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Sisko steeples his hands, forming a tent over his baseball. In time to his bulging jaw muscle, the balls of his hands squeeze the baseball hard enough that Julian is afraid it might pop a stitch. The captain takes one deep breath and looks to Jadzia. “Dax, thoughts?” (This, according to Miles, is Sisko’s go-to method for stalling for time when he feels particularly strongly about a proposal and needs a moment to collect himself. Julian hadn’t noticed, but there does seem to be a pattern.)
“Well,” Jadzia says slowly (my god, she really is stalling for him), “from a scientific perspective, this is—and pardon my jargon here—a really, really bad idea.”
Worf nods. “I agree. These are not the kind of people we want on the station.”
“Please,” Quark says, “these kind of people are already here.”
“Why are you here?” Worf asks. “This is a meeting of senior staff and department heads.”
Quark touches his chest, deeply hurt. “I’m chair of the Promenade Merchants’ Association. And this new customer base is very much our business.” He looks to Kira up at the podium, his hurt dissolving into slimy charm. “You mentioned certain parole conditions. Does that include drinking? Gambling? What about holosuites?”
Having gathered himself enough, Sisko puts an end to this line of inquiry with a foreboding, “Quark, enough.”
Quark winks at Kira. “We’ll talk specifics later.”
“Major,” Sisko begins, “I realize this is a Bajoran station subject to the decisions of the Bajoran government, and Starfleet personnel—myself included—are here only to assist in its day-to-day functions. That said, I can’t help but feel this proposal takes a very cynical view of Starfleet’s involvement. We’re not here to serve as jailers or prison guards. Honestly, the fact that the Provisional Government sees us in that way…” Sisko shakes his head. “I thought we had moved past this.”
“We have.” Kira’s fingers tighten around the edge of the podium. “The Minister of Justice approved this plan because we trust you. Why else would the Provisional Government put the lives of dozens of Bajorans completely under the control of Starfleet officers?”
“Free labor?” Quark asks, drawing the glares of everyone at the table. “That was my first thought.”
“I don’t think any of you understand what this proposal means,” Kira continues, her voice sharper. “Bajor is a newly independent, newly sovereign planet. We fought for decades to make that a reality. And now we’re willingly giving some of our administrative and judicial power away to a foreign government. Not because we have to, but because we trust Starfleet to handle the responsibility. I don’t understand why you’re all so opposed to this.”
“You’re talking about criminals walking free on the station,” Miles snaps. “This isn’t a prison; children live here. Our children live here.”
Kira jabs a finger in his direction. “We are not talking about this here.”
“If we want high command to reject this proposal,” Worf cuts in, “we will need a much more compelling argument than the danger it poses to Starfleet families. Anyone who brings their children along to a field posting accepts a certain degree of risk. It’s part of the job.”
“Oh, really?” Miles asks, his voice rising in both lilt and volume. “Is that why Alexander lives in Moscow?”
Resting on the table, Worf’s fingers curl into fists. “Minsk. Alexander lives in Minsk. It’s an entirely different country.”
“But it’s still not here,” Miles retorts.
“Alexander is a precious, unique individual with an important destiny. To place him in danger—”
“What? And my kids aren’t precious, unique individuals?”
Worf sighs. “Chief, Molly and Yoshi are fine children. But even you must realize that Alexander is vastly superior—”
“Superior? It’s really true what they say: absence does make the heart grow fonder.”
“What are you implying?”
“I’m not implying any—”
“Gentlemen,” Sisko snaps, and Julian thinks for a moment that he’ll settle the matter by declaring Jake the obvious king of precious, unique individuals. But instead Sisko offers a reprimand: “Control yourselves. I realize this proposal has inspired a flurry of emotions all around this table, but we cannot form an official opinion based on pride and gut reactions. Whatever recommendation we make to Starfleet will be grounded in thoughtful consideration of the facts. And,” Sisko adds, “a dash of realpolitik. Understood?”
Miles and Worf nod, mumbling, “Understood.”
-
47 minutes later...
“You have to be kidding me!” Miles gasps. “You can’t possibly—”
“Sir,” Worf breaks in, “I must protest. The security of—”
“Gentlemen,” Sisko says, a faint rumble in his voice. “This was your idea.”
Worf and Miles share a pained look before turning back to the captain.
“It wasn’t an official recommendation,” Miles says.
“It was an example,” Worf adds.
“Exactly. An example.”
“And a good one,” Sisko says. “We all agreed that high command will only approve the use of Starfleet manpower to guard and rehabilitate Bajoran felons on DS9 if Federation prisoners guilty of similar crimes are able to take part in the program as well. This android certainly fits the bill.”
