   Ling "Why are you Talljets so interested in Elim Garak?" ThiaZole asked Ling as they stood together on an observation deck, looking at the wormhole. "Jir and Maja say he's cute," Ling said. "Even Djerian said there was something very attractive about him." "Did Jir come here because Djerian said Garak was 'cute'?" "No, Djerian never said anything to us," Ling said. "Maybe to Hobie, but not to us. Jir and Maja and I talked to Djerian about him after the dance concert, because we remembered that he'd been here to treat Garak for that scale thing. Jir really did come here just to dance and see you. He really did rip his dress and stumble into Garak's accidentally. But you know how it is when one of us gets on to something good..." "And you come all this way to find out?" "Well, there's also you, ThiaZole." Ling turned his most appealing smile on his former employee. "You alone are worth the trip." "How interesting, Ling..." "Oh, my dear, do call me SaLing for this trip." "And why?" "Well, I want to observe the Bajoran currency launch, and if they knew Talljet Inc., was about..." "They would panic because you might be here to sink their currency," ThiaZole finished for him. "Are you?" "Really, TZ..." "Are you, *SaLing*?" "Maybe. A strong FedCred backed currency in the sector would destabilize several crucial markets for us, TZ. I'm sorry for the Bajorans but they're just one planet and have the entire Federation to prop up their economy. We in the Autonomous Zones have to earn our money; no sugar daddy like the Fed for us." At that moment, SaLing looked more like the serious banker he was than the serious poet he was traveling as. He'd actually arranged a reading on DS9 with Mrs. Azbury for one of her charities. Might as well give someone somewhere some pleasure before he crashed Bajor's economy. If only the fucking Federation of Planets wasn't involved. Bajor could have been peacefully co-opted into the Tossarian trading zone and grown its own economy. On the other hand, if the Federation were not involved, Bajor would still be in the hands of the Cardassians. Even SaLing agreed it was better to have a crashed currency than have to live under the Cardassians. "What do you think of that?" SaLing gestured at the wormhole. "I don't think of it." SaLing looked up at TZ, a sparkle in his warm brown gaze. He and Maja were undeniably the plain Talljets, but their eyes were so lively and expressive, one quickly forgot their aquiline noses and long jaws. He was tall and lean and very chic in his sober black suit that was cut to show off his lovely ass and compensate for his somewhat narrow shoulders. His long wavy hair was pulled back over his pointed ears into a brushed Izum bronze clip his nephew Farro had made for him. His skin was very white against his black clothes and his eyes glowed with warm mischief and deep amusement. He felt comfortable with TZ, more comfortable than his brothers were, even Hobie. SaLing had survived his share of suffering, not as horrible as TZ's yet bad enough. They both knew it could be survived, but SaLing had learned to have joy again where the Cvomi merely endured, expending as little energy as possible. Hochofedra (he shrugged), each to their own path as god wills it. Looking fondly at ThiaZole, SaLing remembered the sexy empath in whose presence strong men wept and told their deepest secrets, the latter being the most important part. Tears and secrets and 'ThiaZole, like the arc of the sickle moon that rules the night sky', as the old poem went. "Will I like this Garak, TZ?" Ling asked flirtatiously. "I never discuss my clients, SaLing." The MageCheq merely laughed and went off to buy a Bajoran suit at Garak's Tailor Shop. "Why can't you have lunch with me, Garak?" Bashir asked, annoyed at being refused for the second day in a row. "My mind would not be on your charming company, my dear. I would not enjoy it." Garak was sorting receipts in his shop and was very distracted by it. "You would not enjoy it either." "What's bothering you, Garak? Why are you so tense these days? Have I done something to upset you?" "No, Julian, not at all." "Then what?" Garak sighed and decided only the truth would do. "It's tax time. I hate tax time. I only want to focus on it until it's over and filed with the Federation Tax Office" "Oh. I have mine done by the Federation Tax Office." "You just let THEM determine your taxes? Julian, my sweet, trusting