eceived: from [66.218.66.29] by n8.grp.scd.yahoo.com with NNFMP; 10 May 2004 03:51:28 -0000 X-Sender: campbratcher@psci.net X-Apparently-To: ASCEM-S@yahoogroups.com Received: (qmail 14698 invoked from network); 10 May 2004 03:51:28 -0000 Received: from unknown (66.218.66.166) by m23.grp.scd.yahoo.com with QMQP; 10 May 2004 03:51:28 -0000 Received: from unknown (HELO mailstore.psci.net) (63.65.184.2) by mta5.grp.scd.yahoo.com with SMTP; 10 May 2004 03:51:27 -0000 Received: from max (as1-d25-rp-psci.psci.net [63.69.225.25]) by mailstore.psci.net (8.12.2/8.12.2) with SMTP id i4A3pHfP030854 for ; Sun, 9 May 2004 22:51:17 -0500 Message-ID: <002401c43642$1b71c9c0$87c5fea9@max> To: "ASCEM-S" Organization: ConGlomeration X-Priority: 3 X-MSMail-Priority: Normal X-Mailer: Microsoft Outlook Express 6.00.2800.1158 X-MIMEOLE: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V6.00.2800.1165 X-eGroups-Remote-IP: 63.65.184.2 From: "Keith & Jessica Bratcher" X-Yahoo-Profile: sileya MIME-Version: 1.0 Mailing-List: list ASCEM-S@yahoogroups.com; contact ASCEM-S-owner@yahoogroups.com Delivered-To: mailing list ASCEM-S@yahoogroups.com Precedence: bulk List-Unsubscribe: Date: Sun, 9 May 2004 22:51:41 -0500 Subject: [ASCEM-S] NEW DS9 "Nineteen Shades" 1/12 (G/B) [NC-17] Reply-To: "Keith & Jessica Bratcher" Content-Type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Title: Nineteen Shades Author: Penumbra Contact: penumbra at clinched dot net Series: DS9 Rating: NC-17 for m/m sex, language, implied violence Codes: G/B, O'B, D, Qu Summary: When a group of Cardassian dissidents arrives on DS9, one of Disclaimer: (gong) Paramount owns all / with Viacom. Please don't sue; / treat this as fair use. (gong) Assorted Warnings: explicit m/m sex; implied icky violence; four-letter words; numerous Cardassian traditions, Kotra rules, and Kardasi words I pulled right out of my ass; obfuscated amateur chess; some mush that hopefully avoids melodrama and excessive purple prose; occasional Brit English spelling and vocabulary. All mistakes herein are exclusively mine. Setting and Spoilers: Set a day or two after episode 5x22 'Empok Nor' so spoilers galore for all that came before that. Feedback: Comments, constructive criticism, and mash notes accepted with heartfelt gratitude either on-list or via email at the contact address above. ------------------------------------------- Nineteen Shades, by Penumbra (part 1/12) ------------------------------------------- P r o l o g u e - - - - - - - - Elim Garak was a man of considerable vice, yet he had his virtues. One of them was ruthless self-honesty and that night, such a trait allowed him no sleep. They pained Garak, the recent defeats that were both personal and collective. Dukat, that insufferable fool, had aligned Cardassia with the Dominion -- a move with immediate tactical advantages, but with strategic implications that were frankly appalling. To be first humiliated with Bajorans and then Klingons, his proud, strong people had been reduced to the punching bag of the Alpha Quadrant, but that in no way warranted Dukat's actions. And now Jem'Hadar soldiers strolled down streets he, a natural-born Cardassian, could not. Strolling along the upper level of the Promenade at the early hours of the morning, Garak paused at a window that faced the wormhole. That moment, there was nothing but the vast blackness of space dotted with the steady light of distant stars. One of those stars, he knew, was Sli'i, the star Cardassia Prime orbited. If he were to close his eyes, he knew he could feel the memory of its light, hot and golden and somehow soothing, as if he'd stood underneath it just yesterday. But he knew better than to torment himself so. It would only serve to remind him what he'd lost in the game of games he had played and lost that one time in a lifetime of victories both bloody and sweet. So he kept his eyes open, watching the faint reflection of his image in the window, tracing the sharp shape of his form and glossing over the look of loss and defeat that he knew was lingering in the depths of his eyes. His sombre reverie was broken by the sound of quiet footsteps approaching from behind him. Watching the space behind him in the window, Garak had to suppress a start of surprise when the stocky, genial figure of Chief O'Brien appeared next to him. Finally turning, Garak offered the man a neutral, bland smile and a nod of greeting. "Chief O'Brien." "Good morning, Mr. Garak," he said in a tone much less hostile than Garak had expected, and turned to stare out of the window. "What has you up at such a despicable hour, chief?" Garak said lightly. "Not the view, certainly?" "Nah. It's just that some of the secondary plasma conduit repairs we do are better done when there are fewer people around," O'Brien huffed, glancing down at the Promenade that was blocked by plasma rerouting tubes of varying colours and thicknesses. "And you?" Garak straightened and in a fugue of gestures, rolled his eyes, sighed, and shrugged. "Ambassador Troi's colour choices for her new summer dress have left me somewhat agitated and restless. Fuchsia with crimson lace, if you can believe it." Pausing, he indicated the Promenade with one hand. "I also enjoy the station better during the small hours. The lights are more merciful than in the daytime." That earned him a strange look from O'Brien but no additional commentary. For a moment, they stared at the stars, standing side by side in silence that was not quite companionable but friendly enough, like the meeting of ships passing in the darkest night where any sign of life was welcome. Although Garak could see the chief only from the corner of his eye, he could clearly hear it took the chief two tries before he could continue their conversation. "A few days ago you asked me to play a game of Kotra with you. Is that invitation still open?" Garak glanced at O'Brien and then stared openly, for once surprised at the depths of the man. He hadn't thought a soldier like the chief would ever manage to utter such words of interest and geniality at him. But then again, Garak thought, he himself had been a soldier of a far more destructive, devious nature, yet he was still well capable of decorum. He tried to detect signs of pity or any hidden agendas in O'Brien's mien, but none were obvious. Schooling his features to their most inoffensive again, Garak turned back towards the field of stars outside and smiled at his reflection. "Do tell me, Mr. O'Brien. Since you can't face Cardassians on the battlefield any more, you thought to engage one over a board game?" "My motives are far less vindictive than that, I'm afraid," O'Brien said and smiled tiredly, meeting Garak's eyes on the mirror of the window. For a moment, he looked far older than his relatively modest years. "Sometimes, even engineers need to brush up on their tactical skills." "Mmm," Garak hummed, temporising as he tried to think of what to say next. With this man he'd choose honesty, as much as he was able to deliver on truths -- it was the least he could do. "After our unfortunate battle of wits aboard Empok Nor, I didn't think you'd want to socialise with me, let alone play any more games." O'Brien shrugged. "The inquest cleared you and that's good enough for me." With some calculation and natural suspicion, Garak eyed O'Brien, who was obviously glossing over a complicated truth with a decently executed lie. Even though he'd not been at his sharpest at the time thanks to the psychotropic drug, he'd once before underestimated the chief and Garak vowed never to do so again. He'd never call the man a friend, but perhaps he could be a favoured foe -- someone to respect and enjoy in a battle of tactics if not fists. He'd been sorely lacking in those during his time on Deep Space Nine, as he had in friends and mortal enemies. The lack of enemies was a refreshing change, but... Friends. Garak stifled a sigh as a stab of pain shot through him. Cardassians were a social people, talkative to the point of pontification if not exhaustion and so, to be without a social circle was perhaps the most torturing aspect of his exile. He had his customers and casual acquaintances, and then he had Julian who, unwittingly, was a form of torture as exquisite as anything Garak himself had ever invented. The chemistry they had was as tangible as the bulkhead next to him, yet Garak couldn't quite figure out why their relationship had never progressed from flirtatious friendship to an affair. Was it because of certain naivete on the doctor's part? Perhaps -- the human was, for all his history and intelligence, young in so many ways. Or maybe it was his own instinctive inability to do something that would place him in a potentially vulnerable position that had prevented him from pursuing Dr. Bashir? Of course -- a hunter did not pursue when the prey was expected to come to him. So they'd been deadlocked in their dance of tension that sublimated itself into arguments and long, lingering looks that were full of undeniable heat. Garak figured he had made his position clear and it was up to the doctor to take initiative if he wanted to. If he didn't, well, that was fate, wasn't it? Banishing such fatalistic and thus depressing thoughts, Garak turned to fully face O'Brien. "I would very much enjoy a game of Kotra with you, Mr. O'Brien," he said formally and made a minute bow. "What would be a suitable time for you?" "I'm doing these late-night repairs this week so before Gamma shift would be best. Would tomorrow 2100 hours at Quark's be all right?" "Perfect. *C'ir afs albreyet, h'azkriyet*, O'Brien," Garak said, the familiar words coming with formality long learned, as was his ritual gesture of acceptance at the challenge so casually given to him. The alarmed frown on O'Brien's forehead told Garak that the chief was perhaps not quite aware of what he'd signed on for. "What?" he asked and glanced upward as if he could glare the Universal Translator into understanding the ancient Kardasi Garak had uttered. "Perhaps you would also benefit from browsing through the history of Kotra beforehand," Garak said, not unkindly. He smiled but all it did was make O'Brien's frown deepen. "The game is of rather ancient origins and thus carries a considerable burden of formality with it, I'm afraid. I was merely reminding you that the first and only real rule in Kotra is, that which doesn't kill you, strengthens you. So all you need to do is bring your *halizf'et adt*," he explained, touching O'Brien's chest with two fingers, "your heart of courage with you, and you will win regardless of the outcome." "And here I thought it was just a strange-looking variant of chess," O'Brien muttered through his crooked grimace and with a self-conscious air about him, brushed his hand over the spot where Garak had touched him. "Countless empires have fallen and the fates of many men have been sealed on a game of Kotra, my good man. Should you beat me in my own game, I promise to share some of those stories with you." Garak smiled with as warmth as he could muster, for it was an empty promise; this was a game to him as familiar as the act of breathing. "That's all the motivation I need, Mr. Garak," O'Brien said and almost smiled. Straightening, he flexed his back and glanced at the chrono display on the wall. "Well, I must be getting back. Plasma conduits wait for no man." "Good day, chief," Garak said and inclined his head minutely. "You, too." With that and a nod, O'Brien turned and strolled towards the nearest turbolift. Watching his retreating back, Garak tried to comprehend what had prompted the human to make this most unusual overture. No matter. Garak glanced at the starfield and smiled. In ten hours he'd lunch with Dr. Bashir for some verbal sparring and self-torture, and in seventeen hours, he'd play a game of Kotra with the chief. Garak had no doubt that by the end of the long day he'd have some of his answers. ------------------------------- End of part 1/12 (prologue). [Non-text portions of this message have been removed] Yahoo! Domains - Claim yours for only $14.70 http://us.click.yahoo.com/Z1wmxD/DREIAA/yQLSAA/5x3olB/TM ---------------------------------------------------------------------~-> Yahoo! Groups Links <*> To visit your group on the web, go to: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/ASCEM-S/ <*> To unsubscribe from this group, send an email to: ASCEM-S-unsubscribe@yahoogroups.com <*> Your use of Yahoo! Groups is subject to: http://docs.yahoo.com/info/terms/ From ???@??? Sun May 09 23:56:34 2004 X-Persona: Status: U Return-Path: Received: from n16.grp.scd.yahoo.com ([66.218.66.71]) by mamo (EarthLink SMTP Server) with SMTP id 1bn1Pt4sp3NZFk70 for ; Sun, 9 May 2004 20:51:47 -0700 (PDT) X-eGroups-Return: sentto-1978024-8065-1084161106-stephenbratliff=earthlink.net@returns.groups.yahoo.com Received: from [66.218.66.30] by n16.grp.scd.yahoo.com with NNFMP; 10 May 2004 03:51:46 -0000 X-Sender: campbratcher@psci.net X-Apparently-To: ASCEM-S@yahoogroups.com Received: (qmail 22024 invoked from network); 10 May 2004 03:51:46 -0000 Received: from unknown (66.218.66.217) by m24.grp.scd.yahoo.com with QMQP; 10 May 2004 03:51:46 -0000 Received: from unknown (HELO mailstore.psci.net) (63.65.184.2) by mta2.grp.scd.yahoo.com with SMTP; 10 May 2004 03:51:45 -0000 Received: from max (as1-d25-rp-psci.psci.net [63.69.225.25]) by mailstore.psci.net (8.12.2/8.12.2) with SMTP id i4A3pWfP031125 for ; Sun, 9 May 2004 22:51:32 -0500 Message-ID: <002901c43642$2482a660$87c5fea9@max> To: "ASCEM-S" Organization: ConGlomeration X-Priority: 3 X-MSMail-Priority: Normal X-Mailer: Microsoft Outlook Express 6.00.2800.1158 X-MIMEOLE: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V6.00.2800.1165 X-eGroups-Remote-IP: 63.65.184.2 From: "Keith & Jessica Bratcher" X-Yahoo-Profile: sileya MIME-Version: 1.0 Mailing-List: list ASCEM-S@yahoogroups.com; contact ASCEM-S-owner@yahoogroups.com Delivered-To: mailing list ASCEM-S@yahoogroups.com Precedence: bulk List-Unsubscribe: Date: Sun, 9 May 2004 22:51:57 -0500 Subject: [ASCEM-S] NEW DS9 "Nineteen Shades" 2/12 (G/B) [NC-17] Reply-To: "Keith & Jessica Bratcher" Content-Type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Please see part 1 for codes, disclaimers, and notes. ------------------------------------------- Nineteen Shades, by Penumbra (part 2/12) ------------------------------------------- Dr. Julian Bashir was a man of many virtues, but he had his vices as well. Two, to be exact: Tarkalean tea and a sly tailor of his acquaintance. Both of them were sitting in front of him, and the warmth provided by the former ate at his resolve to not let the latter get to him. "A man of deceptive nature, that's what you are," he said, pressing his advantage in one of their perennial topics of discussion -- one he could never tire of, for it was a certain way of making Garak spin on to one of his more fantastic tales. "Doctor, you wound me," Garak said, sounding decidedly unwounded and perhaps a tad amused. "Deceptive -- I, a simple tailor? Really, now." "Tinker, tailor...soldier, spy." Garak glanced at the ceiling as if he was trying hard to place the quote -- a gesture Bashir knew to be unneeded, given the eidetic memory Cardassians had. The theatrics undoubtedly amused his companion, Bashir concluded, pleasantly surprised that he had learned to see through at least one of Garak's charades. "Another of your so-called 'nursery rhymes' if I'm not mistaken, albeit with a twist?" "I prefer to call it proper appropriation," Bashir countered with a smirk to match Garak's. "'Sailor' is hardly a descriptive title for you." "I'm afraid that apart from tailor, neither are the others." "Oh, we're not playing the 'plain and simple tailor' game again, I trust? I had hoped we'd be well past that stage by now." Garak's smile brightened and he cocked his head. "I wasn't aware you regarded my profession as a game. I assure you, it's quite an arduous pursuit of the arts." "I'm not talking about your current profession, Garak, I'm talking about your history -- your secrets. You conceal things with aplomb I can't help but be intrigued about." Bashir snorted. "Plain and simple, indeed." "As flattered as I am by your apparent compliment, I simply have no idea what you're talking about, doctor." Recognising Garak's prim evasion for what it was -- a method with which to make him reveal his hand -- Bashir didn't reply immediately. Instead, he gave his companion a cool scrutiny that was often enough to make his patients fidget and tug at their clothing. Garak did nothing of the sort; he merely gazed back, face schooled to a perfection of guilelessness even when his eyes twinkled. "Well, the clothing you wear, for starters. Very sinister." Garak sat back, his eyes widening. "My *clothes*? I assure you, there's nothing even remotely sinister about my tailoring," he said, sounding almost injured as he ran a hand down his chest. And indeed, there really was nothing wrong with his clothes -- quite the opposite, Bashir thought distractedly. Garak was wearing a new suit, a conflagration of patterned silk offset by luxuriously smooth wool in a shade of midnight blue that brought out the incandescent blue of his eyes. Catching himself, Bashir almost laughed. He'd obviously been spending far too much time with the tailor and his rather stringent sense of fashion, since observing wearables was not something he had a habit of doing. "I meant, what it does is very...secretive," Bashir said, enunciating the last word with relish as he warmed to his subject. "The style is cut to be comfortable, yet as unrevealing as possible. It hides all it can about your physiology, turning what I suspect to be a reasonably well-maintained body to something far less obvious." "I'm sure you are aware that we Cardassians are a modest race," Garak said primly, his hands delicate on his glass of Rokassa juice. "There's more, isn't there?" he prompted after a moment of silence from Bashir. "And it drapes over your neckridges. A most unusual choice of styles for a Cardassian," Bashir said, smiling at his choice of words. If there was one thing Garak had taught him, it was subterfuge of the verbal kind. "How so?" "It effectively conceals any unwilling signs of emoting the flushing of your neckridges might undergo when you're angry, afraid--" "Afraid?" Garak broke in, almost laughing. "My dear doctor, you continue to wound me." His tone suggested that being afraid was a concept he was familiar with only in the abstract. "--humoured, embarrassed," Bashir plowed on, "and maybe even..." He again trailed off, gesturing with his hand in his excitement that had derailed his train of thought. "Aroused?" Bashir's hand froze in the air as Garak's choice of words, nonchalant and airy in delivery, sank in. Lowering his hand, Bashir found his gaze jumping between the amused glint in his companion's eyes to the short length of neck ridge visible as it emerged from underneath the inky silk that covered Garak's left shoulder. As he watched, the ridge suddenly darkened, the edges of the scales over and below it lifting in a rippling frisson that ran the length from the collar to Garak's ear. The skin normally hidden under the scales was gunmetal grey, and Bashir found he had to fight his impulse to reach over the table and touch the delicate layers that had performed such an elaborate dance. It was a show he'd never been privy to before, a hypnotising reminder of how alien his lunch companion really was. He wondered how the scales would feel under his fingertips: rough and clammy, like the skin of a crocodile, or smooth and slick, like the Andorian silk that hid the rest? "Mmm, yes," Garak said blithely as if nothing was amiss. His skin paled to its normal colour in a matter of seconds. "Because of its easily concealed location, the *rak'tal* a much more convenient physiological phenomenon than the one Humans are so very unlucky to have," Garak said. The Universal Translator refused to provide a translation for the Kardasi word. Bashir frowned through his haze, deciphering Garak's redirection of the topic. "Which is?" he asked, clearing his throat when he found his voice to be wavering. Garak said nothing, merely continued to look at him with a deadly approximation of his earlier physician's scrutiny. The unblinking study made Bashir blush, although he couldn't quite put his finger on why it did so. Flexing his jaw, Bashir tried to will the colour down, but it was in vain. "All right, I concede your point," he muttered, feeling the heat on his cheeks. "Even with my considerable talents in tailoring, I'm afraid any clothing covering your cheeks would be terribly unwieldy," Garak continued blithely, his eyes never leaving Bashir. "Although I do find the colour quite...enchanting." Garak's comment served to only intensify Bashir's flush. He was saved from further embarrassment by the chirp of his combadge. Stifling a sigh of relief, he tapped it. "Bashir here." "Sorry to interrupt your lunch, doctor," Captain Sisko intoned through the comm, "but would you please join us in the wardroom, at your convenience? Bring Mr. Garak with you if he's available." Bashir's eyebrows flew up in surprise. "How'd you...never mind," he amended hastily and stood up. "On my way." "Good. Sisko out." Bashir eyed his companion who was staring up at him with unfathomable depth in his eyes, their tint a blue reminiscent of Romulan ale. "You busy?" he asked. "I'm assuming this has something to do with the Cardassian resistance envoys that boarded the station last night," Garak said and patted the corners of his mouth with a napkin, his manner unhurried and contemplative. Bashir blinked. "What the hell?" The visit, representatives of the Cardassian Underground Movement that opposed Cardassia's pact with the Dominion, was a top-secret affair that only the command staff was supposed to know about due to security reasons. "Garak. How would you know anything about such things?" Letting the napkin drop, Garak stood up and smiled. "You wouldn't believe the things people, even Starfleet officers, discuss with their tailors. Now let us not keep our good Captain waiting." Bashir sighed in resignation and nodded towards the Promenade. "After you." "Please, you first," Garak said and gestured with flourish. "I insist." "Somehow, I knew you would," Bashir grunted under his breath and headed for the replimat exit. * * * * * * * * * * "So, let me ask you something, doctor." Bashir glanced at Garak, who was at his side. In the narrow space of the corridor, they were walking close to one another but not too close -- just close enough for Bashir to feel the heat of Garak's warmer-than-human Cardassian body on his arm and side. "Yes?" "We haven't had our regular lunches for months, and now suddenly, we've eaten together twice this week already," Garak said, his hand gesturing with delicacy so very unsuitable for its obvious strength. "While not unpleasant, this sudden change of heart is somewhat unexpected. May I inquire as to why you're so eager to spend time with me again?" Trying to school his face into blandness so as not to show the amusement he felt, Bashir mused how much he'd really missed Garak. He also recognised the truth in the rather cruel reproach the polite wording of the question concealed. Looking back, Bashir could only conclude that it really hadn't been anything special that had caused him to drift away from his friend, more a collusion of many small things. It had been the war and the long days it had meant for him, the blows he'd taken both personal and war-related, and the sudden bleakness of the future that had caused him to retreat from contact. He'd sought refuge in the mindless games he played with O'Brien and in his work, because neither of them reminded how he'd been before the war: happy. And so, amidst the discord of war, he'd lost sight of what was important to him: the company of his friends. He'd played games with Miles but didn't really spend time with him; he'd exchanged pleasantries with Jadzia but never saw her outside work; he'd engaged Garak in pleasant small talk whenever they met on the Promenade but had stopped having actual conversations with him. Unwittingly and slowly, like a cancer transforming tissue, his friendships had deteriorated into the casual interaction of acquaintances. The turning point in his thinking hadn't been just one thing, more a slow change of tide. A month spent in a Dominion prison had been the start, because after returning to Deep Space 9, he'd come to realise that none of his so-called friends had recognised that a changeling had replaced him. The revelation of the secret in his genes a clear jolt in the right direction, and the final push had been that one night a fortnight ago when he'd visited the O'Briens for a dinner and felt like an outsider in their table. Coming home that night, he'd poured himself a stiff drink, talked with