 
Jir
Ensign Bracowicz looked at his viewscreen again: SaJir; Romsky, Yuri Gregorovich; Jira Krinat (Jir the dancer); Jir Talljet. He'd never allowed anyone onto the station with so many names. "What name do you use, Mr. ..." "Oh, just call me Jir!" "Um, Mr. Jir..." "No, just Jir. Do you have a name, little one?" "Um, Ensign Bracowicz, sir." He tried not to wriggle under Jir's piercing stare. This vulcanoid had the biggest, blackest eyes the ensign had ever seen. "Are you all rechristened 'Ensign' when you leave Staflet academy? What's your given name, laddie?" "Arlo." "Arlo." Jir brushed his wavy hair off his shoulders and seemed to think about this. Half Magidrian, MageCheq in the patois, not even his hereditary second sight could tell him when or if he'd be let on the station. Alas, only being a MageCheq, his second sight was somewhat unreliable; he'd have to go on faith for this one. "Then, Arlo, what the fuck is taking so long? Stamp me in or kick me out, but do something before I take root on this deck. I've got a party tonight and show tomorrow and then it's on to Aigva 17 for more of the same." Jir bestowed dramatic, long-suffering glances on Smig and Stonet, standing patiently beside him. "I couldn't get tickets to your show." Ensign Bracowicz stepped closer for a better look. This was probably as close as he'd ever get to Jira Krinat, whom he found sexy in photos and almost overwhelming in person. "If you let me on the station," Jir said, seductively raising the ensign's chin to smolder directly into the youngster's eyes. "I'll *see* what I can do for you." Reluctantly disengaging, the ensign punched a few buttons on his console, moved very close to Jir and said, in the sexiest voice he could conjure up: "You're all set, *baby*." "Thanks, *dad*." Jir whispered and took a long, cool stride away from the youngster. Or tried to; the youngster was standing on his gown and it ripped halfway off at the waist. He gathered his skirts, or what was left of them, around him. He held up a hand to forestall the stammering, horrified ensign. "It's all right, not to worry, Arlo..." "But, I, but I..." "No harm done, it can be repaired, I'll just..." "I want to have it repaired!" The ensign lunged at Jir. "Relax, darlin', have you got a sewing kit?" Jir laughed. "No! But there's a tailor here." He drew himself up and said in what he hoped would someday be his bridge voice: "I want you to go to him and have the bill sent to me." "Oh! You're too too too kind, Arlo," Jir gushed graciously, just wanting to be on his way. "But I really couldn't..." "NOG!" "I beg your pardon...?" Jir asked, wondering if this was some new patois. "NOG! Come here!" the future Captain Bracowicz commanded. "I want you to show Mr. Krinat to Mr. Garak's shop. I've torn his dress and I want it repaired and send the bill to me!" Jir nearly bit his tongue in half to keep from laughing. He looked Nog over and gave up trying to determine what sex the creature was. Besides, he planned to leave all this nonsense behind him as soon as he was out of Ensign Bracowicz's sight. "Lead on, young... person," he sighed but was detained by more of his skirt ripping because Bracowicz was still standing on it. "I see. I've just got to take smaller steps here," he said, gathering his torn draperies. "Hochofedra." He shrugged and, after asking Stonet to settle the dance company and Smig to call on ThiaZole, followed Nog to Garak's shop on the Promenade. Really intending to shake the ensign and get back to his company, where he could sew up his own skirt, Jir was distracted by the stroll he was taking. It had been years and years since he'd been on a space station and he remembered it as a drab and dreary, regular Starfleet kind of place. Of course, he recalled, this was an unusual Starfleet situation, more of a faux Starfleet station: Starfleet was just the hired help here. Jir smiled, enjoying that idea as much as the passing decor. The station had light and color and all kinds of folks in it and he was so absorbed he bumped into Nog when the ensign tried to usher him into Garak's shop. "A customer for you, Mr. Garak," Nog yelled as Garak stepped from his workroom. "I certainly hope you're not expecting a commission on this, Nog," Garak deadpanned and bowed graciously to Jir. Jir slowly circled Garak, looking around the shop. "A Cardassian couturier on a Federation-run Bajoran space station," he said, lightly scanning the tailor's chaotic telefield. "I have now seen everything." Intrigued, he continued his scan as unobtrusively as possible, but could make little sense of the jumble of memories and emotion, which made Cardassians a misery for telepaths everywhere. "May I help you, sir?" "Maybe." Jir switched off his scan; it was futile and exhausting. "One of staflet's junior officers ripped most of my dress off and now insists that you, and you alone, are the man to repair it." Garak turned curiously to the only staflet junior