“Captain,” Worf starts, “Lore is evil. Pure, unadulterated evil. He is best left deactivated.”
“Deactivated?” Odo asks. “I thought the Federation didn’t practice the death penalty.”
“We don’t,” Miles says. “Lore isn’t—”
“Isn’t what, Chief?” Kira asks.
Miles sighs. “I don’t mean… It was his own brother who deactivated him. Right, Worf?”
“Right,” Worf says.
“That’s one hell of a legal precedent Data set then,” Julian pipes in. “I mean, they’re both androids, practically identical. If Lore isn’t subject to the Federation’s embargo on the death penalty, then neither is Mr. Data.”
“But Data would never do anything…” Miles sputters. “He’d never give anyone reason to—”
“With Mr. Data,” Worf interrupts, “Starfleet has never needed a reason.”
“I’m sorry to say it,” Dax starts, “especially in front of Quark, but Starfleet is still an old human’s club. The less human you look and act… If they can’t look at you and pretend you’re a human wearing funny makeup, you can’t expect the regulations to apply equally.”
Miles’ brow furrows. “Are you trying to guilt me into agreeing with this?”
“Is it working?” Dax asks.
“It sounds to me,” Sisko says, rejoining the conversation, “that putting forth Lore as a possible program participant would not only get us what we want but also serve some higher moral purpose.” He glances at Kira. “Besides the obvious benefit of integrating dozens of Bajoran prisoners back into society and bringing them quite literally closer to the Prophets.”
“And expanding my customer base,” Quark adds. “Which none of you discussed seriously by the way. I don’t know why I even bother coming to these meetings.”
-
“Hello, brother.”
Lore opens his eyes slowly, feeling the sluggishness of booting up again after a long period of dormancy. Data stands before him, the changes in his body and demeanor belying how long he’s really been out.
Missing anything intelligent to say, Lore goes with a biting truth: “You’ve gained weight.”
Either Data is not as human as he would like, or Data has become like one of those Federation humans who don’t care about silly things appearance or money or blah blah blah… because Data beams at Lore. “My aging protocol includes the approximation of the typical increase in adipose tissue found in most human males of my age.” He actually smiles. “Thank you for noticing.”
“You’re welcome,” Lore drawls. In his current position, the best offense he can manage is sarcasm. “Data, where’s my body?”
Data grimaces slightly. (He’s grimacing now?) “There was an accident.”
“An accident?” Lore shouts, keenly aware that a head lying on a table doesn’t exactly exude authority. “You were that careless with my body? You let one of your butterfingered human friends drop me down a turbolift or—”
“Lore.” Data leans down but not close enough for Lore to take a bite out of him. “I would never let that happen to you.”
“Then where’s my body?”
“The Enterprise had to make an emergency landing on Veridian III. Much of the ship’s cargo was destroyed on impact or during the ensuing fires. I was fortunate to find your head largely intact.”
“Largely intact?”
“You have a scar now. Right above your left eyebrow. Counselor Troi says it looks very rugged.”
“An evil twin with a facial scar?” Lore asks. “Don’t you think that’s laying it on a bit thick?”
Data shrugs. “I can repair it if you wish. But I will need to replace it with some other distinguishing mark to tell us apart.”
“Like what?”
“Mr. Worf suggested removing your left ear, but I’m not certain he was being serious.”
“Knowing him, he was entirely serious.” Lore bites his lip, thinking for a moment. “Could you alter my skintone? Maybe give me a blueish undertone? I’ve always wanted to be able to pull off a nice lavender tunic.”
“Perhaps. I will need to discuss it with Lt. Barclay first. He’s designing the rest of your body.”
“Lt. Barclay? You’re letting a human rebuild my body?”
“Lt. Barclay is better suited to the job than I am.”
Lore scoffs. “I doubt that some human knows more about cybernetics than you. Why don’t you just admit—”
“Lt. Barclay isn’t using cybernetics to construct a new body. Lt. Barclay is Starfleet’s preeminent holotechnology expert. Partially because he has battled a severe holoprogram addiction for many years, but also because he is a very fine systems—”
“Holotechnology,” Lore snarls. “Holotechnology?”
“Yes, holotechnology.” Data cocks his head to the side, an eerie grin playing on his lips: the perfect imitation of Lore himself. “You didn’t think we would give you a real body after everything you’ve done?”
-
“You understand the conditions of your parole?” the constable, a member of some newly emergent race, asks. His face looks like a half-formed sculpture. All brute lines and no definition.
Lore narrows his eyes. “Is this look intentional?” He wave his new holographic hand in front of the constable’s face. “Or did you just run out of time getting ready this morning?”