Jadzia over the comm for two hours, and sent Garak a lunch invitation. He knew just the thing to say in reply to Garak's query, but it needed a bit of a build-up or else he'd disappoint his friend with his directness. So, all Bashir said in all seriousness was, "Would you believe me if I said I've missed you?" "No, because it would lead me to believe you had once again been replaced by a changeling," Garak replied smoothly. The look he gave, a calculating glance from narrowed eyes, made Bashir shiver. "Perhaps I should do my very own kind of blood screening on you, doctor." With a slightly uneasy smile, Bashir wondered when he'd lost control of the exchange. He knew Garak was only joking, but as it always was, he took the safe route. Just in case. "I don't think that's necessary, really. But thank you for the kind offer." With one final glance, Garak's features softened to their usual amicable facade. "So if you indeed have not been missing me, what's the truth then?" Bashir paused for a moment, trying to think of the exact words he should use to convey what he thought. He clearly recognised how he'd forgotten how he enjoyed the matching of wits, the elaborate, infuriating webs of Garak's lies, the blunt questions that were so un-Cardassian that Bashir was certain their straightforward nature was designed to unbalance him. So he went for bluntness as well. "I've lost sight of a lot of good things during this war, Garak," Bashir said with emphasis. "I don't want to lose you, too." There, the surprise. The truth. Garak did a double take that would've been almost comical had it not been quite so practiced. His laughter, low and rich, made Bashir's blush return with vengeance, for it was a sound that made his insides tumble about in a rather pleasant way. "My dear doctor, I am a lot of things and none of them would I characterise as good," Garak said, his eyes twinkling. Bashir sighed and valiantly ignored his flushed state. Of course. With most people, declarations of low self-worth were a way to court compliments or present a humble exterior so thin one could see right through it, as intended. But when it came to Garak, as it was with so many things, self-effacing remarks were not what they seemed. They were a blatant lie designed to be discovered -- the only way Garak knew how to tell the truth. Bashir grinned. Garak had said it himself, years ago in the holosuite: good operatives had no egos. It was certainly true of Garak for all he had was the greatest of ironies: a truthful picture of himself. "Somehow, I knew you were going to say exactly that," Bashir said. "Ah, what a shame," Garak muttered at length and clucked his tongue in consternation. "I shall endeavour not to disappoint you in such a manner again." "And I knew you were going to say that, too." Whatever loquacious retort Garak had in mind, it was forestalled by their arrival at the wardroom. The doors swished open and Bashir stepped in, followed closely by Garak. The wardroom table was fully manned, with the senior staff on one side and a half a dozen Cardassians of varying ages and genders seated in the chairs on the far side, by the windows. At their entry, Major Kira paused mid-sentence as all heads craned to look their way. "Reporting as ordered, captain," Bashir said, straightening his back even as he cursed himself for his stiff formality. Being the centre of attention did always make him nervous. At the head of the table, Captain Sisko swiveled his chair to face the door. Tenting his fingers in front of him, the stern look on his face softened minutely. "Ah, gentlemen, good of you to join us," he intoned in his rich baritone and gestured at them for the benefit of the table. "This is Dr. Julian Bashir, Chief Medical Officer on this station, and our resident Cardassian, Mr.--" Sisko never got to finish his introductions. As soon as his eyes alighted on Bashir and Garak, one of the Cardassian visitors stood up so abruptly he sent his chair rolling back against the wall. It hit it with a loud thump that was drowned by his strangled exclamation. "Elim?!" Sisko glanced at the man, clearly as surprised as Bashir felt. "You know Mr. Garak?" he asked of the man -- a middle-aged, trim Cardassian with sharp features and a sudden fire burning in his dark eyes. "Elim! You son of the dead!" the Cardassian yelled louder and from within the folds of his tunic, he pulled out a fist-sized square box and hurled it at Garak with all his strength. It hit the tailor squarely in the chest and disintegrated on impact, covering the front of Garak's dark jacket with luminescent yellow powder. Without pause, the Cardassian jumped up on the table to launch himself at Garak and Bashir. Bashir started, his body tensing in anticipation of the impact. It never came, for the newcomer had aimed at Garak and as with the box, his aim was true. He knocked Garak over and they landed on the deck with a bone-crunching thump, the Cardassian giving Garak a two-fisted assault. It was a short moment of dominance for him, though, since Garak twisted under him, tossing him off with a hip throw and following the flow so that he was straddling his assaulter. "Garak! Don't hurt him!" Bashir's urgent voice didn't register with Garak; no, his attention was entirely on the man pinned underneath him. Both of Garak's hands came to press on the man's neckridges, squeezing until the man groaned out in desperate pain. "Delemek, you fool, what are you doing?" Garak barked, oblivious to the trickle of dark maroon blood flowing from a cut on his cheek and dripping down onto the face of his erstwhile attacker. "You contemptible fool. *Emtek fa'ar gelom'tak!*" he hissed and backhanded the Cardassian across his face with something akin to disinterest, as if it were the most normal thing for him to do. Bashir had a fleeting thought that the Universal Translator was having a bad day with Kardasi today since already twice inside one hour, it had failed to translate something. That thought was quickly pushed out of his mind when suddenly, the Cardassian struggling underneath Garak ceased his struggling and went limp. Bashir's eyes darted between Garak and the unconscious Cardassian. "Are you all right?" Garak let go of his attacker's neck ridges and touched his cheek. His fingers came away bloody and he absently wiped them on his stained tunic. "Nothing serious, I assure you," he said with a thick voice as he stood up and stepped aside, his eyes never leaving the prone Cardassian. "What about him?" Doing a quick visual analysis and checking his pulse, Bashir was relieved to notice that all obvious vital signs were within normal parameters. "Just unconscious," Bashir replied and tapped his combadge. "Bashir to Infirmary. I need a medical team and an antigrav stretcher in the wardroom." ------------------------------- End of part 2/12. [Non-text portions of this message have been removed] Yahoo! Domains - Claim yours for only $14.70 http://us.click.yahoo.com/Z1wmxD/DREIAA/yQLSAA/5x3olB/TM ---------------------------------------------------------------------~-> Yahoo! Groups Links <*> To visit your group on the web, go to: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/ASCEM-S/ <*> To unsubscribe from this group, send an email to: ASCEM-S-unsubscribe@yahoogroups.com <*> Your use of Yahoo! Groups is subject to: http://docs.yahoo.com/info/terms/ From ???@??? Sun May 09 23:56:34 2004 X-Persona: Status: U Return-Path: Received: from n31.grp.scd.yahoo.com ([66.218.66.99]) by mamo (EarthLink SMTP Server) with SMTP id 1bn1R44dJ3NZFk71 for ; Sun, 9 May 2004 20:53:26 -0700 (PDT) X-eGroups-Return: sentto-1978024-8068-1084161167-stephenbratliff=earthlink.net@returns.groups.yahoo.com eceived: from [66.218.66.30] by n31.grp.scd.yahoo.com with NNFMP; 10 May 2004 03:52:48 -0000 X-Sender: campbratcher@psci.net X-Apparently-To: ASCEM-S@yahoogroups.com Received: (qmail 26640 invoked from network); 10 May 2004 03:52:47 -0000 Received: from unknown (66.218.66.216) by m24.grp.scd.yahoo.com with QMQP; 10 May 2004 03:52:47 -0000 Received: from unknown (HELO mailstore.psci.net) (63.65.184.2) by mta1.grp.scd.yahoo.com with SMTP; 10 May 2004 03:52:46 -0000 Received: from max (as1-d25-rp-psci.psci.net [63.69.225.25]) by mailstore.psci.net (8.12.2/8.12.2) with SMTP id i4A3plfP031350 for ; Sun, 9 May 2004 22:51:47 -0500 Message-ID: <002e01c43642$2d6a5020$87c5fea9@max> To: "ASCEM-S" Organization: ConGlomeration X-Priority: 3 X-MSMail-Priority: Normal X-Mailer: Microsoft Outlook Express 6.00.2800.1158 X-MIMEOLE: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V6.00.2800.1165 X-eGroups-Remote-IP: 63.65.184.2 From: "Keith & Jessica Bratcher" X-Yahoo-Profile: sileya MIME-Version: 1.0 Mailing-List: list ASCEM-S@yahoogroups.com; contact ASCEM-S-owner@yahoogroups.com Delivered-To: mailing list ASCEM-S@yahoogroups.com Precedence: bulk List-Unsubscribe: Date: Sun, 9 May 2004 22:52:12 -0500 Subject: [ASCEM-S] NEW DS9 "Nineteen Shades" 3/12 (G/B) [NC-17] Reply-To: "Keith & Jessica Bratcher" Content-Type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Please see part 1 for codes, disclaimers, and notes. ------------------------------------------- Nineteen Shades, by Penumbra (part 3/12) ------------------------------------------- Unconsciousness due to no apparent reason. A cortical implant of unknown configuration and purpose. Scars, echoes of broken bones, and three missing fingers and toes, their amputation scars many years old. Traces of gene degradation due to radiation poisoning. Bashir frowned and put down the PADD. The medical analysis of his new patient, one Mr. Delemek Serka of the Cardassian Underground Movement, was a collection of old injuries and unexplainable additions, and none of it told him why he had suddenly collapsed at Garak's words, let alone why he had attacked Garak with such anger and despair in the first place. But the mystery of his patient was not what puzzled him the most; no, it was Garak's behaviour. Turning to face the biobed, Bashir took in Garak's seated form. The before so luxurious silk and wool of the tailor's clothes had absorbed the contents of the box the Cardassian had hurled at Garak, forming a chartreuse starburst that spanned the width of his chest. He was now fingering the stain with absent, hesitant gestures as if it were a gaping wound. Even with the considerable mental might of his enhanced brain, Bashir couldn't put his finger on what was so off about Garak's manner. It seemed a profusion of emotions (as much as the Cardassian was capable of such things), veering from delicate contempt to subconscious affection. This was not the first time Bashir had seen pain in his friend's eyes, but never before had it been of such interesting nature. Bashir hunted for a word. Private? Yes, but still not quite accurate. Perhaps...intimate? Ah. With a start, he realised it was just that. It was a pain caused by the ruin of a strong bond. Turning to his computer, Bashir called up the meagre file Starfleet had on the dissident. Delemek Serka, age unknown, a Legate disgraced during the Bajoran occupation that turned into a poet with a progressive slant. The doctor's eyebrows climbed up on his forehead in surprise. Legate cum poet, quite a careers switch. It was turning out to be a mystery of some merit, and if there was one thing Bashir had always enjoyed, it was uncovering mysteries -- a tendency that had turned his intrigue to obsession when it came to all things Garak. There were other considerations to think of, too, but... Stomping down hard on that line of thought, Bashir swiveled in his chair to face his patient again. Garak was sitting by the biobed in one of the uncomfortable visitor chairs, his back to Bashir and his head held up high in a pose that was too rigid to look comfortable. "There's a question you have?" Garak asked, his voice unusually quiet when he turned towards Bashir. His cheek was a faintly darker colour where his cut had been. "Yes. How do you know this man? And don't you dare to deny your prior familiarity with him -- he didn't attack you randomly," Bashir said, wagging his finger at Garak. Dissembling was not going to work this time. "I'm sure he was merely objecting to my clothing, much like you were, doctor," Garak said, running his fingers across the band of silk stretched across his chest. His smile was mischievous, but somehow lacking in conviction. "Unrevealing as it is." "Garak." "Yes?" the man replied, oblivious to the tone of exasperation in Bashir's voice. "As far as I can tell, your clothes don't have your name stitched on it, and I think we can rule out telepathy. So how did he know your name?" "Ah," Garak uttered, his eyes narrowing as the mischief in his smile turned to something far more sinister. When he continued, there was quiet darkness in his voice that made Bashir's mouth run dry. "Long ago, in another life, my name used to not be associated with quality garments, my friend. It's not outside the realm of possibility that he's seen my picture and name in some document he and his dissident friends came across during their shady activities." Bashir shook his head. "This was personal, I can tell. Spill it. Who is he? Why did he attack you? What did you do to him? What's the purpose of his cortical implant?" he rattled off before his steam ran out. "I've got questions and no answers." Garak eyed him from underneath his brow ridges, and his expression slid from enigmatic to tired amusement. "You plan on pestering me until I tell you something." Bashir couldn't help his triumphant smile at Garak's assertion that was less a question and more an admission of a known fact. "Yes indeed I will, until you tell me the truth." "The truth," Garak sighed with baroque gusto and shook his head. "Doctor, if there was nothing else I'd hoped you had learned from me, it would've been the fact that no such thing as truth exists -- only subjective views to it." "Well, then tell me the truth as the beholder," Bashir said, gesturing at Garak, "sees it." "What I will tell you is a story," he said and sat back, his eyes once again on the still form on the biobed. "A tale, I'm sure, that will not bore you." Bashir would've preferred a straightforward answer instead of a tale that would surely be part misdirection and mostly lies with a smidgen of twisted truth, but he knew that beggars couldn't be choosers. Wordlessly, he assumed an attentive pose and gestured for Garak to proceed. "There was once a young man in Central Command, a promising officer of some strategic insight and considerable ability in the machinations of Cardassian politics," Garak began. His comfortable tenor voice was steady and sonorous -- a storyteller's cadence with an undercurrent of duranium. "Through the years, he rose to a position of power through his cunning and his willingness to employ whatever method necessary to rise through the ranks. Whatever method necessary." Garak's emphasis and accompanying meaningful look made Bashir frown. "Methods such as?" Garak merely smiled and glanced at the still man on the biobed. "Methods borne out of his extremely lucky draw in the genetics pool. He was, simply put, a man of considerable beauty," Garak murmured. "Such luck can be dangerous to its wielder, and thus it was his willingness to use his looks that was the start of his downfall." A light bulb went off in Bashir's head. "There was an affair. A scandal." Garak smiled at his enthusiasm, obviously amused. "Oh, nothing quite so banal, doctor. But there was a...woman of power involved, too. She was a high-ranking official in the Agricultural Ministry -- an agency that prided itself in its secrecy and in the cutthroat nature of its internal politics. Our young protagonist and this woman fell into an affair and later, into love that was less pure than it could've been because the man was more driven by his ambitions than his heart. "Regardless, the affair was torrid and long-standing, and eventually it came to the knowledge of the Secretary of Agriculture. He took upon himself to, hm, discourage the woman from pursuing the affair, for he viewed the man a threat to the high stand of the Ministry in the Cardassian order of things. But it was not to be; she was in love. So the Secretary of Agriculture framed our young officer, made his lover believe he'd used her to his career advancement. She didn't believe, but was nevertheless forced to...renounce their affair." "Wait, Garak." Now completely confused, Bashir leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. "They were in love, yet she let it go because the Secretary of Agriculture told her to do so?" "Don't sound so surprised, doctor," Garak replied, and there was infinite sadness in his voice, not quite masked by his forcibly light tone. "Duty to the state comes first, even when it's the Agricultural Ministry." "So what happened to our star-crossed lovers?" Garak again glanced at the man on the biobed. "They were separated and would never again see one another. Embittered, realising too late that he'd lost his chance at happiness, the man abandoned his life and career in the military and turned to the arts." Bashir's eyes snapped to Delemek Serka, taking in the sharp, taut planes of his face and the symmetrical, well-formed ridges that adorned his face along with the deep welts of frown on his forehead and at the sides of his mouth. This was a man who'd been an Adonis in his youth but had then descended into a decadent yet still-sensuous ruin because of a life lived hard, fast, and on the edge. "He's the young officer," Bashir said, standing up and joining Garak by the biobed. "Isn't he?" "Perhaps." Giving Garak the fish eye, Bashir turned his gaze back to Serka. "And the woman? What happened to her?" Garak stood up, his hand coming to brush down one of the forehead ridges on Serka's brow before he turned to the doctor. "A mystery for you to uncover, my friend. Now if you'll excuse me, I have an appointment with some cleaning solvent," he said, gesturing at the soiled front of his jacket with the smallest of grimaces. "What about him? I don't want to wake him up quite yet so that he can get some rest, but I was going to wake him tomorrow morning. For that I'll need to know more about that cortical implant of his, because I think it's the root cause of this near-coma," Bashir asked, gesturing towards the biobed. Garak was his best clue -- his only clue -- as to what was going on. "The implant resembles the one in your head, but that wasn't susceptible to verbal triggers. What did you do to him, Garak?" All Garak did was smile one of his half-smiles. "Just call for me when you want him woken up." Bashir's frown deepened. "What do you mean?" "For once, doctor, I meant only that which was obvious." The endless calm of Garak's voice, smooth and dark as oil on water, stayed with Bashir for a long moment as he watched his friend walk out of the infirmary and disappear into the late afternoon bustle on the promenade. Long after his distinctive shape had gone, it remained on Bashir's mind's eye, because it held something he'd never before seen in his friend: regret. With effort, Bashir snapped out of his trance and turned back to his sole patient -- the obvious key to both the mystery at hand, and to the larger enigma that was Garak. His whisper was barely audible even in the quiet calm of the infirmary. "Who are you, Delemek Serka?" * * * * * * * * * * O'Brien glanced up at his companion and was relieved to notice he didn't flinch any more when his eyes found the Cardassian. Head bent over the board and his brow furrowed around the spoon-shaped protrusion on his forehead, Garak was deep in thought as he gazed at the Kotra board. The game was on, and O'Brien had found himself knee-deep in Cardassian tactics. The uneven lighting on the second floor at Quark's was both unflattering and strangely grotesque as it landed on Garak's head and face, accentuating the darkness under his browridges and bringing out the sharp planes and hollows of his face. O'Brien mused that it was like looking at an alien skull, with the faintly blue skin smooth as bone and eyes cold as ice glittering deep within the dark sockets. While not an attractive view to his eye, the overall effect was certainly striking and more than a little unnerving. "Like what you see, Mr. O'Brien?" Garak asked. He was still staring at the board, and it was not until he'd moved his attack cluster into position that he lifted his eyes from the board. "*Tempak adt*," he said softly. The pale blue of his eyes was almost innocent. "What do you mean?" O'Brien temporised, eyeing his transparent pieces as they clustered around Garak's in futile attempts to bring order to the board. The Cardassian idea of strategy was far less structured than his. "You were looking at me as if evaluating my worth." "Your worth is not for me to decide, Garak," O'Brien replied and placed his finger on the leader of his flank cluster. No, too risky, he decided. Instead, he moved the roving wing into a sweep. "*Vetra adt*, if I'm not mistaken." The terminology of Kotra was still mostly a mass of incomprehensible, infuriating contradictions to him, but instinct helped. The frown marring Garak's forehead smoothed. "You're not. I'm impressed." As they fell silent, Garak puzzling over his move and O'Brien attempting to mask his scrutiny better, it struck the human how he had misjudged the man so many times. It was quite unlike him to so underestimate someone, and while the roots of it could be traced back to the war where it had been necessary for him to view all Cardassians as mindless automatons, it just wouldn't do here. This wasn't just any Cardassian. This was Elim Garak -- a complex man who made exquisite trousers, talked in that voice that was half tease and all flirt, and played games with the finesse of a master strategist. Which, O'Brien conceded, was what he was. "I don't hate you, y'know," he said suddenly, not quite knowing why. "Cardassians, I mean," he added as a point of clarification. Garak's reply was but a noncommittal, "Oh?" and a toss of the variable rhomboids. Feeling suddenly stupid for what he'd said, O'Brien kept his eyes on the board and at the deft fingers arranging the pieces. "You thought otherwise, so I just wanted to make it very clear." "The hero of Setlik III doesn't hate Cardassians? I find that hard to believe," Garak said, his velvet voice threaded with humour and challenge. "*Qentok ma adt*," he interjected, flicking one of his pieces across the board into O'Brien's home base. "A man can change his mind but not what is in his heart." "In retrospect, Setlik III counts as one of the low points in my life," O'Brien said and smiled grimly, not rising to the bait. "This may come as a surprise, but I never did have hate in my heart, either. I was a soldier, doing my job." "So if it was not your heart that needed convincing, what changed your mind? Your move." Arranging his defences into a penetration sweep, O'Brien pondered the question. What had it been, indeed? There were many answers to that question. "*Vetra adt*. A lot of things. It certainly started with Rugal, all those years ago. But I guess you happened, mainly." "Vetra adt, vetra adt..." Garak muttered, his eyes on the board. Pinching his full lower lip between his thumb and forefinger, he glanced at O'Brien. The perceptiveness of that sharp gaze made him jump. "Me?" "You. I've never actually known a Cardassian before. Really known," O'Brien replied. He no longer wondered what had made Garak such a valued member of the Obsidian Order, for he seemed to have an uncanny knack for making people talk of even the most uncomfortable things. "And to my surprise, you turned out to be quite human, pardon the expression. Julian always speaks very highly of you, but it wasn't until we visited Empok Nor that I started to believe him." With a graceful flick of his wrist that was obviously the result of years of practice, Garak pushed his flank pieces to a straight line. "*Pek*, pass. Empok Nor, you said?" "Or rather, the aftermath," O'Brien said, waving his hand over the board as he recalled the quiet conversation he'd had with Garak in the infirmary. He'd seemed so fragile, a man and nothing more, lying on the biobed and de-toxing from the psychotropic drug that had caused his bout of insanity. "There was something in you I'd never seen before in any Cardassian: regret. Actual regret, and it was so very real. Vulnerable, almost, and you have to say that's a very unusual thing to say about one of your people." Tapping his finger against the board, Garak lifted his head to meet O'Brien's gaze, and to the chief's amazement, he actually smiled. "That's because my regret is very real, Mr. O'Brien. For what I did to Amaro and Nog and, above all, you." There was subtle emphasis on the last word. "Your move." "Uh, *gerteem'eptak*," O'Brien said, pushing a secondary wing forward with absent neglect. He was surprised