Cardassian out of Time DS9 - PG for a bit of violence Kathryn Ramage Revised version: August 1998 SUMMARY: Garak travels back in time to WWII Europe and it's up to the DS9 crew to find out where he is, what alteration he's trying to make to history, and to stop him. TIMELINE: Place this story in the fifth season, not too long after "Trials and Tribble-ations" but before Bashir is kidnapped by the Dominion. WARNING: There is nothing actually slashy here, but this story does contain time travel and Nazis. If you don't care to read about either of these things, please turn back now while you still have a chance. SPECIAL THANKS: To Liz Williams for mailing me a helpful Guide to Berlin, and to Gabrielle Lawson for the map, photos, and all the information about Prague. Also to the usual gang of G/B'ers who beta-read this story and contributed some really good suggestions along the way. Kit -=*)]![(*=--=*)]![(*=--=*)]![(*=--=*)]![(*=- Paramount owns Star Trek, DS9, and the characters with the exceptions of the vedek, the TimeCops, and the German officers--all of whom are my own creations. This story was written for personal amusement and should not be taken as intended copyright infringement. -=*)]![(*=--=*)]![(*=--=*)]![(*=--=*)]![(*=- Prologue Nine Orbs had appeared in Bajor's Denorios Belt over the past ten thousand years. Seven remained in Cardassian hands, prizes captured during the Occupation and taken away for study. An eighth had been hidden by Kai Lorma and guarded over the years by her successor, Opaka; its existence had never been discovered by the invaders. The ninth had recently been restored to Bajor. This was the Orb of Time. After the destruction of the Obsidian Order, the new Cardassian government had made its first tentative forays into the Order's vast archives, where *everything* was kept. The Orb had been discovered there. As a gesture of reconciliation, Cardassia had returned the artifact to Bajor. The Emissary himself had conveyed the Orb to its proper home--and experienced the Orb's astonishing time- casting abilities first hand, but he and his companions returned from their adventure none the worse and the Orb was at last brought to the monastery at Tresna. The monks of Tresna guarded their treasure well. Only a few, most exalted persons were permitted access: Vedek Anbuel, the monastery's head, members of the Vedek Assembly, the Kai, and of course the Emissary. The Orb's temporal powers made it too dangerous to be handled by ordinary holies, civilians or unwary scientists. The location of the Orb was a closely kept secret. But there are always those persons adept at bringing the darkest secrets to light. Members of the Bajoran militia were assigned to stand guard at the door to the underground chamber where the Orb was stored. For weeks, they had taken their uneventful duty in regular shifts; on that particular evening, however, the echoing sound of footsteps on the forgotten back stairway that led down from the garden, where the door was always kept locked, drew the attention of the pair currently in attendance. The two watched and waited expectantly, phasers drawn, but no one emerged into the hallway that stretched before them. One of the guards left her post to investigate. As she stepped around the corner and advanced cautiously down the shorter corridor that led to the foot of the stairs, the man hidden in the deep shadows between the ancient stone groynes stepped out and clubbed her before she was even aware of his presence. The second guard heard his comrade fall. "Galet?" As he started down the hallway, he slapped his commbadge to report an intruder--and a phaser blast struck his chest. This guard also fell. A metallic voice called out through the open comm channel, but the one conscious person remaining in the corridor chose not to reply. Stepping over the second guard's body, he walked quickly toward the door to the sealed chamber. Others would come to investigate; he had only a few minutes to work. The lock on the door presented no difficulty. The Orb sat in a prominent place, its ornately carved cabinet on a disused altar below an ancient prayer mandala. He crossed the room and opened the cabinet. Already, there were sounds of other Bajorans approaching. Within the cabinet, the Orb glowed with painful intensity. He had seen this artifact before; many years ago, when the Obsidian Order had conducted its experiments in temporal revision, he had been one of the young agents assigned to research potential targets and key points in galactic history. While he had gathered some interesting pieces of trivial information in those long-ago days, he'd never imagined that any of it would emerge as practical. It had only recently come to his attention that he alone had an extraordinary opportunity to put his knowledge to use. The Order's attempts to send an agent back to alter the past had never been successful; after that unfortunate incident with Gul Vevers--they still didn't know where he was--they had ceased to try. Nevertheless, they had made more progress than the Central Command's scientists in understanding something of the Orbs' mysterious nature. Simply the fact that this Orb was glowing was a good sign. It had responded to his presence. He hoped he knew enough to direct its power... The door burst open and several monks and militia guards stationed at the monastery rushed into the room just as the figure standing before the altar was engulfed in the blinding light--and then vanished. -=*)]![(*=- Within an hour of the break-in at Tresna, the Emissary had been alerted. At first, Captain Sisko was reassured by the news that the Orb had not been stolen. Then, the disturbing ramifications of an unauthorized person using the Orb to travel in time began to sink in. He put his senior staff on the case. "Neither of the guards who were assaulted saw the man who attacked them," Odo was the first to report. "The rest of the militia stationed at the monastery saw nothing. The monks saw nothing." He snorted with a hint of derision. "Except for one. He claims he saw a strange man in the garden shortly before the assault." "A Cardassian," said Sisko. Based on their preliminary findings, the Bajoran authorities were insisting that the unidentified intruder must be Cardassian. Behind the captain, Bashir entered the security office carrying a datapadd. The doctor seemed somewhat agitated as he heard Sisko's words, but he didn't speak immediately. He stood near the door waiting for Odo to finish, his eyes alight with an intensity he had not shown for some time. The doctor had been despondent since Garak had disappeared more than a month ago. Although Odo had investigated the matter at the time and concluded that Garak's departure had been voluntary, Bashir continued to insist that something was wrong. He was the only one to express any anxiety as the tailor's unexplained absence lengthened. "No, sir," Odo answered. "Bajoran, or human, or another similar species. The monk was too far away to provide a detailed description, but he is certain that the person he saw was not Cardassian. He was in the Resistance before he entered the monastery, Captain. He knows a Cardassian when he sees one." "But there was a Cardassian there," Bashir announced now. "Sir, I've analyzed the skin samples the Bajorans sent us," he told Sisko. "The fragments left on the doors, the Orb cabinet, the- ah- weapon the intruder used to bludgeon one of the guards. I can verify their initial scans: the intruder was Cardassian. But there's more, Captain," his voice quavered with barely restrained emotions. "I've made a positive identification. It's not just any Cardassian. It's him." -=*)]![(*=--=*)]![(*=--=*)]![(*=--=*)]![(*=- Berlin, 1939 A man walked into the lobby of the Luise hotel on Unter den Linden wearing a trenchcoat with the collar turned up, a scarf close about his throat, and his hat pulled low over his eyes--not so unusual, for it was a chill and rainy November afternoon. But he did not remove these concealing garments once he was indoors. *That* was strange. He did not even remove his gloves. He crossed the lobby to the reception desk and the clerk there, who regarded his approach with a certain nervousness. "I am looking for Major Strauber," the man requested. "Friedrich Strauber." That explained it, though it did not diminish the clerk's nervousness. This man was a colleague of the major. Gestapo. They liked to keep an air of mystery about themselves. "Major Strauber is a guest in this hotel," the clerk explained quickly, "but he has asked not to be disturbed. Would you care to leave a message for him, Herr..?" "No, thank you. I shall call again later." As the man turned to go, his scarf fell loose and the clerk caught a brief, disturbing glimpse of mottled pale skin. The man's face and throat looked oddly scarred, as if he had been burned or badly scalded. He almost looked as if he had scales. -=*)]![(*=--=*)]![(*=--=*)]![(*=--=*)]![(*=- DS9, 2374 "The question," said the TimeCop, "is as much a matter of *where* he is as *when* he is. The Bajoran Orbs are still a relatively new mode of temporal dislocation to us and we haven't yet established the extent of their range. Even if we were able to determine the precise moment your errant Cardassian leapt into, we still have to search the entire galaxy-" "One of billions of galaxies," the second TimeCop chimed in. "-to find him." This possibility had also occurred to Sisko, but somehow it seemed far worse to hear it voiced so matter-of-factly by the "experts." He began to pace the length of the wardroom behind the chairs where his senior staff were seated. The officers from the Department of Temporal Investigations sat on the opposite side of the table. "What can we do to narrow our search parameters down just a little?" he asked. "If we can trace his recent movements-" the first TimeCop began. "We are doing that now," Odo grumbled, as if the mere suggestion that he might neglect this line of investigation was an unforgivable insult. "-his habits, his personal interests," the TimeCop continued without missing a beat, "we may find clues that will guide us to his most probable locations. There are also certain assumptions we can make." "Such as-?" Sisko prompted. "We still exist. If your Mr. Garak has set out to alter the timeline, he hasn't done it--won't do it. His actions have not resulted in an end to reality as we know it. That's really very promising." "It means our mission will succeed," said Dax. "Not necessarily, Commander," the Temporal Investigator answered. "It simply means that he has had no appreciable effect on our past." "Or," the second TimeCop added, "whatever he's done may have only interfered with the timeline very slightly. We continue to exist, but our existence may not be exactly the same as it was before the Cardassian accessed the Orb. Of course, we would not be aware of this minor difference." "Christ," O'Brien muttered, primarily to himself, "this is what I hate about mucking around with temporal mechanics. Gives me a headache every bloody time." -=*)]![(*=--=*)]![(*=--=*)]![(*=--=*)]![(*=- Berlin, 1939 The humans of this time period were nothing like the Federation humans he had been forced to live among these past years, and yet he felt he understood them better. Their feverent patriotism. Their imperial expansionist philosophy. Their sense of racial superiority--although the distinctions they made among groups within their own species to claim this superiority continued to elude him. Their passion for politically inspiring works of art. Their elaborate bureaucracy. Their meticulousness; he marveled that their land- based, steam-propelled, mass transportation vehicles always seemed to run on time. The differences seemed superficial: This was a civilization in its early industrialized stages. Their view of the universe was childishly parochial. Their electronic devices were quaintly primitive. The air had an unpleasant, sooty taint; he'd seen the dark clouds of toxins rising from the factories around this city, and the puffs of smoke issuing from the personal transport vehicles that passed him on the street, and he marveled that anyone could endure this as a permanent part of their environment. Even the suit he was wearing was not very different from some of the costumes he'd worn in his holosuite games with Dr. Bashir, though the piece of diagonally striped cloth knotted around his neck seemed even more impractical than the little black bow-tie that accompanied his tuxedo. He'd seen much on his way to this city, where he planned to intercept his target. He'd even managed to learn a little during his vigil here at the little cafe across the street from the Hotel Luise. There were a few cast-iron tables on the sidewalk, away from the solicitous attentions of the cafe manager and the unbreathable, acrid smoke from