darling; are you mad?" "Well, no. I look at it this way: if I do my taxes and the FTO doesn't like them, they're going to redo them anyway, their way, so why struggle in the first place?" "But it's the struggle that makes life worth living, Julian!" Garak took him by the shoulders. "This casts an entire new light on your personality; I'd no idea you had this passive attitude toward fiscal authority. I must find some wonderful way to exploit it." "I could let you do my taxes, Garak." Bashir suggested. "That would almost be too exciting. No, there are some things I'd rather not know about you, darling." They glanced at the shop door opening. "And now I have another reason I can't have lunch with you..." "Oh, don't mind me!" SaLing called from the door. "I can always come back." Bashir turned and stared. "You’re SaLing, aren't you?" "Yes, do you mind?" "Oh, no not at all," Bashir laughed. "I heard you read last night, it was delightful. Quiet inspirational." "Yes, actually delightful for me, too. The coughing and rustling were kept to a minimum. Very impressive. It's nice to be appreciated." SaLing turned to Garak. "Were you there, Mr. Garak?" Garak was trying to recall if he'd seen this person before and answered more slowly than usual. "I'm afraid not, Mr....?" "Oh, just call me SaLing." The MageCheq continued to study him. "Why not?" "Excuse me?" "Why weren't you there? At the reading." "I was otherwise engaged." "Ah! Well, I need to buy a suit anyway so I must forgive you, mustn't I?" Garak assured him that he would be terribly grateful if he would forgive him for missing such a pleasant evening, tactfully omitting that he'd rather be buried alive than sit through a poetry reading in any language, especially Vulcan. He caught Bashir's wry glance as the doctor excused himself to have lunch before his duty shift and left him alone with the very-famous-poet. "What kind of suit would you like, SaLing?" Garak slipped into salesman mode. "A Bajoran one; something boring and nondescript and off the rack because I need it for tomorrow morning." They chose a simple, beige suit and Garak assured SaLing that a few minor alterations would be completed by the next morning. "I will need to take your measurements; if you would step this way?" he shepherded his customer into the dressing room and on to the fitting stand. SaLing looked up at the framed sketches of the workroom. "Oh, you kept them," he said, jerking his chin at the four drawings. Following his gaze, Garak said he was very fond of them and would not have given or thrown them away. "Maja thought you might have sold them." "And who is Maja?" "My nolo, ah, elder brother. I think you knew him as Master Ghet. Ouch!" "I'm so sorry. The pin fell from my hand..." "And jabbed itself into my ass? Please, let me know what was so shocking and I promise, vow even, never to say it again." The tailor moved around to face SaLing. "If Master Ghet..." "Oh, call him Maja. So much less stuffy." "If Maja is your brother," Garak began again. "Then is Jir the Dancer also your brother?" "Yes, indeed, very much so. I’m the youngest, then Maja, then Jir." "You look like Maja," Garak said. "I couldn't quite place who you reminded me of..." SaLing leaned close. "Except I'm cuter, right?" he whispered. "Less dour, I would agree." "Ah, true enough. Maja has been with the Klingons a long time. He is dour. But he does loosen up at parties and if he's had something good to drink," SaLing leaned back and fixed Garak with a mischievous gaze. "You haven't got something good to drink, have you? I'm feeling quite parched." "Would a glass of kanaar do?" Garak stepped over to a cabinet. "Unless you have Saurian brandy or Logerian cognac." "I have kanaar." Garak waved the bottle at him. "Then it will do." SaLing watched the tailor pour out a glass. "Join me, Garak? It's bad form to drink alone in the middle of the day." "It's bad for business to get drunk before closing," Garak said, returning to his alterations. "Well, I can certainly understand that," SaLing agreed, sipping his drink. "But if you auctioned one of Maja's sketches you could take next year off." "Are they worth that much?" Garak asked, more interested. "Of course! The very famous Master Ghet's work is only to be admired in the edifices created by the Gozshedrefreingin Commune of the Most Holy Klingon Church for the Most Holy Klingon Church and to see them you have to actually go into one of