Garak hadn't taken his observation of vulnerability as an insult. "Me?" "I have great respect for you and your abilities, Chief O'Brien." For once, O'Brien was left speechless. "Well," he muttered as he recovered, trying to figure out if Garak was having him on, but unable to think of a single reason for him to do so. "Thank you, I guess. And colour me surprised." Garak moved his secondary pattern to a fan formation, eating away O'Brien's flank that had been so carefully arranged to a double defence. "*Enq'eptak*. Surprised, at what?" O'Brien glared at his decimated defences dolefully. Damn. "That you're so forthcoming with me. What Julian tells me is that nothing but lies of differing degree come from your mouth." Garak's smile was a bit too devious to be pleasant and when he licked his lips, O'Brien noticed for the first time how long and pointed his tongue was. He suppressed a shudder and then reproached himself for his unbecoming yet instinctive xenophobia. He reminded himself that while Garak was definitely alien, he was also much like himself: a civilised being, someone who ate with utensils, listened to music, and understood things about love and life. He deserved better than prejudice. "Only with Dr. Bashir," Garak said, slowly and with deliberation. "His desire for intrigue and his need to have puzzles to solve are the keys in keeping him on his toes. I wouldn't want to appear dull and boring to him." At that and despite himself, O'Brien smiled. "Mr. Garak, you may be many things, but dull could never be one of them," he said. Feeling adventurous, he scooped up two tactical squadrons and made an offensive turn. "*Tempak adt*." Garak's smile widened a fraction. "A bold move. But..." he said, trailing off as he deftly grasped a leader and two wings between his fingers, plowing a path through O'Brien's tempak with a small hum of satisfaction. "You left your assets clustered too tight. *Adt ma adt*. My game." "Well I'll be damned," O'Brien huffed, studying the board in dismay. "So it is." With one graceful sweep of his grey hand, Garak brushed all the pieces into his home base. "Don't feel bad about it, chief. This is a game I've played for too many decades for me to mention here without dating myself." "And you've played it not just as a board game, I imagine," O'Brien added and took a sip from his synthale. He'd forgotten it as the intricacies of Kotra had pulled him in, and so it had warmed. Grimacing, he set the tankard down. "The best games are the ones with the highest stakes, Mr. O'Brien," Garak said, rapping his knuckles sharply against the board. "And when played properly, Kotra can be a game of life and death." "I'll take your word for it," O'Brien said and stood, glancing at the wall chrono. "I need to go, I'm due in Ops in ten minutes. It's been something of a pleasure, but next time we'll play chess. Next week, same time?" Garak, who had also stood up with him, made a minute bow and offered one of his more enigmatic smiles. "Chess it is. I'm sure you'll defeat me as soundly as I did you today." "Mr. Garak, I doubt that very much." Garak nodded but offered no words to contradict his statement. "Good evening, chief." As he departed Quark's, O'Brien couldn't help the chuckle that came unbidden to his lips. It was so strange that it was amusing -- the fact that he'd not only lost a game of skill to a Cardassian, but that he didn't feel at all angry about it. It was all good and well, he mused. He'd never truly like the man, but the least he could do was respect him for what he was. ------------------------------- End of part 3/12. [Non-text portions of this message have been removed] Yahoo! Domains - Claim yours for only $14.70 http://us.click.yahoo.com/Z1wmxD/DREIAA/yQLSAA/5x3olB/TM ---------------------------------------------------------------------~-> Yahoo! Groups Links <*> To visit your group on the web, go to: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/ASCEM-S/ <*> To unsubscribe from this group, send an email to: ASCEM-S-unsubscribe@yahoogroups.com <*> Your use of Yahoo! Groups is subject to: http://docs.yahoo.com/info/terms/ From ???@??? Sun May 09 23:56:34 2004 X-Persona: Status: U Return-Path: Received: from n50.grp.scd.yahoo.com ([66.218.67.38]) by robin (EarthLink SMTP Server) with SMTP id 1bn1Sp3JO3NZFjX2 for ; Sun, 9 May 2004 20:54:49 -0700 (PDT) X-eGroups-Return: sentto-1978024-8066-1084161133-stephenbratliff=earthlink.net@returns.groups.yahoo.com eceived: from [66.218.66.29] by n50.grp.scd.yahoo.com with NNFMP; 10 May 2004 03:52:13 -0000 X-Sender: campbratcher@psci.net X-Apparently-To: ASCEM-S@yahoogroups.com Received: (qmail 18257 invoked from network); 10 May 2004 03:52:12 -0000 Received: from unknown (66.218.66.167) by m23.grp.scd.yahoo.com with QMQP; 10 May 2004 03:52:12 -0000 Received: from unknown (HELO mailstore.psci.net) (63.65.184.2) by mta6.grp.scd.yahoo.com with SMTP; 10 May 2004 03:52:12 -0000 Received: from max (as1-d25-rp-psci.psci.net [63.69.225.25]) by mailstore.psci.net (8.12.2/8.12.2) with SMTP id i4A3pxfP031573 for ; Sun, 9 May 2004 22:51:59 -0500 Message-ID: <003301c43642$34746040$87c5fea9@max> To: "ASCEM-S" Organization: ConGlomeration X-Priority: 3 X-MSMail-Priority: Normal X-Mailer: Microsoft Outlook Express 6.00.2800.1158 X-MIMEOLE: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V6.00.2800.1165 X-eGroups-Remote-IP: 63.65.184.2 From: "Keith & Jessica Bratcher" X-Yahoo-Profile: sileya MIME-Version: 1.0 Mailing-List: list ASCEM-S@yahoogroups.com; contact ASCEM-S-owner@yahoogroups.com Delivered-To: mailing list ASCEM-S@yahoogroups.com Precedence: bulk List-Unsubscribe: Date: Sun, 9 May 2004 22:52:23 -0500 Subject: [ASCEM-S] NEW DS9 "Nineteen Shades" 4/12 (G/B) [NC-17] Reply-To: "Keith & Jessica Bratcher" Content-Type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Please see part 1 for codes, disclaimers, and notes. ------------------------------------------- Nineteen Shades, by Penumbra (part 4/12) ------------------------------------------- Bashir sighed and stretched his arms over his head, frustrated that it was almost lunchtime and he'd made no progress all morning. Wincing as his muscles complained, he acceded to the fact that it was time to try his last chance. "Computer, locate Elim Garak." "Mr. Garak is not on this station," the computer replied in its dulcet tones. "What in the..." Bashir murmured in confusion. Garak hadn't mentioned anything about leaving the station. "When did he leave?" "Mr. Garak left Deep Space Nine on stardate 46371.3. Current location is unknown." Bashir made the quick calculation. "Now wait a minute. That was before the Federation even came on the station?" he started, but his tirade was cut short by Garak's voice coming over the comm. "Garak to Bashir. Doctor, you wished to speak to me?" "Well, yes," Bashir balked. "Garak, are you tampering with the station's computers again? Or maybe you've added telepathy to your range of dubious hobbies? Which wouldn't surprise me one bit, now that I think of it," he added, grousing when he couldn't decide if he should be amused or exasperated. "Neither, I'm afraid. I have spent a rather banal morning adjusting all of Morn's trousers to accommodate his ever-expanding girth. So while any interruption is certainly welcome, I trust you had something you wanted to discuss with me?" Shaking his head at Garak's evasion and haughty tone, Bashir decided to let it go. Again. "I've been trying to wake Mr. Serka from his slumber and frankly, my inability to do so has been severely detrimental to my professional ego," he said, trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice. Whatever signals the cortical implant was sending to Serka's brain, they'd eluded Bashir's instruments. Garak was his last source of information on how to wake up the man. "Ah! Say no more. I shall be there promptly. Garak out." True to his words, within five minutes Garak stepped through the open doorway of the infirmary. With a welcoming smile answered in kind and a wave of his hand, Bashir invited him in towards the ward, where Delemek Serka was resting on one of the biobeds. At the entrance to the ward, however, Garak paused and gestured discreetly towards the young Cardassian man who'd been glued to Serka's bedside for hours, never moving except to whisper unknown words into Serka's ear or brush away stray hairs from his forehead. A much younger man, he had a slender build with broad shoulders and narrow, delicate features that were accentuated by the simple tan tunic and trousers he wore. "Doctor, who is that? And has he been here long?" "Yes, ever since Odo allowed him to exit their quarters. I think he's a family member -- a brother, perhaps. His name is..." Bashir paused to check his files. "Thuli. No other name given." "Thuli, no second name given?" Garak bared his teeth and exhaled a disapproving hiss. It was a sound that was an obvious reptilian atavism, alien enough to disturb Bashir. "Yes, but what?" Garak stopped the question with a gesture, his eyes on the man sitting by Serka's biobed. "May I?" "Certainly," Bashir said and followed Garak into the isolation ward. He took position by the wall, close enough to monitor his patient but far back enough to ensure the privacy of his patient and visitors, while Garak approached the Cardassians. "Thuli." The Cardassian turned and hastily wiped away the tears that had pooled on the rims of his eyeridges. "Yes?" he said, and Bashir was surprised to hear the note of fear and submission in his voice -- a very un-Cardassian tone to use, but a natural compliment to the quiet menace in Garak's voice. "Why are you here? What is he to you?" Garak said, gesturing at Serka as he came to stand by the foot of the biobed. "You're certainly not his brother. A slave?" Thuli lifted his chin, anger warring with fear in his eyes. "I'm not his slave, Master Garak. Serka is of the future of Cardassia, he doesn't keep slaves. He's taken me as his *ha'kem*." Garak reared back in surprise and outrage. "He's done *what*?" His question was almost breathless. "You heard me right, Master Garak." The deference of Thuli's address clashed with the obvious trepidation in his voice, as if he were deathly afraid of the words coming out of his mouth. "Delemek Serka...Dele," Garak muttered, his gaze reproaching as it regarded the unconscious man. "I should kill you where you lie, for the disgrace you've brought to yourself and me." Before Bashir could react, the young Cardassian launched himself from his chair and plowed into Garak. The force of his sudden lunge threw them against the wall so savagely that Bashir could hear the containers in the cupboard behind the wall rattle. Garak's face hit the wall support with a dull thud and a gash split into his forehead. "You fatherless beast!" Thuli hissed into Garak's ear, his shoulders and face flushing to a dark, murky blue. "How dare you judge him, with all that he was to you?" Garak roared and made a sudden twist to his side, making Thuli stumble. A quick kick to his shin and a double-handed jab to the side of his neck brought him to his knees and as Bashir watched, horrified, Garak punched him in the face. The impact made a sickening sound, like a watermelon hitting duranium, and the force sent the young Cardassian reeling back on the floor. Blood flowed freely from his torn eyeridge and with obvious fear in his eyes, he watched Garak crouch down over him. "Weak idiot! That's what Dele is, a weak man who has taken an *as'kjresnic* like you as his chosen." Thuli flinched at the words Garak spat at him, shielding his face with a hand as he looked at the floor. Shame was written all over his features, even as he spoke with a voice so fearful and trembling Bashir would've thought him a Ferengi and not a Cardassian. "I love him." "You don't deserve him, you son of waste," Garak murmured in reply, his voice dangerously calm now even as he lifted his fist into another strike. "His choice disgraces both him and me, and I will put an end to it." "Garak!" Bashir exclaimed, stepping in and restraining his friend with a hand on his shoulder. When he turned, Bashir saw the look in Garak's eyes and it was unsettling, as was the trail of blood flowing down his forehead and nose. "Stop it. You're bleeding, he's bleeding, and I will have no further violence in my infirmary." Garak's hand lowered slowly even as his eyes fixed on Thuli. "You're right, my friend. His flesh is not worthy of my fist," he said and rose with his usual fluid grace, obviously once more in control of his faculties. Without another glance at the shivering, prone Cardassian on the ground, he stepped away and touched his forehead. His fingers came away bloody and he regarded them with abstract interest. "Well, doctor, it seems I'm in need of your expert services." Glancing at Thuli, who was bleeding all over the carpet, Bashir figured they both were. But Thuli's cuts were as superficial as Garak's, so he instructed Nurse Jabara to tend to the young Cardassian while he himself guided his friend into the nearest visitor's chair. After digging out a dermal regenerator, he took the one next to it and got to work on Garak's forehead. "Now do you want to explain to me what the hell that was all about?" Bashir asked as he ran the regenerator over the cut. "Who is Thuli, anyway?" "Serka's illegitimate catamite. The old fool, he's chosen a Lower Sixth as his *ha'kem*." Garak's statement, incomprehensible to Bashir, was pronounced with a tone of abject outrage and disgust. Rolling his eyes, the doctor thought that recently, all he did around Garak was frown and feel generally clueless. "His what?" "It seems you're in desperate need of a refresher on Cardassian social customs," Garak tsked. "*Ha'kem*. A brother of flesh." "A what?" Garak sighed and rolled his eyes with baroque eloquence of gestures. "His lover, doctor," he enunciated carefully, wincing as the dermal generator attending to his forehead jerked clean away. "Careful, my dear man. I wouldn't want to end up with Bajoran nose ridges for my trouble." Bashir mumbled an apology and switched the instrument off. He turned, eyes back on Thuli. The young Cardassian had seated himself by the biobed again and as Nurse Jabara worked on his wounds, he was brushing away stray hair from Serka's face. His composure was a study in sorrow and love, and Bashir finally saw what he hadn't before understood. The closeness he'd previously presumed to stem from familial bonds had turned out to be something quite different; it was the bond of lovers. Promptly, Bashir's concept of the Cardassian society underwent major upheaval from vague generalities to a swirling mass of uncertainties. "I...see," he said faintly and took a deep breath before dragging his eyes back on Garak's disapproving visage. With an apologetic smile, he resumed tending to Garak's wound. "So what's the Lower Sixth, then?" he asked conversationally. "The undesirables -- the *as'kjresnita* that live on the fringes and are not spoken of," Garak replied, and there was deep disgust in his curt words that discouraged further inquiry. "To take one as your *ha'kem* is...." Garak trailed off, obviously unable to find strong enough a word to convey his revolt, but his tone spoke volumes. Bashir frowned and inspected his handiwork by smoothing a finger up the ridge leading from Garak's nose to the spoon shape on his forehead. The skin under his fingers was smooth and warm, like the finest silk. "Love is love, is it not?" he muttered as he placed the dermal regenerator back into his kit. "It overcomes all obstacles." His words earned him a sharp glance from Garak. "Trite cliches rarely hold anything but generalisations of complex issues. Yes, love is love, but not always." He paused and the scrutiny he gave Bashir made him fidget. "To provide a crude analogy, how would your society view an intimate relationship between you and your biological brother?" "As the breaking of an unbreakable taboo. But they're not biologically related, are they?" "No, thank Guls. They're not," Garak murmured and felt his own forehead. "Thank you, doctor, I feel good as new." When Garak offered no further words, Bashir leaned in and caught his eye. "So? This taboo," he prompted. "After taking part in a game of fisticuffs in my infirmary, you can't expect to be let off with just the vaguest of explanations as to why it took place to begin with." "Doctor. You're a scientist, yes?" Garak asked, his eyes once again glittering with his specific shade of mischief. "I like to think of myself as one, yes." "Then research is your path to enlightenment. I have every faith in your abilities, my dear friend," Garak said and stood up, smoothing down the creases in his pants. "Now, I simply must go. An afternoon appointment with Ambassador Troi and her voluminous dresses awaits me." "What about him?" Bashir said and hooked his thumb towards the still-unconscious Serka on the biobed. "You promised you'd wake him up." "Ah. Yes. I did, didn't I?" With that, Garak re-entered the isolation room, with Bashir again in tow. The doctor was relieved when neither Garak nor the young Cardassian made any moves towards one another; instead, Garak merely eyed the young man with contempt, and he in turn shrank into his chair on the other side of the biobed, chagrined and desolate. Approaching the bed, Garak leaned over the prone figure, and when he brushed his fingers gently down the sharp angle of Serka's cheekbone, Bashir was startled to realise that Garak's touch was no less gentle than Thuli's had been. His hand still on Serka's face, cradling it as if it were made of glass, Garak leaned in and whispered something into his ear, unheard by all but the two. With one last lingering glance and touch, Garak turned away and approached Bashir. "He should wake up in an hour or so." Bashir blinked. "Uh...thank you, Garak. I think." "Good day, doctor." Watching Garak's back as he exited the infirmary, Bashir shook his head. He'd grasped none of what had just happened and understood even less of what little Garak had explained about the situation. *Ha'kem*. Lower Sixth. Taboos. Recalling Garak's words of advice, it was clear to Bashir what he needed to do to satisfy his curiosity: research, research, and research. His mind made up, Bashir checked the wall chrono. Good. It was time for lunch, and he had a particular establishment in mind for that. * * * * * * * * * * Lunch at Quark's was always a noisy affair, but Jadzia Dax didn't mind. She rather enjoyed the loud, boisterous ambiance generated by the more or less seedy characters inhabiting the bar seemingly round the clock, screaming 'Dabo!' and drinking alcoholic drinks in cheery disregard of the early hour. The bar was so full that day, in fact, that she'd been forced to take a seat by the bar to be able to enjoy her plomeek soup and raktajino seated. Trying not to be bored out of her skull with the lateral sensor telemetry data she was browsing on her PADD, Dax saw Quark approach her with an air of idle curiosity -- a certain sign that the Ferengi had something juicy to share. "Well, this has been a day of surprises and coincidences," Quark sighed with aplomb as he leaned his hip against the bar across from her. Dax glanced at Quark from the corner of her eye. "How so?" she said, a study in nonchalance as she kept her eyes on her PADD. "Well. You see, last night and thus before this whole business with Dr. Bashir, I see Chief O'Brien playing a board game with Garak--" "What?" Abandoning all pretense of reading her PADD, Dax sat up straighter and frowned at Quark. What he'd said made no sense. "O'Brien, with *Garak*? You're kidding, right?" "Nope," Quark said and smiled with the full range of his thin lips and sharp teeth. Dax recognised that smile as only a fellow lover of gossip would: this was juicy indeed. "Since they went to Empok Nor and what happened, y'know, with Amaro and..." Dax waved her hand impatiently; she'd been at the inquest so all this was old news to her. "Yes, yes, go on." "Well, it seems this entire episode led to a bit of a bonding action between the Chief and Garak." "Even though Garak killed a Starfleet officer, threatened to shoot poor Nog, and then proceeded to wipe the floor with the Chief himself? What gives?" "Before his moment of insanity, Garak did sort of save them, too -- he killed the two Cardassian soldiers, right? I guess him being under the influence and all sort of....hu-manised Garak for O'Brien." Quark cocked his head. "You know. New sides to him and such. And then, next thing you know, they're drinking kanaar and synthale together over a game of Kotra." "All right," Dax said slowly, not quite believing it herself. "So what was that with Julian, then?" Quark leaned forward, both elbows on the counter as he obviously warmed to his topic. "Yes, well. As if the Chief socialising with the Cardassian contingent wasn't enough for one day, then Dr. Bashir walks in, just five minutes ago. I have his Tarkalean tea keyed up on the replicator but to my surprise, he marches right up to the counter, agitated as all get out. And then..." he said, trailing off as he eyed Dax. "He was very adamant that I shouldn't tell anyone." Dax leaned in, her best predatory smile spreading on her lips. "Quark. Do you want me to tell Odo what you have stored in Cargo Bay 6, behind all those innocuous barrels of blood wine?" Blanching into a fetching shade of pale ochre, Quark hastened to speak. "No, really, there's no need to get the good constable involved in all this." "Quite so. Proceed." His token resistance given, Quark smiled again. "We were on Dr. Bashir, yes? So he walks up to the counter looking very perturbed indeed and makes an order for one kanaar -- kanaar, at this hour! -- and some literature. Specifically, all the literature I can find on Cardassian social customs and," he said, lowering his voice as he finished with, "sexuality." Astonished, Dax set her empty mug down and stared at Quark's wagging eyebrows. "Really?" she breathed. This was excellent gossip, indeed the best kind: surprising, unbelievable, and featuring the word sex. "Mmm-hmm," Quark hummed as he reached back for the raktajino thermos. "To the tune of two bars of latinum, no less. Paid in advance, too," he said, patting the breast of his suit as he lifted the thermos to Dax, a question in his gesture. "Please," Dax said absently and waved at her cup. "Well I'll say. Julian researching Cardassian social customs." "And sexuality. Don't forget about sexuality." "How could I?" Dax exhaled, not quite knowing what to think. "Oh, Julian." "We've got only one and a half Cardassians here on the station, so guessing the who is not that hard," Quark muttered as he refreshed her raktajino. "What I don't get is the why." "Garak is an...interesting man," Dax said. She was unhappy with her flat choice of adjectives but couldn't think of a better one since she was feeling somewhat stupefied by the implications. Julian and *Garak*? "He's a Cardassian, and as Cardassian as ever. Talkative, devious, holier-than-thou...interesting, pfft," Quark snorted. He leaned an elbow against the bar as he gazed up to the second level, where Garak was lunching with Ziyal. "And all those dark, conservative colours he wears! The man calls himself a tailor and wouldn't know style if it hit him upside the head. I've needed to teach him a thing or two over the years about the finer points of fashion." Dax ran an appraising eye over Quark's outfit that was a kaleidoscopic riot of colours, patterns, and styles with gold clasps and flared edges and ruffles everywhere. All that was missing were some artfully placed tassels and maybe a few blinking lights, she mused. "I can see why you would say that," she remarked neutrally and hid her smile in her raktajino when Quark gave her the fish eye. "So you're thinking it can't be Ziyal?" "Feh," Quark said, dismissing her with a roll of his eyes. "She's not been brought up in a Cardassian culture, so it would make no sense for Bashir to study these things to woo her. And furthermore, would you want Gul Dukat as your father-in-law?" Cringing at the thought, all Dax could do was to nod in agreement. "Maybe it's one of the Cardassian visitors we have on board?" Quark sucked in a breath through his teeth, obviously evaluating the proposition. "Maybe," he finally said, "but seems unlikely. The doctor hasn't been in much contact with them. No, my money's on Garak." "And the doctor's intentions regarding Garak are...?" Dax prompted. "Oh, I have a few ideas," Quark mused, his eyes half-lidded as an expression part greed and part curiosity flitted across his face. Dax smiled. She had a few inklings of her own as to what had so distressed her dear Julian, but before she could investigate the matter further, there were things of greater importance that had to be attended to. "Well. Care to make a wager on that point, Quark?" Meeting her eyes fully, Quark smiled. "The very words I live to hear from you, Jadzia." ------------------------------- End of part 4/12. [Non-text portions of this message have been removed] Make a clean sweep of pop-up ads. Yahoo! Companion Toolbar. Now with Pop-Up Blocker. Get it for free! http://us.click.yahoo.com/L5YrjA/eSIIAA/yQLSAA/5x3olB/TM ---------------------------------------------------------------------~-> Yahoo! Groups Links <*> To visit your group on the web, go to: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/ASCEM-S/ <*> To unsubscribe from this group, send an email to: ASCEM-S-unsubscribe@yahoogroups.com <*> Your use of Yahoo! Groups is subject to: http://docs.yahoo.com/info/terms/ From ???