those paper-wrapped sticks of dried leaves that the earnest and intensely intellectual university students ignited in abundance. From here, the double row of bare trees did not block his view of the hotel door and in this miserable, cold and blustery weather, he was guaranteed an undisturbed seat. He could sit without interruption, drinking innumerable cups of the distastefully oily, caffeine-laden but scalding hot beverage this establishment produced, while he kept an eye out for the major. This chilly seat also gave him the perfect excuse not to remove his hat or gloves. As he turned to pick up the fresh cup of coffee that had just been poured out for him, he caught sight of his own reflection in the cafe window--and he was startled, not for the first time, by the unfamiliar, human face that stared back at him. His recent surgery, which enabled him to travel among the humans as one of them, had been rushed, and the surgeon unused to working on Cardassians. His nose and chin had been converted perfectly to human smoothness, though there was a small pit high on his forehead and the clusters of implanted hair where his browridges had been seemed sparser than the human norm. He had combed his hair forward to conceal these irregularities. Less easy to conceal were the two pinkish ripples of scar tissue that ran down either temple and cheek. More noticeable scars lay just below his ears and along his neck, where the cartilaginous ridges had been excised, and faint remnants of his scales were still visible on his throat. The coat-collar and scarf covered these. He'd been passing himself off as an officer scarred in battle. In this militaristic culture, this had earned him a great deal of respect. And although he had never made such a claim, he had discovered that many of the people he encountered also took him for one of their government's secret police. The idea amused him, but since their assumption allowed him to work unhindered, he did not try to correct the mistake. He rather liked these people. They reminded him of the Cardassians he had grown up among. So very different from the humans he knew. So very different from that one human he knew best. He could accustom himself to living among these 20th- century humans, looking like them. But it had come as a surprise to discover how much he resembled Major Strauber. The two-dimensional image of his target had not fully prepared him for his first sight of the living person. When he had finally observed Strauber arriving at the Hotel Luise this afternoon, he'd been astonished. The resemblance was truly remarkable. Strauber's hair was lighter than his own--sandy brown, while his hair was still the natural Cardassian black. And the major's more ruddy complexion was unscarred. But otherwise, they might be brothers. A pity. He'd never had a brother. -=*)]![(*=--=*)]![(*=--=*)]![(*=--=*)]![(*=- DS9, 2374 After the rest of the crew had been sent to perform their own tasks in the hunt for Garak, Dr. Bashir remained behind in the wardroom to assist the Temporal Investigators with their inquiries. He fidgeted, slightly nervous. Captain Sisko leaned against the ovoid frame of one of the windows nearby. His arms were folded and his expression scowling and stormy, but Bashir found his presence comforting. Starfleet had always viewed the doctor's relationship with Garak as suspect for a variety of reasons; Sisko had stayed to ensure that this interview did not become an interrogation. "You are Mr. Garak's closest friend, Doctor," the first TimeCop asked. "Yes, I suppose I am." "He confides in you." "I wouldn't go quite *that* far. He doesn't really tell me very much. He likes me to observe--to put the pieces together for myself and draw my own inferences." "And what inferences have you drawn in this situation?" the second TimeCop asked. Bashir had already given this a great deal of thought. "Well- ah- I can think of only one thing that might be relevant. A few days before Garak disappeared, we were discussing a book he had leant me--a book by a Vulcan cultural specialist that compares the political structures of several historical and contemporary police states with the psi-despotisms of pre-Surak Vulcan. Garak was particularly interested in the chapters on old-Earth cultures: Imperial Rome, Nazi Germany, Stalinist Russia, the post-atomic horror. It was as if he were pleased to see that humanity had produced societies that would make a Cardassian shudder." "You think that he may have chosen to visit one of those eras?" asked Sisko. "He may have gone to Earth?" "I don't know, sir," Bashir admitted. "We've had conversations along the same lines before. Garak's told me that he thinks we're a hypocritical race, that- ah- we judge other cultures so harshly because our own history is full of incredible brutality and we're afraid to admit we still have that kind of potential. But since he left the station just after that, it's the most promising lead I can give you. Even if Garak hasn't altered our history, we still have to find him and bring him home." He looked to the TimeCops. "Don't we?" -=*)]![(*=--=*)]![(*=--=*)]![(*=--=*)]![(*=- Berlin, 1939 The streetlamps on Unter den Linden did not go on at twilight; ten weeks into the war, black-out conditions were in effect throughout the city. Shutters were closed and shades were drawn. Berlin was dark, but the evening sky was clear and cloudless and the moon rising over the tops of the buildings was bright. And Cardassian night-vision was exceptional. Though the cafe had closed, Garak remained. The cafe's manager had not had the courage to chase him away with the last of the students. Eyes still fixed on the hotel across the street, Garak pulled his coat close about him against the cutting-cold wind that stripped the last leaves from the rows of lime trees and chased them down toward Brandenburger Tor-- and wished that he had ordered one last cup of that hot coffee, bitter as it was. He did not intend to remain here all night. At last, the door to the Luise hotel opened and Major Strauber emerged. He was wearing civilian clothes, but Garak recognized him instantly. This was the opportunity he'd been waiting for. The major looked up and down the dark street before he descended the hotel's front steps. Garak left his table. -=*)]![(*=--=*)]![(*=--=*)]![(*=--=*)]![(*=- DS9, 2374 The senior staff had reconvened in the wardroom. The Temporal Investigators had moved to an inconspicuous position at the far end of the room. "At Dr. Bashir's insistence, I traced Garak's where- abouts after he left DS9 a month ago," Odo began. "Four days after leaving this station, Garak arrived at the Noreth settlement on Vadala III. There is every indication that he planned this trip: he closed his shop, booked his own passage, and entered Noreth using an assumed name." Odo *hmph*'d. "But they don't see many Cardassians in that sector and we had no difficulty matching our missing tailor to their recent visitor. Once I had verified that it was actually Garak, I assured the doctor that his friend was alive and well, and I concluded my investigation. I suspected that Garak was up to something, but he was out of my jurisdiction and the local authorities were monitoring his activities." "And what happened to Garak after that?" Sisko asked. "The local authorities kept an eye on him--until he disappeared one week later." Odo sounded gruff, and yet apologetic, as if he held himself responsible for this carelessness. He placed a datapadd on the table. "I've received the surveillance reports from the Vadalan Security Force." Sisko took up the padd, glanced at it, and handed it to the TimeCops. "Although it appears the Vadalans watched Garak closely for several days, they have no record of his departure from Noreth. He may have used another name to arrange passage on any one of seven public transports or over forty private vessels which stopped at the settlement around the time of his second disappearance. We have not yet traced where he went from Noreth, or what he was doing, until he returned to Bajor." The second TimeCop returned the padd to the table. Dax picked it up; Bashir inched closer to read over her shoulder. Kira began her report: "According to the militia stationed near Tresna, no one has seen a Cardassian within twenty kilometers of the monastery--and, believe me, if *anyone* had seen Garak, they'd have reported it." She scowled in frustration. "The thing I don't understand is this stranger who *was* seen at Tresna. Who is he?" "Could your Mr. Garak have had an accomplice?" the first TimeCop asked. "A human or even a Bajoran acquaintance who would help him gain access to the Orb?" He was studying the doctor speculatively. "No," Dax answered abruptly. She was pale under her spots. "Not an accomplice. There's another explanation." She tapped the datapadd screen. "During that week Garak was in Noreth, he visited Dr. Siva Telgun three times." "Someone you know?" Sisko asked. "Not personally. You're all too young to remember-- about sixty years ago, there was a Dr. Telgun arrested for espionage. He had been sneaking Romulan spies into the Federation. He went to prison, though he must have been released a long time ago. If this is the same man... Benjamin, he was a cosmetic surgeon. He altered the Romulans' faces to make them appear human." -=*)]![(*=--=*)]![(*=--=*)]![(*=--=*)]![(*=- Berlin, 1939 Strauber turned at the first intersection. Garak passed under the rows of trees and stepped into the street, only to jump back again as a personal transport vehicle rushed past him with a squeal of warning. He had observed the prominent light-fixtures on the fronts of similar vehicles during the day, but evidently these lights were also subject to the dictates of the black-out. Major Strauber turned at the blaring noise; Garak sank back into the tumbling shadows under the trees. If the major saw him at all, he must take him simply for another citizen on the night street, for once the vehicle had gone, Strauber turned again and walked swiftly up the Friedrichstrasse in the direction of the river. Garak followed. The major showed no awareness of his presence. The click of his bootheels never faltered in their steady rhythm on the pavement; his pace neither quickened nor hesitated. He did not turn again. At the bridge over the Spree, Strauber stopped to light one of those tobacco-sticks. Strauber cupped his hand over the flame he produced--to protect it from the wind as well as to shield it from sight-- then continued to hold his hand carefully over the glowing ember. He stood awhile, inhaling the smoke. Garak caught up, then continued to walk past across the bridge. He slowed his own pace slightly; while he did not wish to rouse his quarry's suspicions, he had no intention of letting Strauber out of his sight. At the far end of the bridge, Garak glanced over his shoulder: Strauber was leaning on the stone balustrade and looking down at the moon-lit, glittering water. The tails of his trenchcoat snapped loudly in the whipping wind. Then he muttered a curse and flung the remnants of his half-smoked stick into the river. He started decisively in Garak's direction. Garak continued to walk ahead of him, a little more slowly, and listened intently to the click of the bootheels behind him. They went along the Friedrich- strasse for several more blocks, passing the front of a darkened theatre. At the next alley, Strauber turned suddenly and went down a short flight of steps that led to the door of a cellar tavern. Though the lamp over the door was out and thick blinds were fastened over the windows, the sounds of music and laughing voices could be heard within. -=*)]![(*=--=*)]![(*=--=*)]![(*=--=*)]![(*=- DS9, 2374 They had no official i.d. record for Garak, but he had been captured occasionally by the security monitors on the Promenade and in the habitat ring. After a review of Odo's records, one nearly full-face image was retrieved, pulled into close focus and deblurred. This image was now on the wardroom display screen. At a succession of commands from Sisko, Garak's face began to change: with a digitized flicker, the spoon-shaped formation on his brow disappeared; the ridges circling his eyes and running down the sides of his face were smoothed; the nose became less distinct; the chin lost its sharp edge. The neck ridges were trimmed away. The face on the screen appeared to be human. Chief O'Brien let out a low, surprised whistle. "I could walk right past that man and never recognize `im." "He could go anywhere in the Federation looking like that," Sisko answered. "Anywhere in Earth's past. Constable, I want this image sent to Tresna. Let's see if that monk can identify this as the person he saw in the monastery garden." Bashir was still staring at the image on the screen. "Captain Sisko, I know that face," he said. "I've seen this man