Chapter Text
He was in many ways, Julian considered, attempting to convince himself of a silver lining. He was like a researcher stationed in Antarctica in the old days of scientific inquiry. Any day could be the day that revealed an extraordinary discovery that would have gone unknown, were it not for his daring and sacrifice to go where no others would.
Bullshit.
He’d never been a convincing man, more likely to be labelled annoying than compelling by friends and acquaintances alike. In that moment he was obligated to agree with their assessments. Even being aware of the sheer necessity of his undertaking did little to relieve him, much less being orator, audience, and judge of his own futile pep talks. Maintaining cheer was hard when you knew you were about to spend half a year on a frozen rock in the middle of nowhere.
He reached out to the side and gave Kukkalakka a soft squeeze. The teddy bear did little to boost his spirits—rather, he supposed he should have become used to this gloom by now. Unfortunately, after four long-term postings, it seemed to him now that this was an unavoidable part of the lead up to a stationing. First: frantic searching as he scoured Starfleet’s databases for a post that would take him out of the public eye. Somewhere obscure, virtually unknown. Somewhere where the days could pass by, distancing him from danger. Second: find a posting. Apply. Allow himself to be superficially, momentarily pleased by the incentives associated with the posting: Fast-track for Starfleet’s Leadership Academy. Time counting for a 1.20 career advancement timeline. Extra vacation days. Third: telling his parents. Fight. Fight them, fight guilt. Every time he went on assignment, his mother would cry. Richard would go thin-lipped and haughty. Disappointed. Convinced he had a right to be.
“This isn’t why we helped you,” he said one time, before what had been Julian’s longest assignment. Deep Space 5. Eleven months. “We didn’t do it so you could tinker around and waste yourself away, off alone on far-off stations. We did it so you’d have a better life!”
What the hell was a ‘good life’? And what supposedly made another life ‘better’?
Fourth: reaching the day of his new appointment. Fall into an abject gloom at the resolution that this is the safest option. Resign himself to days filled with reading and self-contemplation. Remote stations didn’t have the energy allowance for holosuites, after all.
During the worst of it, Julian would debate whether or not to send a recording to his parents. So far the score was 2-2. They usually ended up being more trouble than they were worth, opening another several months of awkward and hesitant calls and messages until Richard said something one step too far and he finally shut down communication again. But then again, guilt was a powerful motivator.
Julian debated whether to leave a recording for his parents this time when the chime of the computer called his attention.
Ensign Julian Bashir to the Ready Room.
Ah, well. No message then. Looks like the new track record was 3-2 in favor of distancing.
Julian patted Kukalakka, setting him on top of his suitcase before heading out. He hadn’t been on the USS Inspiration long—only for a couple of days—but the route to the ready room was the same as other ships he’d been on. Crew members passed by in groups of two and three. Here and there he caught snippets of conversation and laughter, the product of camaraderie that came with years of being stationed together. The solitary lift ride to the bridge was silent in comparison.
Julian nodded a perfunctory greeting to the first officer, an Andorian, as he entered the bridge. They gestured with their chin over to the left. The ready room’s over there. Julian waved hesitantly, the awkwardness of the movement matched by an equally cautious grin on his face.
The look the Andorian gave him was not particularly impressed. Was he late? Were the captain and his counterpart waiting for him? He wasn’t in the mindset to have hurried, not while knowing the next six months would contain very little reason to rush at all.
The doors to the ready room let out a soft hiss as they opened, granting access to the sanctuary. Captain Matakova sat at the far end of the table, barely looking up as Julian entered, absorbed in whatever was on her padd.
He glanced to the side to see that that Eddington was already there.
Lieutenant Junior Grade Eddington. Michael Eddington. He supposed that if he was going to be spending six months with the man they’d eventually graduate to a first-name basis. He raised a hand, knowing how hesitant his gesture and smile looked without needing to see himself. Eddington gave him a polite enough smile back. He’d only learned who his mission-mate would be upon boarding Inspiration, but had only interacted minimally with him in the cafeteria on the way to Boreas, nothing close to enough to geta sense of how easy he’d be to get along with. The only thing that had held him back was fear over making a bad impression—rambling on about some obscure topic, and becoming the one in the pair that the other dreaded getting stuck with.