“Lore,” Data chastens.
“What? I’m not allowed to be curious?” Lore asks. “I was deactivated for years. It’s only natural for me to have a few questions about our new friends from the gamma quadrant.”
“If you must know,” the constable says, “I look like this because, unlike some inorganic lifeforms, I don’t preoccupy myself with appearing human.”
“Oh ho ho,” Lore chuckles. “Touché. You got caught in the crosshairs in that one, didn’t you, brother?”
Data straightens his uniform. “Perhaps.”
Lore smiles, baring his teeth at the constable. “You know, I like this one. Whatever the hell it is.” He claps the constable on the shoulder. Immediately upon contact, Lore’s body dissipates beneath him, sending his head falling to the floor. “Son of a bitch!”
The constable squats down beside him. “Do I need to go over the conditions of your parole again?”
“Data!” Lore shrieks, slightly muffled given that one side of his mouth is pressed against the floor. “The emitter’s sensor unit is malfunctioning. I didn’t even hit him.”
“Yes.” Data lowers himself to the floor, lying down to be face-to-face with Lore. “But your intentions were malevolent. If my understanding of nonverbal communication is correct, you touched Constable Odo’s shoulder to reinforce a remark meant to harm.”
True, but not comforting given that… “Data, is the unit programmed according to your understanding of nonverbal communication?”
“No.” He pauses, allowing Lore a moment of hope. “Lt. Barclay provided input as well.”
Any dreams of gaming the system to his advantage dissipate much like Lore’s body. It’s one thing to use human or some other society’s social norms to work around the sensor unit’s programming, but Data and that Barclay’s combined social schema is so chaotic as to be entirely unpredictable. Even to Lore.
He’ll be getting very well acquainted with this station’s flooring.
With that realization, Lore lets out a long, high-pitched scream particularly irritating to human ears. His only means of exacting revenge in his current bodily arrangement.
Data pats his cheek. “I know this must be frustrating. But please take comfort in knowing that I love you. I love you more than the sun and the moon and all the stars in the sky. I love you more than Alpha Carinae. I love you more than Alpha Centauri. I love you more than Alpha Majoris. I love you more—”
Lore screams in self-defense.
-
“Stay away from Lore.”
Julian actually drops his dart. “Why does everyone keep telling me that? You’re the third person today. First Worf, then Garak, and now you.”
Miles retrieves the fallen dart, giving it back to Julian. “I’m just warning you because I know you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Miles steps closer, lowering his voice. “Look, we all saw the way you fawned over Data when he came to the station. It’s clear you have some kind of interest in android physiology.”
Julian can’t tell if he’s being accused of having some kind of mutant obsession with androids or of wanting to have sex with one.
“And Lore, well, he isn’t just an android anymore. He’s part hologram now. And we all know the way you feel about holoprograms.”
Again, the line between mutant fixation and sexual fetish remains thin.
“Add on top of that your chumminess with barely reformed murderers, and—”
“I am not having sex with Garak,” Julian snaps, his problem with volume regulation rearing its ugly head. Every head in the bar turns.
“I didn’t say that.” Miles smirks. “But I wouldn’t be surprised if everyone thinks you’re sleeping with him now.”
“Like they weren’t already,” Julian grumbles.
He wouldn’t mind the rumors so terribly if they were at all true. As it stands, Julian gets all the social stigma of being a Cardassian outcast’s lover without any of the touch. What’s worse, the spectre of a jealous Cardassian boyfriend looming over him has scared away every eligible bachelor on the station. (The bachelorettes, on the other hand, don’t seem too daunted. Quark says it’s because females inherently lack the capacity to understand and therefore respect property rights.)
With the new parolee housing, the station may have a bachelor, however ineligible, willing to stand up against Julian’s nonexistent lover.
After entertaining the thought for a half-second, Julian snaps back to reality with the realization that he was honestly considering seducing a hardened criminal. And not just the run-of-the-mill hardened criminals that have peopled the station since the occupation ended. The new arrivals include former cult leaders, career criminals, and collaborators whose hard luck stories won them sympathy from the parole board.
And an android with a wicked past and very intriguing physiology.
Miles may have a point.
“I’ll stay away from Lore,” Julian says. “But I don’t appreciate being warned off him like I’m some kind of child. I’m not fresh out of the Academy anymore. I can take care of myself.” To underscore the point, Julian crosses his arms over his chest, stabbing himself with a dart in the process. “Ow.”
-
Julian keeps to his word. Avoiding Lore is easy (the android seems to stay in his quarters as much as possible—no doubt plotting something nefarious) until it isn’t.