before." -=*)]![(*=--=*)]![(*=--=*)]![(*=--=*)]![(*=- Berlin, 1939 "Major Strauber?" Strauber turned at the gloved hand that fell on his shoulder. His eyes focused slowly on the pale face of the man who stood behind his chair; Garak had waited until his target had finished two beers and begun a third before he made his approach. "You- Do I know you, Herr...?" "Garak." "Garrick? An English name, isn't it?" "Is it? Not in my own case, I assure you." "Your accent is certainly not English...hissing..." Strauber regarded him curiously. "What is it you want of me, Herr Garrick?" "Simply to speak with you awhile." The major flashed a surprising, disarming smile. "So, *you* were the one following me! I was beginning to wonder if I had an assassin at my heels, or an admirer." It was sloppy of him to be so obvious, but the open street had left him few options for subtlety. "I didn't know you'd noticed." "Oh, the Gestapo has its ways--you knew I was Gestapo, didn't you?" "I saw you earlier today, Herr Major. I recognized the uniform." "And have you worn it yourself?" Garak didn't answer this. He received another grin. "I understand." Strauber shoved out the chair across from his with a blunt kick. "Join me, won't you?" -=*)]![(*=--=*)]![(*=--=*)]![(*=--=*)]![(*=- DS9, 2374 "Major Friedrich Strauber," said Bashir. He had run down to his quarters to fetch the book Garak had leant him; the others now passed it around the table and compared the picture which appeared on the datapadd to Garak's altered image on the computer screen. "He was an officer of the Geheime Staatspolizei during Earth's second World War." "Gestapo officer," mused Sisko. "I don't think I've heard of him. What did he do?" "He's a minor historical footnote, sir," the doctor answered. "You can find the entire reference there, just below the illustration. It's only a few sentences." The second TimeCop, who was in possession of the padd at that moment, read aloud: "'Strauber's early career was considered exemplary by the standards of the Nazis. On his return from the September 1939 (Earth Standard Date) invasion of Poland, in which he participated in the total obliteration of the upper levels of the social, religious and economic strata, Strauber began to display aberrant behaviors. At his next assignment, the suppression of student protests in the city of Prague, Strauber refused to execute three students in Gestapo custody. His final act may be interpreted as an attempt by an emotionally unbalanced mind to resolve the conflict between his sense of duty to the policies of a government he had previously followed without question and a newly awakened sense of private moral behavior which transcended the prevailing brutality and wastefulness of the police state.'" "Strauber suffered some sort of mental breakdown," Bashir finished quickly, as if he couldn't bear to hear more of the detached and tortuous Vulcan prose. "He committed suicide." "Why would Garak go there?" Sisko wondered. "Is he planning to do something Strauber didn't?" "Or are we seeing the results of Garak's activities in the past?" asked Dax. "The abrupt change in Strauber's personality suggests that he may have been replaced." "But that only makes sense if it's some kind of act," O'Brien said. "I mean, even if Garak thought he had something to- ah- atone for, why go to all the trouble of having his face surgically altered and traveling back into *our* history?" "The book doesn't describe the details of Strauber's death," Bashir said softly. "It may not have been a suicide, not really." "You're saying that Garak may have faked his- er- Strauber's death?" Sisko asked. "I don't know, sir," Bashir answered, "It's just an idea. Perhaps he's only taken advantage of his resemblance to an historical figure to fulfill some agenda of his own. This may have nothing to do with Strauber." "Whatever his motives are," the first TimeCop said, "we now have a good idea where your Mr. Garak has gone. If we can find our own way to the right time and place, we can stop him." -=*)]![(*=--=*)]![(*=--=*)]![(*=--=*)]![(*=- Berlin, 1939 A few more beers, then they switched to peppermint schnapps. Over shots of the highly sweet and surprisingly strong beverage, Garak began to take advantage of his companion's garrulousness. "I'm afraid I'm not very familiar with this city, Herr Major. I suppose you know it well." "Oh, I have been here once or twice before. I know my way around--I can show you the good beerhalls, theatres, the cabarets if any are still open." "Then you aren't a native Berliner?" "I come from Koln. My family is there. My wife." Strauber took down his schnapps in one gulp. "There was no time to notify her of my return. I will only be in Germany a few days." "A pity." "Perhaps it is best she does not see me like this. I have just returned from Poland. Were you there?" "No, I wasn't." "Your scars- Forgive me. I thought..." Strauber shook his head. "I have been recalled for another duty," he announced. "Colonel Huble, Adjutant to State Secretary Frank of the Bohemian Reichs- protectorate, requires my presence at Gestapo Head- quarters in the morning." Garak did not ask about the major's next assignment. That line of questioning would only make his target suspicious and besides, at this point, he knew more about it than Strauber did. The major chuckled as he refilled his glass. "I fear I will not be in a condition to make a favorable impression." "Surely your reputation precedes you," Garak answered. "This Colonel Huble knows your merit. He knows you well?" "No." "No?" "We have never met." The delicate arts of the interrogator were hardly needed to extract the required information; Strauber told him everything without reserve, without knowing what he revealed. Garak's experience had shown him that secret police were secret police the galaxy over: their style, their methods, the rationale for their existence remained the same regardless of the species. And they attracted the same type of personality to their ranks. In all his experience, Garak had never met an intelligence officer as vulnerable as Strauber. The man was obviously drunk, but there was a deeper recklessness behind his unguarded remarks. As if he didn't give a damn what he said or whom he said it to. With his knowledge of what the major would do in just a few days, Garak did not wonder at this lack of circumspection. When the tavern closed long after midnight, Strauber was no longer able to walk unaided and Garak was feeling disturbingly unsteady himself. They walked back toward the hotel together. The streets were empty and the clear evening sky had grown more cloudy; the first wisps of fog curled about their feet and the corners of the dark buildings. Strauber sang "Deutschland Uber Alles" in a raucous baritone. The clerk at the reception desk was not the same one Garak had spoken to that morning, but Garak took care to keep his hat pulled low and his face turned away as he waited with the major for the elevator. He escorted Strauber up to his rooms, helped him unlock the door. "I have loved Germany--*always* loved Germany," Strauber told him with intoxicated overemphasis as he flopped into the nearest chair. "I was just a boy of fifteen in the last year of the Great War, but I wanted to do something to serve my country before it was too late. I lied about my age, told them I was eighteen to be able to enlist. For four months, I fought for Germany, and then came the Armistice. Peace." He slumped forward, elbows on his knees and head hanging down. "I wept for our homeland in those years. Wept, I tell you, Herr Garrick, for what poor Germany had become--a beaten nation, trampled under the feet of her victorious enemies like so much rubbish! It was so until the Nazis came into power. Do you remember the first time you heard their speeches? I do. What power they had. What extraordinary vision! I tell you that the shivers ran up my spine. For the first time, I believed that we could have a future again--that, through the Party, we could reclaim our rightful place among nations. We could be strong again!" Garak expected to be treated to another rousing, off- key chorus of the national anthem, but Strauber only lowered his head to his hands and said, "I joined the Party in 1932. I gave them my loyalty, my heart-felt service. I have enacted their policies to the letter. We are once again a power to be reckoned with." His fingers clenched in his fair hair. "But I have discovered that the restoration of our homeland demands great sacrifices of us." He lifted his head. "What are you really, Garrick?" For the first time, the major sounded almost like an interrogator himself. "Not Gestapo. You wouldn't let me talk this way if you were. Abwehr? No. You're too subtle for the regular military. And if you were, you'd stop my imprudence as quickly as one of my own comrades." "I'm not Abwehr," Garak told him. "I'm not even certain you are German," Strauber replied. "You could be a British spy. Or perhaps American?" Garak met the pale blue eyes which had fixed upon him with a cool, equal stare. It would be a mistake to underestimate this man. Even in his present condition, Strauber was a trained agent--one of his own kind. You did not survive long in this profession by being a fool. The major's guesses were all wrong--and the truth was completely beyond his imagination--but Strauber was observant enough to realize that something was not quite right about his guest. Perhaps the time had come... He took a step closer to the major's chair. "Or are you merely a figment of my imagination? You seem too fantastic to be true. A man who looks like me, but scarred as my soul is scarred. You appear just as I reach the darkest pits of despair, and hear my words with the impartiality of the Judge on the Last Day. Is that what you truly are, Herr Garrick, an avenging angel?" Garak relaxed a little as he listened to these super- stitious ramblings. He almost smiled. "What evil have you committed to warrant my vengeance?" "Shall I tell you?" said Strauber. "Ah, why the hell not? Gestapo, British agent, instrument of Justice--it makes no difference. Your judgment will mean the same end for me no matter who you are, my friend." He began: "In August, I received my orders for Poland. The army had been planning the invasion for months-- for them, it was merely a military conquest. But the SS were given different orders. Not conquest. We were to eradicate the Poles. "In the first week, we came upon an aristocratic family near Poznan--a count, his wife, his mother the dowager, the children--five of them, from a boy of fifteen or sixteen, almost a man, to a babe in his nurse's arms. The secretary. The household staff. We wanted the house, you see, as our headquarters. So many rooms. Almost a castle. We brought them all out to the drive, every last person. We brought them out, the family, the servants, and lined them up with their backs to the house. I shot the count myself--one bullet to the back of his head. The women were screaming. I ordered the men to shoot them, shoot the rest. "It was the first, but not the last. In the first three weeks, we had eliminated them all--the aristo- crats, the priests, the rich Jews. The rest of `em, the Polish rabble, will be removed in the months to come, but I won't be there to see it." Garak had been too young to participate in the initial conquest of Bajor, but he knew his history; this slaughter of the Polish elite did not sound so different from the measures Cardassia had used to demoralize the Bajorans: the desecration of the temples, the calculated degradation of the highest djarras. A standard procedure for conquest, really. Garak knew something of the history of this era as well. Compared to some of the atrocities going on around them, the murder of one aristocratic family was almost negligible. "I traveled back to Berlin with a pair of Abwehr officers," Strauber continued. "Men I have known years! They refused to shake my hand when we met. They would not meet my eyes. They didn't understand what we had done--To them, the enemy is another soldier on the field of battle. They shoot those who shoot at them. Not babies in arms and dowager countesses." "Surely you have killed before this?" "I have sent people to their deaths," Strauber answered. "Communists. Jews. Undesirables I have sent to the prison camps. Traitors I have arrested for trial and certain execution. For years, I have done my duty as an officer of the Gestapo--to weed out the corruption and filth that undermines our nation. They deserved their fate. But it was not *my* hand on the trigger. *I* did not order my men to drag the bodies away to bury in the garden like the family dog." He let out a short, harsh laugh. "The dog, we let live. We made a pet of it." "The dead are dead," Garak told him, "at your hand or at your direction. To feel remorse at one and