officer in the room. "Really, Nog, did you...?" "It wasn't me! It was Bracowicz!" Nog yelped. "Yeah. Arlo," Jir confirmed darkly. "I see." Garak turned back to Jir. "I realize you have a reputation for being irresistible, Mr. Krinat, but I was not aware it still inspired violence," he said urbanely. "Ah! You have the advantage of me, Mr. ...?" "Garak." "Mr. Garak." "Just Garak." "Justin Garak? How unCardassian." "No, not Justin Garak," the tailor explained. "Please, such formality, do just call me Garak." "Garak." Jir nodded. "Garak." Garak nodded. "Well... Garak. Perhaps you can fix this for me." Jir cheerfully slipped out of his gown and stood before the startled tailor and attentive ensign in a skimpy loincloth. "Do you suppose you can do it while I wait?" he asked innocently. Garak put his hand in front of Nog's eyes and told him to run along, which the ensign did with great reluctance. "Mr. Krinat..." "Oh! Call me Jir!" "Ah, Jir, if you'd step into my dressing room until the repairs are..." Garak had noticed some curious glances at the mostly naked, extremely beautiful man standing in his shop and wondered how long before Odo came to arrest someone for public indecency. "Oh, I'll just stay out here and shop." "I think that..." "Garak." Jir gestured imperiously at the gown. "Sooner started, sooner done." Knowing an order when he heard one, Garak retreated into his workroom and hoped for the best. Ever practical, he wondered if a mostly naked Jir the Dancer in his display room would be good or bad for business. 'Sooner started, sooner done,' he reminded himself, pulling his tools together and starting to work. Jir looked at suits and dresses for a while and then decided he wanted to play with Garak. He sauntered into the workroom. "So," he said, looking around. "You're a tailor." "I am." Garak wasn't sure he wanted Jir in the same room. 'It's true,' he thought. 'Jira Krinat *is* sex incarnate. Although getting along in years, but aren't we all?' "I don't think I've ever been this close to a Cardassian before," Jir mused, circling, not scanning, just admiring the silky black hair, broad shoulders in their well cut tunic, the stocky build he suddenly found so charming on this particular being. "You're rather..." he moved closer. "Cute." "Why, thank you, Mr. Krinat." Garak said calmly, realizing two things: this vulcanoid could easily overpower him and he might enjoy that. "Jir," the dancer crooned millimeters from Garak's lips, "Call me, Jir." "Jir..." "You Cardassians don't travel alone very much, do you?" "Travel is so much more pleasant with others, don't you think?" "In fact," Jir continued, ignoring Garak's digression. "One never sees fewer than two Cardassians." "And where have you seen this?' "As if there is safety in numbers. Safety from contamination by outside influences." "What kind of influences?" "I have seen Cardassians in some of the more obscure venues I've danced in. They never come to my shows; they seem to think my dancing will pollute their minds." "These must be very obscure venues if you and Cardassians were on the same planet, Jir." "They were phenomenally obscure, Garak. But my work takes me to all sorts of places. Like this one." Jir reached up to stroke Garak's temple. As if hypnotized, Garak gazed into Jir's eyes as the dancer's long white fingers brushed just behind his eyeridge. Entranced, Jir sifted gently through Garak's consciousness, smiling at the Cardassian's happiness with Bashir and Gul Xriet before him, saddened by the years of loneliness and loss, intrigued by his relationship with ThiaZole, Quark, and the rest of the station and the Garak milieu in general. 'A strange Cardassian,' Jir was thinking. 'But charming.' And he settled in to enjoy him, perhaps delve a little more deeply into his strangely veiled past... But not for long. They leapt apart when Odo pulled the curtain back. "There has been a complaint about a naked man in your shop, Mr. Garak." "Oh?" Garak was still rather vague from the unexpected meld. "I'm not naked," Jir said, annoyed by the interruption. He stomped into the display room, Odo and Garak in his wake. "I'm wearing a loin cloth. Is the complaint about the loin cloth? Do they want me to take it off? Did they send you to take it off me?" "No," Odo said very clearly. "You're either to get dressed, stay out of sight or be arrested." Jir turned his outrage on Garak. "What... sorry, who is this?" "Constable Odo, please meet Jira Krinat. Mr. Krinat, please meet Constable Odo." Garak liked to do things right. "Charmed," Jir grated. "Constable, you do realize that I'll be dancing in less than a loin cloth before several hundred people tomorrow night, don't you?" "The station maintains a different criteria of dress in different sectors." "So residents are allowed to shower and fuck naked," Jir observed. "Well, that's good." "Mr. Krinat..." Odo began. "Constable..." Jir spat. "Gentlemen, please," Garak interrupted before