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“Where is Dr. Bashir?” asked Zimmerman impatiently.
“It’s Wednesday,” said Captain Sisko, “so he’s probably in the replimat with Mr. Garak.”
“Mr. Garak? He’s not on my list.”
“He owns a tailoring shop on the Promenade. He has lunch with Dr. Bashir a few times a week.”
Zimmerman made a note on his PADD: Garak (tailor) - deliberate omission?? “What does the station CMO have to talk about with a civilian tailor?”
“Literature, I believe.” Something in Sisko’s tone raised a red alert in Zimmerman’s ears. It was too neutral, too carefully bland.
“Who is this Garak, then? Where does he come from? Why is he here?”
“He’s Cardassian, so presumably he comes from Cardassia. As far as anyone’s been able to determine, he’s here because he can’t return to Cardassia at present.”
The metaphorical alarm blared louder. “You’re saying that Dr. Bashir regularly fraternizes with a Cardassian exile?”
“I was under the impression that promoting interspecies cooperation was one of Starfleet’s primary goals.”
“And you’re missing the point,” snapped Zimmerman. “Dr. Bashir has regular contact with a Cardassian exile and didn’t think this information was relevant to share with the project.”
Sisko raised an eyebrow. “He probably assumed that interviewing Garak would not add much pertinent information to your profile of him.”
“Well, we’ll see about that,” said Zimmerman, turning on his heel.
He turned back at the polite cough behind him. “Dr. Zimmerman, my officers are entitled to their lunch breaks, barring an emergency situation. Is this an emergency?”
“We’re on a tight schedule here, and all these oversights are not helping.”
“Nevertheless.”
Sisko wasn’t his boss, but he did outrank him. Moreover, he could start providing more of the other sort of oversight, the kind that tended to slow things down even more. Zimmerman scowled. “Fine. He’s due in the lab this afternoon, I’ll speak to him then.”
“What part of all significant on-station relationships, professional or otherwise, did you not understand, Dr. Bashir?” demanded Zimmerman, as he walked into the infirmary.
“Hello, Dr. Zimmerman, how lovely to see you again,” said Bashir.
(The penchant for sarcasm had been on the list of complaints about the EMH Mark I. Judging by Bashir’s attitude, the LMH wasn’t likely to be an improvement.)
“What is the nature of your relationship with Mr. Garak of Garak’s Clothiers, and why did you omit him from the interview list?”
“Garak is a friend,” said Bashir. “You’ve made most of your list without bothering to consult me, and the fact that I have lunch with him is hardly a secret.”
“Oh, so it’s a conspiracy of omission, then.”
“Look, I didn’t add Garak to the list because he’s not exactly a reliable source of information.”
“So you consider him a ‘friend,’ even though he apparently knows so little about you?”
“Oh, he knows plenty about me. He just won’t tell you anything useful.”
“You believe he’ll refuse an interview?”
“No, he’d probably quite enjoy giving you an interview.”
“What’s the problem then?”
“The problem is that he lies about everything as a matter of course.” Bashir’s lip twitched, as if he was holding back a smile. “I assume that includes me.”
Ah, Zimmerman thought, so he knows things about you that you don’t want me to know about. He moved Garak to the top of his list.
“What were your initial impressions of Doctor Bashir? Good and bad.”
“I found him quite repulsive, I’m sorry to say,” said Garak, and his tone was apologetic. “I’d never met a human before, you see, and I’m afraid I found all of you a little repulsive at first. No offense intended, Dr. Zimmerman. But you do look so different from us, and then there’s that distinctive odor—it’s rather overwhelming if one isn’t used to it. Aliens rarely visit Cardassia Prime, so I’d never been exposed to them before moving to this station. It was certainly a shock to the system.”
“I see,” said Zimmerman, pursing his lips. (Speaking of distinctive odors, the juice Garak had requested when they went over the preliminaries seemed to fill the whole room with a fug of decomposing fruit.) “So why did you move to this station?”
“Oh, that was all a dreadful misunderstanding. I was an accountant at the time, working for a certain high ranking military official. One tiny miscalculation on my part, the merest slip of a decimal, and I found myself terminated from my post and persona non grata on my homeworld. It seemed a good time for a change in careers, and I’ve always had an eye for fashion.”
“How exactly did you meet Dr. Bashir?”
“Well, he strolled right up to my table in the replimat and began making overtures, if you catch my meaning. No one is ever so forward on Cardassia, so I was terribly flustered, as you can imagine.”
“You didn’t reciprocate his interest, then?”
“Not precisely.”
“Would you say that he harassed you with unwanted advances?”