not the other is mere squeamishness. Tell me, what will you do the next time you are called upon to kill for Germany?" "I am capable of removing any threat to the integrity of the German state!" Strauber protested. "No one has been more diligent in his duties. I have followed orders. I never questioned. I have done things I would once have called horrible, and eagerly. I told myself it was all for the good of my country. But this experience has opened my eyes. Now, I wonder--Are these things I have done for my country, truly *good*? Or have I only brought myself closer to Hell?" "Duty sometimes demands a high price from us," Garak said softy. He had moved to stand behind the major's chair. "If we are loyal, we forego our private sense of what is right for the best interests of our state and its future. No matter how reprehensible they seem, some things must be done to serve a greater good." "Then you think I have served well?" "I don't know. It's only what I tell myself whenever I find I am in this position." His fingers brushed the nape of Strauber's neck; the major looked up at the light touch and met his eyes expectantly. Expecting...what? Garak had always been curious at the apparent fragility of the human neck. It looked so ridiculously thin and unprotected; he thought he could snap it with one hand. In fact, it was not as easy as *that*, but he was able to break the major's neck before the drunken man knew what was happening. As he lowered the major's body to the floor, Strauber's eyes remained open. The major didn't struggle or try to speak, but simply gazed up at him until the last light of life flickered away, as if this were the judgement he had anticipated all along. Avenging angel? This time, Garak did smile at the quaint, supernatural image. But vengeance was not what he had come here for. He had other business to attend to. He still had the Bajoran phaser in his coat pocket; with a brilliant flash, the body disintegrated. There was nothing left but a scorch mark on the carpet and an acrid, smoky smell. Garak opened the window slightly to let in the icy, fresh air, and continued his work. Swiftly, he sorted through the major's possessions. The major's photo on his identification papers was the same image Garak had seen in the Vulcan's book; the likeness was good and, in black and white, the difference in their hair color did not appear as distinctive. Strauber's uniform had been tossed onto the bed. Garak changed into it; the jacket was a little tight, but not uncomfortable. The i.d., some extra clothing, other important items were placed in a small suitcase. His own suit and coat, along with the rest of Strauber's belongings, were tossed into the closet and the door locked. Garak took the key with him. He did not check out of the hotel. It was a brief impersonation. His mission would be accomplished before the substitution was discovered. -=*)]![(*=--=*)]![(*=--=*)]![(*=--=*)]![(*=- Berlin, 1939 Among Strauber's effects, he had found the letter from Colonel Huble, summoning the major to Gestapo Headquarters at 10:00 a.m. on November 13. Today. Once he had completed his business at the Hotel Luise, Garak took a leisurely walk across early-morning Berlin, stopped for breakfast, and arrived promptly at Prinz Albrechtstrasse 8 in time to keep this appointment. The Colonel's secretary ushered him in without a second glance. The walls of the Colonel's office were of decoratively moulded and painted plaster, the furniture of carved wood. Yet, in spite of these quaint antiquities, Huble's species, and the uniforms they both wore, this scene was all-too familiar to Garak. He had been here a dozen times before. Huble rose from his desk as Garak entered the room and, after an exchange of salutes, offered to shake his visitor's hand. "Major Strauber? A pleasure to meet you. I'm sorry--I hadn't heard that you'd been...injured." "It is minor," Garak assured him. "The scars will fade, and they do not hamper my fulfillment of my duties." This answer pleased Huble; Garak could see it. Oh, he hadn't forgotten how to ingratiate himself with these military types. "Duties," said Huble. "What duties do you anticipate, Major?" "I thought you would tell me, Herr Colonel." Huble smiled and nodded. "You have heard of the student protests which occurred in Prague at the end of October?" "I've heard something of them," Garak answered. He had studied all he could find in the Federation's historical databanks before he had begun this journey. "But of course I was in Poland at the time." "One of the students was killed by the police during the riots. An unfortunate accident, but the boy only got what he deserved. There was a second incident at this student's funeral, an indication that there will certainly be more...incidents if sterner measures are not taken immediately. These children are idealistic, foolish, and dangerous. They must be subdued if we are to keep the city--indeed, the entire Bohemian protectorate--under control. A raid is planned on the student residences in Prague's Old Town. It is the wish of Secretary Frank that you participate in this operation." "I am honored, Herr Colonel," Garak murmured. "Your work in Poland has been commendable," Huble told him. "I've seen the reports. You're a most efficient man, Strauber. You know how to organize your men to the task at hand. I've no doubt you'll get the job done." This time, the false major merely bowed his head modestly. "The first strike on the students is planned for the morning of November 15. I am returning to Prague this afternoon. You will accompany me--we can discuss the details en route." "Herr Colonel, I am prepared to leave already." -=*)]![(*=--=*)]![(*=--=*)]![(*=--=*)]![(*=- The Defiant, 2374 Major Kira was left in charge of the station while Captain Sisko took the Defiant to Bajor to pick up the Orb and the vedek advisor who accompanied it. Then, the senior staff and the Temporal Investigators assembled in the mess hall to discuss when was the best time to access the Orb's power. "There is one theory," the vedek explained, "that the Orb of Time is more powerful the nearer it is to the Celestial Temple and the Prophets. This theory would explain why the Cardassians were unable to use the Orb--any of the confiscated Orbs--successfully." "Cardassia is too far away," said Dax. The vedek nodded. "However, there is another theory, that the Orb is most effective in proximity to the place where one wishes to travel." "And you don't know which theory is correct?" the second TimeCop asked. The vedek answered, "No, I'm afraid not. We've been studying the Orbs for centuries, and there is evidence to support both theories--as well as to disprove both. There is also a third theory: that the Prophets send those they deem worthy to the place and time where they are needed, regardless of the conditions in which the Orb is used." "Yet they allowed Garak to go and do *whatever* is it he has in mind," Bashir said sullenly. He stood a little away from the group, arms folded. The vedek turned to him with an ironic smile. "Who can fathom the intentions of the Prophets, Doctor? Even the Emissary who has walked with them does not know the reasons for what they do." "So what do *we* do?" the first TimeCop asked. "It's only guesswork, isn't it?" As the discussion grew more heated, Bashir wandered away to the replicators and ordered a cup of tea. Dax followed him. "I can see how much this is bothering you," she said softly. Bashir nodded. They moved toward a table, close enough to the discussion so that they could contribute if they were needed--though it seemed that Sisko was merely listening to the arguments of both the vedek and the TimeCops without mediation--yet far enough away to give them a little privacy. "You're worried for him," Dax continued. "I guess I am. But it's not just that. It's what he's doing. *Where* he is, where we're going." Bashir sipped his tea, and explained, "I've accessed the historical archives for more information on Major Strauber. There wasn't much time, but there isn't that much to read. Some background data, his activities in Poland, the names of the three students he refused to execute and how they escaped to join the anti-Nazi Czechs in Britain. I'm certain now that Strauber's death wasn't a suicide. He left the Gestapo offices abruptly, and was never seen again. The official story is that he killed himself, but there are indications that his 'disappearance' was arranged by his fellow Gestapo officers after his breakdown." "And you're afraid that whatever Garak's plans were, they went wrong--that the Nazis 'disappeared' him?" "Perhaps, but that's not it. Jadzia, as I read more about this era in Earth's history, I am appalled by it. I've never been able to understand the fascination that the ugliest parts of human history hold for some people. The World Wars. The Eugenics Wars. All those millions of people tortured and enslaved, killed in horrible ways--it makes me sick to think of it. I'd rather not dwell upon the worst we're capable of as a species." "But Garak..." Julian sighed. "I know we've had our problems. Our differences. But through it all, we've managed to remain friends. I thought I was really beginning to understand him. I'm not fooling myself--I've known for some time that he's capable of just about anything. If I refused to believe it before he tried to destroy the Founders' homeworld, *that* was enough to show me the truth. "I used to think that Garak took an interest in Earth history because he liked having that proof that humans are really no better than Cardassians. He liked to have a way to deflate our Federation sense of superiority. But I wonder now if he's interested because he finds something in it he can relate to his own life. *This* is a humanity he can understand. "Whatever his reasons for going to that horrible place, I know that *he's* comfortable there. He feels at home." "Doctor, Dax," Sisko called to them from the other end of the room. "We're going to try and access the Orb now, before we leave the Bajoran system." The two got up and returned to the group gathered around the Orb cabinet, which had been set on one of the nearby tables. The vedek bowed deferentially to Sisko. "The Emissary should perform the honors." "If you think so." Sisko opened the cabinet doors. For a moment, the little group watched the Orb expectantly, but nothing happened. "What do we do?" asked one of the TimeCops. "Be patient," the vedek answered. "If the Prophets will it, we shall be guided to the right place and time." A blinding burst of light filled the room. -=*)]![(*=--=*)]![(*=--=*)]![(*=--=*)]![(*=- En route to Prague, 1939 "Fredi!" Garak stared blankly at the broadly smiling young SS lieutenant who had just entered the dining car and pushed down the narrow aisle between the tables toward him. He'd been reasonably sure that he would not meet anyone who knew Strauber during this journey, but there was always the possibility that something like this would happen. Fortunately, Colonel Huble had finished his dinner, but there were other SS officers seated in this rail car and Guls-only-knew how many soldiers on the train. The lieutenant's smile faded into embarrassment and confusion as he drew closer. "You- I beg your pardon, Herr Major. I'm so sorry--I thought you were someone else." "It's quite all right," Garak answered. "An honest mistake." That seemed to be the end of it. The young man went on his way, and Garak left the dining car as soon as he could without looking as if he were departing in haste. He might still have to get rid of the lieutenant but, for the present, disaster had been averted. When he returned to his seat in one of the first- class compartments, Huble was not there, but a few fellow travellers were in their seats. Men he would be working with once they reached Prague, they nodded in polite, distant greeting. He moved to join them, when there was a voice behind him in the corridor. "Herr Major?" It was the young lieutenant. "Yes, what is it?" Garak nearly snapped the question. "Sir, I hope I did not offend you, just now, with my familiarity. I meant no disrespect. When I saw you, I could have sworn you were an old friend of mine, the Gestapo officer who sponsored my entrance into the SS training school. Really, the resemblance is remarkable-" "Think nothing of it." Garak's voice rose to cut off this dangerous apology. Right now, no one was paying attention to this conversation, but if the lieutenant persisted, their curiosity might be roused. Huble had introduced him to these men as Major Strauber--and that was a name he could not allow this well-intentioned but blundering young man to utter. All his plans might be ruined. In another minute, he could be exposed as an imposter. Within ten minutes, they might arrest him. By the morning, they might even discover that he was not