something really unkind could be said. "Your gown is almost repaired, Jir..." "Keep my fucking gown, tailor, if I'm going to the jailhouse, I'm going like this," Jir snarled, advancing on Odo. Garak had but a moment to wonder how vulcanoid strength and beauty would fare with a shapeshifter before their savior arrived in the form of Mrs. Azbury, who'd arranged the dance recital in the first place. "There you are, Mr. Krinat, we've been looking and looking!" "Really! Really!" Jir snarled. "Yes! One of your company told us about the unfortunate accident at the debarkation point..." "Yeah, Constable, one of your ensigns tried to rip my gown off. Are you going to arrest him?" Jir was still right in Odo's face. "... and we thought you'd like to rest after your journey before the reception tonight," Mrs. Azbury bravely finished, trying not to notice that Jir was enraged about something and mostly naked. "Are you invited to this thing tonight, Constable?" Jir asked coldly. "Yes, I am." "Garak?" "No, I'm afraid I was not invited." "You didn't invite your Cardassian tailor?" Jir swung his wrath round on poor Mrs. Azbury. "Woman, are you mad?" "I, um..." she began. "Invite him!" "Mr. Garak, I'm sure it was an oversight..." "Of course, Mrs. Azbury," Garak assured her, she was a good customer, no need to alarm her. "But I have other plans for the evening," he lied. "You're lying," Jir snarled. "I'm not!" Garak insisted. "Then change your plans." "I can't." "Liar!" "I'm not!" "HA!" Jir yelled. "If you don't come to this fucking reception tonight as my date I won't go and furthermore, I won't dance tomorrow either!" Mrs. Azbury went pale. Hundreds of tickets had been sold; it was a fund-raiser for the Bajoran Charity Hospital, and the station was swarming with beings who'd come to see Jir the Dancer. There would be a riot it he didn't dance. There might be a riot if he did dance, but there would definitely be one if he didn't. A brave woman, Mrs. Azbury rose to the occasion. "Mr. Garak, might I have a word with you in your workroom?" "Of course." Garak pulled back the curtain and they disappeared. In the display room Jir asked Odo, "Still wanna take me to jail, copper?" "Maybe." "Everything all right, Odo?" A curious Dax asked from the door and ventured into the room. Scan. "What the HELL is that?!" Horrified by the Trill, Jir moved behind Odo. "A Trill," Odo answered blandly. "Oh, god, I should never leave the stage," Jir sighed. "This life beyond the footlights is full of horrors. Dress ripping ensigns, receptions, Trills, constables, obscenity laws..." "I saw you dance _Skolta_ once," Dax interrupted. "Impossible, woman, I haven't danced _Skolta_ in over a hundred years, you can't be that old." Jir dismissed it with a wave of his hand. "I did and I was hard for a week afterwards." Jir stared and then mutely appealed to Odo for an explanation. That never came because Garak strolled out of his workroom and said he'd be delighted to escort Jir to Mrs. Azbury's reception. "Good. Can you dance?" "I have danced." "Like what?" "Oh, the usual. Warios, Merlas, Prionos." "And?" "Wladads, Kritis, Findras." "And Oblatas?" "An Oblata? What a quaint idea. I haven't danced an Oblata in ages." Garak was amused. "Nor I," Dax put in. "So, there is something to look forward to," Jir enthused, all sunshine and light again. He took the repaired gown Garak offered him. "That is unless I'm still being arrested on a morals charge," he said to Odo. "I think the incident can be overlooked," Odo said. "This time." "Well, that's good." Jir pulled his dress on and turned to Garak. "What do I owe you?" "Mrs. Azbury has taken care of it." "Madam, you are too kind." Jir bowed charmingly. "You can take it out of Ensign Arlo Bracowicz's hide if you really want it. What time's the reception?" "Twenty-two hundred hours." "I'll fetch you at twenty-two hundred hours, Garak, what's your address?" "That won't be necessary, Jir, I can..." "I'll look it up or get it from someone. Just be ready okay?" Jir smiled with determination. "Until then, Garak." "Until then, Jir." "Now, I must see this Commander Crisco who runs this joint," Jir said. "You mean Captain Sisko," Odo corrected. "Whatever." Jir waved it away with elegant, practiced gestures. "Where is it?" "Him. Where is he," Dax tried this time. "Yeah, yeah, yeah. Someone just show me so I can get this over with." Jir headed for the door with Dax and Mrs. Azbury on his heels. Odo and Garak exchanged relieved looks; Jir was a force in any setting and the shop seemed larger now that he was gone. "Can you dance, Odo?" "No." "How fortunate for you."  "Captain Sisko, as a Talljet Incorporated pensioner, Mr. Zole is entitled to legal representation from the company's counsel, Talljet and Storen," Smig was explaining in that signature Vulcan attorney monotone that so demoralizes the opposition. "As his legal representative, I am merely here to be sure our client is not being harassed, discriminated against or otherwise annoyed by Starfleet simply because of his status a former Talljet employee. If you can assure me that..." "Smig! Are you in here being eminently reasonable?" Jir swept in like a hurricane, Dax in his wake. "Always, Jira," Smig assured him. "Well, knock it off! How many times have I told you it's a waste of time with these Terrans. Save it for the Klingons, as any kind of reason so infuriates them!" Jir turned to the silent Cvomi seated before Sisko's desk. "Hullo, TZ. All is well with you, no?" "Up to now, Jir. What, exactly, are you and Smig doing here?" ThiaZole asked politely. "Rescuing you from Federation oppression," Jir intoned majestically. "I am not oppressed here, Jira," ThiaZole assured him. "They audit the hell out of your tax returns every year," Jir informed him. "Is that not more my accountants' problem than mine, or yours, for that matter?" "We don't want your name or fiscal reputation besmirched by Federation suspicion and small-mindedness." Jir was fast on his feet, but even he knew how lame this sounded. "Really, Jira, you are too kind," the Cvomi deadpanned. "But if I worried about any of my reputations, I'd have hanged myself long ago. Now, come clean, Jir, what are you doing here?" "I'm dancing with the Company tomorrow night," Jir admitted rather shamefacedly. ThiaZole's elegant calm always made him feel a bit gauche, gracefully gauche, but gauche nevertheless. "And I thought I'd show these Terrans you've got friends outside of this place." "I am most grateful, Jir, but I am not mistreated on DS9. I am content here," ThiaZole said, as he rose and turned to Sisko. "I hope we have not wasted too much of your time, Captain. We will not detain you further." After a glance at Dax, who smiled, Sisko said it had been a pleasure to meet ThiaZole's 'friends'. The Cvomi left the room with Jir and Smig on his heels. "Well, now, that was strange, old man," Sisko observed to Dax when they were alone. "Oh, that was nothing compared to what just went on in Garak's shop," Dax said and related the entire incident. "ThiaZole, wait!" Jir was trotting behind the Cvomi's long strides. "I have a client in five standard minutes, Jir. You have disrupted my day quite long enough, would you not say?" "Sorry, sorry, sorry but Ling and Qhoshi send their love and they will kill me if I don't find out how you are. So tell me: how are you?" Jir asked anxiously. "I am the same." Jir could live with that answer, ThiaZole had been pretty much like this for over a hundred years. "Are you angry?" "About what?" "The scene in Sisko's office," Jir elaborated. "No." ThiaZole paused before the door of his treatment room. "It was rather amusing." And, as usual, stepped inside without a farewell. "'Rather amusing,'" Jir repeated to Smig, standing next to him. "Damn, Vulcan, we've almost amused ThiaZole. We can sit on our laurels for weeks if not retire outright!" His good humor restored, Jir swept Smig away to find his dance company and have some tea. "What are you brooding over, my Jir?" "Our construction of sin as the product of evil in the context of the dominant social structure." Jir was leafing through a slim, beautifully bound volume. "Sounds like one of Maja's sermons." Stonet observed, pouring relan tea for both of them. "Unfortunately not, the sermon I thought I was looking for is about the next level of it: sin, free will and personal responsibility in the context of combat. So no help there." He put the book aside and accepted a cup. "Obviously the Klingons are way ahead of the Cardassians in spirituality." "The Klingons have the benefit of your brother's patience, unlike the Cardassians." "The Cardassians would probably have eaten Maja before he made his first point," Jir said with some bitterness. He did not like Cardassians, no sane telepath did; too much going on all the time in those telefields, but he liked Garak a little. Thus causing the cognitive dissonance that was making him cranky with his life partner. "Indeed, my Jir," Stonet said, cocking an eyebrow at his lover's sulk. "What provoked this train of thought?" "I met someone today who is causing me to rethink my assumptions, and you know how much I hate that." "Hence the difficulty in having assumptions." "Oh, lucky, smug Vulcan," Jir smiled. "Hence the difficulty in having illogical assumptions, alas." "Why mention the Cardassians?" "Ah, you are listening to me." "Always." "This person I met is Cardassian." "Here?" "Yes, and a tailor. I thought it odd as well." "And what assumptions has he or she disturbed?" "That beings can truly change. Fundamentally change what they've been taught all their lives to be." The pair exchanged thoughtful looks, recalling the rather rigid Vulcan educations they'd received on Stonet's homeworld, which, in Jir's case, never quite took root in the wild orphan boy and, in Stonet's case, was never quite dislodged, even in a hundred years with Jir. "And what