Chapter Text
Garak was not one to let minor unpleasantries derail him from his purpose. Therefore, when he noticed his hands started to itch, he compartmentalized the feeling away and went right on working with the dreadful Cheltian wool he’d been commissioned to turn into a suit. Business was slow since he’d reopened, a consequence of his six-month absence and of Starfleet’s disapproval of his quadrant-saving methods. He could not afford to lose a customer over a trifling inconvenience.
After an hour he had to admit to himself that the rash was a mildly troubling development.
Half an hour after that, he looked at the welts breaking out on his palms and decided perhaps it would be wiser to visit the infirmary. He might be able to enjoy few moments of rousing conversation with Dr. Bashir, which was infinitely preferable to a lecture on taking better care of himself and the importance of asking for medical help when needed. Garak had a lunch scheduled with the doctor for the following day, and such a lecture was surely in his future if he showed up with his hands in this state.
Happily, the infirmary was devoid of other patients. He had no interest in seeing one of the nurses. Not because they were Bajoran – they were really quite professional – but because he was not in the habit of trusting just anyone with tools and medications meant to alter his body, and in any case, he wanted conversation nearly as much as for his hands to stop itching. Professional though they may have been, none of the nurses had ever been inclined to engage him in a non-medical discussion.
“Garak, what brings you here?” asked the doctor, already conduction a visual examination as was his habit.
“An allergy to Cheltian wool, I suspect.” He held out his hands, which Bashir wasted no time scanning with a medical tricorder.
“It’s not life-threatening, but it can’t be comfortable. Let me get the dermal regenerator and a dose of coroxamin to bring your histamine response down. And it should go without saying that you need gloves when working with Cheltian wool in the future.”
Garak did not enjoy wearing gloves while he worked, but he liked itchy welts even less, so he nodded. “I think that would be best. Is it just me, or is traffic on the Promenade unusually light today?”
“Apparently, that’s to be expected on the Day of Knowledge.”
“The Day of Knowledge?” Garak had believed he was familiar with the Bajoran calendar with its roster of festivals and days of religious significance. He did not appreciate having missed one.
“Kira doesn’t think much of the translation,” said Bashir. “Wrist, please.”
Garak held out his wrist for the hypospray. “I’ve never heard of such a celebration.”
“Well, it only happens every hundred and twelve years, when the moons of Bajor are aligned.”
“That’s no excuse for leaving it off the calendar.”
Bashir shook his head in amusement. “You’re just annoyed you didn’t know about it. People prefer to stay home in case they get a vision from the Prophets.”
“I see.”
“Not everyone does. Maybe one in fifty people will, I’m told, if it’s a good year.”
“And these visions are supposed to be educational?” guessed Garak as Bashir ran the dermal regenerator.
“Yes. A vision is supposed to teach a truth about oneself.”
“Not terribly useful, then.” It was very Bajoran. Cardassians would prefer actionable information to be used against one’s enemies.
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” said Bashir.
Introspection was admittedly not one of the doctor’s strengths. Perhaps the wormhole aliens would offer him some suggestions.
Like all Cardassians, Garak used to dismiss the Bajoran Prophets as a foolish superstition. Obviously, he’d revised his opinions in the last several years. There were aliens of some kind who presumably resided in the wormhole and took a special interest in Bajor. This was incontrovertible. He still didn’t see the need to make a religion out of them, and he thought these aliens were poor gods if they allowed the Occupation in the first place, but he kept those thoughts firmly to himself.
In any case, there was no reason to disbelieve that some Bajorans did in fact receive visions. That did not preclude other questions, such as, “If the beings who reside in the wormhole wish to offer insights, why only once every hundred and twelve years?”
“I have a theory,” said Bashir. “I’m sure Vedek Mera would tell you something else, but I think it’s because the Prophets are outside of time as we understand it. They don’t want to overwhelm people with constant visions, and there are practical considerations. I certainly wouldn’t want to schedule a surgery if I might go into a trance halfway through.”
“I would not like to be your patient in such a scenario.”
“So they picked a single point: when the moons of Bajor align. It only lasts a few hours. From their perspective, it could happen all at once throughout history and into the future. I don’t really know how existence works for them. My point is, using the moons confines it.”
“Whatever the esteemed vedek’s opinion, your theory is sensible.” Far more so than most of his theories about literature. Dr. Bashir was a highly intelligent man with an unfortunate tendency to let his sentiment and Federation idealism override practicality. Then again, their lunches would be dreadfully boring if they agreed all the time.
“High praise, coming from you. There. It will take another ten minutes for full relief, but you should already feel better.”
“Yes, thank you, Doctor. Excellent work as always.” He was regrettably efficient about the process.
“I’m happy to help.”
“Until tomorrow, then. I look forward to your thoughts on Karnak’s Rivulet.”
“I have plenty,” said Bashir. “Honestly, Garak, I think the only theme worse than sacrifice for the state is duty to family.”
“Just because humans are content to ignore their familial obligations doesn’t mean the rest of the galaxy agrees.” Or even had the option.
“Yes, well, some of us are happy to be light-years away from our families.”
Garak heard a note of genuine unhappiness and correspondingly took care to tread lightly on the topic. It would not do to distress the doctor out of an enjoyable debate. “You might look at it as a matter of xenoanthropology.”
“Xenosociology, actually.”
It was always a delight when Bashir opted to quibble over Garak’s choice of words. Unfortunately, the opportunity to discuss the finer points of Federation Standard was lost to an engineer who entered the infirmary with two fingers out at an unhealthy angle.
Thus Garak left Bashir to mending broken bones and went back to his cursed Cheltian wool.
He did not accomplish a single stitch more that day.
Instead, he emerged from his shop well after closing time, more shaken than he cared to admit. Either the Prophets agreed with the Cardassian philosophy that knowledge easily gained was easily lost, or they’d adapted their usual methods for his sake.
Once in his quarters he searched the computer for Julian Bashir’s location. He wasn’t supposed to have the ability, but details like that never bothered him, and if Starfleet was so worried about privacy they ought to have upgraded their computer security years ago. The doctor was sharing a table at Quark’s with Commander Dax.
Well. Garak had indeed learned something about himself, and all things considered, he would have preferred to forgo the experience.