@??? Sun May 09 23:56:34 2004 X-Persona: Status: U Return-Path: Received: from n44.grp.scd.yahoo.com ([66.218.67.19]) by condor (EarthLink SMTP Server) with SMTP id 1bn1QI4783NZFjK1 for ; Sun, 9 May 2004 20:53:04 -0700 (PDT) X-eGroups-Return: sentto-1978024-8067-1084161146-stephenbratliff=earthlink.net@returns.groups.yahoo.com eceived: from [66.218.66.30] by n44.grp.scd.yahoo.com with NNFMP; 10 May 2004 03:52:26 -0000 X-Sender: campbratcher@psci.net X-Apparently-To: ASCEM-S@yahoogroups.com Received: (qmail 24837 invoked from network); 10 May 2004 03:52:26 -0000 Received: from unknown (66.218.66.167) by m24.grp.scd.yahoo.com with QMQP; 10 May 2004 03:52:26 -0000 Received: from unknown (HELO mailstore.psci.net) (63.65.184.2) by mta6.grp.scd.yahoo.com with SMTP; 10 May 2004 03:52:25 -0000 Received: from max (as1-d25-rp-psci.psci.net [63.69.225.25]) by mailstore.psci.net (8.12.2/8.12.2) with SMTP id i4A3qEfP031755 for ; Sun, 9 May 2004 22:52:14 -0500 Message-ID: <003801c43642$3da6cea0$87c5fea9@max> To: "ASCEM-S" Organization: ConGlomeration X-Priority: 3 X-MSMail-Priority: Normal X-Mailer: Microsoft Outlook Express 6.00.2800.1158 X-MIMEOLE: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V6.00.2800.1165 X-eGroups-Remote-IP: 63.65.184.2 From: "Keith & Jessica Bratcher" X-Yahoo-Profile: sileya MIME-Version: 1.0 Mailing-List: list ASCEM-S@yahoogroups.com; contact ASCEM-S-owner@yahoogroups.com Delivered-To: mailing list ASCEM-S@yahoogroups.com Precedence: bulk List-Unsubscribe: Date: Sun, 9 May 2004 22:52:39 -0500 Subject: [ASCEM-S] NEW DS9 "Nineteen Shades" 5/12 (G/B) [NC-17] Reply-To: "Keith & Jessica Bratcher" Content-Type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Please see part 1 for codes, disclaimers, and notes. ------------------------------------------- Nineteen Shades, by Penumbra (part 5/12) ------------------------------------------- "So there's nothing you can do?" O'Brien sighed and rubbed his tired, itching eyes. He hated hearing that note of dejection and carefully concealed disappointment in Julian's voice. "Nothing, really. The implant emits a quasi-stable distortion field that adapts to whatever sensors we try to scan it with. If I can't see the insides, I can't turn it off." "And we don't know what turning it off would do to Delemek," Bashir said, interpreting between the lines. "Well, I guess that's it. I'm going to release him this afternoon, if nothing new crops up." "It doesn't seem to do him that much harm in general, though. Better let sleeping dogs lie, Julian." O'Brien glanced at Serka. "So it's voice activated?" Bashir nodded and tapped the analysis screen with a long, slender finger. "Garak's voice, specifically." O'Brien frowned. "That's odd...have you figured out what the connection is?" he asked, looking at Serka more closely. The Cardassian was deep in hushed conversation with his young companion, both seated on the biobed with their foreheads almost touching. A father and a son? Brothers? Comrades in arms? O'Brien couldn't quite puzzle out their connection. "Judging from the scarring on the hypothalamus and brainstem where the implant attaches, I would say this device has been in his head for years, if not decades," Bashir said. The tone of professional objectivity he was obviously striving for didn't sound quite genuine to O'Brien's ears. "I think it dates back to the time Garak was working for the Obsidian Order." "Wait, I thought he was a gardener on Romulus?" O'Brien said and shared a sarcastic glance with Bashir. "So it's a torture device?" Bashir grimaced. "More like a restraint device." He paused for a moment and when O'Brien glanced at him, he saw how unfocused his eyes were. "But there's more to this than meets the eye. There's a personal connection between Serka and Garak. I'd bet my reputation on it." O'Brien scrutinised his friend, taking in the firm set of his jaw and the glint of the hunt for information that always appeared in his eyes when he was this way -- Julian, the enemy of enigmas. "What're you thinking?" "I'm thinking there are sides to Garak I haven't seen before. Things I need to find out to unravel this puzzle," he said, nodding towards Serka. "Are you absolutely sure you want to learn some of those things?" Bashir turned to him, frowning again. "What do you mean, Miles?" O'Brien thought the question for a moment. What indeed was he protecting his friend from? The truth? Perhaps. To O'Brien the problem was that he'd met men like Garak before, mostly during his time as a crewman on the Rutledge. They were men for whom the taking or sparing of a life was no more complicated a decision than deciding on what to have for lunch. There was that moment of calm consideration regarding needs and possible preferences, followed by a cool-headed decision and swift, sure action. A lifeless body; plomeek soup with extra cumin. The truth about such people, the darker shades of grey in their world that ran the gamut of shades, could be a dangerous weapon. O'Brien wasn't sure his friend's still optimistic, somewhat rose-tinted view of people could handle the full truth about Garak, and while he personally might not like Garak, but the worldly, wordy tailor was obviously a person of great importance in Bashir's life. Why, O'Brien didn't know, and it really didn't matter, because all he cared about was Julian's well-being. It wouldn't do to have the rest of his noble illusions about the base nature of humanity -- alien or not -- shattered. "I just don't want you to get hurt, Julian," O'Brien finally said, deciding to go for the oblique in the interests of staying as neutral as possible. Bashir frowned, obviously not grasping what he was saying. "Hurt? Miles, why would I--" He was interrupted by the comm as it chirped. "Quark to Bashir," came Quark's voice from his combadge. "Bashir here." "I've got your merchandise waiting, doctor." "Quark, you devil of a Ferengi," Bashir exclaimed and stood up so quickly O'Brien wondered how he didn't pass out because of it. "I'll be right there. Bashir out." The comm channel broke with a chirp. "What merchandise?" O'Brien asked, narrowing his eyes. Doing business with Quark was something Bashir rarely did, holosuites and dartboards notwithstanding. "My missing puzzle pieces, Miles," Bashir replied, his smile fairly beaming. "Please excuse me." With that, Bashir rushed out, leaving O'Brien standing in his wake, his toolbox in hand and a look of confusion on his face. "Be careful, Julian," he muttered to the empty infirmary. "Be very careful." * * * * * * * * * * The infirmary was quiet at the hour of the wolf save for the steady hum of the machinery around him and the slight rasp of his breathing. There were no patients to tend to, no-one to distract him during the hours since he'd released Delemek Serka to Thuli's gentle, doting care. "Computer, pause output." Bashir raked a slightly shaky hand through his hair and blinked. His eyes felt like someone had poured sand into them -- the not entirely unexpected result of quiet hours spent staring at his computer screen. It had been... "Educational," Bashir said out loud, tasting the word and the roughness of his own voice. No, educational didn't even begin to cover it. Quark had come through that very afternoon and he'd been speed-reading through the files as if they were pornography, constantly glancing over his shoulder and hoping he wouldn't be interrupted until he was done. And he wouldn't be done for a long time unless he tried a more organised approach to the mountain of data. "Computer. Search files for Lower Sixth." After a pregnant pause, the computer replied in its pleasant tones, "No matches found." Bashir frowned. "None?" "Affirmative." Surprised but not defeated, he plowed on. "In that case, search files for *ha'kem*." "3,602 references to *ha'kem* found." "Well, now," Bashir crooned, surprised and delighted at the large number. "Classify references, order by decreasing frequency." "2,158 references in Cardassian literature indices. 819 in medical texts. 214 in cultural anthropology texts. 122 in..." "Halt," he groaned, pressing his knuckles into his aching eyes. "I get it, I get it." While he found it curious there was no mention of the Lower Sixth that Garak had referred to, it also made sense in the context of taboos -- after all, they were the unwritten rules of any society, and thus unlikely to be referred to in print. *Ha'kem*, however, was a concept as commonplace as marriage or war in the small amount of material he'd gone through. It was the subject of copious poetry, research, and doctrine and as it stood, it seemed homosexuality was, if not universally approved, all but institutionalised in Cardassian society. Now, what Bashir found curious was that he'd never come across the term before in all the Cardassian literature he had read during the years he'd been acquainted with Garak. He could think of two reasons for it: either Garak abhorred the practice, or it was a subject he'd not wanted to discuss for whatever personal reasons he had...and Bashir had an inkling Delemek Serka had something to with those personal reasons. Both options raised some uncomfortable questions. "So, Garak," Bashir muttered into the semi-darkness of the Infirmary. "Are you homophobic or just being your usual secretive self?" He added the question to his mental list of questions he'd like answered, but this time, the reasons were almost too personal to say out loud. Bashir pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. Obscene, his desires were. His cock disagreed cheerfully and to his consternation, Bashir found himself hardening as he thought back to the texts of Cardassian sexuality he'd plowed through. Endless erogenous zones. Rituals almost Tantric in nature. Pheromones. The taste of Cardassian semen, the shape of Cardassian breasts. *Rak'tal*. Flirtation through argumentation. Ridges. Scales. Positions that defied anatomy and gravity. On and on and on. The texts had been clinical in nature yet Bashir had found himself lingering over them, learning pressure points and the right words and things that made him blush even as he felt his cock throb in anticipation. He groaned. Apart from the occasional dalliance to the male side of the equation, he tended to like them perky, female, and harmless. When did his dick start to like them dark, vaguely sinister, and smooth-talking -- not to mention alien, somewhat reptilian, and the farthest thing from harmless he could think of? "And that's the problem, isn't it, Jules?" His words seemed strangely loud in the quiet space, even though he'd whispered them only to himself, much like the secret he was now forced to admit to himself. He didn't want just any Cardassian. He wanted Garak. At that, Bashir mumbled expletives, embarrassed beyond belief but also relieved. It was a truth he'd avoided for years, stumbling across it at the most unexpected moments -- over lunch with Garak sitting across from him, alone in his quarters during idle moments of masturbation, as he passed by Garak's shop and overheard his sing-song voice discussing alterations with a customer -- and always wanting to avoid it like the coward that he was. For five years he'd tried to solve the Garak enigma, and in the process, had fallen under his spell. "I want Garak," he said out loud, testing the words and finding them acutely uncomfortable, yet infinitely true. But why? He couldn't quite figure out what it was that was so attractive about Garak. By human aesthetic standards, Cardassians were an angular, predatory race that still held on to so many qualities of their reptilian ancestors -- scales, ridges, cold-blooded physiology -- but of course, it was unfair to judge them with such Human bias. Garak was an individual and deserved to be regarded as such. Maybe it was the full pout of his lips, a shape so in contrast with the hard, sharp angles of his face. Or perhaps it was the way light hit him, hiding his eyes under the browridges and bringing out the texture of his skin -- slick and so smooth it was like silk. Bashir wondered where the scales ended, whether they tapered off or meandered down his back only to stop abruptly at an unknown point? Would his very human hands be cold, or warm? Would they be rough or gentle, clever as they were in coaxing secrets out of people as well as conjuring up fashion from fabric? The hands of a torturer were surely skilled in all types of art. Desire scaled down Bashir's spine at that thought, warm with embarrassment and his unabashed lust for such knowledge. He imagined Garak as he'd last seen him when he'd come back that evening for a follow-up call on his forehead cut. He'd seated himself in one of the visitor chairs and smiled with that familiar, cruel twist to his mouth that made Bashir uncomfortable when sober and gave him pleasant shivers when drunk. It was not the smile of a kind man, or really a smile at all, but it still managed to make him absolutely weak in the knees every single time. Under the deep shadows of Garak's brows, there had been nothing but the reflection of light and his voice had been a quiet caress, urbane and rich. They'd talked, but for the life of him, Bashir couldn't recall the exact topic because there was something quite unsettling about anyone who maintained unblinking eye contact when conversing. It was flattering, too, in its own way, to so feel as the centre of the universe for that person, in that moment. There was more pain than pleasure in his groin now, his pants uncomfortably tight as they both confined and stimulated his erection, his senses overloaded and needing, wanting, begging to have release. Bashir held his breath, fearing that if he let go of it, he'd not get another. There were things he wanted to do to Garak, all those obscene things. He'd like to tilt that damn cool, Cardassian equilibrium just a little, ruin the neat perfection of his hair, make Garak lose that which he treasured most: control. He would make the economy of Garak's body and moves disappear into shivers of uncontrollable delight, make him scream out his need in that sonorous, rich tenor of his. He wondered how the pheromones would affect him, how Garak's sharp tongue would feel on his skin, and how a Cardassian cock, scales and all, would feel in his mouth. At that thought, Bashir finally exhaled, the sound almost as violent as his relief was. "Oh god," he hissed, trying to force out the thoughts that so turned him on. He found himself failing. Placing a hand over his throbbing erection, now making quite an unseemly bulge in his uniform pants, he groaned in suppressed need. This wasn't just curiosity that needed to be satisfied, no -- it went far beyond that. This was intrigue, pure want, a need to touch and be touched...to love and be loved. The chafe of his clothes over the sensitised skin of his aching hardness was pure torture and so he unzipped his pants to let his cock out, sighing in relief when the pressure eased. In the end, it took him no time at all. The mere touch of his hand on his rock-hard erection, combined with the thought of it being Garak's hand, was enough to bring him into a shuddering, breathless orgasm that clouded his vision with stars. He came all over his work console, biting his lower lip to blood so that he wouldn't cry out Garak's name in his release. Breathing in great, open-mouthed gulps, Bashir leaned with one hand against his desk and touched his hot semen now coating the glossy, black screen of the console. His heart was racing and the flush he felt on his cheeks came as much from his arousal as it did from confusion. "I'm so fucked," he whispered into the quiet infirmary and his only answer was the hum of the station power grid, agreeing with him. He needed to talk to Garak. Immediately, before he could talk himself out of it. ------------------------------- End of part 5/12. [Non-text portions of this message have been removed] Make a clean sweep of pop-up ads. Yahoo! Companion Toolbar. Now with Pop-Up Blocker. Get it for free! http://us.click.yahoo.com/L5YrjA/eSIIAA/yQLSAA/5x3olB/TM ---------------------------------------------------------------------~-> Yahoo! Groups Links <*> To visit your group on the web, go to: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/ASCEM-S/ <*> To unsubscribe from this group, send an email to: ASCEM-S-unsubscribe@yahoogroups.com <*> Your use of Yahoo! Groups is subject to: http://docs.yahoo.com/info/terms/ From ???@??? Sun May 09 23:56:34 2004 X-Persona: Status: U Return-Path: Received: from n13.grp.scd.yahoo.com ([66.218.66.68]) by eagle (EarthLink SMTP Server) with SMTP id 1bn1RB5uJ3NZFji0 for ; Sun, 9 May 2004 20:53:58 -0700 (PDT) X-eGroups-Return: sentto-1978024-8069-1084161170-stephenbratliff=earthlink.net@returns.groups.yahoo.com eceived: from [66.218.66.27] by n13.grp.scd.yahoo.com with NNFMP; 10 May 2004 03:52:50 -0000 X-Sender: campbratcher@psci.net X-Apparently-To: ASCEM-S@yahoogroups.com Received: (qmail 10379 invoked from network); 10 May 2004 03:52:50 -0000 Received: from unknown (66.218.66.218) by m21.grp.scd.yahoo.com with QMQP; 10 May 2004 03:52:50 -0000 Received: from unknown (HELO mailstore.psci.net) (63.65.184.2) by mta3.grp.scd.yahoo.com with SMTP; 10 May 2004 03:52:49 -0000 Received: from max (as1-d25-rp-psci.psci.net [63.69.225.25]) by mailstore.psci.net (8.12.2/8.12.2) with SMTP id i4A3qRfP032018 for ; Sun, 9 May 2004 22:52:27 -0500 Message-ID: <003d01c43642$4561df40$87c5fea9@max> To: "ASCEM-S" Organization: ConGlomeration X-Priority: 3 X-MSMail-Priority: Normal X-Mailer: Microsoft Outlook Express 6.00.2800.1158 X-MIMEOLE: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V6.00.2800.1165 X-eGroups-Remote-IP: 63.65.184.2 From: "Keith & Jessica Bratcher" X-Yahoo-Profile: sileya MIME-Version: 1.0 Mailing-List: list ASCEM-S@yahoogroups.com; contact ASCEM-S-owner@yahoogroups.com Delivered-To: mailing list ASCEM-S@yahoogroups.com Precedence: bulk List-Unsubscribe: Date: Sun, 9 May 2004 22:52:52 -0500 Subject: [ASCEM-S] NEW DS9 "Nineteen Shades" 6/12 (G/B) [NC-17] Reply-To: "Keith & Jessica Bratcher" Content-Type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Please see part 1 for codes, disclaimers, and notes. ------------------------------------------- Nineteen Shades, by Penumbra (part 6/12) ------------------------------------------- Garak pulled the belt of his robe tighter and exhaled slowly. In the one-quarter light of his quarters, Serka's scales glowed with cool, silver light where the shadows didn't touch the parts of his skin that had darkened because of his arousal during their Parting. Seeing his former lover naked and in the familiar kneeling position of a supplicant was harder on his soul than Garak had thought possible. "What was that quaint human saying I heard Captain Sisko use a few days ago -- absence makes the heart grow fonder?" Serka smiled as he tilted his head up to look him in the eye. "I've missed you, too, Elim," he said in his calm, clear tenor. His emerging erection, glistening and dark against his abdomen, seemed to agree. Garak crouched in front of his former lover and slid his fingertips along the length of Delemek's hardness. It was scalding hot and slick to the touch and the shiver of delight that ran through Delemek at the touch was very gratifying. Bringing his fingers to his face, Garak inhaled the scent of the pheromone secretion that clung to his fingers. It was a heady cocktail on his senses, the musky smell reminding him of days past, their long nights of both fevered, furious fucking and slow lovemaking of whispered words and touches. A stab of desperate need shot straight into his groin, but Garak ignored it. He had other interests now. Other interests. Garak almost laughed out loud at the thought. His desire for Julian was so much more than mere interest: it was the only thing he still considered good and pure in himself. "There's someone else for you now, isn't there?" Serka, clever as ever, had obviously not forgotten how to read him. "Yes. Perhaps," Garak murmured, his hand coming to rest on Serka's thigh. It never did him any good to lie to this man who, at one point in his long life, had known him better than he himself. "Alas, you're luckier than I am in that regard. You have what you desire in your bed." "Thuli is good for me. I can't care about his history when he loves me," Serka said, and there was a defensive note in his tone. "Love is all that matters," he added. Grasping Serka's hand in his, Garak touched the neat suture scars where the three first fingers of his hand were missing. In a flash of remembrance, he remembered how sharp his knife had been and how sticky Delemek's blood had been, thicker than his scream of pain. "I taught you better than that, Dele," he said, gently chiding. "Love can heal and make you younger, but it can't erase circumstances." Serka lowered his head and satisfaction blossomed warmly in Garak's chest. His message was going to be ignored but at least he'd delivered it. The circumstances that had led to their love growing sour all those years ago were different from what both of them faced now -- Delemek with his illegitimate choice for a *ha'kem*, he himself with his unrequited desire for Julian -- yet as condemning. Back then, many things had been against them, so many that Garak had trouble remembering them all: Enabran and his misguided care for him, his violent machinations as the Obsidian Order prodigy, Delemek's precarious position in the Central Command and subsequent short-sighted misuse of their affair for political gain...too many to count, indeed. "Circumstances are in our power to change." "Only up to a point," Garak said, letting go of Serka's hand. "You are a hunted dissident, I'm an exile. Life has not been kind to either of us, my friend." Serka straightened his back and clasped his hands behind his back. He showed no sign of how uncomfortable his kneeling position was, and pride swelled in Garak's chest. Delemek was once his beautiful man, still beautiful in his well-maintained body and in his complicated mind. That mind was now obviously at an interesting crossroads, torn between the wants of the body and the restrictions his better self placed on him. Garak knew Serka wanted him, so much was evident, but the Parting was what it was and it wouldn't do to ruin it with a moment of nostalgia sex. So he had kept his robe on even when Serka had not, had resisted the temptation to take advantage of the desirable body offered to him. "I'm sorry about my outburst yesterday," Serka said, sincerity colouring both his voice and his gaze. "It was unbecoming of me. I forgot my place." Garak touched his chest where Serka had thrown the *Sher'ahm* before attacking him in the wardroom. The gesture had been expected, the rage had not. "You surprised me." A smug grin flashed on Serka's lips, disappearing as quickly as it had appeared. "I always did manage to do that to you, didn't I?" "One of your more admirable qualities -- not many people could do that. Great irony, then, that it was also part of your undoing," Garak said and touched Serka's temple, tracing the forehead ridge down. It was a shape so very familiar to him and he held back a wistful sigh when his former lover leaned into the gentle touch. "That's why the Order had the control implant installed when it was time for me to question you." "I was surprised you still remembered the control words, after all these years," Serka said, his eyes closing as he rubbed his cheek against Garak's palm. "Although I guess I shouldn't have. In reliability, your memory was rivalled only by your loyalty to the Order." Garak smiled and pulled back his hand with not a small amount of regret. Although the love had grown old, part of his visceral memory still remembered the man kneeling before him, recalled the pleasures they'd shared. "And therein lies the greatest of ironies. My loyalty." The irony was, of course, that he had killed that to which he had sworn his undying loyalty: Enabran Tain. It had been Enabran who'd ordered him to install the control implant to his lover's brain, and fool that he had been, he'd followed those orders. He'd followed the other orders, too: he had questioned Delemek on trivial things, taken the whip to his