is your thinking on this, Jir?" Stonet sat back to enjoy Jir's exposition, which was inevitable but usually delightful. "The Terrans have an interesting saying: 'Give God what's God's and give authority what's authority's' or something damn close to that. These old sayings get garbled sometimes. I think it's quite neat, lets everybody off the hook for about five minutes or until you start to wonder if perhaps authority is wrong." Jir paused to sip some tea. "What the Terrans don't tell us is what happens then, what happens when you realize the code you've structured your entire life with is wrong?" "I think it would depend on how you define wrong," Stonet said quietly. "'Don't do to others what you would not like them to do to you.'" "Terrans again?" "Yes, sometimes they get it right." Jir held out his cup for more tea. "Don't cause pain, fear, horror, misery, sadness to others any more than you'd want that to happen to yourself." "Terran history is not a shining example of this concept, Jir." "Oh, they *try,* Stonet. They fail about three-quarters of the time but they do try," Jir said, defending his adopted species. "At least they make a distinction between right and wrong and pay lip service to free will. The Klingons also spend time worrying about this but they call it honor and then go out and do horrible things to defend it." "And what do the Terrans call it?" "Compassion." "And why does the Cardassian you met disturb you? They are not a species noted for compassion." "The one I met seems to be developing some. It's either compassion or guilt. I was interrupted before I could really find out." "I hope you are not abusing your talents or forcing yourself on others, Jir." "Me? Never! Well, not much," he said, smiling pleasantly. "Anyway, he's cute and seems rather lonely so I asked him to come with me to the reception this evening, and he said yes. You won't mind being on your own, will you?" "I have never minded, my Jir. I had thought not to attend the reception but I would like to see your compassionate Cardassian." "Or guilty Cardassian. Yes, come take a look and tell me what you think." Jir pushed his philosophical musing aside, and asked Stonet about the company's preparations for the next day's performance. At precisely 21:45 Jir leaned on Garak's doorbell until the tailor, in stocking feet, answered it. "Good evening, Jir. You're early," Garak said. "That's right. I'm early in an attempt to throw you off your guard in hopes you'll succumb to me and my charm without a fight." Jir circled his date and nodded approvingly at the all-black ensemble Garak wore. "Or in hopes that you weren't so dressed and we could tumble into bed and thereby avoid this entire boring evening I foresee." Jir strolled around the room looking at whatever caught his fancy. "Here. I brought you two tickets for the show and a book." Jir placed them on the dining table. "You're too kind, Jir." "Hah!" Garak sat to slip on the dancing pumps he had reluctantly replicated. A total waste of money, but he'd a bad feeling if he didn't dance, and dance competently, with Jir tonight, there'd be hell to pay. And if he had to dance he'd rather do it right than not. "Those are nice." Jir gestured to the shoes. "Don't look like they get much use." "I'm afraid not." Garak rose and herded Jir out the door before the dancer could explore his bedroom. Once safely outside, Garak took a moment to survey his escort. Jir's long, wavy black hair was neatly pulled back in a jeweled clip and flowed down his back like an onyx river. He was clad in champagne-colored silk that lent a warmer cast to his white skin. The gown was sleeveless and cut low over the shoulders and fell in countless pleats from his waist to his ankles. It was a style from a famous Vulcan couturier, and Garak did not fail to appreciate the quality and workmanship of it. And that it must have cost a small fortune as well. What must also have cost a fortune was the full-length white Oldala fur Jir had tossed over his shoulders to keep off the cold of the station. Garak could almost envy that; the Terrans kept the station colder than he preferred as well. This glamorous train of thought was interrupted by Jir announcing that he needed a drink and dragging him into Quark's. "I also need to work out this dance with you," Jir said over a glass of kanaar, which he felt was one of the better things Cardassians did with their culture. "What dance? I thought we were going to..." "We are, but it's part of my mission in life to introduce new dances into the hinterspace and you're my test case for DS9." "How delightful." "Well, it should be," Jir said absently, surveying Quark's for an empty space to dance in. Since everyone was already at the reception, there was plenty of space in the bar. "This floor isn't perfect but it will do. What's the Ferengi's name?" "Quark." "Quark! Have you got some music disks I can look at?" An amused Quark handed Jir his disk