those dreary cathedrals they are so fond of building," SaLing explained. "But you, Mr. Garak, have several original Master Ghet drawings and they are very very rare indeed. The last one was about sixty years old but when it was auctioned, it sold for fifty thousand Federation Credits and it was not as nice as these." Garak looked up at the four drawings he was so fond of. "I must find a safer place for them." "Perhaps. But how many of your customers even notice them? And how many would know what they were looking at?" "True. And I spend so much time here and do enjoy looking at them..." "And you do have four more in your quarters, unless you sold them," SaLing said, holding out his glass. "And I do enjoy looking at those as well." Garak got a glass and poured for both of them. "They're four drawings of Dr. Bashir in... what's it called?" "Quark's." "Yeah, Quark's," SaLing paused as Garak topped them up. "Maja prefers to draw from life but draws from memory like a demon. Probably you could get more for the studies of Dr. Bashir..." "Were I willing to part with them." "How romantic, Mr. Garak, how romantic. But money is money and someday you might need it." SaLing watched the tailor divide the rest of the bottle between them. "Get in touch with the Avara auction house or the Dymin Art Collective auction house, they're honest as the day is long and will send someone to authenticate them. Don't ship them anywhere," he warned. "I shan't." "Got any more booze?" "Let me look." Garak turned to the cabinet but heard the shop door. "Look in there," he waved at the little door. "I'll be right back." SaLing dug out a fresh bottle of kanaar and looked at the padds Garak was reading. 'What Terran sophomoric twaddle,' he thought, cruising the titles. 'This must be Dr. Bashir's deplorable influence.' Garak didn't seem to be coming back any time soon, so the MageCheq settled down with one of the novels. He looked up as Garak returned after quite a long absence. "Are you really reading _The Idiot_?" "I am." "Can you understand a word of it?" "No, not really. Are you going to open that?" He pointed to the bottle in SaLing's hand. "I've closed the shop early in honor of your visit." He took the bottle and poured. "How nice of you! Drink up, Mr. Garak!" "Do call me Garak." "I shall, I shall. So what do you think of poor Prince Myskin, surrounded by lustful madmen and women in Saint Petersburg and Moscow?" "I think if I had his money, I'd find some quieter place." "Exactly! What do you think of Nastassya Filipponova?" "I'd like to strangle her." "Rogzhi-whatshisname does! Oh damn! I told you the ending! Sorry, guess you can stop reading now." "Ah, thank you so much." "I don't know that reading this period of Terran literature is going to give you any insight into them." "Perhaps not." "But it makes a certain young Terran happy, doesn't it?" Garak merely smiled and offered his guest more kanaar. "If you really want insight into a culture," SaLing continued. "Read their children's books." "Oh?" "Oh, yessh, I mean, oh, yes! For example..." "Wait, wait, let's finish the fitting and then you can tell me." SaLing stepped carefully onto the platform and stood very still but continued to talk. "It's like this, Cardassian, on Vraza 11, they have a story, for children, about a magic snake that will eat their enemies." "And this is significant?" "Very! The Vrazainas have been ground under everyone's heel since time began, so of course they teach their children that revenge is utterly impossible." "Unless you have a magic snake." "Which they don't." "No, they don't. There! Your fitting is done, I'll have this for you by tomorrow morning. You can change back into your suit." "Excellent! What's that Klingon story about the boy and his targ?" SaLing called from the dressing room. "_Kahlost goes hunting_, is it not?" "Yesh, that's the beastie," SaLing rolled up to the cutting table and accepted more kanaar. "Kahlost goes hunting, gets lost, starts to starve when he meets a magic targ who leads him out of the forest. And what does the ungrateful fucking little Klingon do?" "He kills the targ and brings the head home to his proud papa," Garak finished disgustedly. "Yeah, some thanks for his life, the lil' bastard. That's Klingons for ya." They discussed several other stories until they realized to their horror that the bottle was empty and there wasn't another one in sight. Bravely rising to the occasion, which