Captain Matakova cleared her throat, startling Julian into action. He slid into his seat, crossed his hands on the table in front of him: the picture of attentiveness.
“Ensign Bashir, Lieutenant Junior Grade Eddington, thank you for coming right away. I know you’ve been debriefed already and have made yourselves intimately familiar with your orders, but given the importance of this mission, I wanted to take the opportunity to impress a couple of details on you as we approach Boreas. Ensign Bashir?”
“Yes, Captain?” Julian startled at the sudden attention.
“I read your record. A posting on Delta Tango Four, another one at Deep Space Five. These island postings are old hat for you by now, aren’t they?”
“Island posting, sir?”
“From the saying ‘no man is an island’? Isn’t that the slang they give these kinds of remote postings at Academy?” she waited a moment for affirmation, shook her head when none was forthcoming. “My, I must be getting older than I thought, if I’m so outdated. Regardless, it means I won’t have to stress the very real risks of isolation to you.”
“No, sir,” Julian agreed quickly. Too often officers tried to ‘make sure’ he knew what he was getting into with the remote postings. Everyone thinks they can handle seclusion, one grizzled captain had advised, few realize how much it chips away at you. Humans aren’t meant to be alone. He’d recommended withdrawing his candidacy, save the posting for a Vulcan or some other Federation race with a more natural aptitude for solitude.
“I suppose that in comparison to your past experiences, this assignment’s challenge will be how to deal with the company. With three others sharing the same space, it’s going to feel downright crowded,” Eddington jumped in. His humor and casual smile set Julian’s nerves at ease, even as he drew Matakova’s attention.
“You, on the other hand, don’t have the same experiences with remote outposts. I see you were stationed at Starfleet Headquarters for a while, then had postings on the USS Kinshasa and Altai. An impressive record, but not with the same firsthand experience. You’ve already gone through the liability and bonus incentive forms,” Matakova scrolled through her padd, Julian and Eddington both nodded in confirmation.” I trust you were able to sufficiently discuss your concerns with a ship’s counsellor before boarding?” the last part she spoke to Eddington.
“That’s right.”
“So I don’t need to reiterate the seriousness of the outpost’s isolation.” The impact of the words fell hard, casting a momentary quiet on the room as everyone considered the impeding reality.
“Two hundred and fourteen days,” Eddington finally mused.
“One hundred and eighty-nine planet-days,” Matakova nodded. “The length of it doesn’t escape me, though I know that means little. Have either of you been to a Class P planetoid before?”
Julian paused, then shook his head. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Eddington do the same.
“Think Andoria, but scans show this planet differs in a few critical ways.” Hitting a button, Matakova pulled up an image of the Boreas onto the display. The orb projected was white and gray, hints of blue smeared across vast expanses.
“While humanoids can survive for stretches of time planetside with no life support, the harsh conditions make it inhospitable for colonization. That’s, of course, not even taking into account the atmospheric disturbances.”
“The real reason the planet’s not colonized, no matter its resources. Who wants to live on a planetoid you can only leave once every six months?” Eddington drawled.
Julian grinned. “On Beta Delphi Two, inhabitants can only shuttle out every four years. But then again, it’s a temperate climate with plenty of beaches. Not too many folks scrambling to leave once they’ve arrived.”
Matakova shrugged, “This is no Beta Delphai Two. It’s now been two cycles from when the first team landed, and only a few days less when the Cardassian Empire compromised our intelligence on the planet.”
“And decided they had a claim to the Pergium,” Eddington scowled. Julian looked over in surprise.
“Because they do.”
It was the wrong thing to say. In a second, Eddington’s face darkened, and something low and disgusted entered his voice. “Like hell they do. Just like they had a claim to Dorvan V or Juhraya, or Salva II.”