“He’s a very flirtatious young man,” Garak demurred. “But that’s just his manner, so I don’t take it personally, and certainly I’ve never felt harassed by him. Well, except when I’m overdue for a physical.”
“So you’re saying he can be overbearing, as a physician.”
“Does the Federation consider dedication to one’s duty an undesirable trait?”
“It’s a physician’s job to treat patients, not badger them. Don’t you find that patronizing?”
“Oh, I find everyone in Starfleet patronizing. But I don’t hold it against you. Dr. Bashir, at least, has the excuse of genuine brilliance. Some occasional lapses into condescension are understandable. I daresay I’m in better health now than I’ve been in years, thanks to his persistence.”
Zimmerman’s eyes narrowed. “Would you say that he’s equally persistent with all of his patients, or merely those he considers his friends?”
“Unless I’ve misunderstood the Federation’s medical privacy laws, I hardly think I’m the one you should be asking about his other patients.”
“Patients are free to talk about their doctors.”
“Ah, so it’s gossip you’re after!”
“Dr. Bashir’s reputation in the community is relevant information.”
“Is it?” said Garak. “Tell me, doctor, what are all these questions really in aid of?”
“As I explained,” said Zimmerman, not bothering to keep the annoyance out of his voice, “I’m creating a long-term medical hologram that can serve—”
Garak waved a hand and cut him off. “Yes, yes, you’re making a photonic recreation of Dr. Bashir. I may be a simple tailer, but I did understand your concise explanation of the nature of the project. I merely find your preoccupations… interesting.”
“Bashir is the model selected by Starfleet Medical for this project. I’m not preoccupied with him.”
“Not with all of him, no,” said Garak. “Merely his flaws. Or rather, what you consider his flaws. Perhaps you have some doubts as to the wisdom of Starfleet’s selection.”
“Far be it for me to question our most esteemed doctors.”
“It hardly matters what face you put on this medical hologram so long as it serves its function, does it?”
“Exactly!”
“Still one can understand why they would prefer to be represented by one of their own, and not, for instance, an engineer, who may have very little idea what a ‘good bedside manner’ entails.”
“There’s nothing wrong with the EMH’s bedside manner,” retorted Zimmerman.
“The E-M-H?” asked Garak.
“Don’t play coy with me, I know exactly what you’re implying. And what do you know about the EMH, anyway? They don’t even have one installed on this Cardassian eyesore. No offense,” he added, offensively.
“Oh, you’d never believe some of the things Starfleet officers chat about while they’re having their pants hemmed.”
“You’re right. I don’t.” Zimmerman rose abruptly from his seat.
Garak took a sip of his foul beverage. (The smell would no doubt linger in the room for the rest of the day.) “From what I understand, being chosen as the model for the LMH is a considerable honor. A kind of immortality. I can only assume Starfleet Medical’s selection was made carefully and conscientiously. I wonder how they would feel about your attempts to subvert it?”
“I don’t know what you’re implying. All my methods are 100% Starfleet approved!”
“Discrediting the LMH model would no doubt prove a time-consuming and expensive setback. Though I suppose your ever-gracious Starfleet has deep reserves of patience. So many projects—they can’t all be technological achievements. But Starfleet is always willing to offer a second chance, is it not? Or even a third, perhaps? You know, I heard somewhere that Starfleet has spent years trying to make holographic insects into spies, and yet have nothing to show for it. How deep does that well of chances go, I wonder?”
Zimmerman’s hand clenched. The micro-surveillance program was top secret. Starfleet brass hadn’t cared much for his holographic flies, true, but he’d hardly say that qualified as nothing to show for it. Not that he was going to confirm their existence to this… person. Whatever he really was.
“Don’t believe everything you hear,” said Zimmerman stiffly.
“I thought it was quite the ridiculous rumor. A fly spy, can you imagine?” Garak’s teeth glinted in the light of the holo-imager.
Perhaps Bashir was in cahoots with this Garak after all. Bashir had clearly manipulated Zimmerman into this farce of an interview in order to covertly threaten him.
Though reporting his suspicion to Starfleet Command might raise a few… awkward questions about Zimmerman’s security measures. Best to wait until he had more sufficient evidence.
“Did you have any further questions for me?” asked Garak blithely. “If not, I really should get back to my shop. You’re welcome to drop by later, if you require any further insights into the good doctor’s character, or if you’d simply like a new scarf, to take the chill off. You are looking awfully pale, Dr. Zimmerman.”
“I have no more questions for you. Now or ever.”
Garak shrugged. “Suit yourself. I am always glad to be of assistance.”
As soon as he’d exited the room, Zimmerman spent a long moment staring at his PADD.
“Computer, delete latest interview.”