involved standing up, the tailor and the very-famous-poet staggered over to Quark's. Not that they noticed but it was a very subdued Quark's they found a table in. It was full of visiting Klingons: dour, sullen Klingons, drinking and not gambling. The Klingon warriors had already chased off the Dabo girls, who were just trying to be friendly, and were seriously drinking and seriously brooding. They even made Quark turn off the juke box. This was a major Klingon holiday. It celebrated the martyrdom of an entire garrison and settlement by the barbarian hordes of some godforsaken outpost in the back of beyond. Several saints were created due to the event and it was a most seriously observed date in the Klingon religious calendar. And where were they? Stuck on this stupid Cardassian built, Bajoran owned, and Federation run space station. There was no god; it was official. So the giggling vulcanoid and Cardassian were not a welcome diversion for these several dozen sulky Klingons. Unfortunately, one of the Klingons had a weakness for poetry and recognized SaLing. This drunken lover of literature staggered over and demanded a poetry reading. Refusing to be refused, the huge warrior lifted SaLing onto the bar and announced to the assembled company that the very-famous-poet was going to honor their most scared holiday with a recitation of a famous Klingon battle poem. Quark was reaching discreetly to comm Odo when SaLing, who was extremely well read, began to recite _The Siege of Tala 5_. Now, _The Siege of Tala 5_ was one of the Klingon Empire's great victories. The noble garrison held off the barbarian hordes above and well beyond the call of duty. In fact, outnumbered, out-gunned, and starving, the noble garrison drove the hordes back, back, back: 'into the hell that vomited them to never withstand the warrior purity and foul the god given grace of these our Emperor's sacred lands!' By this time, stanza 25, and because SaLing was an inspirational declaimer, the Klingon warriors were howling in battle frenzy and began to throw chairs, tables, Dabo girls, whatever, in a drunken re-enactment of this famous historical event. When Odo and his security team arrived, they were immediately cast as barbarian hordes and were driven back back back 'into the hell that vomited them' or into Quark's dining area, which was not the most desirable outcome for anyone. Seeing an opening, Garak grabbed SaLing and they made a break for it as Starfleet reinforcements were arriving. "My goodness that was exciting!" SaLing panted once safely inside the shop. "Did you grab that fresh bottle of kanaar?" "I have it right here." "Good man! Let's have a small one; just to cut the phlegm." They staggered into the workroom and Ling asked Garak to turn on his comm unit. "Calling someone, SaLing?" "Not I, said the little red something or other," the very-famous-poet told him. "No, I’m looking up the biggest, most horrible, most unspeakable monstrosity in the entire universe of children's stories," he declaimed. "That I have read, this is the worst, if I can find it." He typed several searches and then cried 'Ah ha! Come look at this!' Pushing Garak into a chair, he straddled him and began to read over his shoulder: "'HERE is Edward Bear, coming downstairs now, bump, bump, bump, on the back of his head, behind Christopher Robin. It is, as far as he knows, the only way of coming downstairs, but sometimes he feels that there really is another way, if only he could stop bumping for a moment and think of it. And then he feels that perhaps there isn't.' Anyhow, here he is at the bottom, and ready to be introduced to you. Winnie-the-Pooh.' "Lawdy!" SaLing shuddered dramatically and leaned closer, his lips nearly touching Garak's. "You know, Garak, it's true." "What is true, SsssaLing?" "What Maja and Jir said about you and they almost never agree." "And what did they say?" "That you're," he tipped the chair back and they landed in a heap, "cute." Straddling Garak's chest, "Oh, here's more story! The nightmare continues! "'When I first heard his name, I said, just as you are going to say, "But I thought he was a boy?" "'So did I," said Christopher Robin.' "This Christopher Robin character is a fiend incarnate," SaLing leaned down to inform Garak and undo the collar of his tunic. Neither of them heard the shop door code being keyed in so SaLing continued: "'Then you can't call him Winnie?' "'I don't.' "'But