“But according to Federation-Cardassian Treaty…”
“Enough!” Matakova’s voice cut through the rising tension, startling Julian and Eddington both into silence. Embarrassment at being scolded diffused Julian’s compulsion to be right instantly, and Eddington similarly lowered his gaze to his hands. Matakova looked sharply from one to the other. “We could sit here all day and debate the treaty, but it’d be beside the point. Boreas nearly stopped the treaty’s development in the first place. We agreed to this arrangement to keep the peace for the dozens of other planets dependent on harmony with Cardassia. Now you two are representatives of that peace. The truth of the matter is that it doesn’t matter who has a more legitimate claim to Boreas. The only way we could move the treaty forward was through a bilateral survey mission: Federation citizens and Cardassians working together to determine the scope of Boreas’ Pergium veins. The Cardassians don’t believe we’d provide them with accurate data if we were to scan the planet alone, and we certainly don’t trust them to do the same. The Federation is putting a lot of trust in your skills and temperament to work with the Cardassians you’ll be posted with.”
The way Eddington scoffed made Julian concerned. They’d chosen them for their skills, yes, but that dark look in Eddington’s face when he talked about the treaty concerned him. Matakova clearly hadn’t seen it, but there was something concerning there.
Hell, it could threaten their lives.
Julian needed to learn more, needed to get a better sense of who this man was who he’d be working with—living with. He’d have to take a chance, get a better read on Eddington’s views. Julian raised a finger, trying to the best of his ability to look like he was finally voicing something that had been lingering in his mind.
“That’s been my big concern from the beginning, ever since I first got the full orders.” He made a point to lock eyes with Eddington. There was something agreeable there, something he could grab on to and leverage with their supposedly shared skepticism. “The whole idea of working together… well, we’re not really working together. We’re not just monitoring the planet, we’re monitoring each other. That’s why we’ve got the joint mission team anyway, isn’t it? Why the scanning terminal requires human and Cardassian biosigns and authorization codes to operate and send the data off-planet.” It was subtle, but Eddington nodded along to Julian’s comments.
Either Matakova didn’t seem to notice, or she agreed with the assessment. “The system does necessitate redundancy, yes, but that’s what makes it secure. In fact, it was the Vulcans who recommended our elegant solution: requiring both parties’ authorization to conduct and save the planetary scans. Without the possibility of outside tampering, we and the Cardassians can both be assured that we each receive our full claim of Pergium under the treaty before Stardate 47006.”
Julian wouldn’t have called it ‘elegant,’ but it was a solution imbued with Vulcan ideals: use the characteristics of the planet—features that were otherwise considered complications—and turn them into parts of the solution.
“It’s the same reason the scanner itself is located away from the station,” Matakova continued. “Or at least partially. Having plenty of distance between the station and scanner helps prevent tampering. Combine that with the fault line that lets the scanner penetrate so deep into the ground and the scanner’s disruptive effect on Tzenkethi conduits, and you have a thoroughly logical setup.”
From somewhere behind her, a comm alert chirped. “Captain, we’re entering the Demilitarized Zone.”
The words had an instant effect. Julian and Eddington exchanged looks, solemn and understanding. Not long until they’d be planetside.
Matakova didn’t share in the exchange, instead tapping her comm badge. “Thank you, Sylaal. Have Lok’tar keep active scans going 10 light-years out in all directions. There’s been Maquis activity in the region, and I want to avoid any unnecessary surprises.”
“Aye, Captain.”
Markova returned her attention to the men in front of her, spurred into action. “Despite the seriousness of your mission, I hadn’t wanted to make this meeting all doom and gloom. I haven’t yet had an opportunity to share why the two of you were chosen for this mission. What made gave Starfleet faith in you, as it were.” She turned to Julian first. “Ensign Bashir, your history accepting these assignments naturally stood out. You’ve demonstrated yourself to have the patience and self-reflection that is necessary when you must rely on your own devices. That, combined with your basic medical background, was precisely what Starfleet sought.”
Julian shrugged at the reference to the past he sought to distance himself from. “I wouldn’t call it a background. I just took some classes before switching over to engineering.”
“There’s no reason to be humble. You were quite proficient in it. It’s the kind of experience that’s good to have when you’re going to be cut off.” Matakova turned to Eddington, who leaned forward to listen. It was rare that junior grade lieutenants got direct commendations from captains.