back when he had not replied, installed the control chip when he had rebelled. Tain had ordered him to sever all ties to Serka and so he had, cutting off his fingers and toes to mark him as a traitor, and then kicked him into the streets as if he was a filthy Sixth. Garak smiled sadly as he stood, his eyes never leaving the strong, graceful curve of Serka's shoulders and the dark eyes that watched him with warmth and love he didn't deserve. Enabran Tain had paid for what he'd have his son and protege do, of course: Garak had killed him, not once or twice but three times. First, by betraying him and the Obsidian Order; the second time by leaving him to die with his fleet in the Gamma Quadrant; the third time at the Dominion prison asteroid by turning up without the army Tain had hoped for. All those times, Tain had died a duped man, alone and miserable, and Garak hoped that regardless of when his time would come, he would not face it as a man as lonely as his father had been. Alas, as if there was a curse on the son of Tain, he seemed destined to follow his father's footsteps into that misery. The door chime interrupted his sombre thoughts. * * * * * * * * * * Bashir fidgeted and pressed the chime again. "Come," Garak's voice said through the door in reply to his second chime and the door opened. With a deep, fortifying breath, Bashir obeyed the curt word. When he stepped in, sweat sprang up on his forehead immediately. It was dark and hot inside Garak's quarters, and Bashir recognised the settings as the Cardassian standard: one-quarter lights, temperature at 48 degrees Centigrade. In the penumbra, he could see Garak's dark form silhouetted against the starfield visible through the porthole behind him, the cold light catching the pale, silver glow of his skin and the gleam of the long, dark Bolian silk robe he was wearing. He was standing in front of a naked, kneeling figure whose back was facing Bashir, but it was easy to tell he was a Cardassian; the echo of silver skin and the sharp, raised ridges that shone in the darkness were clues enough. The Cardassian had his head bowed down and he'd clasped his hands behind him and so Bashir could tell he was missing three fingers from one hand, along with the three toes missing from his bare left foot. Delemek Serka, his brain supplied. In shock, Bashir froze and took in the whole arrangement: the kneeling, deferent figure of Delemek Serka and Garak's shadowed, broad form towering above him in a balanced arrangement of power and submission. The scents of incense and something extrinsic wafted in the too-hot air to tickle his nose and the darkness lit only by scattered candles and the light of the stars was almost too opaque for him to see in. All this put together presented a tableau that was intimate yet oddly alien, as if he'd interrupted a deeply private ritual whose significance he couldn't even begin to fathom. "I, uh, I didn't mean to bother you," Bashir stammered, taking a step backwards towards the door. "I'm sorry," he added, and was stopped by Garak's words. "Oh, no bother at all, doctor. Please stay. Delemek and I were merely catching up," Garak said and reached to touch Serka's cheek as he looked down at him, his eyes glittering in the semi-darkness brighter than the stars behind him. For once, the expression on Garak's face was not careful control; no, it was ethereal calm. "Catching up?" Bashir asked, his voice wavering a bit. "Reminiscing about old times," Garak explained softly, and his mien of tender affection was mirrored on Serka's profile when he turned his head up and to the side to look at Garak. It was a look that spoke of love and loss; of battles long gone that had left behind lingering bitterness; of emotions that Bashir had never seen on Garak's face, for they were vulnerabilities. Suddenly, facts clicked into order in Bashir's mind. "You! It's you. You're that woman, aren't you?" Looking up and smiling with his full set of very white teeth, for a long moment Garak stroked his chin ridge as if thinking. "Alas, had I ever been female, I would've been a singularly ugly one," he finally said, amusement in his voice. "No, you thick-headed Cardassian -- in that story you told me." Garak's smile did not waver an inch. "Which story would that be?" Bashir stepped further into the room, waving his arms in a manner he recognised as agitated, but was unable to help himself. "The officer! The woman! The love that was forbidden!" he exclaimed on each step, his gestures encompassing Serka, Garak, and the entire universe. "Ah. That story." "Yes! You're the woman whose organisation frowned on the romance and so you were forced to end it. He's the young officer, in love but bound by duty that--" Bashir said, stopping mid-sentence as he came closer to Serka and saw the roadmap of scars that was his back. "What the hell?" Garak sighed, still standing very still in front of the kneeling Serka. "And you were doing so well, doctor." Glancing at Garak distractedly, Bashir crouched down behind Serka and squinted in the low light. The Cardassian's skin was indeed a field of mangled flesh: scars raised into miniature ridges criss-crossed the breadth of his muscular, well-shaped back, breaking the graceful pattern of his scales with their ugly trails. Bashir touched one of the scars and when the man drew in a sharp, shuddering breath, retracted his hand as if the scar tissue had burned him. "Garak," Bashir said, his voice faint even to his own ears. "What happened?" To the doctor's surprise it was Serka who spoke, in a low, calm voice. "He only did what was right, Dr. Bashir. I've had my mark on him now and what you see is the past. Don't concern yourself with it." "The Obsidian Order didn't just disapprove of your relationship, did they?" Bashir asked, his question more rhetorical than anything else as he pieced the puzzle together in his head. "You did this to him, didn't you, Garak? They forced you to..." He couldn't put it into words, for the lump in his throat blocked all attempts to do so. "Was this why you were exiled? Because you wouldn't kill him?" "No, it wasn't. The Order couldn't risk killing him while he was under their care," Garak replied, his voice thicker and warmer than usual. "But Delemek here can be viewed as the start of my journey down the path that would eventually lead to my expulsion." Bashir sighed. The picture was finally clearer to him. "Enabran didn't approve." "Enabran considered love to be a liability," Garak said, and there was such bone-deep weariness hidden in his voice that it made Bashir look up from the map of scars. "And because Enabran Tain told you to do this, to torture and mutilate your...lover," Bashir said, his breath catching over the last word as he stood, "you went right ahead and did it. Just like that," he added, snapping his fingers as he stepped closer to Garak. It was not quite anger he was feeling, more a mix of confusion and fear than anything else. Garak cocked his head, his hands still clasped behind his back as if this was the most normal thing for him to discuss. "I am not a nice man, doctor." "Nor am I," Delemek Serka said as he suddenly spoke with the firm tone of conviction in his voice, craning his neck up towards the standing Garak. "Please, Dr. Bashir. Understand that I am as much to fault as Elim is. I loved him," he said, glancing over his shoulder at Bashir, "and I still love him, yet what he did to me then was only right." He shrugged, his knotted muscles shifting under his skin. "I used him, and then he used me." Bashir shook his head. He was certain he'd never fully understand Cardassian motivations, but right then, the tally of violence didn't matter to him that much. It was too much too quickly -- pieces of Garak's history he'd never even imagined, the sound of old desire and regret in his friend's voice, and the scent and heat of a naked Cardassian so close to him. Stepping back, Bashir inhaled and caught Serka's unfamiliar scent that seemed an exotic mix of burnt sandalwood and cinnamon and an autumn forest. It was the smell of Cardassian arousal, and what it implied stung Bashir: that passion was for Garak. Had he, Julian Bashir of genetically enhanced cognitive powers, misunderstood all the years of acerbic flirting he and Garak had shared? Misinterpreted all those lingering gazes or the way Garak always invaded his space? Did his friend merely want his old lover back; regain what fate had taken away from him and Serka? "And now," Bashir said, catching Garak's eye, "you're putting past behind you and starting anew, just like that?" "Perhaps." Bashir's heart skipped a beat. Was he too late? Had he allowed his cowardice to rule him too long? "But why? Why now?" "Because I've grown tired of waiting, my friend." "For what?" Bashir asked, breathless as he met Garak's unblinking gaze that spoke volumes. He dared not hope, yet maybe it was finally the time for truths for both of them. "For me?" Automatically, Bashir waited for an evasion, or perhaps an outright denial to such a preposterous claim; after all, that was Garak's modus operandi. Maybe another story, a change in topics, a sudden turn of discourse from emoting to Tholian fabrics or cyclical literature. So when Garak smiled in a way he had never seen him smile and replied, Bashir simply forgot to breathe through his shock. "Yes. For you." The silence that descended in the room was so thick one could've cut it with knife. For that long moment, Bashir stood frozen, watching the play of light and emotion in his friend's eyes. The subtle shift of the pale blue into indigo, the loneliness and the pride -- it was all there, as he'd seen it through the years but not understood before now. "Oh, Garak. I've been an idiot," Bashir finally said, quietly, regretting the fears that had kept him from listening to his heart. He had not misunderstood Garak through these years; he'd merely avoided the issue altogether, taken the low route. "Such a short-sighted fool. An idiot." "On that, we can agree," Garak said, a contemplative note in his smooth voice. "You could've just said something, Garak," Bashir said, aware that he was waving his arms in a most undignified manner but not caring. "Anything," he finished lamely, smiling through his heartache. They'd danced around one another for so long, not knowing, not understanding. "Ah. Therein lies the problem, doctor," Garak said and casually rested his hand on Delemek's naked shoulder. "In Cardassian society, these things are organised so well and with the least amount of fuss. Here, however," he continued, indicating the station around them with his other hand, "things are not nearly as clear-cut -- no *vakha'kem* to help me, no social structure to guide me. And then there's you." Bashir blinked, feeling the perspiration beading on his back run down his spine. "Me?" Garak smiled again, one of his warmer not-smiles that made Bashir shiver in anticipation, and when he spoke, his voice was velvet on steel. "You. Desperation can be so very unattractive, you see. I do not plead, and I do not ask for things. Things come to me, as Delemek here once did...and as you have now done, Julian." The sound of his given name, indolent as if Garak was taste-testing the unfamiliar syllables in his mouth, made something warm flare to life in the pit of Bashir's abdomen. Hypnotised, he watched Garak's fingers trace Serka's shoulder ridge with a carefully measured caress. The scales on Serka's shoulders and back bristled in waves of delight and the man hissed, writhing in his uncomfortable-looking kneeling pose. "I think we're done," Garak continued, looking down at Serka with gentle regret, "and it's time for you to leave. Go back to your *ha'kem*, Dele. I forgive you for him." Serka sighed deeply, making the skin on his shoulders flush for a moment before he stood up and made a curt bow to Garak. "I understand," he said with a rasp in his throat. "*Meketjakl'o*, Elim. Thank you." When Serka turned to go, Bashir couldn't help noticing his obvious signs of arousal, from the expanses of skin gone musky grey to the glistening length of his erection where it emerged from its protective pod. Forcing his eyes to remain on the window behind Garak and to watch the starfield with unseeing eyes, Bashir listened to Serka's receding footsteps behind him that paused as Garak spoke. "Dele, my friend. We're not at the public baths of Koromat," Garak said, a faint smile playing on his lips and his eyes focused on something behind Bashir. "So unless you wish to scandalise a number of Bajorans and see the inside of one of Constable Odo's rather drab holding cells..." "Ah, yes. I sometimes forget myself." His words were followed by a moment of quiet rustling of clothing and the swish of the door opening. "You always did have that effect on me, Elim. You made me forget myself," Serka said, quiet wistfulness in his voice. With that and the sound of the closing door, he was gone. ------------------------------- End of part 6/12. [Non-text portions of this message have been removed] Yahoo! Domains - Claim yours for only $14.70 http://us.click.yahoo.com/Z1wmxD/DREIAA/yQLSAA/5x3olB/TM ---------------------------------------------------------------------~-> Yahoo! Groups Links <*> To visit your group on the web, go to: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/ASCEM-S/ <*> To unsubscribe from this group, send an email to: ASCEM-S-unsubscribe@yahoogroups.com <*> Your use of Yahoo! Groups is subject to: http://docs.yahoo.com/info/terms/ From ???@??? Sun May 09 23:56:34 2004 X-Persona: Status: U Return-Path: Received: from n5.grp.scd.yahoo.com ([66.218.66.89]) by quail.mail.pas.earthlink.net (EarthLink SMTP Server) with SMTP id 1bn1Rs6tk3NZFkZ2 for ; Sun, 9 May 2004 20:53:50 -0700 (PDT) X-eGroups-Return: sentto-1978024-8070-1084161180-stephenbratliff=earthlink.net@returns.groups.yahoo.com eceived: from [66.218.67.198] by n5.grp.scd.yahoo.com with NNFMP; 10 May 2004 03:53:00 -0000 X-Sender: campbratcher@psci.net X-Apparently-To: ASCEM-S@yahoogroups.com Received: (qmail 1942 invoked from network); 10 May 2004 03:52:59 -0000 Received: from unknown (66.218.66.167) by m5.grp.scd.yahoo.com with QMQP; 10 May 2004 03:52:59 -0000 Received: from unknown (HELO mailstore.psci.net) (63.65.184.2) by mta6.grp.scd.yahoo.com with SMTP; 10 May 2004 03:52:59 -0000 Received: from max (as1-d25-rp-psci.psci.net [63.69.225.25]) by mailstore.psci.net (8.12.2/8.12.2) with SMTP id i4A3qifP032187 for ; Sun, 9 May 2004 22:52:45 -0500 Message-ID: <004201c43642$4fca0e80$87c5fea9@max> To: "ASCEM-S" Organization: ConGlomeration X-Priority: 3 X-MSMail-Priority: Normal X-Mailer: Microsoft Outlook Express 6.00.2800.1158 X-MIMEOLE: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V6.00.2800.1165 X-eGroups-Remote-IP: 63.65.184.2 From: "Keith & Jessica Bratcher" X-Yahoo-Profile: sileya MIME-Version: 1.0 Mailing-List: list ASCEM-S@yahoogroups.com; contact ASCEM-S-owner@yahoogroups.com Delivered-To: mailing list ASCEM-S@yahoogroups.com Precedence: bulk List-Unsubscribe: Date: Sun, 9 May 2004 22:53:09 -0500 Subject: [ASCEM-S] NEW DS9 "Nineteen Shades" 7/12 (G/B) [NC-17] Reply-To: "Keith & Jessica Bratcher" Content-Type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Please see part 1 for codes, disclaimers, and notes. ------------------------------------------- Nineteen Shades, by Penumbra (part 7/12) ------------------------------------------- Garak tilted his head, regarding the fidgeting human standing in the middle of his quarters. He'd need to proceed with caution so as not to tilt the delicate balance of their anfractuous relationship, for Julian Bashir was in a state he'd never seen him in before: confused, yet obviously interested. Smiling, Garak mused that his friendship with the young man was the glass bullet of his life: fragile, yet strangely wounding at times. He wanted the man so very badly, had done so for a long time, yet all he'd gotten had been, as the humans called it, a broken heart. Maybe now it was time for it to mend? He watched Bashir swallow compulsively. "Can I get you something to drink, perhaps?" he asked, more to fill the quiet than as a courtesy. "No, thank you," Bashir said and there was an odd look to his eyes as he watched him. "I'm sorry I interrupted your evening with Serka." "As said, nothing to be sorry about. It was merely the completion of the Parting for us, Julian," Garak said, tasting the name and finding it far sweeter than the sweetest of Bajoran spring wines. "Nothing quite as imprudent as your imagination came up with, I'm sure," he added, enjoying the faint flush that rose to Bashir's cheeks at his tease. "Let me guess. The yellow powder he threw at you?" Garak nodded, impressed at his friend's acuity in piecing the events together. "*Sher'ahm*, the necessary symbol of dissolution," he explained, knowing he was not giving the ritual the justice he deserved, but that was because he suspected Bashir hadn't come over to discuss Cardassian marriage politics. "He's no longer my *ha'kem*," he added as a point of clarification. "And Thuli?" His lip curling in disgust and consternation, Garak hissed. "An unexpected complication. However, Delemek's life is now his own and so he can toss it away for a Sixth if he wants to." He paused, regarding Bashir. "But you didn't come here for a civics lesson." "No, I didn't. I came to tell you that your advice to rely on research was a good one." There was a note of trepidation and underlying tension in Bashir's voice and as Garak watched, unmoving and intrigued, the doctor stepped closer until they were barely a hand's width apart. The pupils of Bashir's eyes were so dilated that his eyes appeared black, and while it could've been because of the low lighting, Garak dared to hope for another reason as he looked closer. There was barely controlled desire in the gleam of the dark eyes, along with curiosity, need, and perhaps even love. "And...?" he prompted, the tension between them making his skin tingle in anticipation. "And now I have a theory I wish to test." Bashir's gaze dropped lower, touching on his lips and then continuing down to his chest where his robe exposed a sliver of his sternum. With a quick, deliberate move, Bashir bent down and licked the spoon-shaped protrusion at the top of his breastbone. The touch of his tongue, wet and rough, on that sensitive spot almost made Garak's knees buckle and with a growl, he slid his hand into Bashir's hair. It was a long moment of utter bliss for Garak, the reality that so handily surpassed all that he had fantasised. He had not expected how Bashir's scent -- a sweet aftershave mixing with the metallic tang of his perspiration and thin blood -- would affect him, how the heat of his breath on his skin would inflame his lust. The lips that slid up to feel the shape of his neck and the blunt human teeth that nipped at the swollen, rigid ridge there made his cock ache in its need to be touched, bringing him close to coming even when there was nothing but the silk of his robe touching him. With great effort and self-control he didn't know he possessed, Garak pulled Bashir's head away to look into his eyes. "Julian...what do you want?" "I want to stop waiting. Right now," he said, utterly serious and breath uneven as it punctuated his words. "I want to know what you feel like, what your hands feel like on me..." he continued in a low voice as his hand traced down a fiery path over his robe, from his chest down to his waist, turning his insides liquid. "Julian," Garak whispered, feeling the contraction of his muscles wherever Bashir touched him, as if his touch burned. "I want to know what you taste like, Elim," he finished in a heated whisper. At his words, Bashir's hand slid further down to feel his rapidly growing hardness through the silk. The touch, as gentle and fleeting as it was, was electric, making Garak's breath catch and his groin ache with the need suddenly intensified in him again. The slide of the silk against his throbbing erection was delicious torture as Bashir's fingers felt their way through the fabric, touching him, learning the pattern of scales on his pod and cock. "Oh, Julian," Garak gasped. He grasped the tormenting hand and stepped back so that he could catch his breath. "Tell me what you want me to do, Garak," was his breathless answer, and Garak's groin tightened at the heated look and the flush of arousal on Bashir's face. He needed to calm down, not lose control now that it was finally time for this. "Undress," Garak said, and at the look of confusion on Bashir's face, added, "For me." With a shaky breath, Bashir stepped back and undid the pressure strip fastener of his jumpsuit. "Slowly." Bashir's hand stilled on the pressure strip. He swallowed at the word but did as was told. He slowed down his moves, the jumpsuit slipping off his shoulders with a rolling shrug, gathering the fabric around his waist before he pushed it down to his ankles and stepped out of it along with his boots and socks. The blue undershirt he pulled over his head in one too-swift move, exposing expanses of smooth golden skin, bare of all markings save for the two dun nipples and a slight trail of dark hair that disappeared into a pair of black briefs. "Everything?" "Everything," Garak hummed, touching himself through the robe. He was so hard it was painful, the heavy fabric tented at his groin and brushing against his sensitised skin in an agonising caress. As Bashir pushed the briefs down, his strangely naked cock sprang free of the confines and he sighed in apparent relief. Kicking off the last piece of garment, he straightened. A faint sheen of perspiration on his skin made it glow with warmth in the low light, soft shadows playing where his skin stretched over sleek muscles. His cock, dark with the blood in it and his excitement, was pointing straight at Garak, swaying as Bashir breathed rapidly. "You're beautiful," Garak whispered, his breath catching at the stab of lust that coursed through him as he watched the naked alien so close to him. "I will touch every beautiful inch of you," he promised as he stroked himself through the robe in a delicious torture. He saw the answering hitch in Bashir's breathing, the shiver that travelled through his slender, sleek frame, and the rising interest of his cock. A bead of moisture appeared at the rosy tip, trembling along with the human frame. Saying the next words was the hardest things Garak had ever done. "Tell me first why. Why me, why now?" "There's no end to the things you show me, Elim. Things I never knew before." Bashir paused, his eyes unblinking on Garak and his voice gone thick. "All my men and women have been comfortable, but I don't want comfortable. I want you." Garak exhaled, for his chest was on fire at Bashir's words. "Julian..." "You scare me and excite me in more ways than I can count, and there's so much I want to learn from you. I want you to fuck me until I forget myself, Elim," Bashir whispered in a low voice, echoing Delemek's earlier words. Whether it was intentional or not, Garak didn't know and didn't much care. "Please." It was that word that finally convinced Garak. Untying the belt of his robe, he parted the two halves and leaned back against the curving windowsill. "Come here, then, my sweet man." His eyes never leaving Garak's erection, Bashir approached and didn't stop until he was standing between Garak's thighs. Drunk with his desire, Garak touched Bashir's shoulder, throat, and all that slick, cool human skin that he'd wondered about. His hands found the faint stubble of beard on Bashir's chin, a curious, alien surface he found absolutely the most erotic thing he'd ever touched. "If you don't kiss me now, Garak, I'm going to scream." Garak smiled at Bashir's low, tremulous tone and the ever-present if tense humour in his voice. "We'll save that for later," he answered, equally quietly, before he captured the mouth that tempted him so. The kiss started slow and exploratory, with Garak tasting the chemical tang of lip balm on Bashir's lips, savouring it even as he licked the lower lip. Obediently, Bashir opened his mouth and pressed back harder, his hands coming to grasp his neckridges. Groaning at the bolt of arousal that shot straight to his groin at that, Garak wrapped his arms around Bashir's slender frame and explored the cool, moist human mouth with his tongue. The taste was coppery and earthy, heady in its own right, and when he felt Bashir's hips pressing into his with their cocks trapped in between them, he almost came there and then. In the end, it was Bashir who broke the kiss, leaning back with a dazed, heated look in his eyes and his lips swollen and red. When Garak smoothed his hand down his back, feeling the slim muscles contract before his fingers splayed across the taut ass cheeks, Bashir's eyes fluttered half shut and a low sound of need moaned deep in his throat. "Elim," he whispered and reached