Ch. (xx) The Silence of Morning.

'Garak, do you remember that book I lent you last year?'

'Could you possibly be more specific?'

'A Shadow over Evening.'

'Oh, that one. Yes, I think I remember that.'

'Well, guess what? The author's written a sequel.'

There was a very long pause, then the tailor said blankly

'What?'

'Why shouldn't he? It was a best seller, and it won so many awards. Dax has kindly lent me a copy; I thought you might like to read it.'

'I'd be most interested.'

'Good. Here it is, then - 'The Silence of Morning.' Tell me what you think.'

'Why didn't you ever say anything? But then again, why

didn't I?'

Ch. (xix.) The Silence of Morning.

Cardassian education, Bashir read, is highly intensive. Children are trained in memory techniques from the age of four, and are put through programs to enhance their reading speed. He was trying to work out how long it would take a Cardassian of above- average intelligence, hopefully stimulated by curiosity, to finish a hundred and sixty two page novel. The tailor had, Bashir recalled, disposed of Proust in a week, though Julian suspected that he had skipped bits. The whole of Plato had taken three days. So given that the book had now been in Garak's possession for an hour and a half...and it was a hundred and sixty two pages long...Julian Bashir was so lost in jittery calculation that he did not hear the door open.

'Here's your book.' the tailor said.

'What did you think?' Bashir managed to say. His mouth was suddenly dry. Garak sat down on the couch beside him and weighed the little sliver of the book in his palm.

'It's well written. The central character's sympathetic; his emotions are convincingly presented. There's only one criticism I'd make.'

'What's that?' 'The ending, where the poet decides that his friend can't have loved him after all, and he's imagined the whole thing. I think I'd change that.'

'How?' the doctor said. He had decided to stick to monosyllabic replies; it was safer, he might not then start babbling incoherently.

'Oh, I don't know,' the Cardassian murmured. 'I think I'd cheat, actually, and tell the reader that it had all been a dream, and in fact the poet was still young, still with time to change the future...I don't know, maybe the poet tells his friend about the dream he's just had and finally his friend just leans across and takes his face between his hands and kisses him very gently, like this...' and a little later, he whispered into the doctor's ear 'Julian, I'm not sure if this is the right moment, but - may I ask you to do something for me?'

Bashir's voice, muffled and breathless against his shoulder, said

'Yes. Yes, anything. Anything, Elim, just tell me.'

'When you write your next novel, please don't start sentences with "And".'

'Vorrimer's Disease, eh?' Jadzia Dax mused. 'I wonder what the symptoms are. I wonder if it makes people glow, and blush at odd intervals for no apparent reason, and grin inanely when they think no-one's looking.'

Entering into the spirit of things, Julian Bashir said

'Well, I had to tell people something...I looked it up in an old medical journal and it described those symptoms exactly. In fact, the casual observer could easily mistake it for love. If they didn't have a medical training, of course.'

THE END

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