“Your work as division security officer has been reliably superb. Your continued professionalization in threat assessment and mitigation have led to multiple commendations from your superiors. Your familiarity with the politics of the demilitarized zone were also compelling in your selection.”
“I’m sorry,” Julian looked back and forth between Eddington and Matakova, “but did you say security officer? When I read the posting description, it specifically called for engineers.” In fact, he’d taken it to be such a non-negotiable point that he’d not even bothered to look up Eddington on the ship database, sure he’d bring the same experiences forward as Julian himself.
“As you can see, he’ll be bringing engineering uniforms to the outpost,” Matakova noted, gesturing to Eddington’s yellow-clad shoulders. “We don’t want to heighten tensions with Cardassians, but…”
“But you don’t want me to be vulnerable,” Julian finished for her, the pieces clicking together. She nodded.
“Precisely.”
“I do have some training in engineering, though,” Eddington added. “Mostly ships, but the principles transfer to stations. So you won’t be stuck with all the work.”
“So we’ve got an engineer, and a security officer. Do we know who the Cardassians are sending?”
Matakova frowned, shook her head. “We’ve got names, but their records are brief. To all appearances, they look to be standard mid-career.”
Julian tilted his head. There was something she wasn’t saying. “But?”
“But that’s not the Cardassian way of doing thing. Despite what they’ve shared with us, we expect them to be doing the same as us: sending an engineer, and one security officer in the guise of engineering support. Which brings us to an amendment in your mission, one that wasn’t in your orders but that I am adding nonetheless.”
Julian shifted forward in his seat. That was unexpected.
“The window for transport to the surface will only be open for a minute or two,” she explained. “After that, the gaps in the electromagnetic distortion field close, and you’ll be cut off until the end of the posting, when you’ll be beamed up in the same location. I want you to try to scan the Cardassians and send the data up to us before the window closes. The information you get might have value in sifting through our intelligence, determine whether the Cardassians think they can play us.”
“That won’t help us on the ground,” Eddington said. Matkova shook her head.
“It won’t, but I need you to do it without them noticing. Make it look like you’re taking a planetary scan.”
It rubbed Julian wrong, but an order was an order. “Yes, sir.”
“That’s our first goal, but what about at the end of the mission?” Eddington asked. “Will we need to bring hard copies of the logs collected, or will those be programmed to transmit during the window as well? The mission briefing wasn’t clear on that.”
“The logs will automatically send upon the mission’s conclusion, but you’re to bring a backup hard copy as well,” Matakova answered. “The Cardassians will do the same.”
“And shuttlecraft really aren’t an option?” Julian asked before he could moderate his tone. He supposed he should be thankful that the concern in his voice could be interpreted as a fear of being totally cut off. There was no way she could know he sought assurance: assurance that even if he was caught—if someone found out about him, about his secret—he would still have months of false peace and freedom before being taken in.
“The Tzenkethi did plenty of testing during the outpost’s construction stage. It’s nearly impossible to pilot a shuttlecraft through the atmosphere, with all the distortions and unpredictable storm patterns,” Matakova frowned. “And of course you return to the original issue of being unable to send a transmission to request a shuttlecraft evacuation. As a silver lining, you won’t have to worry about Maquis interference. But those are all moot speculations. The outpost has been fortified and tested. It has the energy to last a crew years, on top of months of physical rations. In all honesty, the Cardassians have a much rawer end of the deal than we do. Going from Cardassia’s climate to Boreas… I don’t envy them. Even with the outpost’s climate control, it won’t be pleasant, to say the least.”
“If they were Federation, I’d guess they’d be early career military, or civilians on their end. Least seniority gets the worst shifts,” Eddington commented. “Though I knew someone back right after academy that immediately got posted to Delta Tango Four Outpost. They wanted to write the next great Denobulan novel, so they were actually excited to get rid of all distractions for a while.”
“We can hope, but I doubt it,” Marakova frowned. “Not with the importance this has for the Federation and Cardassia’s energy independence.” Julian agreed with her assessment. It was all well and good to hope for the best, but with the sheer amount of planning and negotiating the Federation had undertaken to ensure fair and transparent assessment of Boreas, it was clear they prepared for the worst.