down between them. His hand closed around Garak's straining, weeping erection and at the touch, Garak had to hold his breath as not to come quite so quickly. "What do you taste like?" Bashir asked, stroking him with almost painful reverence. "If you don't stop that soon, there might not be enough time for you to learn," Garak groaned in warning, fighting the familiar tightening of his groin. "You'll taste like passion," Bashir husked and leaned in to lick one of his browridges, all the way up to the hairline. His voice was shivering almost as much as his body was in Garak's arms. "And like this...like an autumn day of sunshine and unseen danger." "Julian. Please. Now." As if he'd only been waiting for the very words, Bashir let go of his cock and kneeled down, his mouth seeking out the ridges decorating his broad chest. Apparently intent on investigating each and every scale and ridge, Bashir made his meandering way across the front of his torso, sometimes licking and sucking whatever had caught his attention, sometimes leaning back to watch as he touched one of his brachial or secondary ridges and then traced the trail of scales that bristled in delight at his touch. He left behind trails of saliva and fire, his touch carefully avoiding Garak's aching, rock-hard cock while making the rest of him shift with impatience and moan incoherent words at the stimulation. Finally, after what seemed like endless delicious torment, his hand closed around Garak's shaft again. "Careful," Garak hissed, his thigh muscles trembling in strain as he tried to keep the tension growing in his balls at bay. With no answer but an adoring, aroused glance up at him, Bashir stroked the cock in his hand before licking away the opaque moisture that coated the shaft, leaking from underneath every scale that decorated it. His mouth followed a ridge that ran from the gleaming black glans down to his pod, where he tongued in between every thick, sensitive scale that normally protected his cock. His touch, both tentative and inflaming, made Garak writhe even as he felt his erection harden even more in Bashir's hand when he had thought he could get no harder. Taking his time, Bashir explored everything, leaving no scale without a nip or a lick, and sometimes Garak could feel the vibration of his appreciative murmurs against his heated flesh even though the actual sound was drowned by his breathless, continuous groans. Those sounds turned to a full-on, throaty moan when Bashir finally traced Garak's cock back up with his tongue before taking its length into his mouth. The feel of the cool, slick human mouth on him and the hot breath of Bashir's moan of surprise and approval echoed through his rigid, anguished flesh and made Garak see sparks. His hands threaded into Bashir's hair, clenching and unclenching at the slide of the lips around his shaft. "Oh, Julian..." Garak growled, feeling the inflaming touch of Bashir's tongue on the sensitive underside of his dick and the scrape of fingernails against the scales over his pod, erotic and just rough enough. "Julian, oh, that feels...I'm going to..." he gasped, his toes curling in delight as he felt Bashir take him in all the way, his glans rubbing against the back of his throat. Garak came in a fury of emotion, the white-hot pleasure spreading from his groin outwards until he was blind to all but it and the feel of Bashir's mouth around his cock. Screaming through his peak, blood boiling, he emptied himself and felt his Julian swallow it all, the other man's fingers digging into the inflamed ridges lining his hips and sharpening his prolonged pleasure. When he could see again, Garak opened his eyes and looked down at the human leaning against his chest. Bashir's head was turned to the side, eyes closed and his cheek resting against the swell of his pectoral muscles, and there was a beatific smile on his face. A bead of pale blue semen clung to the corner of his mouth and when Garak wiped it away with his finger, Bashir opened his eyes. What Garak saw there made his breath catch anew. "Why do you look at me like that, Julian?" he asked, breathing heavily and his voice still hoarse from the dying embers of his orgasm. Bashir's smile turned almost drowsy as he regarded him beneath his long lashes. "Because you're beautiful, Elim." And to that, Garak could think of no answer but a kiss into which he poured all that he felt, all his want and love. It was answered in kind, with equal urgency and need. ------------------------------- End of part 7/12. [Non-text portions of this message have been removed] Yahoo! Groups Links <*> To visit your group on the web, go to: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/ASCEM-S/ <*> To unsubscribe from this group, send an email to: ASCEM-S-unsubscribe@yahoogroups.com <*> Your use of Yahoo! Groups is subject to: http://docs.yahoo.com/info/terms/ From ???@??? Sun May 09 23:56:34 2004 X-Persona: Status: U Return-Path: Received: from n44.grp.scd.yahoo.com ([66.218.67.19]) by condor (EarthLink SMTP Server) with SMTP id 1bn1QS4783NZFjK1 for ; Sun, 9 May 2004 20:53:14 -0700 (PDT) X-eGroups-Return: sentto-1978024-8071-1084161192-stephenbratliff=earthlink.net@returns.groups.yahoo.com eceived: from [66.218.66.31] by n44.grp.scd.yahoo.com with NNFMP; 10 May 2004 03:53:12 -0000 X-Sender: campbratcher@psci.net X-Apparently-To: ASCEM-S@yahoogroups.com Received: (qmail 31884 invoked from network); 10 May 2004 03:53:12 -0000 Received: from unknown (66.218.66.166) by m25.grp.scd.yahoo.com with QMQP; 10 May 2004 03:53:12 -0000 Received: from unknown (HELO mailstore.psci.net) (63.65.184.2) by mta5.grp.scd.yahoo.com with SMTP; 10 May 2004 03:53:12 -0000 Received: from max (as1-d25-rp-psci.psci.net [63.69.225.25]) by mailstore.psci.net (8.12.2/8.12.2) with SMTP id i4A3qxfP032493 for ; Sun, 9 May 2004 22:52:59 -0500 Message-ID: <004701c43642$586e94c0$87c5fea9@max> To: "ASCEM-S" Organization: ConGlomeration X-Priority: 3 X-MSMail-Priority: Normal X-Mailer: Microsoft Outlook Express 6.00.2800.1158 X-MIMEOLE: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V6.00.2800.1165 X-eGroups-Remote-IP: 63.65.184.2 From: "Keith & Jessica Bratcher" X-Yahoo-Profile: sileya MIME-Version: 1.0 Mailing-List: list ASCEM-S@yahoogroups.com; contact ASCEM-S-owner@yahoogroups.com Delivered-To: mailing list ASCEM-S@yahoogroups.com Precedence: bulk List-Unsubscribe: Date: Sun, 9 May 2004 22:53:24 -0500 Subject: [ASCEM-S] NEW DS9 "Nineteen Shades" 8/12 (G/B) [NC-17] Reply-To: "Keith & Jessica Bratcher" Content-Type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Please see part 1 for codes, disclaimers, and notes. ------------------------------------------- Nineteen Shades, by Penumbra (part 8/12) ------------------------------------------- When Bashir woke up, the night came back to him in a succession of vivid memories. He kept his eyes closed and enjoyed the shivers of pleasure that coursed through him at the images. Garak's body had quivered, his breathing uneven and his muscles cording and shifting under his sleek grey skin in a hypnotising dance of light and shadow. He'd touched that silver body, traced the mosaic of scales with his hands and tongue, studied every inch of Garak's body and the rock-hard, black column of his erection until Garak's breathing had been nothing but incoherent, loud groans. His seed had tasted like spices and darkness and Bashir thought he'd never tire of its flavour. He'd made Garak lose control, and then Garak had made him forget everything but the moment. He remembered the thick, slick length of Garak's cock sliding into him with agonising slowness, filling him with its incredible, pulsing heat until he couldn't breathe, couldn't see, couldn't feel anything but Garak, on top of him and inside him, making the stars in his eyes glow ever brighter. He'd screamed his voice hoarse in all the languages he knew and in some Garak's touch had taught him, for Elim Garak had played his body as if he were a master musician and Julian Bashir his beloved instrument. In the end, just the very tips of Garak's skilled fingers had trailed down his aching length and that had brought him to the brink; it had been Garak's words, his slow words in a voice languid with post-coital bliss and desire, that had finally pushed him over the edge. "*Mon cher*," Bashir whispered, feeling the roughness of his throat at the words. When he turned in the embrace, he felt how exquisitely sore he was all over, his skin sticky with sweat that had mixed with Garak's pheromones and pale blue semen. His lips found warm scales and he nuzzled into them, finally opening his eyes at the snuff of low laughter that he heard. Garak, wide awake and reclining on his back, had his head propped up on a pillow as he watched him. "Good morning," Garak murmured and wrapped his arms around Bashir. "It's morning? Oh no," Bashir rasped, sliding one arm and leg across Garak's solid body in a somewhat possessive gesture. He met the blue gaze of his lover with a wink. "I really don't feel like leaving this bed right now." "Good. I wouldn't let you." Bashir smiled and laid his head on Garak's chest. His heartbeat was slower than human's and its pace was an off-kilter triple thump. Listening to it, Bashir traced the valley between Garak's pectoral muscles down to his abdomen, the scaled skin tapering to concentric bands of ridges around his muscled ribs. The ridges were interspersed with the palest skin he'd found on Garak's body. In the low night-light, its colour was pale silver overlaid with the gossamer glint of his drying pheromone gland secretions. The oddly configured muscles contracted under his touch and Bashir marvelled at their inherent strength and beauty. Despite his incessant curiosity to learn all that was alien to him, it hadn't been merely physical attraction that had drawn him to Garak, though. No, it had been the melding of chemistry with intrigue. Through all their years, Garak had never been boring, mundane, or anything but his cunning, confusing self. Garak had been monumentally irritating, yet he had provided Bashir endless intrigue and stimulation -- not an easy feat, considering the artificial advantages he had due to his altered genes. His new lover was the never-ending puzzle that he loved to try and solve. "I was right, you know." "In what sense?" Garak asked, his sleepy voice a low rumble Bashir more felt than heard. "About the sinister qualities of your tailoring. You do use clothes to hide this fantastic body of yours." "You silly man," Garak murmured. "My body is utilitarian, perhaps, but not fantastic in any sense of the word." Bashir lifted his head to glare at Garak. Gauging the open contentment in the blue eyes that were almost luminescent in the dark, Bashir couldn't decide whether he was being made fun of or not. There was not a gram of fat visible on Garak's scaled, gleaming body, only well-maintained muscles that he suspected had less to do with fastidious gym attendance than with subcutaneous myostim implants -- a normal if highly expensive Cardassian body augmentation that was illegal in the Federation. "For a Cardassian, you're a remarkably modest man." "I'm remarkable in many ways, my dear Julian," Garak replied with a smile and traced the path of dark hair up Bashir's forearm. A trail of goosebumps followed his touch and Bashir exhaled as the first touches of arousal skittered up his spine. "As you're well aware." "I take back what I said about modesty," Bashir said, rolling his eyes in exasperation even as he felt his now-sore cock twitch in interest when Garak's hands reached around him and traced the groove of his spine, fingers splaying against the sore muscles there. "I'm surprised you don't have more scars, though, given your line of work." "A clumsy tailor doesn't stay in business for long," Garak said, his sonorous tenor once again laced with his particular brand of tease and flirt. "Elim Garak," Bashir said warningly, although the effect was ruined by the sensuous smile that came to his lips when Garak's hands moved down to knead his ass. "And I was referring to your formed profession, which I assume came with dangers far worse than laser fabric cutters and errant sewing needles." "Perhaps," Garak hummed, his voice contemplative and conversational even as he parted Bashir's cheeks to brush his fingertips over the sensitive pucker of his opening. Bashir's breath caught and he moaned as the touch was repeated, teasing and inflaming at the same time. "But it really shouldn't have surprised you. Only bad operatives have scars; good ones avoid such dangers altogether." "Oh, Elim...that feels so good," Bashir moaned, all rational thought escaping him when Garak's finger pushed past the tight muscle of his opening, probing his still-sore depths. He ground his hips into the ridge over Garak's hipbone, his groin tightening at the sensation. Still looking Garak in the eye, he bent his head down and sank his teeth into a ridge that ran across Garak's chest where a human would have a nipple. The strength of the resulting reaction took him by surprise. With a primal howl, Garak twisted and rolled on top of Bashir, his sudden and quite insistent erection poking Bashir in the hip. When Garak captured his wrists in his strong hands, all Bashir could do was try to breathe under the hot, heavy mass of the body sliding on top of his in quite a maddening stimulation. Garak's mouth was everywhere on him and the feeling of that talented mouth and the aroused bristle of Garak's scales against his skin was simply incredible. "Oh, Elim, yes...please," Bashir hissed and moaned when Garak's teeth bit a fiery path along his collarbone and up his neck. He tilted his head back and to the side to provide better access. "There's a spot...I'll need to remember. Is there no end to your...erogenous zones?" he asked, panting through his lust. Garak licked the cords of his neck. "Apparently not," he muttered, sounding preoccupied as he pressed a strong thigh between Bashir's legs. "Oh gods, Elim," Bashir moaned when Garak's hand reached down to stroke his now weeping cock, the touch slow and teasing. "And I wondered why Cardassians are not a...touchy-feely people. If you...were, there'd be...anarchy. Oh, Elim," he breathed, his words coming in gasps between the waves of pleasure Garak's touch was bringing him. Garak hissed and squeezed his cock harder even as he moved to lie between Bashir's legs. "Enough talking, Julian," he whispered into Bashir's ear as he reached between them and in one smooth, skilled thrust, slid into him. "Ah!" Bashir gasped and threw his head back against the mattress. Pain and pleasure mingled as the fiery heat of Garak's hard, thick length inside pulsed to the beat of his heart, turning his insides to liquid. Moaning with abandon, he pulled his legs up and felt Garak slide still further in, the lubricating secretion of his cock making the entry virtually painless. When Garak started moving, his upper body supported by his arms on either side of Bashir's torso and his strokes long and slow, Bashir exhaled the breath he'd unwittingly been holding. Grasping Garak's bulging biceps for support, he looked up at his lover and found himself to be drowning in Garak's eyes. They had gone black with desire and their inky depths were far more inviting than the vast darkness of space had ever been to him. Reaching up, Bashir ran his hands down the flushed neckridges that fairly beckoned for his touch and smiled at the abandon on Garak's face, realising he could very easily learn to love this man. "Oh Elim," Bashir whispered, his words rising into a moan when Garak rolled his hips just so and the tip of his cock brushed against his prostate. "You feel so good...inside me," he breathed, his hands finding his own throbbing erection. The caress of the thick scales on Garak's genital pod was truly maddening on his tightening balls and scrotum. "On me," he added, stroking himself with one hand even as his other came to scrape its fingernails down Garak's side. "When you touch me. Oh..." "Julian, my love," Garak husked, bending down to brush his lips over Bashir's even as he quickened his pace. "You are so perfect," he muttered, his breath laboured. Bashir could feel the quiver of Garak's muscles as he slid in and out, obviously fighting against the instinctive urge to ram into him as hard as he could. "So beautiful...so tight. You take my breath away..." Encouraging him by wrapping his legs around his waist, Bashir reached up and bit down on one of Garak's neckridges, hard. He screamed into the hot flesh in his mouth as Garak roared something incomprehensible and slammed into him with full force, coming inside him in a flood of liquid fire. The sound and feel of his lover's pleasure and the shivers that shook the powerful body poised in rapture over him triggered Bashir's own orgasm. He spilled his hot seed on his stomach and Garak's, blind to everything but the burning light of his peak and the man who'd brought him there. He came down from his heights slowly, mumbling in disappointment when Garak pulled out of him. His disappointment quickly shifted to contentment when he was gathered into strong arms and enveloped into an embrace that was warm with the glow of their shared pleasure and the aftershocks that made him tremble. Wriggling deeper into the embrace, Bashir inhaled Garak's scent that was sandalwood mixing with cinnamon and sharp spices, dry leaves, and nutmeg. It was a musky, heady scent that was both comforting and dark at the same time. "Like autumn forests and unseen danger," he muttered, tickling the large scales on Garak's shoulder with his nose as he closed his eyes and breathed in the scent. "Do you think we could bottle it?" "Bottle what?" Garak's rusty, breathless voice asked. "Your pheromone scent," Bashir mumbled and rested his chin on Garak's shoulder. He felt boneless in his glow. "We'd make a killing." Garak's amused laughter made his whole body shake. "You have been spending far too much time in Quark's company, my dear," he said and Bashir could feel his hands slide into his hair, gently scratching his scalp. "Never mind. Too much trouble...and I like the thought of it being our secret," Bashir said and purred deep in his throat at the feel of Garak's fingers playing with his hair. "Mmm. Don't stop." "Does that mean you'd want this to be more than one-time occurrence?" Bashir's eyes snapped open at Garak's words, said in a deceptively light tone that nevertheless had deep undercurrents. Looking at his lover's face, Bashir lifted his head and frowned. Garak's expression was unusually open, the gleam of his eyes for once as full of emotion as Bashir's soul. He knew he'd never know the full truth of who Garak was, never learn all his secrets, but he knew enough to make his decision with no hesitation. "Yes. Yes I do," he breathed, touching the ridge underneath Garak's right eye. "Do you, Elim?" The smile that spread on Garak's lips was one he'd never seen before: full, joyful, private, and warm. "I want to see the universe through your eyes, Julian. Now and always," he said. His quiet words warmed Bashir's heart like nothing had done in years and years. The moment was broken by the computer's dulcet tones. "The time is 0600 hours," the faintly female voice intoned. At that prompt, Bashir suddenly remembered he'd agreed to meet O'Brien at Quark's for a breakfast before his shift. He groaned and tightened his arms around Garak's solid body. The last thing he wanted to do was to leave the warm bed. "Do you need to get up at this insane hour?" "Being the master of my own time, I don't. Alas, your Starfleet is rather less flexible about such matters," Garak said. "Among other things," he added as if an afterthought. His tone made Bashir lift his head again to look at him. "Do you think we need to keep this a secret?" he asked, hating the very thought of lying to everyone and not really knowing whether he would be capable of such deception in the first place. "You're free to tell whoever you want, Julian. This is one secret I don't mind not keeping." Bashir blinked. "You don't?" "It's your choice whether you want to tell people or not. I have nothing to gain either way, while you have everything to lose," Garak said, pain flitting through his eyes for a moment before he could cover it. "There'll be a price for you to pay, Julian." "I don't care. Starfleet didn't discharge me over my genetic enhancements, so I don't think they'll do it over you, either." Bashir didn't say that it would be a very cold day in hell when he'd let Starfleet dictate his private life. "Mmm. They will take a dim view over you sleeping with a Cardassian spy." Bashir smiled, patting Garak's arm even as he gave him a roguish waggle of his eyebrows. "Oh, perhaps. But you see, I'm dating a Cardassian tailor, which is a whole different thing altogether." The sound of Garak's spontaneous, roaring laughter stayed with him all day. ------------------------------- End of part 8/12. [Non-text portions of this message have been removed] Make a clean sweep of pop-up ads. Yahoo! Companion Toolbar. Now with Pop-Up Blocker. Get it for free! http://us.click.yahoo.com/L5YrjA/eSIIAA/yQLSAA/5x3olB/TM ---------------------------------------------------------------------~-> Yahoo! Groups Links <*> To visit your group on the web, go to: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/ASCEM-S/ <*> To unsubscribe from this group, send an email to: ASCEM-S-unsubscribe@yahoogroups.com <*> Your use of Yahoo! Groups is subject to: http://docs.yahoo.com/info/terms/ From ???