Chapter Text
When Julian woke up, something was wrong. Or rather, everything was wrong: the bed was too hard, the room was too cold, and the smell was not the impersonal, sterile cleanliness of a conference hotel, but the stink of too many bodies crowded into too little space for too long, laden with sharp anxiety and tinged with the metallic tang of blood.
He opened his eyes without otherwise moving, hoping to gather some information about his surroundings without letting anyone—including his presumed captors—know he was awake. He found himself looking across a narrow room to a small metal bunk against a gray metal wall. Sitting on the bunk, his back propped against the wall, was a squat elderly Cardassian man. His face, still round, but deflated from its former plumpness by rapid weight loss, was lined and sagging with age and weariness, but the brown eyes that were watching Julian from beneath heavy lids were still sharp and bright, lit with a keen, observant, calculating intelligence that he had seen matched only by one other pair of eyes, that one ice-blue.
He immediately recognized those eyes and that face, from a risky, unauthorized trip into Cardassian space three years before, as those of Enabran Tain, the former head of the Obsidian Order. Garak’s old mentor and superior, who had condoned his exile if he had not ordered it himself, whom Garak had nonetheless gone twice into the Gamma Quadrant to find and save. Eight months ago, the female Founder who apparently spoke for her people to outsiders had told Garak that Tain was dead, but here he was. Could a Changeling mimic the intelligence in those eyes? Julian wasn’t sure.
Well, so much for waking up unnoticed. “Welcome, Doctor,” Tain said pleasantly, his voice gravellier than it had been three years ago, but with the same false warmth, the same undercurrent of threat.
Julian sat up quickly—he didn’t like the vulnerable feeling of being supine under Tain’s searching gaze—but not too suddenly, not wanting to seem startled or skittish, and put his back to the wall beside his own bunk.
“Where are we?” he asked, looking around. A barracks, apparently, full of mostly empty bunks like the one he had woken up on. A humanoid figure in what looked like a Breen environmental suit was lying on its back on the bunk further along the wall from Tain’s; from the bunk beside Julian’s, a sharp-faced Romulan woman watched in silence.
“‘Internment Camp 371’ is what the Dominion calls it. An atmospheric dome on an asteroid in the Gamma Quadrant.”
“You must have been captured when they intercepted the Obsidian Order fleet… Obsidian Order and Tal Shiar,” he added, nodding toward the Romulan woman, who just gazed back stonily. “But… why am I here?” He was already thinking through possibilities even as he asked the question. Why would the Dominion attack a burn conference on Meezan IV? Where were his fellow doctors? Was he the only one who had been captured? Why him?
…of course: because he was the CMO of Deep Space 9. If he were replaced by a Changeling—the very thing they had all feared since a Changeling had posed as a Starfleet admiral almost two years ago to try to instigate conflict between the Federation and the Tzenkethi; the very thing they had done to General Martok to destabilize the Klingon Empire—it would have access to the wormhole. Perhaps more insidiously, it would have access to Captain Sisko, the leader on the front line who would be the first called upon to respond to any Dominion incursion. Would his replacement be urging Sisko to yield before the Dominion, or to approach them aggressively, giving them an excuse to fight back, perhaps to start a war?
“They’ve replaced me, haven’t they?”
“Very good, Doctor.”
Julian fought the urge to bury his face in his hands in horror and despair. He just tightened his lips and nodded.
At the other end of the room, the doors slid open, and a hunched figure in Klingon armor, with a wild mane of Klingon hair, came through, half stumbling and half pushed by a Jem’Hadar soldier. Behind the Klingon walked a male Romulan with a steadying hand on his back.
After the Jem’Hadar released his arm with a carelessly vicious flinging gesture, the Klingon took a few more stumbling steps, and was only prevented from collapsing to his knees by the Romulan, who rushed to grasp his other elbow. With a defiant growl, the Klingon forced himself to straighten his back and raise his head high. It was General Martok—one eye socket filled with old scar tissue, blood streaming down his face from new cuts on his lip and forehead.