collection and was surprised when the dancer chose an old Mziriia Wario. He was further surprised when Jir downed his kanaar and led Garak to an empty space, pushing some chairs out of the way to make it even emptier. "Okay, Garak, I'm reintroducing an old dance that faded away before its time. It's like a Wario except sexier. My hands are crossed behind my back and your right hand is in my right hand and your left in my left. See? We're all over each other and we haven't taken step one. So, the steps are the same as a Wario," Jir leaned back to say. "Except everything is to your right instead of left. You dij? Good. You lead." Garak began to dance with deliberate movement, reversing the steps he'd learned in his youth, but his prodigious Cardassian memory served him well here, as always. Very much out of practice, Garak was stiff and awkward at first but quickly warmed to the dance and his partner. They were soon gliding around Quark's as if they were made for each other. "Hey, you're not bad." Jir was impressed. "So it's a mirror Wario but we're calling it a Drisa this year so people will think they're doing something new and exciting, which is all that really matters in life." "How philosophical." "Just dance, Garak." Garak nodded politely and continued to dance competently. He was a little uncomfortable because this position ground their groins together and Jir's gown was very sheer, more sheer than the tailor had noticed. Translucent, in fact. And even though he'd seen most of Jir that afternoon in his shop, the champagne-colored silk clung most flatteringly to his powerful dancer's body, which was clinging most disturbingly to Garak's. Eventually Jir was satisfied that Garak knew the dance well enough and that they both needed more kanaar before they faced the mob. They were already an hour late so one more for the road would not really make a difference. DS9 had a decent-size hall for receptions and cultural events, Jir would be dancing in there on a raised stage the next night, but tonight it was packed for the reception. The dance company's band was playing something soothing when Jir made his entrance on Garak's arm, but stopped when they caught sight of him. A hush and a small round of applause went over the room at Jir's arrival and as usual, Jir ignored it and marched Garak into the middle of the dance floor. "An Oblata," he said, looking the tailor right in the eye. "Are you insane?" Garak asked. "Nope." Jir looked around at his company, who'd just learned this ridiculously complicated dance assembling eagerly around them. He noted the Trill and Commander Crisco and several other non-company members among them as well. The Oblata was only a few hundred standard years old but very popular in places where there were lots of Cardassians. Like kanaar, the Oblata was one of the few things Jir felt Cardassian society did well. It was in many ways a reflection of the society it sprang from: one leader and his subordinate lead the dance and the rest followed in rigid and precise imitation. All the subordinate dancers devoted themselves to perfectly replicating the leader's steps, which created a complex pattern of repetition and variation. It was a challenge for the leader, Garak, in this case, because one wrong move and the entire structure collapsed. The challenge was further complicated by the fact that, traditionally, halfway through the dance, fresh dancers were lured in; meeting Dr. Bashir's amused eye, Garak doubted any of these Terrans were up to it. "I am unworthy," Garak protested hopefully. "Nonsense!" Jir snapped his fingers at band and held out his hands to Garak. Taking Jir by the hands, Garak opened the dance's preliminary steps, which are pulling your partner to you, then pushing him away and pulling him back. He hoped for the best as Jir floated to and fro and back again. Garak drew him close and danced off in a figure eight pattern, keeping his turns to the right. He was also keeping it simple so the non-dancers looking on might understand it and be able to dance it when they were dragged onto the floor. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the other dancers follow his lead and noticed that Sisko and Dax looked quite elegant together. Of course, two hundred plus years of experience ought to make anyone a decent dancer, but he could not account for Sisko's grace unless it was simply something he'd acquired on Terra. The first part of the dance established, Garak turned his attention to Jir and began to enjoy himself a little. "Well done, Garak," Jir said happily. "You ought to have become a general or ballet master instead of a tailor." "Alas," Garak agreed, completing one last circuit and creating the next variation as the other dancers slowed to watch. Still keeping it plain and simple, the tailor changed the pattern from a figure eight to a triangle and added a small backward chasse step at every turn, also pushing Jir away and pulling