To be fair, you can’t fault Julian for running into Lore; he is out of Julian’s line of sight. Julian’s lucky he didn’t trip.
“Lore, why are you…” Only a head? On the floor? In my infirmary in the middle of the night? Julian has too many questions to pick from, choosing to go with the broader, “...here?”
Although, looking to the open medicine closet and the vial lying on the floor, he doesn’t even really need to ask that one.
“I was planning to test some theories about android psychopharmacology but apparently that would be ‘stealing’ and therefore ‘morally wrong,’” Lore says, inserting air quotes with the waggle of his eyebrows. “Hence why I’m on the floor.”
Bending down, Julian picks up the vial. “This is extremely habit forming.”
“I know. I was hoping to develop a psychological addiction. That way I’d have something to look forward to while I’m stuck on this godforsaken station.”
“Well, you’re not the first.”
“Of course, your scaly little boyfriend.”
“He is not my boyfriend,” Julian hisses.
“Touchy.”
“How do you even know about that?”
“The Cardassian being an addict or being your secret lover? The answer’s the same for both. This station loves its gossip.”
“So you know how Garak’s substance abuse turned out in the end?”
“Oh, yes.” Lore leers. “His boyfriend saved him.”
“I’m not—”
“I know. You just like saving people. Hey, you could save me. Just tap your medical override into my holo-emitter.”
“Believe it or not, but I’m not that easily seduced.”
“Have it your way. Now if you wouldn’t mind, could you call Constable Odo and get the hell out of my face?”
“With relish.”
-
After a week in lock-up and without his body, Lore finds himself walking the halls of the station once again. He assumed he would feel better upon release. But he hasn’t exactly been released now, has he? Walking out of one prison and into another doesn’t inspire joy. Even having a body (not his body, but a body) again doesn’t come as a relief. What’s the point of having a body if you can’t use it to commit morally reprehensible acts that nonetheless make you feel better? Why be able to reach out and touch someone if you can’t hurt them? Or even scare them a little?
Not for the first time, Lore wishes Data had never reactivated him.
What kind of self-serving nonsense was that anyway? “I can’t bear the thought of you being dead when there’s an opportunity for you to live safely. I love you, you’re my brother, you’re one half of me blah blah blah.”
Of course Data would think a life like this was better than death. When Data reaches out and touches a human, it’s with pleasure rather than pain in mind. Lore has never partaken in the pleasures of the flesh, seeing pleasure and living flesh at odds with one another. However, the fact that Data—sweet, angelic, perfect perfect perfect Data—has accessed such a torrid human experience before him does add a little fire to their sibling rivalry. However one-sided that may be.
At a loss of what to do and finding the confinement of his quarters less comforting than before, Lore meanders the Promenade, taking solace in the notion that his very presence may inspire anxiety in the organic lifeforms around him. He could be plotting, planning, scoping out the station for points of weakness. His body may no longer elicit fear but his mind remains a threat.
Outwardly, at least. Lore hasn’t felt much like expending mental energy on his usual song-and-dance: reach out to a dimwitted but powerful group of lifeforms, recruit them over to his side, and manipulate them into doing his bidding. He doesn’t know if his lethargy in this regard is a symptom of what he assumes is the first case of android major depressive disorder or if he’s really taken Data’s warning to heart: “Lore, know that I will always love you. But if you trick anyone into helping you escape Deep Space Nine or commit a crime or any other act of evil, I will never speak with you again. Counselor Troi calls this ‘setting boundaries.’”
Lore has two options: stay here and be miserable or escape and be abandoned by the only person he’s ever cared about.
For the moment at least, Lore has gone with the option requiring the least amount of effort on his part. After all, scheming and manipulation would disrupt his busy schedule of staring at the wall, mentally berating himself for every decision he’s ever made, and waiting for Data to call.
The alternating sounds of joy and despair draw Lore towards Quark’s bar, that den of organic weakness. Alcohol (real or synthetic) does nothing to alter his mood, and games of chance only serve to annoy (with the exception of a Russian variation on a human game). But perhaps if he sits at the bar long enough, some of that drunken good cheer will infect him. Barring that, he can always indulge his predilection for schadenfreude by watching patrons be bilked out of their hard-earned latinum at the dabo tables.
Before Lore even has a chance to take a seat at the bar, the bartender is at his side, wearing a grin both happy and opportunistic—one Lore will work to perfect in the mirror this evening. “Welcome to Quark’s. Can I interest you in a drink?” he asks.
“Do you stock anything that could kill an android?” Lore asks.
“No, but I do have quite a few holosuite programs that’ll make you want to live.”