Julian jumped from the bunk and hissed when his bare feet met the icy concrete floor. He rushed forward to examine Martok for injuries beyond the ones that were immediately apparent; from the way he was holding himself, Julian suspected a cracked rib or two and at least a pulled muscle in his leg. He turned to the Jem’Hadar soldier and asked, “Where is your medical equipment? I need to disinfect and repair his injuries.”
The Jem’Hadar chuckled grimly. “You are new here.”
Julian drew himself up as tall and dignified as he could manage and said, “I am a doctor and a Starfleet officer, serial number S-Y—”
“I do not care, Human.”
“Then take me to your Vorta.”
The Jem’Hadar snorted dismissively. “He will not care, either.”
“The Federation will care very much that you have taken one of their citizens prisoner, without provocation and charged with no crime.”
“They might care if they had any way of knowing.”
“I demand to speak with your superior officer. I was kidnapped from my bed and spirited here in unsuitable clothing”—he gestured to his thin blue pajamas and bare feet, and only his tensed muscles and sense of pride kept him from shivering—“and I am being prevented from rendering necessary medical aid to another prisoner for whose welfare you are responsible.”
“You are growing tiresome, Human,” the Jem’Hadar growled.
“Leave it alone, Doctor,” Martok warned. He sat heavily on the first bunk in from the door and waved off the male Romulan, who was hovering with an old rag already crusted with dried blood.
“He counsels wisdom,” said the Jem’Hadar. Tain and the Romulans watched in silence, they with wary expressions, he with interest and a slight glimmer of amusement.
“I can become as tiresome as I need to be heard by someone with authority,” Julian declared stubbornly.
“So be it,” the Jem’Hadar replied. He grasped Julian’s arm with brutal force and dragged him roughly out the door of the barracks and along bare concrete corridors, painfully cold and hard under Julian’s unshod feet, and lined with identical rectangular metal buildings. Julian made a mental note of how many they passed so that he would be able to find his way back to the one where Tain and Martok were held.
The Jem’Hadar brought him to a building larger than the others, which Julian supposed must be the camp’s administrative center. They entered a hallway patrolled by more Jem’Hadar, then the soldier with Julian banged on what looked for all the world like an ordinary office door.
“What is it?” a smooth, bored-sounding male voice called through the door.
“Our new Federation prisoner has demanded to see you.”
There was a loud sigh, then the door opened and a middle-aged Vorta with an irritable expression beckoned them in. “You must have been very insistent. Ikat’ika doesn’t usually like to bother me. I am Deyos, by the way.”
“Doctor Julian Subatoi Bashir, Starfleet Lieutenant. Serial number—”
Deyos waved a hand to cut him off. “Please, Doctor. The Romulans or the Cardassians might care about your Starfleet ‘serial number,’ but that has no meaning and gains you no privileges with the Dominion.”
“Are you seeking a war with the Federation?” Julian demanded.
Deyos raised his eyebrows, unimpressed. “We have never sought a war, but the Federation’s actions have already forced one upon us.”
“Our actions—?”
“Your persistent encroachments on our territory, despite repeated warnings to stay away, left us no choice but to defend ourselves.”
“Defend yourselves? You kidnapped me and replaced me with a duplicate in self-defense?”
“You are not a Federation ambassador, and I have no need or desire to debate security policy with you.”
Julian stopped himself from incredulously repeating “security policy?”; he realized he was starting to sound like an indignant echo. “That’s not what I wanted to see you about, anyway.”
Deyos sighed. “What was it, then?”
“First, medical supplies. One of my barrackmates is injured. I need wound disinfectant, a dermal regenerator, probably an osteoregenerator…”
Deyos laughed, just as Ikat’ika had, though his laughter was drawn-out and theatrical where the Jem’Hadar’s had been low and terse. “You think we have those things here?”