him back. "Bravo, Garak!" Jir said quietly as he was drawn near again. He watched the other dancers take up the new steps and pattern. Impressed, he decided he'd follow Garak anywhere on the dance floor as they wended through the shifting couples. "Now, let's see you bring us to the second stage," he whispered. But even as he spoke, Garak was widening the triangle and the other dancers were following until they were dancing in an oval around the edges of the dance floor. The next part of the dance was more restful and everyone needed rest by then. Arm in arm the dancers marched around the dance floor, briskly but not exuberantly. This was the part of the dance where new dancers could join them and they would promenade around the floor three times and then take up the third stage of the dance.
"Would you like to try it?" Bashir jumped; he had been intent on the dance and had not heard the Vulcan come up behind him. "I would but I don't know this dance," he said. "I do and I will guide you." "Then let's," he said, happily allowing the Vulcan to lead him into the dancers. "I'm Dr. Bashir," he said, remembering his manners. "And I am called Stonet." He'd been carefully observing Garak since the tailor and Jir had come in and Garak's glance at Bashir and Bashir's amusement at Garak's predicament had not gone unnoticed by the Vulcan. Stonet's powers of observation were so great he'd not failed to see the subtle sizzle between the Terran and the Cardassian, even at a distance. Nor had he failed to notice that Bashir was lovely, and it would amuse Jir to see his life partner dancing with him. Amusing Jir was one of the few pleasures Stonet's Vulcan stoicism allowed him to have. Occasionally dancing with lovely creatures, when he was not dancing with Jir, was another. So, with the other new arrivals and Bashir on his arm, Stonet wondered what the next variation would be. If Garak were sticking to the traditional Oblata, the dancers would separate into two lines, facing each other, circle around in different opposite directions, and change partners. He was pleased to see Garak was a traditionalist and guided Bashir into the moving lines. As he danced off with Smig, Garak wished he'd been about six beats behind the music. Six beats later and it would have been Bashir in his arms. On the other hand, six beats earlier and it would have been Worf, who was, for anyone interested, dancing quite credibly. For a Klingon. Dancing with Smig, Garak reestablished the figure eight and triangle patterns and then danced them in reverse to bring the dance to a successful, uproarious close. Everyone in the room had joined the dance and that was the measure of its success. He was hardly winded and, for a man of his age and sedentary habits, he considered that a victory as well. Garak would have enjoyed a drink but Jir called for the band to play a Drisa, winked broadly at the tailor and danced off with him, as they had danced in Quark's. The dance company was in on the scheme to introduce the Drisa to DS9 and followed their lead. Quick learners, or perhaps there was more than the usual telepathy in the air that night; the other partygoers were soon glued together on the dance floor, Drisa-ing as if they had been born Drisa-ing. "I can show you this one as well," Stonet offered Dr. Bashir and was not denied.
"You see, Garak," Jir hissed at him. "It's going beautifully. What were those other dances you said know?" "I've forgotten each and every one." "Now, now my dancing Cardassian tailor, don't make me get tough with you."
"Benjamin, I think we ought to rescue Garak." "Fine, as long as you take Garak." Sisko danced them into the Krinat and Cardassian couple, calculating his impact to be enough to dislodge Jir from Garak's arms. "Oh, how clumsy of us," the Captain said suavely. "Change partners?" and glided off with Jir before he could protest. Dax moved into Garak's arms and suggested they take a breather. "You are my savior, Dax, thank you." "Jira Krinat is a handful, isn't he?" "Quite," Garak agreed and eased into the crowd to find a drink. He found that and, as a bonus, Dr. Bashir. "You look good out there, Garak." Bashir's intimate whisper was covered by the crush around the bar. "It's my partner, not me, Doctor," Garak assured him. "I didn't know you could dance." "No reason you should since there have been no opportunities for it since you arrived," Garak told him. "Or even before you arrived," he added, dodging unsuccessfully behind a large Bajoran matron. "Ah ha!" Jir hauled him from his hiding place. "Back on the dance floor, Garak." "Actually, he's promised to dance with me," Bashir gallantly tried to come between Jir and his prey. "Later, kid," the dancer snarled and dragged Garak back into the fray. "Let them dance for a moment and then we will rescue your Mr. Garak." Bashir wheeled around to find Stonet standing quite close to him. "Sooner is better," he said, seeing Garak mask his misery