@??? Sun May 09 23:56:34 2004 X-Persona: Status: U Return-Path: Received: from n49.grp.scd.yahoo.com ([66.218.67.37]) by eagle (EarthLink SMTP Server) with SMTP id 1bn1RU5MF3NZFji2 for ; Sun, 9 May 2004 20:54:18 -0700 (PDT) X-eGroups-Return: sentto-1978024-8073-1084161250-stephenbratliff=earthlink.net@returns.groups.yahoo.com eceived: from [66.218.67.196] by n49.grp.scd.yahoo.com with NNFMP; 10 May 2004 03:54:10 -0000 X-Sender: campbratcher@psci.net X-Apparently-To: ASCEM-S@yahoogroups.com Received: (qmail 52631 invoked from network); 10 May 2004 03:54:10 -0000 Received: from unknown (66.218.66.217) by m3.grp.scd.yahoo.com with QMQP; 10 May 2004 03:54:10 -0000 Received: from unknown (HELO mailstore.psci.net) (63.65.184.2) by mta2.grp.scd.yahoo.com with SMTP; 10 May 2004 03:54:09 -0000 Received: from max (as1-d25-rp-psci.psci.net [63.69.225.25]) by mailstore.psci.net (8.12.2/8.12.2) with SMTP id i4A3rDfP032679 for ; Sun, 9 May 2004 22:53:13 -0500 Message-ID: <004c01c43642$609d9ce0$87c5fea9@max> To: "ASCEM-S" Organization: ConGlomeration X-Priority: 3 X-MSMail-Priority: Normal X-Mailer: Microsoft Outlook Express 6.00.2800.1158 X-MIMEOLE: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V6.00.2800.1165 X-eGroups-Remote-IP: 63.65.184.2 From: "Keith & Jessica Bratcher" X-Yahoo-Profile: sileya MIME-Version: 1.0 Mailing-List: list ASCEM-S@yahoogroups.com; contact ASCEM-S-owner@yahoogroups.com Delivered-To: mailing list ASCEM-S@yahoogroups.com Precedence: bulk List-Unsubscribe: Date: Sun, 9 May 2004 22:53:38 -0500 Subject: [ASCEM-S] NEW DS9 "Nineteen Shades" 9/12 (G/B) [NC-17] Reply-To: "Keith & Jessica Bratcher" Content-Type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Please see part 1 for codes, disclaimers, and notes. ------------------------------------------- Nineteen Shades, by Penumbra (part 9/12) ------------------------------------------- Dazed, Chief O'Brien staggered down the steps to the lower level of Quark's, not really looking where he was putting his feet. Julian's words were ringing in his ears so loud they drowned even the sounds of the dabo tables where people were crowing for lady luck even at 0800 hours. Making his way to the counter, he nodded an absent greeting to Lieutenant Dax and plopped down onto the barstool next to hers. "Morning, Chief," Dax said by the way of greeting, her eyes on a PADD as she sipped her morning raktajino. "Sir," O'Brien mumbled and waved at Quark, who came over and gave him the once-over. "Well, you look like you could use a stiff drink or two," he proclaimed and set down a tumbler in front of him. "Scotch?" "Please," O'Brien croaked, pressing his thumb and forefinger into his eyes for a moment. "Better make it a double." "Working the Gamma shift can't be that bad," Dax's voice asked and O'Brien opened his eyes to look at her. There was a sympathetic smile on her face and she'd put her PADD down. "Can it?" "It's not that. Julian just told me something that was, well, surprising to say the least." Dax's eyes twinkled as she swiveled her bar stool so that she was facing him. "Oh, do tell," she crooned, obviously delighted at the opportunity to gossip. "I don't know if I should. It's kind of private," O'Brien said and cringed internally. Private indeed, not to mention something that was hard for him to actually say out loud. "Oh, come on, chief," Dax said, gesturing at him with her mug. "You know that if you don't tell me I'll just find Julian and ask him, so you might as well save me the trouble of a trip to the infirmary." O'Brien sighed. All he'd done was finish his night shift before going meet his friend for breakfast at Quark's. Over his eggs Benedict, he'd asked why Julian was looking so happy and content that morning -- a fairly routine inquiry that, in O'Brien's mind, was the equivalent of talking about the weather or the state of the lateral sensor arrays. Normal idle conversation, in other words. To say Julian's answer had floored him was to make the understatement of the century. "Well, it seems that Julian is, uh..." O'Brien said, waving his arm about in a manner he recognised as nervous. "It seems Julian and Garak are, well, y'know." Dax leaned forward, pinning him into place with her gaze. "Dating? Having sex?" O'Brien blinked. "Uh. Dating," he said slowly, his brow drawing into a frown. "How did you guess?" If O'Brien was uncertain about the sanity of the universe before, his confusion was propelled into complete incomprehension when Dax turned to Quark and extended her hand. "My loot, if you please," she crooned, smiling the triumphant smile of a victor. "Gimme," she added, wiggling her fingers. "What the devil?" O'Brien muttered under his breath and watched as Quark grumbled something obscene under his breath and tossed a bar of latinum to Dax. "Two bars, Quark. Or else I'll go and talk to Odo about Cargo Bay 6." "All right, all right," Quark barked at Dax and produced another bar. "I suppose you want your raktajino topped, too." "Yes, please. If it isn't too much trouble," Dax replied, still smiling as she pocketed the latinum. Glancing at O'Brien, she cocked an eyebrow at his obviously puzzled expression. "We made a bet," she explained. "I wagered two bars of latinum on Julian wanting an actual relationship with Garak, while Quark here thought he was just after some hot inter-species sex with no strings attached." O'Brien blinked, not knowing whether to be angry on Julian's behalf or break out in hysterics. He made do with a fake cough and a sip from his tea before giving Dax a wary look. "You made a *bet* on whether Julian would do *what* with Garak?" he asked, not believing his ears. Waving her hand, Dax tsked. "A completely harmless way to pass time, I assure you, chief. What Julian doesn't know won't hurt him." "It was not that harmless -- I just lost two bars of latinum! A relationship with a Cardassian, psah," Quark groused as he polished a glass with jerky moves and shook his head. He put the glass down with a bit too much force and glared at Dax. "I just don't understand that after living seven lifetimes you're not more of a cynic when it comes to the human condition, Jadzia." "It's those seven lifetimes that have made me a romantic, Quark," Dax replied, her tone amused and languid. Quark sighed. "Figures. Only an incurable romantic would find Worf's incessant tales of Klingon glory and death interesting." "Watch it, Quark, or I'll tell him you think prune juice is for wussies." Finally over the fact that both Quark and Dax seemed to have known of Bashir's interest in Garak before his revelation, O'Brien interrupted the verbal ping-pong match by clearing his throat loudly and lifting his eyebrows at the bickering pair. "Since you two seem to be such keen students of Julian's private life, care to explain something to me? Dax sipped her raktajino. "Shoot." "Why Garak, of all people? I don't get it." "Chief, never underestimate the lure of a charming rogue," Dax said and cast a humoured eye at Quark, who waggled his eyeridges suggestively. "I should know. I used to be one." O'Brien smiled. There was no mistaking of the wistful look Jadzia got when she was thinking of one particular past host. "Let me guess. Curzon?" "Oh, yes. He was perhaps not quite as devious or dangerous as our Mr. Garak is, but certainly he had that *je ne sais quoi* that, hm, impressionable people find irresistible." "I don't think Julian is that an impressionable person," O'Brien objected, unsure on whether he should be offended for his friend even when he recognised the glimmer of truth in what Dax had said. "Oh please," Quark said and snorted. "Our adventurous Doctor I-Love-Frontier-Medicine?" Dax nodded and shared a knowing glance with Quark before focusing on O'Brien again. "I'm not talking about naivete. Julian is the kind of person who's always drawn to that which is a mystery to him and if there's one person on this station who's a complete and total enigma, it's Garak." "I guess I just..." O'Brien said, trying to put into words what it was that was so bothering him. "I guess I just worry about him. That he might be in over his head with this, uh, relationship," he finished lamely, gesturing with his hand as if he could wave away the cloud of unease clinging about him. "I don't trust Garak." "And that makes you a wise man," Quark said as he leaned against the counter. "That man is more devious than a dozen Tal Shiar agents put together." "Then again, nobody ever trusts you either, Quark," Dax shot back, meeting Quark's glare with a smile. Leaning forward, she touched O'Brien's shoulder. "And I wouldn't worry about Garak. From what I've seen, he absolutely dotes over Julian and should that ever change, that's when Julian will need us. His friends." O'Brien smiled and fingered his mug handle. "Yeah," he said, feeling much better at Dax's words. "So if, and I mean *if*, something happens, we'll deal with it. Meanwhile, I'll be the first one to voice my support for them. I saw Julian this morning and I haven't seen him glow like this since, well, ever," Dax said, flashing her best smile, which was very good indeed. "Whatever Garak does to him, it's gotta be *really* good," she added, her voice oozing lascivious innuendo. "Oh, lord," O'Brien groaned and covered his face with his hands, trying very hard not to claw his eyes out. "Don't go there, sir. Please." Dax laughed and leaned forward, prying O'Brien's hands away from his face. She caught his eye. "I won't if you promise you'll be happy for Julian, too." "I'll try, sir," he replied with a sigh. It was not like his circle of friends was devoid of odd relationships, from Dax and Worf to whatever it was that had been brewing between Odo and Kira for the past few weeks. He'd live with Julian dating a Cardassian; he just wasn't sure the rest of the universe was ready to do so, too. ------------------------------- End of part 9/12. [Non-text portions of this message have been removed] Yahoo! Domains - Claim yours for only $14.70 http://us.click.yahoo.com/Z1wmxD/DREIAA/yQLSAA/5x3olB/TM ---------------------------------------------------------------------~-> Yahoo! Groups Links <*> To visit your group on the web, go to: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/ASCEM-S/ <*> To unsubscribe from this group, send an email to: ASCEM-S-unsubscribe@yahoogroups.com <*> Your use of Yahoo! Groups is subject to: http://docs.yahoo.com/info/terms/ From ???@??? Sun May 09 23:56:34 2004 X-Persona: Status: U Return-Path: Received: from n21.grp.scd.yahoo.com ([66.218.66.77]) by quail.mail.pas.earthlink.net (EarthLink SMTP Server) with SMTP id 1bn1Sz4bq3NZFkZ0 for ; Sun, 9 May 2004 20:54:59 -0700 (PDT) X-eGroups-Return: sentto-1978024-8072-1084161223-stephenbratliff=earthlink.net@returns.groups.yahoo.com eceived: from [66.218.67.199] by n21.grp.scd.yahoo.com with NNFMP; 10 May 2004 03:53:43 -0000 X-Sender: campbratcher@psci.net X-Apparently-To: ASCEM-S@yahoogroups.com Received: (qmail 17793 invoked from network); 10 May 2004 03:53:42 -0000 Received: from unknown (66.218.66.172) by m6.grp.scd.yahoo.com with QMQP; 10 May 2004 03:53:42 -0000 Received: from unknown (HELO mailstore.psci.net) (63.65.184.2) by mta4.grp.scd.yahoo.com with SMTP; 10 May 2004 03:53:42 -0000 Received: from max (as1-d25-rp-psci.psci.net [63.69.225.25]) by mailstore.psci.net (8.12.2/8.12.2) with SMTP id i4A3rVfP000373 for ; Sun, 9 May 2004 22:53:31 -0500 Message-ID: <005101c43642$6b4a7640$87c5fea9@max> To: "ASCEM-S" Organization: ConGlomeration X-Priority: 3 X-MSMail-Priority: Normal X-Mailer: Microsoft Outlook Express 6.00.2800.1158 X-MIMEOLE: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V6.00.2800.1165 X-eGroups-Remote-IP: 63.65.184.2 From: "Keith & Jessica Bratcher" X-Yahoo-Profile: sileya MIME-Version: 1.0 Mailing-List: list ASCEM-S@yahoogroups.com; contact ASCEM-S-owner@yahoogroups.com Delivered-To: mailing list ASCEM-S@yahoogroups.com Precedence: bulk List-Unsubscribe: Date: Sun, 9 May 2004 22:53:56 -0500 Subject: [ASCEM-S] NEW DS9 "Nineteen Shades" 10/12 (G/B) [NC-17] Reply-To: "Keith & Jessica Bratcher" Content-Type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Please see part 1 for codes, disclaimers, and notes. ------------------------------------------- Nineteen Shades, by Penumbra (part 10/12) ------------------------------------------- By the time Bashir could escape the infirmary for lunch and get to the replimat, Thuli was already seated at one of the more secluded tables and wolfing down a bowl of Kohlanese stew. Nodding in greeting, Bashir retrieved his plate of Gladst (no sauce, extra basil) from the replicator along with a glass of water and decided to survive the day without the Delvin fluff pastries his sweet tooth was clearly craving. As he sat down opposite Thuli, Bashir sighed and stretched his neck until his vertebrae aligned themselves with an audible crack. "Whew, that felt good," he muttered and smiled at Thuli. The young Cardassian was in evident good spirits. "Good afternoon. I apologise for being late." Thuli smiled back and plonked the spoon into his now empty bowl. "It's quite all right, Dr. Bashir." "You're leaving soon?" Bashir asked as he tucked into his Gladst. "Our transport to Mathenite space leaves at 1900 hours station time," Thuli said with a nod. "So how is Dele?" Glancing back towards his infirmary where he'd just inspected Delemek Serka, Bashir pursed his lips as he thought on what to answer. He suspected this seemingly offhand inquiry into Serka's well-being was one of the reasons why the Cardassian had suggested they lunch together. The invitation had been something of a surprise but Bashir had accepted it immediately, if only because he was now hopelessly entangled in Thuli's life through Garak and, by extension, Serka. "He's fully recovered as far as I can tell. The activation of the implant seems to have had no permanent effect on him." "So is there something you can do about the implant? Neutralise it, maybe?" Thuli asked, obvious hope in his questions. Sighing in frustration, Bashir stuck his fork into the Gladst. "I'm afraid not. Its construction defied even Chief O'Brien's sensors, so the only people who can help you are the Obsidian Order," he said through a mouthful of food, his tone carefully neutral. "I'm sorry, Thuli." "The Order is the last place I'd go for help," the young Cardassian said. He shivered and the scales of his bare forearms bristled. Cocking his head, he studied Bashir for a moment. "Dele refuses to speak anything bad about him, you know." Bashir frowned. "About whom?" "About Master Garak, of course," Thuli said and leaned forward, catching Bashir's eye. The look on his face was both closed and earnest. "Which brings me to the other reason why I wanted to meet you. I wanted to thank you for not letting Dele get caught in the past." Ignoring the flush creeping on his cheeks, Bashir assumed a slightly amused mien. "It was quite accidental on my part," he said, hearing the slight catch in his voice when he felt the ghost of Garak's hands on his body. Accidental but so very good indeed. "Nevertheless, I owe you. Master Garak was -- is -- the love of his life." There was little sorrow in Thuli's voice, but his sombre eyes gave away the tragedy. "He's been the spectre in our bonding for many years. Maybe that'll pass now with the Parting completed." Bashir frowned, not understanding how a relationship could survive under such circumstances. "Hasn't that been frustrating?" "Of course, but I love Dele. I'll take what I can because he is, quite literally, my life. Without him, I'd be nothing but a Sixth." That infernal, elusive term again. "So tell me, what's a Sixth?" Bashir asked, his food now forgotten in his intense curiosity. "I keep hearing the word but I haven't been able to find a definition." "A Lower Sixth is an *as'kjresnita*, a marked pariah. Look." Leaning forward over the small table, Thuli pulled up his sleeve and turned his arm so that Bashir could see the string of Cardassian letters that ran down his bicep. The letters had faded to a dark blue and a ragged scar bisected them. There were other marks on Thuli's arms, most notably double bands of bone white keloid around his slender wrists that caught Bashir's eye. "What happened to you?" Without taking his eyes off Bashir's, Thuli covered the Cardassian letter tattoo with his other hand. "There's a lovely device called 'Circles of Fire' that the Order uses. A most exquisite form of torture," he said, his voice unnaturally level as he flexed his hand into a fist. The thick scars stood in clear relief as his skin flushed to a darker colour. "Victims have been known to attempt to bite off their own thumbs in their desperation to get the cuffs off their wrists." Bashir swallowed, suddenly not hungry at all. "What could you have possibly done to merit such treatment?" "All I did was born an undesirable, a Sixth, a marked outcast," he said, squeezing his bicep where the tattoo was. "We do the menial and dangerous work -- waste extraction, street cleaning, radioactive material sweeps, that sort of thing. We're also the prostitutes and the entertainment of bored soldiers in our society." "Entertainment?" Bashir asked, not quite certain what Thuli meant with the word although he had a hunch the man wasn't talking about juggling or street mimes. "Pillow talk is a Cardassian vice, so the prostitutes are often informants for both the military and the Order. In the lower districts, not a day goes by without a patrol of young, eager soldiers of the state scrounging the streets for rumours about dissidents or radical thinkers...and if they find none, they want to have some fun," he said, spitting out the last word as he pulled down his sleeve. With some dread, Bashir forced himself to ask the next logical question. "What sort of fun are we talking about?" "The painful kind," Thuli said with a smile that was more a grimace than anything else and rubbed the keloids on his wrists. "The rumour has it that it's how Master Garak built his reputation in the Obsidian Order as a skilled interrogator. Long ago, he was working undercover in the Third Order mechanised infantry and as the story has it, he grew rather bored of the mind-numbing routine the jarheads maintain. So while he was not investigating the dissident movement in the Third Order, he excelled in coaxing out the very best performance from whichever Sixth he'd picked up for his amusement that night." Bashir closed his eyes and they burned under his eyelids. "I don't think I want to hear any more, Thuli," he muttered and opened his eyes when he felt Thuli's warm hand on his. "That was long before my time and rumours are rarely the whole truth, Dr. Bashir," he said earnestly. "And you must understand who I am before you can judge Master Garak. We, the Lower Sixth, are at the fringes of our society, little better than animals. I'm only telling you this because..." "Yes?" Bashir prompted after a moment of quiet when Thuli had trailed off. "Because I want you to understand how dangerous it will be if you at some point decide to look closer into Master Garak's history. My advice is, don't. What I've told you barely scratches the surface and any further inquiries are bound to reveal only ugly things." "So what you're saying is that ignorance is bliss?" Bashir translated, narrowing his eyes at this unexpected advice. His scientist's mind immediately rebelled against the tenet. "I find that hard to accept." "I speak from experience. I made the mistake with Delemek and I've regretted it ever since." His gaze glued to his tea mug, Thuli played with his fingers in a nervous manner. "Dele saved me from my life of shame because he's a great man. He doesn't care that I'm a Sixth and that's why I'll never stop loving him. But that doesn't mean I can forget what he did during his time as a Legate in the Central Command," he said faintly, his eyes glazed over with pain. "I've forgiven him, but forgetting is harder." Bashir sat back and took a deep breath that left him slightly dizzy. Intellectually, he'd been aware of Garak's history as an Obsidian Order operative, but until now he'd not come across any practical evidence on what that really meant. The thick bands of gleaming white scar tissue circling Thuli's wrists and the deep pain and shame in his eyes had changed all that. With some dread, Bashir realised that one of the reasons why Garak knew things about his body not even he himself had known -- why he was so good with his hands and mouth and that slender, agile tongue of his -- was that he'd studied such things to become a better torturer. "I think I'm going to be sick," Bashir muttered, trying to find his way out of the ethics quicksand he'd found himself in. "I'm sorry, Dr. Bashir. Take what I've said with a grain of salt. Dele wouldn't speak so highly of Master Garak if he were a monster," Thuli said, grasping Bashir's hands into his as he pressed his point. "Don't try and see the shades of grey as black and white, please. He, much like Dele and myself, is the product of our society, nothing more." Feeling the intense warmth of Cardassian hands on his, Bashir sighed. The touch reminded him of Garak's heat, the feel of the Cardassian silk-slick skin by now so very familiar and dear to him. He realised he was falling and try as they might, his ethics had little pull when it came to his feelings. "I understand," he whispered to Thuli and nodded. "Really, I do." Thuli's hands were warm on his as they squeezed gently. "The past is gone and unchangeable, and even I admit that Master Garak has paid for all that he's done." Bashir pulled his hands back and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, trying to forestall the headache developing behind his eyes. "Please don't call him that," he muttered absently. "Don't call whom what?" "Garak. You keep calling him 'Master Garak' even when you imply he's no longer the person he used to be," Bashir said and let his hands fall into his lap. "Ah, I'm sorry. It's just a bad habit of mine. That's what the soldiers made us call them." "I really can't see Garak ever wanting anyone to use such a ridiculous address in his presence. To me, he's just plain and simple Garak," Bashir added with a slightly warmer smile. Gracing his effete and eminently suave tailor with an honorific as serious as 'master' seemed more like an insult than the compliment it was meant to be. "Nor can I see him taking pleasure in violence without purpose," he added. "Garak belonged to a wholly different organisation, not this band of ordinary thugs I was talking about. The military reacts to provocation, while the Order is more interested in what someone might do, not what they have done," Thuli said and met Bashir's grin with a gaunt smile. "Did you know that the Obsidian Order never wear those obnoxious, stiff uniforms the preening Guls and Glinns so adore?" "They don't?" Bashir asked, dubious. In the collective mind of the Federation, the triangular, beveled cuirass that was part of the uniform had developed into a visual symbol of Cardassian military prowess. "No. They wear plain grey clothes with no rank markings so that you can never tell if it's a junior operative or a senior interrogator standing before you. A most bland sheath, covering the sharpest of tools." Bashir nodded in understanding, for he had long recognised Garak's talent for intentional blandness, both in appearance and in words. He was the master of the pregnant, significant pause because so often, he spoke in voids -- conveying all that he meant not in the words of his lies, but in the empty, tense spaces between them. "I just don't..." Bashir said, waving his hand above his now cold Gladst to relieve his frustration. "I'm having a hard time understanding the necessity of such bloodthirsty paranoia. Random intimidation seems such short-sighted methods of operation because they tend to lead to revolt." "You're describing the military again -- the blunt tool. The Order is a precision instrument. There's nothing random about their actions." For a moment, Thuli studied him carefully, the scrutiny of his deep-set blue eyes as disconcerting and penetrating as Garak's was. "Let me ask you something, doctor. When you go out in your ships and destroy Cardassian and Dominion vessels, do you ever wonder why?" "I don't need to wonder. We go out only when it's absolutely imperative to do so," Bashir said, not quite grasping where Thuli was going with his tangent but willing to play along regardless. "Because it's necessary for the survival of the Alpha Quadrant and the Federation." "Exactly -- because it's necessary. I can forgive Dele for his sins because he did what was necessary to uphold Cardassia's pride, and same goes for Ma--, for Garak," Thuli said, his eye contact unblinking. "We all do what we think is necessary, that's all." "I see your point," Bashir said, dropping his gaze. "I'm just...it's hard, to be so torn about all this," he muttered, cringing at his oblique choice of words and the lie they covered. The lie was, of course, that it was in any way hard, when in fact it was so very easy: regardless of who Garak had been and the atrocities he'd committed, he was also Garak, the tailor with a penchant for tall tales and a gift in ensnaring the hearts of young doctors. With a finger under Bashir's chin, Thuli tilted his face up and regarded him more closely. "There is love in you, I can see it now. So love him for what he is now, instead of denying yourself this happiness in order to dwell in the past. Please," he said, touching his cheek with his fingers. "For me." "For such a young man, you're remarkably perceptive," Bashir said and made a watery smile as he recognised the wisdom of what Thuli had said. Now, in this time of war and peril, he wouldn't allow himself to think of anything but the future he might have, finally not alone. Thuli smiled back at Bashir. "I had a good teacher." ------------------------------- End of part 10/12. [Non-text portions of this message have been removed] Yahoo! Groups Links <*> To visit your group on the web, go to: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/ASCEM-S/ <*> To unsubscribe from this group, send an email to: ASCEM-S-unsubscribe@yahoogroups.com <*> Your use of Yahoo! Groups is subject to: http://docs.yahoo.com/info/terms/ From ???