“Don’t Vorta and Jem’Hadar get injured?”
“We heal very quickly. Or if we don’t…” Deyos shrugged eloquently, letting Julian fill in “that’s what clones are for.”
“So you don’t care if your prisoners die?”
“It is disappointing when the Klingons die,” Ikat’ika opined, breaking his stoic silence.
“‘Disappointing’?” There he went again, the incredulous echo.
“They are more interesting to fight than your other species. Hardier and more determined.” He cast an assessing glance over Julian. “You Humans can be surprisingly persistent, but your bodies are weak. You pose little challenge. Romulans and Cardassians are somewhat better… if only they did not talk so much.”
Julian recalled how Garak’s irrepressible witticisms had gotten him beaten up by a gang of Klingons; he could just imagine him trying to talk a Jem’Hadar into submission…
Garak. Surely he would notice that Julian had been replaced; he was the most observant person Julian had ever known, and he was closer to Julian than anyone else on the station. The Changeling couldn’t possibly imitate every quirk of Julian’s behavior perfectly, or every detail of his body. How would a Changeling have sex, anyway? If they could simulate ejaculate, then they could simulate blood… and then no test would be able to detect them. The thought made Julian feel suddenly nauseous. (Surely it was the thought of Changeling impostors being impervious to any test that made him nauseous, not the thought of Garak having sex with a Changeling, believing it was Julian.)
He shook himself out of those thoughts. “Martok was injured fighting you.”
“Not me, but one of my soldiers.”
“If Klingons are more interesting for you than your other prisoners, surely it is in your interest for me to keep him alive and healthy.”
“You are welcome to tend him with whatever is available, but we cannot provide you with supplies that we do not have,” said Deyos, taking charge of the conversation again.
“You have replicators. You have captured starships with—”
“We do not keep everything from our… acquisitions. Only what might be useful to us.”
“I don’t suppose you keep any spare clothing, or shoes? I was kidnapped in my pajamas, which are hardly suitable for the extended stay I assume I should expect.” Until Garak realized he was missing and came to find him. Julian had no idea how Garak would find him in the vast expanse of the Gamma Quadrant—and he chose to ignore the fact that Garak had failed to find Tain here, for the year that he’d still hoped his old mentor was alive. Julian had to believe that someone would find him, and if anyone had the skill and doggedness to do it (and the motivation?), it was Garak.
“As it happens, we do keep clothing taken from those we capture. The Founders like to have it around in case they should need it… if only for reference.” Deyos looked Julian up and down with a bored expression that was half a sneer. “I suppose you think your current apparel does not befit the dignity of a Starfleet officer.”
“That… and it is rather cold here,” Julian said, returning Deyos’s contempt.
“Well, then, let me show you our selection.”
He walked out the door of his office and Ikat’ika followed without having to be told, resuming his vise-like grip on Julian’s arm. Deyos led them down a hallway to what Julian supposed must be a storage closet, just as eerily ordinary as the Vorta camp commandant’s office. He pressed his palm to a pad beside the door and it slid open.
“Here—spare clothing.” Deyos gestured through the open door into a room that was much larger than a storage closet, more like a room for costumes and props in a theater, with several racks arranged around the room, each with a different type of clothing hanging from it: Cardassian clothing on one, almost entirely consisting of gray military uniforms; Romulan clothing on another, similarly monotone; a small rack of Bajoran civilian clothing; and a larger one filled primarily with Starfleet uniforms, as well as civilian garb from various Federation planets. The Starfleet uniforms were all in the old style that had just been phased out a few weeks before. Julian found it oddly reassuring that he was the only Starfleet prisoner that the Dominion had taken in that time.
“You should be able to find something that fits you,” Deyos drawled, gesturing lazily toward the Federation rack.
Julian started looking through the Starfleet uniforms for a blue one more or less in his size. They smelled clean, as if they had been washed since they were last worn… but many of them were ripped or burned or stained with dried blood that had set into the fabric.