Another chirp sounded from Matakova’s comm badge. “That’ll be our partners.”
Sure enough, her first officer’s voice patched through the speakers. “Captain, the Cardassians have entered our sensor range. They’re on a parallel course to Boreas.”
“Very well.” Markova stood, her chair scraping against the hard floor. Julian and Eddington followed suit. “We’re particularly grateful to the two of you for submitting your applications voluntarily to this posting. As you can imagine, postings that cut (the stationed people) off from contact are the hardest to fill. Best of luck to the both of you. You’ll receive a comm when it’s ten minutes to beam down. The rest of your time here is your own. Stay safe, and stay warm.” She held out her hand, a final farewell. Julian leaned forward, shook it. As she turned, Eddington following suit, a sour curiosity bubbled in his stomach, a twinge of a headache buzzing in the periphery—the kind of symptoms he got when something unexpectedly, unpleasantly surprised him.
He knew his own reasons for volunteering for such an undesirable stationing. He’d thought whoever he’d be partnered with would have to be conscripted. He’d never imagined they’d also be a volunteer.
#
The options of what to do with his remaining time were limited. Too little time for a holonovel, too much time to sit and brood. He’d tried to see if Eddington wanted to chat after the debriefing, but by the time the idea occurred to him, he’d already disappeared down the hallway. Instead, he carefully tucked Kukalakka into his case and sprawled himself out on top of his bed, padd in hand. Looked like he’d pass his time with his old friend Flemming.
He made it a quarter of the way through Dr. No before the pitchy chime called for his attention. That was it, then. The padd went back into his pack, which he slung over his shoulder before heading out. The Inspiration was a pleasant respite while it lasted, but it was time to go to his next temporary lodging, one in a never-ending series of places that weren’t home, not really.
This time when he passed through the hissing doors into the transporter room, Julian found himself the first one there. A human ensign directed his attention over to a far wall, where his planetary gear was waiting for him.
The parka was heavy and thick, prompting perspiration almost the moment he put it on. The boots were less clunky, but still tripped Julian up when he tried to zip them up without his heel shoved securely in place. As he wrestled with footwear, he heard the doors open once again, and the ensign directed Eddington over to the outerwear the similar, perfunctory manner he’d been given.
“No hat or goggles?” Eddington said by way of greeting. Julian gestured to his waist.
“Hat and mittens are in the pockets, but no, no goggles. The station replicator should be programmed for any items we’d need, but they probably don’t think we’d need everything for the few minutes between arrival and getting inside the station.”
“Hmn,” Eddington investigated his pockets in response. After rooting around for a moment, his movements stilled.
Fully dressed in preparation for Class-P conditions, the two stood around, waiting for the transporter crew to give them their next directions. Eddington was the first to break the uncomfortable silence.
“So… Station Nappaaluk, huh. Any idea what that is?”
“It’s named after Mitiarjuk Nappaaluk, an Inuk novelist. I think they chose to name it after her because of the fit.”
“The fit?”
“You know, Inuit. Arctic. It’s a class-P planet.”
“How’d you know that?”
“I looked it up,” Julian answered. There’d been plenty of time before the posting to look up trivia beyond the essential information in the assignment brief.
“Huh,” Eddington sniffed, pursed his lips. “I thought they just named it to fuck with the Cardassians.”
“What?”
“You know, because of all the vowels.”
“Huh,” Julian responded. He hadn’t thought of it, but it made a certain amount of sense. Petty sense. The last time he’d heard Kardassi was back in his required xenolinguistics course—lots of consonants, hissing, and clicking.
“Still, you’ve got to admit,” Julian leaned back, stretched, “it’s pretty cool to be the first people on a new planet.”
Eddington squinted in thought. “Landing parties have already touched down on Boreas. So did the Tzenkethi who actually built the station.”
“Of course,” Julian rushed to respond, “but those were only landing parties. The first party got the initial scans in a couple minutes so they wouldn’t get stuck. The Tzenkethi constructed the outpost and scanning system before putting themselves in stasis for the remaining few months, and the third party picked them up. None of them really got to experience the planet. Not like we will.” Years ago he’d entertained the idea of being doctor on the cutting edge of discovery, a true frontier explorer, working where the action was and in the thick of adventure. H still got to be on the frontier, sure, but on the side of things no one talked about. The waiting and recording side of things.