you said--'" Totally losing interest in the story, SaLing let his lips graze on Garak's jaw ridges. "'He's Winnie-ther-Pooh. Don't you know what 'ther' means?'" Dr. Bashir jerked back the curtain and stood looming over the pair on the floor. "Oh... hullo, Doctor..." Garak said as casually as he could being half undressed and with the very-famous-poet seated on his chest. He decided that passing out was the best thing he could do just then, and did. SaLing rolled off the tailor with as much decorum as he could. "And there you have it, Mr. Garak," he said, doing a bad imitation of sober. "The absolute worst of galactic children's lit. - _Winnie the Pooh_." "I happen to like _Winnie the Pooh_," Bashir said, kneeling by Garak, checking his vital signs. "That does not surprise me somehow, Dr. Bashir," SaLing murmured and watched the frail little human sling the drunk Cardassian over his shoulder. "I'm sure you can find your way out, SaLing. Good evening." Bashir marched back to the Infirmary where he deposited the now sleeping Cardassian on his office couch. Tucking a blanket around his lover, Bashir returned to the infirmary to finish patching up Klingons and others. How fortunate someone had noticed the direction Garak and the very-famous-riot-inciting-poet had fled. Several hours later, when Bashir's shift was over, Garak was sober enough to get to the doctor's quarter's under his own steam. Bashir shot him full of painkillers and vitamins and put him to bed. "I shall read to you, Elim," Bashir announced, drawing the Cardassian against his chest and began: "'HERE is Edward Bear, coming downstairs now, bump, bump, bump, on the back of his head, behind Christopher Robin. It is, as far as he knows, the only way of coming downstairs, but sometimes he feels that there really is another way, if only he could stop bumping for a moment and think of it. And then he feels that perhaps there isn't.' Anyhow, here he is at the bottom, and ready to be introduced to you. Winnie-the-Pooh.'" "So is my suit done?" Garak nearly jumped out of his scales at the unexpected voice in his workroom. He'd opened his shop assuming the poet had skeedaddled. "Sorry to scare you, Garak," SaLing drawled from his makeshift bed of cushions on the floor. "And I hope you don't mind that I slept here, but it was too late and I was too drunk to find accommodation. Likely, in my condition, I would have gone home with that Ferengi bartender. Unlike you, I don't have a Dr. Bashir to rescue me from such wicked creatures." He rolled his eyes charmingly. "So is my suit done?" "Of course not." Garak was slightly hung over and testy. "Do you think the tailoring elves were in here last night?" "If so, they didn't bother to seduce me." SaLing rose unsteadily. "And I think it's the shoemakers elves..." "Whatever." Garak began to sew SaLing's suit. "Oh, look, there's some kanaar in this bottle," SaLing said cheerfully. "How 'bout a splash? Just to cut the phlegm?" "Help yourself, SaLing." "You're not having any?" "No." "Are you on doctor's orders?" "Yes. And after yesterday, they are welcome." "Yass, well, it's good to have limits, Garak," SaLing drawled unpleasantly. "Good to have standards to live up to, eh?" "SaLing. The replimat is across the way, next to Quark's. You could have breakfast while I finish your suit." It was somewhere between a suggestion and an order. "Join me! My treat!" "I'd rather finish your suit so you can be on your way." "What time is it?" Garak told him. "Shit! Hurry up!" SaLing bolted into the bathroom to freshen up as best he could. Garak finished the suit in record time and watched his client fling himself into it and out of the shop. He assumed he'd seen the last of him. Later, he heard gossip that Ling Talljet, Federation tycoon, had stood on the public trading floor of the Bajoran currency council and legally driven the new Bajoran currency into worthlessness by buying everything but it. After all, if the founder of Talljet Inc. and one of the richest men in the galaxy was on Bajor during the currency launch and not buying, there must be an excellent reason. By the end of business, the Bajoran government couldn't give their currency away as note paper. Ling left on a fast ship and had a pleasant dinner with Captain Mizat as the _Strat_ sped to its rendezvous with Hobie Talljet's flagship, _The Tien_, in the Tossarian Autonomous Zone.
Onto the Hobie part or back to the index. |