“These… belonged to dead prisoners,” he realized, and felt stupid for not figuring it out sooner.
“Of course,” Deyos said impatiently. “Where else would we have gotten them?”
“You could have taken them off captured ships…”
“Hardly worth the bother.”
“But you do bother to strip your prisoners’ corpses.”
“Part of standard processing.”
Julian didn’t want to know what that meant. His nausea was rising again as he touched each battered, bloodstained uniform. His treacherous brain counted them before he could stop it: 163. Each a Starfleet officer who died in this place. Could he take a uniform that had been stripped from a fellow officer’s corpse? He almost wanted to refuse, to turn around and say his pajamas would be perfectly sufficient, thank you very much… but no, he needed the warmth, and he especially needed the shoes if he was going to survive here long enough to escape, or for someone (for Garak) to come and rescue him.
He looked back at his captors; Deyos was looking faintly smug, Ikat’ika as impassive as ever. The Vorta had shown him this because he had known it would unnerve and sicken him. Perhaps he even hoped that Julian would refuse to wear one of these stolen uniforms, that he would have to be forced to desecrate the memory of a fallen comrade. But the joke was on him: Julian was a doctor from a culture that valued life above all, and he knew that letting a comrade’s death save his life was not a desecration, but the best way to honor them.
The uniforms were not organized in any way, so Julian had to pick out the blue ones to check the size information that the replicator helpfully stamped on the inside of the sleeve. Finally, he found one that was close enough to his dimensions, if a little baggy in the shoulders (replicated uniforms usually were—a constant annoyance for Garak) and a little short in the legs, and didn’t have any tears or visible stains. (How had its owner died? If not from external wounds, then from illness or malnutrition, or perhaps internal injuries that went untreated?) Then he crouched to look through the row of boots lined up below the uniforms for an intact pair in his size.
“Thank you,” he said coldly to the Vorta and the Jem’Hadar once he had gathered up the clothing he needed.
“Aren’t you going to put them on?” Deyos asked, eyebrows lifted.
“I can change in the barracks.”
“Oh, no. This is an exchange, not a gift. The uniform for your… ‘pajamas,’ you called them? The Founders might find them useful.”
Julian doubted that; he suspected that the Vorta just wanted to humiliate him, and to make clear that every apparent kindness came with a price. If Julian wanted the dignity of a Starfleet uniform, he would have to sleep in it, just as the Romulans did in theirs.
“Very well.” Staring straight at his captors, Julian unbuttoned his pajamas and stripped down to his briefs. Then he put on the dead officer’s uniform, first the gray undershirt, then the blue-shouldered jumpsuit, then the socks and the boots. He thought about who its owner might have been: probably a junior science officer, but perhaps a nurse or a doctor in training. The single pip on the collar of the undershirt indicated that they were an ensign, so Julian went back to the rack to pull another pip off the collar of a different uniform. It didn’t matter, of course—his rank earned him no privileges here, any more than his serial number did—but he was still a Starfleet lieutenant, and if he was to die here, he would die with the markers of his rank.
Deyos gingerly picked up Julian’s discarded pajamas and deposited them into a receptacle in the wall that Julian supposed must lead to a sterilization system. He wiped his hands on his own tunic as if touching something worn by a foreign species had made them filthy. Then he turned back to Julian with a wan smile and said, “Back to the barracks you go, then.” He made a little shooing gesture, and Ikat’ika grasped Julian’s arm again and started to turn him toward the door.
Julian resisted being moved, using just a little of his Augmented strength. “You’ll do nothing to help me keep Martok alive?” He knew it was probably useless, but he couldn’t live with himself unless he tried everything he could.
“You are wearing my patience very thin, Doctor… Bashir, was it? Stop talking and leave, before I throw you in an isolation cell.”