human. He'd hoped that it would not come to this, but there really was no other choice. "Perhaps you know of him-" the young man went on. "Now, now. No further apologies are necessary, Lieutenant...?" "Ulrich, sir." "Lt. Ulrich." Garak smiled. Ulrich was fair and blue- eyed and rather stocky--nothing at all like Bashir had been when he'd first made the doctor's acquaintance, but this lieutenant was just as young and brash, and just as easy to misdirect. "I'd like to hear more about this astonishing coincidence. Why don't we continue this conversation in the smoking lounge? The cigarettes will be my treat." He took Ulrich by the arm. "Yes, of course. Thank you, Herr Major." The bewildered but unsuspecting lieutenant allowed himself to be led away. When he had killed Major Strauber last night, Garak had felt no remorse. At the most, he'd experienced some sympathy with the major's confusion--he'd been troubled by similar crises of conscience from time to time during his long career--but that human had been mere days away from suicide. By killing Strauber, he had only advanced the inevitable. For Ulrich, however, he couldn't help but feel a pang of genuine pity. This man's fate had not been determined before his arrival; Ulrich was merely a victim of bad luck, stumbling into a circumstance which necessitated his immediate removal. But then, Garak told himself, the hapless lieutenant would have brought about *his* doom if he'd hesitated. As they made their way to the back of the train, they were forced to cross a succession of narrow metal platforms over the couplings that attached each car to the next. Each crossing exposed them to a burst of frosty outside air as the train rushed south- ward through the night; occasionally, an unexpected jolt threw them slightly off balance. "Be careful, Lieutenant," Garak warned his companion at the next-to-last car. "This one looks icy. It could be treacherous." Ulrich looked down at the jointure of the metal plates; Garak reached out, as if to provide a steadying hand--but as the train lurched again, he gave the young man's broad back a gentle push. It was enough. Ulrich let out a surprised yelp and flapped his arms, then disappeared down between the cars. Garak waited a moment before he crossed the platform and walked through the last car to the lounge at the far end. Colonel Huble sat in the smoky compartment, reading a Berlin newspaper and talking with another young lieutenant. "Major Strauber, this is Lt. Beckwilder. He will serve as your aide when we are in Prague." "Herr Major," Beckwilder bowed sharply. "A pleasure, Lieutenant. I look forward to working with you. You left the table quite early, Colonel Huble," Garak said easily as he joined them. "I do hope that dinner was not too unpalatable." "Oh, you know how the railway food is. Edible, and that is all. I'm looking forward to returning to Prague. There are some wonderful restaurants near the castle." Huble brought an elegant little silver case out of the inner breast pocket of his uniform and offered Garak a cigarette. "No, thank you, Herr Colonel. I don't indulge." The colonel looked curious. "Then what have you come back here for?" "I was with a lieutenant, an old acquaintance of mine. We were hoping to have a talk about old times, and the diner's carriage was too noisy to carry on a comfortable conversation. I left him back at the last water-closet. He should be along shortly." Huble accepted this story and, lighting a fresh cigarette for himself, returned to his newspaper. Garak went to the platform at the back of the train. He could see the iron train rails glinting in the moonlight as they led away into the dark hills, but there was no sign of Ulrich's body. -=*)]![(*=--=*)]![(*=--=*)]![(*=--=*)]![(*=- The Defiant, 1939 "We're cloaked, sir, and you might as well leave it that way," Chief O'Brien reported to Sisko as the landing party assembled in the transporter room. Miles was wearing a brown tweed suit, homburg hat, and dark cloth coat. Julian, nearby, was dressed in a woolen black turtleneck sweater, jacket, loose slacks, and scarf. Two security guards were also wearing common -place, mid-20th-century clothes. "They don't have the technology in this time period to detect an object even *this* size in orbit, but it's always best to play it safe. They probably won't be able to monitor our communications either, but just the same, we're safer if we don't use our commbadges unless it's an emergency." "How will we be able to contact you then?" Sisko asked. "Don't- uh- sir. We'll call if we have anything to report. Dr. Bashir's implanted each of us with a subcutaneous transponder." "You'll be able to locate us if we get lost or injured or- er- anything," Bashir added. Sisko nodded, and addressed the entire landing party: "This may be Earth, but it's hostile territory, so let's make this mission as brief as possible. I'd prefer it if we were able to locate Mr. Garak from here and beam him up without putting anyone else at risk, but whatever Dr. Telgun did to alter Garak's biochemistry to mimic a human's, our sensors are unable to detect him from this range. He's carrying no 24th-century artifacts with him." O'Brien suppressed a wry chuckle. When sensors had picked up the anomalous power source generated by the Bajoran phaser, he had promptly locked the transporters onto it--only to beam up a suitcase containing Major Strauber's belongings. "Once you get down there, Dr. Bashir will scan for anomalies," Sisko continued. "You have one goal: *Find* him. If you can't convince him to return voluntarily, use whatever means are necessary." He glanced at the doctor as he spoke; Bashir did not look pleased at the prospect of using force, but didn't argue. "Try to be discreet. The last thing the occupying German army will want to see is what appears to be ordinary Czech civilians coercing one of their Gestapo officers. Do what you have to to retrieve Garak--just be careful." He looked from Miles to Julian to the two guards. "Is everyone ready?" "Yes, sir," O'Brien answered as the rest of the party assembled on the transporter platform. "I've set the coordinates for the location where we picked up that suitcase. All you need to do is send us on our way." He stepped up to join the others. "Good luck," Sisko said, and the transporter engaged. The four men disappeared in a sparkle of disassociated particles-- And materialized in the baggage car of a train at the Prague station. This was Bashir's mission now. He ventured to the door of the car, slid it open a crack, and peeked out to find an empty platform. "All right," he told O'Brien and the guards. "The coast is clear. Let's go." -=*)]![(*=--=*)]![(*=--=*)]![(*=--=*)]![(*=- Prague, 1939 The city was oddly pretty, with its delicate spires and scrolled woodwork and brightly painted facades. Nothing like the imposing architecture of Cardassia's cities, and far more decorative than any human construction Garak had ever seen. It was somewhat overdone for his tastes, but refreshingly different after the ponderousness of Berlin and colorless utilitarian decor of the Federation. He would have liked a little time to examine this curious city as a tourist, but the minute the train had arrived at the Prague railway station yesterday, he'd been ushered straight into the automobile waiting for Colonel Huble and taken straight across town. His only view of Prague had been through the vehicle's windows as they'd driven down narrow streets paved with rounded stones on their way to the offices the SS had commandeered for their use in the vicinity of the castle. He'd spent the rest of the day coordinating the plans for the raid with Huble and the other officers involved. It was evening before he was free, and then he had private business to attend to; he had to make plans for his disappearance tomorrow evening once his mission here was complete. There was no opportunity to wander, nor even to worry about his lost luggage nor to contribute to the investigation into the mysterious defection of Lt. Ulrich. And now he was in charge of the raid. Garak had given his closest attention to the extant Federation records; he knew exactly what he was meant to do this morning--what Strauber had done. If he mimicked the major's original activities and did not try to disturb the timeline, he would arrive at the crucial point. It would come to him. He accompanied an SS regiment to the student residences, just as Strauber had done. He directed the trucks to block strategic streets and alleys in the Old Town, placed the soldiers at key locations. At his command, the soldiers swarmed into the buildings, kicked in the doors. It was early; none of the morning classes had begun yet and many of the students were still in their beds. Dozens were dragged out into the street half-awake in bathrobes, pajamas, or underwear. Others escaped by scrambling out of their windows and climbing down drain-pipes, or even bolting from their captors and slipping through gaps in the blockade. Within minutes of the first strike, the streets around Charles University were crowded with fleeing students. The ultimate fate of the students was out of his hands: yesterday, State Secretary Frank had decreed that most of them would be taken to the prison camp at Oranienburg, where they would be held as hostages to ensure the continued cooperation of the Czech population. A few, those who had organized the October riot, were to be executed. "There are three students in particular you must locate," Garak told Lt. Beckwilder. As they walked down the street before the student residences, the first trucks full of the captured were driving away. Soldiers were chasing down escapees. All around them were sounds of running boots, shouts and screams, and the occasional gun-shot. "Their names are Matyas Zladec, Jiri Svatehokrize, and Josef Strnad. They are the ones responsible." Friends of the boy who had been murdered two weeks ago, this trio had led the demonstration at his funeral. "And when I find them, Herr Major?" "Bring them to the offices the Gestapo have appropriated near the College of Law on Curieovych Square. I will be there, awaiting orders for their disposal. It is Colonel Huble's wish that these three receive a most severe and immediate punishment." "Yes, Major." "I leave you in charge of collecting the stragglers here, Beckwilder." With that, Garak turned and walked up the street in the direction of the College, which the SS had commandeered for use as a barracks. He had been assigned an office in one of the buildings in a street nearby, only recently vacated by the professors. All he had to do now was wait. -=*)]![(*=- The four men standing at the top end of Wenceslaus Square did not draw much attention. At first glance, they did not seem out of the ordinary--a group of acquaintances huddled out of the wind in one of the angles at the base of the statue of St. Wenceslaus, rubbing their hands against the cold and talking quietly. But if any of the citizens out on the square that chilly morning had troubled to look more closely, they would have seen that one of this little group, shielded by his broader companions, was wielding an instrument distinctly anachronistic. "Nothing," Bashir announced. He shut his tricorder and shoved it back into his jacket pocket with a small sound of frustration. "We *know* he's here somewhere. Everything I've read about Strauber's last days tells us that he was in Prague on November 15 of 1939. And we know that Garak *is* Strauber--he had that Bajoran phaser in his suitcase. He has to be here, Miles." Then he sighed. "Maybe it's too late. Maybe he's already-" the doctor hesitated at speaking the word, "dead." "He can't be," O'Brien answered. Personally, he didn't care what happened to Garak, but he could see how distressed Julian was at the idea of the Cardassian's possible death and he had learned long ago not to force his friend into "him-or-me" situations. "It's not in the history books. Now, didn't you tell me that Strauber committed suicide or was 'disappeared' or whatever after he refused to kill some students in this raid? Well, the raid hasn't even started yet. Whatever happened- er- will happen, we haven't arrived at that point in time. He's still alive." Bashir gave him a grateful look. "You think so?" "What do I know about time-travel? Yes, I think so." Heartened, the doctor brought out his tricorder for one more surreptitious try. "I'd just like to find him and get out of this place as quickly as possible." He glanced down the long slope of the square with distaste. There were no Nazi soldiers in sight; the party had not seen any since they'd left the railway station, and they had not been detained or harassed there, but all of them were very much aware that this was an occupied territory. They all shared Bashir's desire not to stay in Prague a moment longer than