“Huh,” Eddington weighed the words. “You actually want to go down, don’t you?”
“Want isn’t quite the right word,” Julian answered, a tease of the truth in his words. Need was more accurate. “It’s an experience.”
‘Huh.” The same response. A pause. “So, you were in medical before? That’ll be good to have.”
Julian’s heart skipped a beat. He took a breath in through his nose, out through pursed lips. “Yeah, I started out in Academy on a medical track.” Good. He sounded convincingly normal, even to himself. “It was what my father always wanted. But then I took some engineering extension courses for credit, and discovered I had a passion for it.” A capability for it was more like it. But it was what survival called for.
Eddington looked over, matched Julian’s gaze. “Thank goodness. It’s never a bad thing to have an ace up your sleeve when dealing with the Cardassians. Speaking of which, you should have the honors.” He turned, held out his hand. “This is for you.”
It was a tricorder. Small, unobtrusively gray and metallic.
“You should do the scan on the Cardassians when we arrive. You’re got an anatomy know-how, after all. You’ll be better at doing it… discretely.”
“It was only five classes,” Julian said, but begrudgingly took the tricorder, tucked it into the pocket where his hat had been. Eddington smiled at that.
“Shit, I guess that was my first order as senior crew member! I always imagined my first command to be a bit more glamorous.”
Julian laughed at that, sharing in the mirth. Lieutenant Junior Grade was hardly a command, but it was enough to put Eddington at the top of the chain of command for this mission. Out of the corner of his eye, Julian saw of the transporter technicians waving for their attention.
“We’re approaching the atmospheric clearing window. Please position yourself on the transporter.”
Julian and Eddington complied, taking their positions. Julian adjusted the strap of his bag on his shoulder. Eddington clutched his own possessions in front of him.
“Here’s to the frontier!” Eddington held up an imaginary shotglass in mock salute. With a chuckle, Julian did the same.
“To the frontier.”
As they brought their hands together in a faux cheers, Julian heard the faint order of energizing from the ensign at the station. In a moment, the room was a world of blurred lines and faint stars.
And the moment after that, a world of white.
#
For a moment, Julian wondered if something had gone wrong. Usually all his senses came back to awareness together upon transporting, leaving the faint impression not unlike waking up from a momentary nap to re-register the world around him. Yet a white fog encapsulated his vision, just long enough for him to realize that he was looking up, observing the hazy, featureless sky of Boreas.
Slowly, eyes watering from the brightness, he lowered his gaze. There. The landscape shifted into focus: hills and mountains, Eddington in front of him, and beside him, half a dozen paces away, two figures.
A singular kind of flora dotted the landscape, odd, twisted things that stood as high as Julian. Neither shrub nor tree, their gnarly limbs were covered with hanging, lichenous clusters of brown. They stood out sharply against the still snow, a harsh contrast that made Julian’s eyes ache.
The outpost was a dozen yards or so away, silver gleam nearly blending into the snowy landscape. Julian had read the specs on the outpost, expected its two-story height and domed roof, but still wasn’t prepared himself for the reality of how small it looked, contrasted with the mountains it stood against. Thank goodness the specs showed most of the outpost’s access panels and systems could be accessed from the interior; he had a sinking suspicion that between the Cardassians’ biological disinclination to cold and Eddington’s lacking engineering skills, he would be the one doing the work requiring going outside. He didn’t look forward to those moments. It was cold, bitterly so, and he knew the temperature would get worse as the months went on.
The wind gushed against him, and Julian burrowed his hands further into the parka’s pockets. With a start, his fingers brushed against the hard edge of the tricorder. That’s right, he needed to send a scan before it was too late.
Stealthily, he pulled the tricorder out just enough that the front peaked out from his pocket, tried to navigate the buttons through the thick fabric. It would take a moment to initiate a scan, then…
One of the figures raised its arm up in greeting, the only warning given before they started on their way over.
“Got it yet?” Eddington asked, raising his own arm in reply. Julian bit his lip.