Julian put all the hate and contempt he could summon into the icy stare he directed at Deyos, but he obeyed.
The walk back to the barracks was far more pleasant with shoes. Ikat’ika pushed a button to open the door and shoved Julian inside, then marched away without another glance.
Martok was still sitting on the first bunk in from the door, and someone had done a fair job of wrapping a thin blanket around his ribs as a bandage. He had been resting against the wall with his eye closed, but he opened it when Julian entered. The Breen was still lying silently on his bunk, but the Romulans were elsewhere.
With a slightly pained grunt of effort and a hand bracing his side, Martok leaned over to retrieve something from under his thin mattress: a sharpened shard of metal. He held it out to Julian with an expectant look.
Ah, of course: the blood test. Which might not even prove anything anymore. Julian took the shard of metal and used its point to puncture the pad of the fourth finger on his left hand. When blood welled up from the cut, he smeared it onto the flat part of the metal scrap and handed it back to Martok, who looked down at it and nodded his satisfaction.
Having watched this process with an expression of mild interest, Tain acknowledged Julian with a polite smile. “I see you’ve found yourself some new clothes… or rather, someone’s old clothes.”
“Yes,” Julian confirmed tersely. He didn’t feel like discussing it. He crossed the room to the bunk he had woken up on, barely an hour ago.
“We are not simply resigned to our fate here, in case you were wondering,” Tain said casually.
“Tain,” Martok growled. “You’d better be damned sure that we can trust him.”
“Really, General. You think a Starfleet officer would betray us to the Jem’Hadar?” The mockery in his words rankled, but Julian didn’t let it show.
Martok harrumphed. “Humans are cowards, and too in love with comfort.”
“Not this one,” said Tain, with a knowing, confidential smile at Julian.
“What, you know him?”
“We’ve met,” Julian said cautiously.
“I was quite impressed with him.” Tain’s warm, avuncular demeanor provoked the same faint nausea, the same warning prickle of the hairs on the back of Julian’s neck, as it had at their first encounter. “I want him to live a long, miserable life,” Julian heard—as clearly as if Tain were speaking the words again in this cold, bleak prison rather than in the warmly lit, comfortably furnished sitting room of his home on Arawath—and then, even more chillingly cruel: “And please, tell Garak that I miss him.”
“You should know, Doctor, that I am working to send a message to our mutual friend on Deep Space 9,” Tain continued.
Insane hope leapt into Julian’s throat. “How?” burst out of him, more yearning and less skeptical than it should have been.
“I’ve been converting the old life support system inside the wall into a transmitter. I can send a brief message using a code that only he and I know…”
“Then he can trace the source and find you.”
“The old lizard here is quite certain that he’ll come,” Martok said dubiously.
“He will,” Julian affirmed. Garak had followed Tain into the Gamma Quadrant twice, even after Tain had tried to kill him, and when he had every reason to believe that Tain was dead. And if he knew that Julian was here, too…
“My, my.” Tain’s smile broadened with amusement. “You have such faith in him.” The stress he laid on the word hinted that he knew there was more to it than that, but he would generously let Julian keep his secret… for now.
“He is a man of many talents,” Julian said, as blandly as he could… then realized that had been a poor choice of words when Tain’s smile broadened even further, verging on a leer.
“He is, isn’t he? I wish I could say I taught him everything he knows, but I’m afraid there are some things he picked up on his own.”
Like compassion and loyalty? Julian wanted to snap. He just hummed in vague agreement.
“He sounds like quite a fellow, this Garak. I look forward to meeting him—and not only because he can get us out of here!” Martok barked out a laugh, then groaned and put a hand to his side.
“Careful. You’ve probably got a couple of broken ribs,” Julian warned him.
“Yes, Doctor.” Martok leaned on the word, as Tain had on “Starfleet officer,” but there was no mockery or malice in it. Julian decided he liked the gruff General.
Tain… he would just have to learn to live with. Not for too long, he dared to hope.