behind his most polite and professional visage. He was pleased when Stonet danced him into Jir. "Oh, change partners?" the Vulcan suggested, taking a flustered Jir in his arms. "What is with everyone crashing into me tonight?" Jir demanded, resisting or trying to. "Come back here, Garak!" he called over Stonet's broad shoulder, but was swept away nevertheless. Garak danced Bashir half way around the room and wished it could have been more. Alas, he saw his chance for escape and decided to take it. Leaving the doctor with Dax and Kira, Garak slipped out of the hall and back to his quarters. Exhausted, he pulled off his new shoes and ran a regenerator around the rubbed spots. He had enjoyed dancing with Jir and Bashir and even with Dax, but enough was enough. He noticed the book Jir had given him. It was a slim bound volume with Klingonese and Standard on the binding. It was very elegantly bound in a supple hide and covered boards. It was an expensive item, hand bound books usually were, and rare since, in the age of datapadds, such use of organic materials was considered a wasteful extravagance. Still, the book fit beautifully in his hand and his eyes fell restfully on the letter-pressed text: the left side in the original Klingonese and the right side in an adequate Standard translation. Garak read the Klingonese title page as his Standard was still a little weak: "The Sermons of Master Gozine Ghet of the Gozshedrefreingin Commune of the Most Holy Klingon Church to the Klingon Garrison on Zatichket" 'Does Jir assume I read Standard or does he know I read Klingon?' Garak wondered and then he pushed the thought aside as being overly suspicious. He would have turned to the first sermon but his door chime was ringing insistently. Suspecting it was Jir, come to romp with him, he ignored it. And continued to ignore it until he heard his own door code being entered. The door slid open to reveal Jir, in all his Oldala-fur-clad splendor. "You left me," he accused. "How did you get my door code?" Garak asked, backing around his couch as Jir advanced. "I had a premonition I'd need it, so I dug it out of the station's security computer this afternoon," he lied as he followed Garak around the couch. He'd dug it out of the tailor's telefield as they danced. "How efficient. Odo will be furious. Well, my rest is over. Back to the party!" Garak kept the couch between himself and Jir. "Oh! Let's stay here and get some more *rest*." The dancer leered and then lunged. But Garak was quicker. He got halfway to his door before Jir pounced on him and dragged him to the floor. They were rolling around, Garak trying to throw off the stronger creature, who was sitting on his chest, when the door slid open and Dr. Bashir came in. "Hello, Garak," he said coolly. "I came as soon as I could get away." He stepped calmly around the couple on the floor and walked into the bedroom. "A three way?" Jir suggested from his perch on Garak's ribs. "I think not, Mr. Krinat," Garak admonished. "Oh! Call me Jir!" "I would rather," Garak said, rolling the dancer off him, "call you late for dinner. Please leave." "Now, Garak, don't be shy. Get rid of the doctor and we'll have some fun." "Shall I call Odo?" They turned to look at Bashir, standing in the bedroom doorway, wearing Garak's robe. "Shall we, Jir?" Garak asked, smoothing his hair. "No, the Odo frightens me," Jir snarled, deciding he was outnumbered and outflanked, and possibly, outclassed. "Well, good night," he said cheerily. "Until tomorrow!" and breezed out. "I hope I didn't interrupt something important," Bashir said innocently. "My rescuer! Julian, your timing couldn't have been better. Let's go to bed." Later, Garak woke and found Bashir beside him reading _The Sermons of Master Gozine Ghet of the Gozshedrefreingin Commune of the Most Holy Klingon Church to the Klingon Garrison on Zatichket_ and smiling. "These are delightful," Bashir assured him. "I'm so glad you're enjoying them," Garak yawned. "Do you read Klingonese?" "No, I'm reading the Standard." "Ah. That must be why you think they're delightful." "Have you read them?" "Not yet." "Then how do you know they're not delightful?" "Anything that could connect the word sermon and Klingon cannot possibly be delightful in Klingonese," Garak told him. "Oh really? How so?" "What's the name of the sermon you're reading right now?" "_The reliable and inevitable mercy of the unknowable mind of god_" "Let me see the Klingonese." Garak looked at the page Bashir showed him. "That translates as _God's Ambush_." "You're making it up." "Ask Worf tomorrow; he'll tell you." Garak closed his eyes. "I believe I will. Are you still awake?" "Yes." "Do you want me to read some of this sermon to you?" "No." Garak pulled the doctor close. "I can think of better things to do with your mouth." Bashir put the book down and applied his lips to Garak's. _God's Ambush_ could wait.
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