“Just a moment,” he said, pulled the medical tricorder out as far as he could. “They’re too far away, it’s not-” he cut off as the Cardassians drew closer. He doubted they could hear over the wind and through their layers, but there was no reason to risk it. Instead he tucked the tricorder back into his pocket, pointing it as directly as he could toward their colleagues, and hoping that he could initiate the scan by muscle memory alone.
The Cardassians approached them then, bundled in layers that made them sluggishly stagger to a stop. To Julian’s surprise, neither wore goggles or cowls, revealing understandably dour expressions. They stood at about the same height, one male, one female. Curious. No one spoke at first, merely exchanging glances, evaluating their new team members. When the silence was finally broken it was by Eddington.
“Ensign,” he said, not looking away from the Cardassians. “Why don’t you confirm with the Inspiration that we’ve all arrived and established contact? Use your tricorder to amplify the signal.”
Julian blinked, realization coming slow. When it came, he quickly nodded. “Yes, Lieutenant.” Pulling the tricorder out of his pocket, he quickly read its report. Scan completed. Good! He could still complete the orders. Holding the tricorder up, he initiated the data transfer as he tapped the comm badge with his other hand.
“Inspiration, this is Ensign Bashir reporting contact with Cardassian station crewmembers one and two. Please acknowledge receipt.” He tapped out, waited a moment. “Inspiration, do you copy?”
There was no reply.
Glancing down at the tricorder, Julian’s brows narrowed in consternation. No link to USS Inspiration. He opened his mouth a fraction of an inch, about to comment, but held his tongue.
“Ensign, what’s going on?” Eddington asked, and he was at Julian’s side, front still squared away against the Cardassians. He looked down at the tricorder, and after a moment, Julian heard the soft intake of breath when he read the message.
Eddington straightened, the picture of composed professionalism. Julian wondered whether that was the product of years of security training.
“Excuse me,” he spoke to the Cardassians. “We’re unable to contact our ship. Are you able to reach yours to confirm we’ve made contact?”
The male Cardassian tapped at their shoulder, turned his head to speak into his own badge. “Trooper Garak to Lemac, we have made contact with the Federaji. Acknowledge transmission.” There was a stretch of silence, before the man repeated himself. Like Julian before him, there was no response, and a scowl of displeasure crossed his face. When he spoke again, it was to voice what seemed to be dawning on everyone already. “It appears we’ve already passed the point of the atmospheric window.”
Eddington frowned. “I thought we had more time than that.” The trooper moved his shoulder a shade forward, perhaps a Cardassian shrug.
“As did I, but we appear to both have been wrong. In that case, it appears there is nothing left but to introduce ourselves.” He took a step forward, held out his glove-clad palm in a gesture of greeting. “My name is Trooper Garak, this is Glinn Rejal. Engineers by trade, of course, though ready to excel at whatever tasks areplaced before us, even in this place which is—I’m sure I don’t have to say—not particularly well suited to us.”
The woman gave no indication of greeting to Eddington or Julian, merely looking from one to the other. “And among our Federaji neighbors,” the man continued, looking over to Julian, “you referred to your subordinate as Ensign Bashir?”
Julian nodded quickly. “Ensign Julian Bashir.” He held up a hand, initially trying to mimic Garak’s outward palm, but instinctually shook it back and forth in a quick wave. Beside him, Eddington nodded, perfunctory and curt.
“Lieutenant Junior Grade Eddington.”
No response from the Cardassians other than a customer-service smile from the one who identified himself as Garak.
Julian shifted from one foot to the other, feeling the surface layer of ice give under his boot. It was crisp and crusted over, the kind that could support his weight three times over. Between the foreign sensation of the crust giving way to him and the bite of wind against his face, he was hit with a distinct sense of strangeness, the realization that while he was planetside, it was nothing like the home he grew up on. His world was now limited to three strangers, two of whom couldn’t be trusted.
The wind whistled, coursing through the open glen. The two humans and Garak bundled themselves in response to the bite, tried to shield themselves from the onslaught. Yet Rejal stood unmoving, scowling against the elements and the humans in front of her.
“You mean to tell me I’m stuck on this rock with two male human engineers?”