they had to. After a few minutes scanning, Bashir frowned at the tricorder readings. "I'm picking up multiple erratic life-signs approximately 1000 meters in that direction." He waved a hand in the direction of the Old Town. "All human as far as I can tell, but-" he lifted his gaze to regard his friend with wide eyes. "But that must be the Gestapo raid," O'Brien finished for him. "That's where Garak is." The doctor started down the square, breaking into a run before his companions had time to react. Miles waved to the guards to follow. Bashir crossed the square with athletic speed, leaping over the disused trolley tracks and passing swiftly into Mustek. He headed into one of the narrow cobblestone streets, Melantrichova Ulice, well ahead of his companions, when a crowd of people came pouring up the street from the other direction. Most of them were young men, some in pajamas and robes. Others were shopkeepers, housewives, business-people, bystanders who had been caught in the middle of the students' flight. Behind the crowd, a truck pushed its way toward Wenceslaus Square without regard for the pedestrians; a squadron of soldiers accompanied it. One of the security guards grabbed O'Brien by the arm and yanked him into a shop doorway before they were trampled. The other guard had stepped back against the carved front of another building nearby. There was no sign of Bashir. The Chief's eyes darted frantically around the crowd. "Did you see where he went?" "He was at the intersection when we lost sight of him," the nearer guard yelled near his ear. The soldiers passed by most of the citizens in their pursuit of the students, only shoving people out of the way if they moved too slowly. Whenever they seized one of the students, they wrestled him to the street and subdued him as quickly as possible--using the butts of their rifles to batter those who continued to resist--then dragged the prisoner toward the truck. The truck crept past slowly. Moans and shouts were heard from the canvas-covered back as soldiers brought more captured students to the lowered gate and tossed them in. In another moment, the truck had entered the square, leaving stunned and bruised citizens in its wake. O'Brien stepped out into the middle of the now nearly- empty street and shouted, "Julian?" Then he turned hopefully to the two guards, who were venturing up and down the street to examine the fallen people. One of the guards shook his head. "I'm sorry, Chief," he reported. "He's not here." -=*)]![(*=- Since a light snow had begun to fall, Garak continued to monitor and coordinate the aftermath of the raid from his office via the antique communications device on his desk--an oddly shaped contraption with the speaking unit at the top of a thin pole and the earpiece dangling from a cord, not at all like the telephones he'd encountered in holosuite games. History had not recorded whether or not Strauber had remained here, or gone out to oversee the direction of the SS soldiers personally, but it was too cold outside for him to endure any other course. It didn't matter; his plans had been fulfilled. It had taken the rest of the morning to locate them, but the three students had finally been captured. He'd informed Colonel Huble, and received his instructions for the prisoners' disposal. The order had been exactly what Garak had expected. He'd seen the students as they'd been escorted up to one of the empty storage rooms at the top of the building, where all the special cases were being detained for interrogation or until their fates could be determined. Children, Huble had called them, and children they were. Boys with mussed hair, ragged sweaters, and huge, frightened eyes. So young. Garak could understand why Strauber, after his experiences in Poland, would hesitate to be responsible for another child's death--but, fortunately, *he* was not encumbered by the same infirmities which had hindered the major from doing his duty. He unholstered his sidearm and examined it. He hadn't used this primitive weapon since he'd taken it along with the rest of Strauber's property, but it seemed simple enough to use: flick back this little catch--there--and insert a finger through this little metal loop on the underside to squeeze the trigger. It was time to alter the future. The front door of the building opened; scuffling sounds, the moist *thud* of a punch landing on human flesh, and a sharp command in German, could be heard from the ground floor entrance-hall below. Nothing out of the ordinary for today--it was only another prisoner being taken upstairs. Garak ignored it, until an all-too familiar voice cried out in Federation standard, "No! Let me *go*!" He froze. He had expected them to come for him eventually; in fact, he had counted on it. He did not intend to spend the rest of his life as a human in the midst of one of Earth's most brutal eras, and he had left enough clues so that he was confident the DS9 crew would be able to trace his whereabouts. But he had not expected them to arrive at so inconvenient a time--and not like *this.* He holstered his pistol and went to the slightly ajar door of his office to peek out at the zig-zagging flights of stairs that ran up the back of the building. The young man struggling in the grip of two soldiers had his back to Garak as he was dragged up; Garak only caught a glimpse of slender limbs in dark, 20th- century clothing before they passed out of his sight. His lieutenant, following the group up to the top floor, saw him at the doorway and snapped to attention. "Major?" Garak gestured to summon him into his office. "Beckwilder, who was that man?" he asked. The lieutenant glanced back through the open door toward the stairwell. "We don't know, sir. He was picked up among the fleeing students this morning-- we assumed he was one of them. Then when he was searched, some- well, sir- some suspicious items were discovered in his pockets." Beckwilder reached into his own trenchcoat pocket, and produced a handful of familiar objects: the broken pieces of a Starfleet-issue medical tricorder, and a commbadge. Garak kept his face impassive to betray no sign of surprise or dismay. "We're not quite certain *what* they are for," the lieutenant continued. "The larger device appears to be some sort of sophisticated communications equipment." "Has he been questioned yet?" "Herr Major, he doesn't speak German or Czech. We think he is speaking English--and my English is not good." "I know a little English," Garak answered. "I'll conduct the interrogation myself. Lt. Beckwilder, take your men and resume your patrol of Parizska and Bilkova and the little streets behind the Old Town Square. Take any stragglers directly to the railway station to be processed." "Yes, Herr Major." The lieutenant paused, then prodded, "Major, what about the other three we brought in?" "I will deal with them later." "But Colonel Huble wanted those students in particula-" "*Later*!" Garak growled. "Lieutenant, you may go." Beckwilder clicked his heels and stepped back through the doorway. While the lieutenant stamped upstairs to retrieve his soldiers, and the three of them descended, Garak began to pace. A minute ago, he had only one simple task to complete; now, a far more complex and risky venture lay before him. How could he get Bashir out of here and still finish his mission without exposing himself to further danger? The question so preoccupied him that he did not hear the footsteps on the landing; the brisk knock at his office door startled him. Colonel Huble entered without waiting for an invitation. "Major, what is this? I just met Lt. Beckwilder as I came in, and he has informed me that you haven't dealt with that assignment we discussed. Is there a problem?" Garak was not surprised by his lieutenant's little betrayal. It was only to be expected; one's own immediate subordinates were often the most dangerous people, and Beckwilder *was* Huble's officer. "None at all, sir," he replied pleasantly. "We merely had a disagreement over the disposal of a new prisoner--an extremely interesting case. I thought that the situation warranted my personal attention." "And so you placed its priority above my own orders. I see." The last of the colonel's pleasant demeanor had evaporated. "Major, you are new to the Bohemian protectorate and unaware of the severity of the civil disturbances we have been forced to put down in order to govern these people effectively. Severe actions require severe and immediate retaliation. When I reviewed your recent efforts in Poland, I imagined you were exactly the sort of man we wanted for this operation. Perhaps I was in error." He stepped closer to Garak. "Do not underestimate the importance of this, Major. I want those boys *dead* before the end of the day. I want their bodies on display, so that all the Czechs can benefit from this example." "Of course, Herr Colonel." At this meek reply, the menace in the colonel's expression disappeared as swiftly as it had come. Huble smiled. "I knew I could reply upon you, Strauber. You need not concern yourself with this other prisoner's disposition--*I* will take care of it." He turned stiffly on his heel and walked out to ascend the stairs. Garak followed. Closed doors ranged around three sides of the top-floor landing. The single guard stationed in the center brought himself stiffly upright as they came up. "Herr Colonel! Major!" "Corporal," Huble responded. "Where is the prisoner who was just brought in?" "That room, sir," the guard pointed. "He is to be sent to my offices in the Hradcany district for his interrogation. There, Strauber--your interesting case will be questioned by one of my own officers who is an expert in these delicate matters. If special treatment is required, I will see to it myself." 'Special treatment,' Garak had learned during his briefing, was the Gestapo euphemism for a quick execution. "I will phone for my car to convey the prisoner. He will be gone at the earliest moment, and you will have nothing more to distract you from the task you have been given. I look forward to hearing your report on the matter shortly." "Yes, Herr Colonel. It will be done." Huble nodded, expecting nothing less, and returned to Garak's office below. As soon as he had gone, the guard took out his keys to unlock the door to the room where Bashir was being kept. Garak knew he had to decide now. He cursed whatever fates had brought the doctor here at this crucial time. If he retained his full sense of the importance of this historical moment, he ought to let Bashir suffer the consequences of his blundering interference. He ought to follow the orders he had been given, enter that other room across the landing, and never even look over his shoulder while this guard took the hapless doctor away to almost certain death. Damn him for an eternal fool. "Ah- Corporal, will you go down to the front of the building to await the colonel's car?" he said as the guard opened the door. "When the car arrives, tell them that the prisoner they will be transporting will be brought down shortly, then notify Colonel Huble. I will be here for a little while--I'll keep an eye on things." "Certainly, Herr Major." The guard clicked his heels and repocketed his keys. Garak waited until the corporal descended before he went to the unlocked door. There was still time to complete both actions, but this maneuver required that he act swiftly. -=*)]![(*=--=*)]![(*=--=*)]![(*=--=*)]![(*=- Prague, 1939 The remnants of the tricorder and the commbadge lay on the table against the near wall. Garak picked them up, pressed the badge to be certain it wasn't functional, and shoved the items into his coat pockets. The prisoner sat in a chair at the far end of the room, facing the windows. He was not bound to the chair, Garak observed immediately, but had his hands cuffed behind the tall, upright wooden back. As he approached, the young man lifted his head and turned a battered face in his direction with an expression of hostility and anticipatory fear--but without recognition. Without wasting time on reassurances or explanations, Garak bent swiftly to put one arm around the doctor and scooped him straight up, clear of the tall back. Bashir cried out and struggled, thumped his breast- bone against his captor's shoulder, tried to land a kick, too panicked to realize that another human could not have lifted him so easily. Garak could imagine circumstances in which wrestling with a bound Bashir would be a pleasurable experience, but this was neither the time nor place. "Doctor," he hissed urgently in Federation standard, "will you please stop fighting?" Bashir stopped. Then, "Garak?" "It is I." Garak set him on his feet. The doctor stared at him in blank amazement. Garak was just as alarmed by the condition of the doctor's face, most notably his split, bloody lip and the large purple lump on