@??? Sun May 09 23:56:34 2004 X-Persona: Status: U Return-Path: Received: from n1.grp.scd.yahoo.com ([66.218.66.64]) by skylark (EarthLink SMTP Server) with SMTP id 1bn1SHFI3NZFjw1 for ; Sun, 9 May 2004 20:55:07 -0700 (PDT) X-eGroups-Return: sentto-1978024-8074-1084161306-stephenbratliff=earthlink.net@returns.groups.yahoo.com eceived: from [66.218.67.200] by n1.grp.scd.yahoo.com with NNFMP; 10 May 2004 03:55:06 -0000 X-Sender: campbratcher@psci.net X-Apparently-To: ASCEM-S@yahoogroups.com Received: (qmail 12337 invoked from network); 10 May 2004 03:55:06 -0000 Received: from unknown (66.218.66.166) by m8.grp.scd.yahoo.com with QMQP; 10 May 2004 03:55:06 -0000 Received: from unknown (HELO mailstore.psci.net) (63.65.184.2) by mta5.grp.scd.yahoo.com with SMTP; 10 May 2004 03:55:05 -0000 Received: from max (as1-d25-rp-psci.psci.net [63.69.225.25]) by mailstore.psci.net (8.12.2/8.12.2) with SMTP id i4A3rsfP000541 for ; Sun, 9 May 2004 22:53:54 -0500 Message-ID: <005601c43642$792c3be0$87c5fea9@max> To: "ASCEM-S" Organization: ConGlomeration X-Priority: 3 X-MSMail-Priority: Normal X-Mailer: Microsoft Outlook Express 6.00.2800.1158 X-MIMEOLE: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V6.00.2800.1165 X-eGroups-Remote-IP: 63.65.184.2 From: "Keith & Jessica Bratcher" X-Yahoo-Profile: sileya MIME-Version: 1.0 Mailing-List: list ASCEM-S@yahoogroups.com; contact ASCEM-S-owner@yahoogroups.com Delivered-To: mailing list ASCEM-S@yahoogroups.com Precedence: bulk List-Unsubscribe: Date: Sun, 9 May 2004 22:54:19 -0500 Subject: [ASCEM-S] NEW DS9 "Nineteen Shades" 11/12 (G/B) [NC-17] Reply-To: "Keith & Jessica Bratcher" Content-Type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Please see part 1 for codes, disclaimers, and notes. ------------------------------------------- Nineteen Shades, by Penumbra (part 11/12) ------------------------------------------- For once in his life, Garak didn't quite know what to say. The source of his unusual bafflement, five feet of ambulatory ire in the shape of a Ferengi, stood in the middle of his shop like a devil scorned, teeth bared and ears flushed. There was anger in his eyes, which was unexpected result of some seemingly idle chitchat regarding the war and the resulting unavailability of Altarian viscose. How the conversation had turned to the perennial topic of latinum -- or in this case, lack thereof -- was beyond Garak's considerable mental grasp. "Well?" Quark prompted vehemently. "Er, I beg your pardon?" Garak asked, recovering. Quark draped his now-altered pants over his arm with a jerk. "You heard me, Garak. Two bars of gold-pressed latinum, that's what you've just cost me. Do you know how hard it'll be for me to win it back from Jadzia?" Maintaining a calm facade in the face of Quark's confusing yet somewhat amusing tirade, Garak clasped his hands behind his back and put on his most sincere smile. "My dear Quark, while do I appreciate your patronage," he intoned and nodded at the trousers he'd mended for the Ferengi, "I simply have no idea what you are talking about." Quark made a sound halfway between a snort and a hiss. "Ah, never mind," he huffed and turned to go, only to have to dodge Bashir who'd appeared at the doorway to Garak's shop. "And it's your fault, too!" Quark exclaimed, pointing a decidedly accusing finger at Bashir before storming out in an obvious state of agitation. "Hello, Elim," Bashir said distractedly, pausing at a sweater rack to stare towards the Promenade where Quark had vanished. "What on earth was that all about?" Garak could only shake his head and wonder the same. "Guls only know." "This has been a strange day, Garak. Very strange," Bashir said and caught his eye. "I only told Miles this morning, and now the news is all over the station," he added with sarcastic emphasis on the word 'news.' Garak nodded. "Rumours, much like trouble, move at warp speed. And yes, today has been rife with odd experiences. Around lunchtime Major Kira was positively livid with me," Garak said, tapping his cheek with a finger as he thought back to their accidental meeting in the replimat queue. "Her remarks, while undeniably inventive, made some completely ludicrous assumptions about my heritage and the configuration of my genitals." "Oh god," Bashir said and closed his eyes, obviously unable to decide whether he was supposed to laugh or commiserate. "I'm so sorry, Elim." Garak leaned forward, frowning at the touch of sadness in Bashir's voice. "Oh, don't worry, my dearest. I only mention this because I found it highly entertaining. It's not often I can manage to get the major so riled up by merely being in her general vicinity." Bashir opened his eyes and gave a grateful smile. "I'm glad you can see the humour in all this." "Of course," Garak assured him. "And how has your day been?" Bashir smile morphed into a grin that would've been downright fiendish if it hadn't been so troubled. "I went to visit Captain Sisko in Ops and Jadzia gave me this beaming smile and a wink. I blushed to the point where the captain deemed necessary to inquire about my health and on whether I was getting enough rest. Thankfully, he was distracted from further questions by the choking sounds Major Kira was making." The laughter bubbling inside lifted Garak's spirits immensely. Seeing as his reputation was dubious on a good day, he hadn't really cared about what other people thought of him, but Bashir was in a markedly different situation. Gratified that he also was taking things in stride, Garak let his amusement show in his smile and the tone of his voice. "I'm glad you're also seeing the rather amusing aspects of the situation." "Naturally so," Bashir said even as his expression wavered to something more serious. "I also had lunch with Thuli." "I see," Garak said with a slight grimace, the laughter inside dying a swift, painful death. "A most illuminating event, undoubtedly." Bashir took a deep breath and met Garak's gaze squarely. "It was something of a learning experience for me, yes." Garak nodded. He had no doubt that Delemek and his young *ha'kem* had had many a frank conversation about Elim Garak of the Obsidian Order. However, given that Bashir had actually sought him out, Garak could only conclude that either Bashir was made of sterner stuff than he'd previously assumed or Thuli understood the concept of discretion. Both, he conceded, were probably far more than he deserved. Stepping around his desk, Garak approached the young man and took his hand. Combing his fingers through the sparse, short hairs on the back of Bashir's hand -- the concept of body hair was still utterly fascinating to him -- he stood still, simply enjoying the proximity and the touch of Julian's cool skin on his. Pressing Bashir's hand against his chest where his heart lay, Garak looked him in the eye -- not to plead, but to convey the truth as he saw it. An apology would be a lie, and he couldn't stand adding that particular untruth to the obstacles standing between them. "You do realise I'm not about to apologise for the things I've done." "There's no need to, Elim. I understand," Bashir said. The distant look in his eyes melted to such warmth that it thawed Garak's heart as much as the press of his hand on his chest did. "I really do." "We'll speak of it no more, then." Bashir nodded and closed his eyes as if banishing away whatever still troubled him. When he opened his eyes again, the melancholy was gone. "C'mon. Let's go see their ship leave." "Certainly," Garak acquiesced against his better judgement. "Let me close up the shop first. I'll just be a minute." Having done just that, they made their way to the upper level of the Promenade, where upper pylon three was visible. As they watched, the Bolian freighter carrying Serka and Thuli and the rest of the dissidents detached from the umbilical in a brief shower of sparks. Its impulse engines glowing in an ever-brightening green, the freighter turned and accelerated past the station's superstructure until it suddenly winked into warp speed. It left behind no trace of itself, merely the empty void of space that gleamed black between the stars. Garak was not sad to see it go, for it represented a closed book in the story of his life -- a tale he no longer had any use for. Moving to stand on one of the crosswalks over the Promenade, Garak leaned his hands against the balustrade and looked down at the milling throng. Bajoran security officers mingled with workers heading home while the riff-raff heading towards Quark's pushing through the civilians emerging from the Temple, even as the gaggles of Starfleet personnel from USS Algiers conversing loudly with their dour Vulcan counterparts off the vessel K'taur. It was a cacophony of sounds and sights, a milieu rife with alien tongues and objectionable fashion. Bashir came to stand next to him. "Penny for your thoughts." Garak straightened and turned to face Bashir, his face schooled to neutral. "Would you be interested in my musings regarding the utter blandness of Vulcan fashion, or on the appropriateness of *elket'n adt* in response to a *maq taalb* attack in Kotra?" "One would hope you'd be thinking of us. Me," Bashir said, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Garak tsked, gently chiding even as he secretly relished their return to a comfortable, bantering mood. "My dear, such thoughts are far too distracting to be entertained in public," he said, voice carefully neutral. "True." "Quite so." Garak leaned forward and cocked an eyeridge. "What are you in the mood for dinner, my dear?" "Well. I'm sort of feeling like Klingon today," Bashir said in reply, assuming a pondering face as he, too, leaned forward and cocked an eyebrow. "Yes, maybe a plate of gagh and some blood wine, that would hit the spot. For dessert, I was thinking of a cup of good coffee, a glass of Bajoran spring wine, and fellatio." Once again, Garak's training came to his aid: he barely flinched. The glint of something heated in his Julian's eyes, combined with the rather blatant invitation, made Garak momentarily forget his distaste for the human habit of making blunt, inelegant declarations. This particular declaration had gone straight to his groin, which was in itself rather unsurprising seeing as how he'd become acquainted with the doctor's oral fixation. "If I'm to suffer through gagh, I expect nothing less," he managed, his eyes glued to Bashir's mouth. His groin tightened at the thought of those delectable, cool lips around his cock. "In fact, I'm sure nothing short of spectacular on the dessert front will make me forget the thoroughly unappetising experience that Klingon cuisine is." "Oh, you insufferable curmudgeon. Come here," Bashir huffed through a smile and yanked Garak by his collar into a kiss. Garak was dimly aware of the fact that they were making a spectacle of themselves. He heard the conversations in their vicinity halt in mid-sentence and felt the shocked, disapproving, and curious gazes on his back, and he didn't blame them one bit -- a middle-aged Cardassian in a spectacular lip-lock with a dashing, young Starfleet officer, in full view of the rush hour Promenade no less, was not something one saw every day. Usually such overt attention would make him uncomfortable, but at that moment, all Garak wanted was for it to never end. The measured, almost reverential touch of Julian's lips and the cool, rough exploration of his tongue were both inflaming and relaxing. All of Garak's worries melted away at that feel and at the slide of Julian's hands on his back and sides as he mapped the patterns of his tunic and the hills and valleys of his muscles beneath. The kiss was not just an affectation; no, it was an unneeded absolution of his sins and a much-desired wordless declaration of all that they could have and share. When Garak had to finally pull back lest he faint from lack of oxygen, he eyed the smiling Bashir with a question in his gaze. "What was that for?" he asked and heard the rough, thick rasp of his voice. "For volunteering to eat gagh with me. For what you did for Serka and Thuli," Bashir said and leaned in, nuzzling into the crook of his neckridge. "Because once in a blue moon, you do have a heart of gold." "Mmm. Just don't tell anyone," Garak murmured and closed his eyes, a small smile playing on his lips. He surely didn't deserve such naive faith from this human, but while it lasted, he'd enjoy it for all that it was: love. "So I was thinking here," Bashir muttered against Garak's chest, his breath warm even through the thick fabric, "that a change of plans might be in order." "Oh?" Garak said. He traced the soft shape of Julian's cheek and neck with his fingers, smiling as he felt the blossoming heat there. From it and the growing hardness he felt pressing against his hip at his touch, Garak could surmise his companion's plan had somewhat backfired. "Do tell," he prompted. "I'm willing to skip the gagh," Bashir said, sounding slightly breathless. Garak's fingers found the pressure strip of his uniform closure and tugged it down an inch. "And the blood wine?" "And the blood wine. Garak..." he whispered, a note of amusement and warning in his voice. "As it happens, I have a bottle of Bajoran spring wine in cold stasis in my quarters," Garak said, as nonchalant as he could under the circumstances, specifically with his trousers feeling two sizes two small about the groin. "An excellent vintage, I might add. Sweet, yet not cloyingly so." "Well now," Bashir breathed but made no move to break their intimate embrace. The heat pooling in his darkened eyes would've melted duranium. "That is a very enticing proposition, Mr. Garak. Lead on. Please." With all the self-restraint he could muster, Garak refrained from unzipping Julian's uniform completely and taking him then and there. Instead, he stepped back and nodded towards the nearest turbolift. "Of course," he said and grasped Bashir's hand into his. He brought the hand to his lips, never breaking their eye contact even as he felt Julian shiver at the touch. "Always, my love." In reply, Bashir smiled and Garak wondered how that smile always managed to heal parts of him he hadn't known were wounded. "Always, Elim." ------------------------------- End of part 11/12. [Non-text portions of this message have been removed] Yahoo! Groups Links <*> To visit your group on the web, go to: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/ASCEM-S/ <*> To unsubscribe from this group, send an email to: ASCEM-S-unsubscribe@yahoogroups.com <*> Your use of Yahoo! Groups is subject to: http://docs.yahoo.com/info/terms/ From ???@??? Sun May 09 23:56:34 2004 X-Persona: Status: U Return-Path: Received: from n48.grp.scd.yahoo.com ([66.218.67.25]) by mamo (EarthLink SMTP Server) with SMTP id 1bn1Ti2l53NZFk72 for ; Sun, 9 May 2004 20:55:44 -0700 (PDT) X-eGroups-Return: sentto-1978024-8075-1084161307-stephenbratliff=earthlink.net@returns.groups.yahoo.com eceived: from [66.218.66.28] by n48.grp.scd.yahoo.com with NNFMP; 10 May 2004 03:55:07 -0000 X-Sender: campbratcher@psci.net X-Apparently-To: ASCEM-S@yahoogroups.com Received: (qmail 92661 invoked from network); 10 May 2004 03:55:07 -0000 Received: from unknown (66.218.66.216) by m22.grp.scd.yahoo.com with QMQP; 10 May 2004 03:55:07 -0000 Received: from unknown (HELO mailstore.psci.net) (63.65.184.2) by mta1.grp.scd.yahoo.com with SMTP; 10 May 2004 03:55:06 -0000 Received: from max (as1-d25-rp-psci.psci.net [63.69.225.25]) by mailstore.psci.net (8.12.2/8.12.2) with SMTP id i4A3sBfP000667 for ; Sun, 9 May 2004 22:54:11 -0500 Message-ID: <005b01c43642$832fb5e0$87c5fea9@max> To: "ASCEM-S" Organization: ConGlomeration X-Priority: 3 X-MSMail-Priority: Normal X-Mailer: Microsoft Outlook Express 6.00.2800.1158 X-MIMEOLE: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V6.00.2800.1165 X-eGroups-Remote-IP: 63.65.184.2 From: "Keith & Jessica Bratcher" X-Yahoo-Profile: sileya MIME-Version: 1.0 Mailing-List: list ASCEM-S@yahoogroups.com; contact ASCEM-S-owner@yahoogroups.com Delivered-To: mailing list ASCEM-S@yahoogroups.com Precedence: bulk List-Unsubscribe: Date: Sun, 9 May 2004 22:54:36 -0500 Subject: [ASCEM-S] NEW DS9 "Nineteen Shades" 12/12 (G/B) [NC-17] Reply-To: "Keith & Jessica Bratcher" Content-Type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Please see part 1 for codes, disclaimers, and notes. ------------------------------------------- Nineteen Shades, by Penumbra (part 12/12) ------------------------------------------- E p i l o g u e - - - - - - - - Garak had propped up one elbow on the table and was leaning into that hand, two fingers on his cheek and his thumb under the thin ridge decorating his chin. His gleaming black hair was pulled back in a rare ponytail, making his already severe, bony Cardassian appearance even more intense if possible. Making lazy travels along unknown paths, Garak's gaze was on the chessboard and O'Brien could almost hear the well-oiled tactician's gears of his mind turning as he pondered his next move. Quark's was unusually quiet that night but that hadn't surprised the chief. Rumours of a Dominion fleet massing on the other side of the wormhole had everyone nervous and brooding, him included. However, the slightly oppressive atmosphere seemed to have no effect on the man sitting from across the chessboard -- or even if it did, O'Brien had long ago resigned to the fact that he'd never learn to read Garak well enough to know anything for certain. "What an interesting game this is," Garak mused aloud, his eyes still on the board. "The simplification of a structured, feudal society with large numbers of warriors -- save for the matriarchal power structure, one could be led to think this was a Klingon game, not a Human one." "Matriarchal?" O'Brien asked, watching as Garak completed his kingside castle. With some deflation of his spirit, he realised the Cardassian sitting across from him had done some studying after their Kotra game. "You mean the relative strength of the queen?" "Yes. Combine that with the vulnerability of the ruler," Garak said, gesturing airily at his white king, "versus his importance, and it paints an interesting picture of Human societies. Figureheads with female bodyguards, surrounded by warriors and clergy. Fascinating." Paying only partial attention to Garak's ponderings, O'Brien inhaled through his teeth. Garak's Vienna opening had distracted him and his Philidor's Defence was only half-developed. His hand hovering over a pawn for a moment, he decided on the king bishop instead, only to have Garak swoop in to take the bishop and a pawn before he could counter the moves without losing the centre. "You're not really playing chess with any sort of logic I can deduce." Garak met his eyes and smiled in a way that did nothing to thaw the perceptive, cool blue ice of his eyes. "I'm playing chess like a Cardassian would," he replied, his voice like honey and razor blades. That smile, more a demure twist of his full lips than anything else, made O'Brien recall Dax's description of Garak as a charming rogue. Looking at his calm, collected visage, O'Brien could certainly see why she'd deemed him a rogue, but the charming part completely eluded him. Squinting as he tried to see Garak as Julian saw him, O'Brien took in the sharp, primal aspects of his eminently Cardassian features and the broad, strong build of his torso. Maybe Julian liked the implied power of his physique? But that would be just too simple to be the entire truth about his complex if flighty friend. He watched Garak toy with a captured black pawn in one hand while the two first fingers of the other traced his eyeridge, both gestures surprisingly delicate and gentle for a Cardassian. Was it the hands, maybe? Over a bottle of decent scotch, Julian had once confessed to having a thing for skilled hands and Garak's were certainly-- "You're staring again, Mr. O'Brien," Garak said, his eyes on the board and his tone amused. Jerking his attention back on the board, O'Brien tried to will down the flush of embarrassment colouring his cheeks. "I'm sorry," he muttered although he was also glad of the interruption. It was not like he wanted to dwell on what Garak's hands -- or, for that matter, any other parts of him -- did to Julian to produce that glow of contentment with which he'd been walking around all week. "I didn't mean to." "Of course you didn't," Garak intoned softly, a curious smile coming to shape his lips. Attacking the e4 pawn, O'Brien met Garak's smile with his own rather uneasy one. He'd come to know that particular tone of Garak's well over their game of Kotra: the sharp sibilants coupled with that small, sly smile meant Garak was pleased to have caught an opponent revealing his hand. To stop the white queen from checking, O'Brien moved his knight to the centre while keeping an uneasy eye over Garak's kingside and cleared his throat. "So how does a Cardassian play chess?" he asked, returning to their previous topic. "Mmm, now there's an interesting question," Garak murmured, holding his kanaar glass with delicate fingers as he sipped the viscous, dark liquid. "Chief, tell me something. Before you became an engineer, you were a soldier, yes?" He fianchettoed on the queenside and to O'Brien, his move was as unexpected as his change of conversational topics. "We've established that, I believe." He frowned and tried to see if there was a trap Garak had laid for him when he'd left his rook so unprotected. "Yes. So in light of your choice of games for us today, can I assume as a soldier you fought much as you play this game: within the given rules and as efficiently as possible?" Falling silent for a moment, O'Brien took the rook and frowned when Garak ate three of his pawns -- a reasonable exchange, given that he could check in one move. Whatever tactic Garak employed, it had long ago stopped making sense to O'Brien. "In games, rules count and an efficient war is a quick one. Check." "Hm. So it is," Garak said. It was unclear with which statement he was agreeing. Seemingly unconcerned, Garak dodged his check and proceeded to trade his bishops for O'Brien's remaining knight and one rook while putting oblique pressure to push his king to the rim. Resisting, O'Brien forked. "You were saying?" he prompted when Garak seemed to have gotten lost in his game and kanaar. "You don't agree with my assessment about quick wars?" "Mr. O'Brien, in my considerable experience, there is no such thing as an efficient army unless it's comprised of unfeeling automatons," he replied at length, drumming his fingers against the table before taking the black queen in a move O'Brien considered downright reckless. "I'm sure you agree that we are neither unfeeling nor automatons." "Sure," O'Brien nodded and downed the rest of his raktajino. "What're you saying?" "I'm trying to say that the efficiency of an army, and by extension any war it wages, is irrelevant. The only thing that matters is the effectiveness of that army. That's why the Cardassians could occupy Bajor and why the Dominion is such a frightening enemy -- they, like we, care only about the war, not the battles." O'Brien eyed the board and a genuine smile came onto his face. "Well, this is one battle the Cardassian smarts have lost," he said, nudging his remaining rook into d6. "Checkmate." "So it is," Garak said and to the chief's consternation, he seemed not at all surprised at the result. Knocking the white king over with one flick of his finger, he leaned back. "And the end result of our game was what, in your opinion?" Confused again, O'Brien frowned. "The result? I won." "Ah, you won the battle," Garak said, gesturing at the board with condescension that would've been infuriating had it not been quite so graceful and subdued. "You protected your assets, made careful sacrifices only when you needed to, and guarded your king with all that you had." "That's sort of the point of chess, isn't it?" As if he hadn't heard O'Brien, Garak continued, obviously warming to his topic. "And yet, what do you have to show for it? Yes, your king survived but all you have left of your kingdom are the clergy and a few pathetic war-weary pawns," Garak mused and cocked an eyeridge at him. "Meanwhile, I have sacrificed a king to the benefit of a more powerful ruler," he said, touching the white queen, "that still has an army and strong defences to protect her. The glory of the state demands smart sacrifices, not efficiency." Realisation dawned on O'Brien as he looked at the board through Garak's eyes. "Garak, you son of a gun," he said and laughed, unable to help his admiration at the man's devious insanity. "You let me win, didn't you? You let me win just to make a point, and I didn't even notice." Garak rose and smoothed down the front of his tunic with one broad, grey hand as he smiled down at the chuckling chief. "Next time, I promise I'll play the battle," he said with a nod. "Now, however, I must excuse myself. I'm dining with Julian and for that, I need to change into something rather more festive." O'Brien nodded, still smiling. "Same time next week, Mr. Garak?" "Until then, Mr. O'Brien," Garak intoned and bowed with a flourish before exiting towards the Promenade. The chief chuckled and shook his head as he watched Garak disappear into the late evening crowd milling about the central corridor. O'Brien sat there for a while, finishing off another mug of raktajino before his combadge chirped to let him know it was time to start his shift. Arranging the chess pieces into their box, he folded the board on top of them before rising from the table and finding himself to be grinning like an idiot. Never mind the Dominion and the war, he mused -- he'd found something to smile over. "Nineteen shades of treachery, that man is," O'Brien muttered to no-one particular and paused, adjusting the chess box under his arm as he thought. "Bloody hell. I think I'm starting to like him." ~~ T h e E n d ~~ ------------------------------- End of part 12/12 (epilogue). [Non-text portions of this message have been removed] Make a clean sweep of pop-up ads. Yahoo! Companion Toolbar. Now with Pop-Up Blocker. Get it for free! http://us.click.yahoo.com/L5YrjA/eSIIAA/yQLSAA/5x3olB/TM ---------------------------------------------------------------------~-> Yahoo! Groups Links <*> To visit your group on the web, go to: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/ASCEM-S/ <*> To unsubscribe from this group, send an email to: ASCEM-S-unsubscribe@yahoogroups.com <*> Your use of Yahoo! Groups is subject to: http://docs.yahoo.com/info/terms/ From ???@??? Tue May 11 23:29:01 2004 X-Persona: Status: U Return-Path: Received: from n8.grp.scd.yahoo.com ([66.218.66.92]) by sparrow (EarthLink SMTP Server) with SMTP id 1bnKnO31d3NZFjV0 for ; Tue, 11 May 2004 20:26:11 -0700 (PDT) X-eGroups-Return: sentto-1978024-8076-1084332365-stephenbratliff=earthlink.net@returns.groups.yahoo.com