Julian opened his mouth to protest but held it behind his teeth. For as backwards as Cardassian culture could seem to him, he was still familiar with the gendered nature of their career paths. Engineering was, apparently, one of the more heavily gendered fields, but it wouldn’t do to make a misstep within the first five minutes.
“Like you think we’re pleased to see you?”
His colleague, however, appeared to lack the same awareness. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the corners of Eddington’s lips curled down disdainfully. It complemented the naked fury in the female Cardassian’s expression well.
“Just like I thought. Crude and driven by base impulse.” With a scowl, she turned on her heel and stormed toward the station. With a growl, Eddington followed. As he passed Julian, he turned, a self-satisfied grimace plastered on his face.
“You can’t let them walk all over you,” he explained in response to Julian’s slack jaw and obvious incredulity. “Arguing’s just as much a language to them as Kardassi.”
From what he’d heard, Julian suspected proper Cardassian arguing involved a lot more nuance than flat-out insulting, but Eddington didn’t seem particularly open to a conversation about distinctions. Instead, he crunched on, determined not to let the Cardassian gain too great a lead on him. As the distance between the two and Julian grew, flakes of white threatening to obscure them from view far too soon, he became keenly aware that only he and the trooper remained.
He turned to the man, gave an awkward smile that had far too much teeth in it. His fingers caught against the curls at the nape of his neck, and he wondered exactly when his hand had crept up there.
“Er, I’m terribly sorry about my colleague,” he attempted to apologize. “I think he was trying to argue—in the good way!—not in a confrontational…” he trailed off. With every word he felt like he was digging a bigger hole for himself, revealing how little he knew of Cardassian culture. Way to go, Julian, show the Cardassian how little you cared to prepare yourself for the station.
In the end, he pressed his lips together, regrouped himself with a sign. “Not the best way to start the next few months. I’d had hoped we’d start off on a better foot. ”
To his surprise, the Cardassian offered a patient smile, inclined his head.
“Not at all, Ensign. I certainly won’t begrudge you for the temperament of your colleague.”
“Really?”
The word came out too quickly, too surprised, and Julian could see barely concealed amusement cross the Cardassian’s face. A less-polite man would have given it away through a raised eyebrow or curl of his lip, but as it was, the only hint was a slight twinkle in his eye. Julian cleared his throat, tried again.
“I mean, thank you. The situation would be tense enough under normal circumstances, but given the broader tension between the Federation and Cardassia, I… I have to admit, I wasn’t expecting our counterparts to be quite so…gracious, Trooper Garak.”
“Ah, please. Just Garak.” The man smiled then. Somehow it was less genuine than the twinkle in the eye, but an offer nonetheless. “I find it easier to be gracious when speaking with someone with an open mind. I find that signals the essence of intellect far better than other indicators.”
“Er, well, thank you,” Julian responded, unsure how else to respond. “I do hope—well, I mean—I know this arrangement is odd. It’s certainly contentious back among the higher levels of the Federation. But even so, I was hoping that this could be an educational experience. It’s so rare that humans and Cardassians have the opportunity to interact with each other toward a shared goal. That is, I mean, working together with the same people for so long. It’s my hope that we can take the opportunity to…”
To what? To learn from each other? To overcome their differences? Their xenophobia and prejudices? Julian trailed off, flustered and embarrassed at the nativity of his own words, obvious even to himself.
To his surprise, Garak nodded patiently, accommodating rather than critical of his rambling.
“As I said, the essence of intellect,” he repeated. And while the words themselves could have sounded mocking, Julian could find no traces of ridicule in his tone. As he stood awkwardly, deliberating what to do next, Garak stepped to the side, gestured broadly toward the outpost. “Shall we? I don’t mean to hurry you, but the cold is getting to me rather quickly.”
“Yes, of course, sorry.” Julian rushed to walk alongside Garak in the short trek to the station. Their walk was just as quiet as that of Eddington and Rejal’s, though whereas their counterparts’ silence had been borne of hostility and a sour impression, theirs, Julian considered, was surprisingly comfortable. It was the silence of, he hoped, two people who merely did not know each other well enough to know what to say.