his cheekbone that had swollen the left eye half- shut. They would have to tend to this later. "Now, if you'll forgive my spoiling this tender reunion with practical concerns, I really must get you out of here." "Er- yes." Bashir dragged his eyes from Garak's face. "Yes, of course." He let Garak take his arm just above the elbow and lead him to the door. A quick peek out to the landing, then they went to the stairwell. Colonel Huble's voice could be heard from Garak's office on the floor below; he had apparently finished his telephoned instructions to his office and was talking to someone in the room with him--Beckwilder? Still here? "He *has* been behaving oddly today. Distracted." "Herr Colonel, I have kept you informed of Major Strauber's irregular activities." It was Beckwilder. "Yes, yes, I know. I appreciate your diligence in this matter, but I find Strauber to be a good officer. His work prior to this lapse has been exceptional. I have no desire to resort to punitive measures unless it becomes necessary--if he doesn't snap out of it. I want you to continue to keep an eye on him, Lieutenant. Report to me if there are any further peculiarities." "Of course, Herr Colonel." Bashir did not understand the words, but he seemed to comprehend the immediate danger and looked to Garak for the next move in their escape. Garak tried the nearest door; it opened into a small storage room, empty except for a few dusty pieces of furniture and stacks of disused books. There was one window. He crossed the room quietly, quickly, with the doctor behind him, and eased the lower half of the window open to look outside. Unpleasant cold burst into the room, accompanied by a swirl of snowflakes. The snow was quite heavy now, and the sky dark although it was only mid-day. The back of the building dropped straight beneath them to the alley below, but an iron emergency ladder ran down the wall from the roof. "I hope you're not bothered by heights, Doctor," Garak murmured, and climbed out over the windowsill to place one foot and one hand on the rungs. Once he was certain of his grip, he reached back in to draw the doctor through the window and sling him over his shoulder. He could hear Bashir's sharp intake of breath and feel the tensing of muscles as the younger man found himself hanging head down at least 15 meters from the ground. But, to his credit, Bashir remained still, only twisting his hands behind his back just enough to dig his fingers into Garak's coat collar as they descended under the cover of the thick snow. At the bottom, Garak grabbed a fistful of Julian's sweater and tried to lower him gently--but when he had to drop the doctor the last half-meter, Bashir slipped on the slick stones and fell. He had regained his feet, however, by the time Garak jumped down. "You're not hurt?" "No, I'm fine." He was still looking skyward, drawing in deep breaths and seeming to relish the large, wet flakes that fell on his face--a sensation which Garak found most distasteful. Garak took off his trenchcoat and threw it around the doctor's shoulders to conceal his cuffed hands and civilian clothes. The cold struck him forcefully, cutting through the heavy fabric of his uniform as if it were sheer Tholian silk--but they did not have far to go. With a steadying arm around his human charge, he escorted Bashir swiftly along the alleyway. "Where are the others?" he asked. "Surely you didn't come on this fool's errand alone?" "No. The Defiant's cloaked in orbit. I beamed down with Miles--Chief O'Brien--and a pair of security guards. We were- ah- separated in the confusion, and then the Gestapo picked me up." Julian didn't elaborate on what had occurred since his capture, but his tone was grim and Garak had followed enough reports on prisoners today to have a good idea what sort of treatment the doctor had been subjected to in Gestapo custody. "Is there a pre-arranged meeting-place, Doctor? Somewhere they will be waiting for you?" "They've probably gone back to the ship to conduct the search." Julian stumbled on the slippery flag- stones; Garak caught him instantly. "I'm wearing a subcutaneous transponder--it acts as a sort of homing beacon. They'll find me. Find us." As they emerged from the alley, Garak guided him sharply to the left. "Uh- Garak? Where are we going?" "I've taken accommodations nearby, under my own name. We're going there. You can await rescue in relative safety." The little hotel was in a back street not far from the river, discrete and out-of-the-way; they walked through the lobby without incident, and if the lift-operator on duty wondered at the German officer's bruised young companion, he did not comment. As Garak pulled the curtains closed, Bashir looked around the room. "Nice place you have here." He sat down on the bed, bounced a few times; the coat fell off his shoulders. "Comfy. It shouldn't be long now. I was captured nearly four hours ago." Then his eyes flickered once again over Garak's altered face and he grew more serious. "Elim, *why*?" This was a question Garak had been expecting, but he was not prepared to answer it yet. "While we're waiting," he began instead, ignoring the question entirely, "let me relieve you of those restraints." He switched on the lamp on the nightstand and, sitting at the edge of the mattress, urged Bashir back onto the bed and turned him to lie face down so that he could work on the locked cuffs. But Julian was not going to give up so easily. "Why did you come here?" he persisted. "Garak, what did you hope to achieve?" When he received no answer, he went on: "Were you hoping that if you changed history, had the Germans win this war, it would alter the future and make us more like you?" "Great Guls, no." "If that was it, it didn't work. The Federation was just the same when we left it." "My interests here have little to do with the Federation," Garak answered. "What then?" Julian tried to twist his upper body to look over his shoulder. "And what happened to the real Major Strauber?" "I left him in Berlin- Doctor, will you be still! I can't get you free if you insist upon squirming around!" Bashir took a deep, exasperated breath, and rested his unbruised cheek against the pillows. "Not the Federation," he said. "So, what does this time period on Earth have to do with Cardassia in the future? Are you planning to assassinate someone? Those students-- the ones Strauber was supposed to execute. Are they important somehow?" "I assure you I will explain everything later- There!" The bracelets fell open. Bashir twisted his wrists to slip out of the open metal cuffs and, as his companion moved back out of the pool of bright light, turned over to sit up. "The washroom is over there," Garak told him. "It's rather primitive, but you can clean yourself up and do something to repair your injuries. Make yourself comfortable until I return." He reached for his coat and started for the door. "And what are you going to do?" asked Julian. "I have some unfinished business to attend to." Bashir's eyes were alight. "This is it, isn't it? The reason why you came here. You haven't done it yet." "And once I am done, Doctor, I promise I will come back to the ship with you thankfully. But not right now." "Garak, I can't just let you-" Bashir leapt off the bed, but Garak was already out in the corridor before he could catch him. The door shut; the doctor threw himself against it and rattled the knob furiously, but Garak managed to hold on while he extracted the key from his pocket and engaged the lock. "I'll only be gone a short while," he said through the closed door, then he walked away, ignoring the muffled thumps and shouts from within the room. He took the stairs instead of the lift, and walked swiftly back to the Gestapo offices. He had delayed too long. His absence would undoubtedly be noticed by now, but he already had his excuses planned. As he reached the entrance to the alleyway, he observed a small group of guards and officers-- Beckwilder among them--gathered about the back door to the building and the foot of the ladder he had descended. The lieutenant saw him and called out, "Major Strauber! What happened here?" The lie came easily: "It was that mysterious prisoner of yours--the fool of a guard left the door unlocked." As Beckwilder approached, Garak lowered his voice to a conversational tone. "I tried to retrieve him, but I'm afraid he was too fast for me. I lost him in this snow." "And the others?" "Others?" The uneasy tingle that crept up Garak's spine was not due to the cold. "The three prisoners in the room across the hall. You didn't see them, Herr Major? They are gone! They must have escaped while you were out in pursuit of that odd one. It seems they climbed out the window-- there--and down the fire-escape." Exactly the way he and Bashir had gone. He had even left the window open for them. "We have to find them right away," Garak said. "Those prisoners are too important." Of course, he meant important to his own purposes, but he was well aware now that Beckwilder was reporting directly to Colonel Huble and may have been specifically assigned to spy on him. If the lieutenant understood this remark to refer to Huble's agenda, then it was just as well. He examined the snow-covered pavement around him: His own first set of footprints and Bashir's were fortunately obscured. The second set was still fresh. And there were others, leading away in the opposite direction, just beginning to fill in. "This way, Lieutenant. We must act quickly, before all traces of their path are lost." He was already following the trail. Beckwilder hastened to keep up with him. "Herr Major, surely the men can do this." "Send them after me then," he answered without turning back. "This escape is my own fault, and it's my responsibility to correct it." "Yes, sir. Certainly." Was there a hint of dry agreement in the lieutenant's voice? Garak didn't care. The overlapping trio of footprints led him past the Church of Saints Simon and Jude and into Kozi Ulice, staying close to the fronts of the buildings at all times, for these streets were still patrolled. Garak plunged on after his quarry. He had not lost yet; his own sentimental actions had led to this error, but there was still a chance to make things right. By the time the trail crossed Kozi and turned suddenly into a narrow passageway nearly free of snow, he was out of breath, shivering, and growing slower with the cold, but he refused to despair. He would accomplish his goal. It was not in his nature to give up hope. The passageway emerged near Halstaske Square. The trail was faint now, but still discernable. A short walk north would bring him to the hotel again. Once he had carried out this final task, he could abandon his identity as Strauber and return directly to his hiding place--and subsequently to his own time--without having to confront the Gestapo again or to face Huble's "punitive measures." He had known people like the colonel all his life, and he knew that they were not the type who easily forgave a mistake. As he followed the trail toward the square, he heard someone running up behind him and whirled with his pistol drawn--and found himself facing an equally breathless and angry Bashir. "What are you doing here?" he demanded, though the doctor's ability to pick the lock on the hotel door was the least of his concerns. "Don't you know how dangerous it is? There are soldiers all around, still looking for straggling students. If they should find you..." "I'll take the risk," Julian answered between gasps for air. "Garak, whatever it is, I can't let you do it." "There's nothing you can do to stop me. You're going back to the hotel." He lowered his pistol and tried to take Bashir's arm, but the young man stepped quickly back out of his reach. "No, not unless you come with me." Garak scowled. "You can be the most infuriatingly stubborn-" "*I'm* stubborn?" "You're only exposing yourself to further danger if you don't go back now. I don't have the time to drag you safely off the streets. If you insist on being captured again, Doctor, then so be it. I won't be there to rescue you this time." With that, he turned to resume his hunt. The trail of footprints had almost disappeared in the snow. Behind him, Julian said, "No!" and to Garak's surprise the doctor's hand shot out to grab *his* wrist. "We're going back together." "I will return eventually. Now, if you'll just release me..." With a fierce jerk, he pulled free. "Major Strauber!" Lt. Beckwilder was heading toward him purposefully, pistol trained on Bashir. "Ah, Lieutenant!" Garak called out. "How good of you to follow. You see--I've managed to capture at least one of the escaped prisoners!" Even though he had warned Bashir that he would do nothing further to protect him, Garak hoped that this maneuver would buy a little time. Beckwilder grinned. "Come now, Major. I have kept my eye on you, brought all your idiosyncracies to Colonel Huble's attention. We had heard curious stories about you--unwise attitudes you had expressed even at the height of your success in Poland. The Colonel has chosen to disregard this information in light of your conduct on this mission, but *I* can see you are not the man you pretend to be. I have followed the investigation into Lt. Ulrich's disappearance: Do you know you were the last person to see the missing man alive?" "Was I? How strange." "Even Colonel Huble has seen that your actions today do not fit at all with what he has been led to expect from you. This interest you've shown for our mysterious prisoner to the distraction of all other duties--You claim he has escaped, and here I find you bickering with him in his own language, as if he is an old friend! What is this man to you, Major?" "He is no one to me," Garak answered. "I never saw him before today." But Beckwilder did not believe him. "The prisoner will be handed over to Colonel Huble's custody for questioning. You will accompany me, Herr Major, and then we will get to the heart of this mystery." Bashir stood, hands upraised, eyes darting from Garak to the lieutenant as he tried to follow their conversation, though he couldn't understand a single word. Beckwilder had kept his pistol, and his attention, on the doctor while he spoke to Garak; he may not have noticed that Garak still held his own pistol, hidden against the folds of his coat. Since his prospects of talking his way out of this problem seemed very small, Garak chose a more direct solution: he raised the pistol and pulled the trigger. The report was remarkably loud and the recoil unexpected; he nearly dropped the weapon in surprise. He had intended to strike Beckwilder full in the chest, but he had moved too swiftly and handled the unfamiliar weapon badly; the shot struck the lieutenant's shoulder and sent him sprawling into the snow. A dark red stain spread on the front of his coat. They stared down at the young man, who flopped helplessly at their feet. "You shot him," Bashir said in wonder. "I had no other choice." The doctor, still stunned, moved forward automatically as if he meant to examine the injured man. Garak restrained him. "We have to go," he said. The men Beckwilder had sent after him could not be far behind; they must have heard the weapon firing and would be here in just a few minutes. "Will you *please* return to the hotel now and wait for me?" Bashir turned to him in disbelief. "Garak..." Three sharp electronic beeps sounded, apparently emanating from somewhere on Bashir's person. At the sound, the doctor's stunned expression changed to a frown of determination, and he leapt forward unexpectedly to throw his arms around Garak. It was a surprisingly light tackle--more as if the doctor meant to offer an impulsive display of affection than to knock him down. As he caught the slender body that landed against him, Garak was momentarily puzzled. Then he felt the tingle of a transporter beam engaging and he understood: the doctor's subcutaneous transponder had alerted him that he'd been found, and Bashir wanted to be certain that they both were beamed up. They materialized on the Defiant's transporter platform. An extremely anxious-looking Chief O'Brien rushed forward, but Bashir sank back out of Garak's grasp and gave him a look of apology before he announced to the Chief: "It's all right, Miles! It's him!" -=*)]![(*=--=*)]![(*=--=*)]![(*=--=*)]![(*=- The Defiant, 1939 Although the ship's sickbay did not have the equipment necessary for extensive plastic surgery, Bashir brought Garak there immediately after they had beamed up. The doctor checked Garak over--and expressed concern for the changes in his biochemistry --then retreated to repair his own injuries while the TimeCops and Sisko conducted their interview. "Do you want to explain what the hell you were doing?" Garak replied evasively, "I have no doubt, Captain, that you're familiar with the concept of small incidents long ago making large differences in the scheme of events later on. Little stones topple greater stones..." "Yes, I'm familiar with that, Garak." "Well, I was merely toppling a little stone." "A 'stone' named Friedrich Strauber?" one of the TimeCops asked. They strongly suspected that he had killed the major, but had no proof of it. "Oh, the replacement of Major Strauber was merely incidental. A means, not an end." "And what was the end?" "It's unimportant now. The good doctor brought me back here before I could act." Across the room, Bashir--his face now unbruised--lifted his eyes to meet the Cardassian's; there was a brief moment of contact, then the doctor dropped his gaze again. "So you won't tell us what you were up to?" "My dear Captain Sisko, I just did." Sisko scowled dangerously, but he knew that they were going to get nothing more out of Garak for the present. "We'll continue this conversation later," he said. "Once Dr. Bashir has finished with you here, you're confined to quarters until we return to DS9. Consider yourself under arrest." Garak looked surprised. "May I ask what for?" "The Bajorans are going to want some account for your actions at Tresna monastery. If nothing else, I will see that you answer for *that*." The captain stationed a guard outside the sickbay door, and contacted Dax on the bridge. "Have Vedek Anbuel meet me in the mess hall and prepare to return to our own time." The Temporal Investigators filed out after Sisko, leaving Garak alone with Bashir, who was staring at him again. At first, Garak thought that the doctor had not yet become accustomed to his human disguise. Then he realized that Bashir understood. But, as he put away the dermal regenerator and hypo- sprays, Bashir only said, "I can schedule you for surgery once we're back on DS9--you can have your face restored, good as new. Or, if you'd prefer, I can repair that scar tissue. You'll make a rather handsome human. You know, you should have come to me in the first place. I would have done a much better job." Garak thought this was meant to be a joke. "The next time I require plastic surgery, Doctor, I'll keep you in mind." This produced the slight twitch of a half-smile, then Julian asked, "It *was* those students, wasn't it?" It didn't matter now; he had failed in his mission, and history would remain on its present course. "Yes, it was." "They escaped when you left them unattended," the doctor went on. "That was why you were still out wandering the streets when I found you." "Yes." "I'll have to report this to Captain Sisko." "I understand." "Will you tell me," Bashir ventured. "What did they do that was so important? I know they went to Britain... Garak, one of them isn't *my* ancestor?" Garak was genuinely appalled by this suggestion. "No! Of course not! Doctor, your morbid imagination is surpassed only by your ignorance of history." The doctor folded his arms. "Enlighten me." "You were no more than a child when the Federation's war with Cardassia began. Tell me--Do you recall the incident which started the war? At Felnas Yir, when the Starfleet captain conveying your ambassadors to the negotiations for the first border treaty took it upon himself to destroy three Cardassian ships?" This was not quite the account Julian had heard--as he recalled, the Cardassians had been the aggressors and the Starfleet captain had only responded in self defense--but he nodded. "Yes, I remember." "Do you remember the name of that captain?" He shook his head. "Every Cardassian knows it," Garak told him. "It was George Svatehokrize." "Isn't that the same- Oh, I see." "It's not a common Earth name," the tailor continued. "And when you saw it in connection with Major Strauber's story, you knew that the two were related. You used your resemblance to him to- ah- eliminate Captain Svatehokrize's ancestor and erase his existence?" "There was a little more research required than *that* to trace the lineage over a dozen generations," Garak answered, "but that is essentially what happened. You may not realize it, but that disastrous encounter was the beginning of Cardassia's downfall. It led to years of war. Millions of lives were lost. Resources were seriously depleted. The empire was forced to retreat from occupied worlds such as Bajor." Julian nodded. "If Cardassia hadn't retreated from Bajor, the Federation would not have been invited to take over the operation of DS9. Captain Sisko would never have discovered the wormhole. No Gamma Quadrant. No Founders." Even though Bashir had outgrown his tutelage, Garak couldn't help feeling a teacher's pride for a bright student. "Very good, Doctor. If Cardassia had not been weakened by the Federation war, this quadrant would not be plagued by the Dominion. The Obsidian Order would not have destroyed itself trying to obliterate them. The Cardassian dissident movement would never have gained enough influence to overthrow a 500-year-old government--and a once-powerful empire would not be at the brink of extinction at the hands of the Klingons. Can you imagine a more galling fate?" He received no answer, only a wide-eyed look of sympathy. "Of course," he went on, "it may have turned out that Captain Svatehokrize was not so crucial to the course of history--another Starfleet captain might have started the war just as cavalierly--but I had a unique opportunity to put things right and I had to try. There was also the great risk that if Bajor remained occupied, you and I would never have met and the conditions of my banishment might have been far less congenial--or, worse, I might be stranded in that fascist paradise--but these seemed small sacrifices to make for the good of so many." "You've made sacrifices 'for the good of so many' before," Bashir replied. They had argued over this point before, but this time the doctor didn't sound angry. "I know it's small comfort to you, Garak," his voice was softer now, "but I am grateful for what you did. You could have just left me there." "Believe me, I did consider it," Garak told him. Although he'd been telling himself since he'd been beamed up against his will that he could still do what was necessary if only he had the chance, he'd known in his heart that the opportunity was lost. He'd thrown it away the moment he'd decided to place Bashir's life before the completion of his mission. It was impossible to conceal the bitterness in his tone, but Bashir was still regarding him sympathetically. "Perhaps it's selfish of me, but it does make up for a lot, for what you were doing there in the first place. Just when I think you're the worst sort of monster--" his gaze flickered quickly over the black uniform Garak was still wearing, "you do something like *that.* Even at the end, you were concerned with my safety." "It was nothing more than foolish sentimentality," Garak growled, more angry at himself than Julian. "Do you regret it?" "No, I can't." "And I can't regret doing everything in my power to stop you. But, Garak, would it have made a difference if I had let you go? The students had already escaped, just as they were supposed to. In fact, nothing really changed at all. After you used the Orb, Bajor wasn't occupied. We were still on DS9. The past wasn't altered. As far as history is concerned, Major Strauber refused to shoot the students, and then he disappeared. Perhaps you were always meant to replace Strauber and *this* is the way it was supposed to happen." Garak pressed the palm of one hand against his own smooth brow. He shook his head slowly and sighed. "I begin to see why Chief O'Brien disdains temporal mechanics." "If I had stayed at the hotel and let you go, your friends in the Gestapo would have killed you, you know," Bashir continued. "That lieutenant would have been happy to shoot you if you hadn't shot him first." "I'm sure I could have talked my way out of any difficulties." If Beckwilder hadn't found him arguing with the doctor, Garak thought he might have even convinced *him* to set aside his suspicions without resorting to bloodshed. Julian shook his head. "You read the same histories I did. You know that they got rid of Strauber. They would have gotten rid of *you*." "No, Doctor," Garak corrected him. "Major Strauber shot himself through the head in his office, with that same pistol-" he touched the empty holster at his side. "The one I surrendered to ship's security." "That's not what the history books say now." They stared at each other. "*Could* I have changed anything?" Garak wondered. "I don't know. Maybe only the Prophets do." The light engulfed them as the Orb of Time brought the Defiant home. -=*)]![(*=--=*)]![(*=--=*)]![(*=--=*)]![(*=- Kathryn Ramage kramage@erols.com - "So you're not contending it was a predestination paradox? A time loop? You were *meant* to go back into the past?" - "No." - "Good. We hate those." Trials and Tribble-ations