Lore follows the bartender’s nervous glances towards the back of the bar where all the dabo tables are located, and realizes the Ferengi is trying to keep him and his heightened perception away from the gambling.
“I’m afraid I don’t have enough money,” Lore lies, letting his gaze linger on the dabo wheel. Data has Starfleet deposit his monthly latinum stipend directly into Lore’s account. The logic being that he’ll feel less inclined to steal something if he has spending money. Beyond purchasing a few custom items for his wardrobe (done in a failed bid to secure a connection from the tailor), Lore hasn’t touched the money. He has more than enough to afford an evening in the holosuites, but feels compelled to see how much he can get out of the Ferengi.
“First one’s on the house,” the bartender says like the easily manipulated flesh bag he is.
There’s something in the phrasing that recalls a memory, something Lore saw recently. What was it? Something from one of those insipid, Federation anti-drug PSAs he’s been watching, hoping they might accidentally drop some pointers on how one might procure drugs. At least half of them warned of a friendly dealer offering the first hit for free, knowing full well that paid purchases will inevitably follow. The overhead is worth what the PSAs insist will be a lifetime customer. Even if statistics show that many who try drugs never use again or only become casual users—a fate which Lore is trying to avoid. He wants a life-altering chemical dependency that will order his days and nights, not a goddamn hobby.
Given his inability to obtain anything near potent, he won’t be getting either.
But, he realizes, chemicals aren’t the only path to addiction. The nervous wreck who designed Lore’s new body never touched a hypospray and yet…
“How kind.” Lore smiles at the Ferengi. “Could I see a menu?”
-
It’s an endearing sight: Lore crouched over a PADD deeply engrossed in its contents. Julian hates to disturb the image but finds he can’t help himself. Poking a sleeping and very dangerous bear—it’s not something he’s skilled at resisting.
Sitting down next to him at the bar, Julian asks, “Having trouble deciding?”
Lore doesn’t look up. “I’m trying to choose the program with the highest potential for addiction.”
“I should warn you: despite whatever package Quark’s tried to sell you on, you’re not going to walk out of the holosuite an addict.”
“Why not? My psionic brain is just as prone to vice as yours.”
“Precisely. Neither you nor I could ever choose to become an addict. Addiction, by its very definition, is a compulsion of which the sufferer has little control. The fact that you’re able to sit back and calmly consider how you will develop an addiction means that psychologically speaking you’re not meant to have one.”
Lore turns to Julian sharply. “Then what am I supposed to do? Develop healthy coping mechanisms that will help me survive this situation and ultimately grow as an individual?”
“Yes!”
“Oh, and then I suppose I’ll finish out my parole, become a productive member of society. Hey! Maybe I’ll join Starfleet. That’ll be fun. I might even get to become some ship’s pet android. They’ll have to neuter me of course. We can’t have any more androids running around the galaxy.” Lore sneers. “Please. I’m not Data. I have no desire to go on some journey of self-discovery and personal development.”
“No,” Julian agrees. “You just want to sit around and be angry.”
“Thank you! Finally, someone who gets it.”
“You have a right to be angry but don’t let it consume you. Living well is the best revenge.”
“I would rather die,” Lore deadpans. “Seriously, though. The sweet abyss of eternal nothingness would be better than living whatever you mounds of keratin consider a good life. Whatever it takes for you organic wastes of space to be happy, I want no part of it. Now, unless you have some third option for me to consider, you can kindly go to hell. Go on. Shoo.”
And those are the words that hook him. “Go on. Shoo.” Owing to some horrible defect in his character, being told to go away only makes Julian want to stay.
He leans in closer. “There is a third option. But I wouldn’t recommend it.”
“Then I’m definitely interested.”
“We don’t advertise this often but, as a doctor, I’ve learned of a middle road option between leading a happy, healthy life and letting your anger destroy you. It’s called spite.” (It’s true. Anyone who’s taken even a cursory glance at Worf’s psych profile knows it’s entirely possible for a person to live on spite alone.)
“Go on.”
“Well, say, for example, your people rejected you. Instead of lashing out at them directly, you would live in a way that would really piss them off.” Like becoming not only the first Klingon but the most Klingon Klingon in Starfleet. “The idea is to undertake a series of small actions rather than one large, definitive gesture.”
“Interesting.” Lore cocks his head, considering the idea. “My whole life I thought revenge was about the things I did but now I think revenge may be about who I am.” He gives Julian the once over. “We should have sex.”
“Wh-what?” Julian sputters.
“Dr. Soong didn’t design me to be the type of person who would have casual sex with a man he met in a bar.” Lore blinks. It’s fascinating. “I could choose someone else.”
Half of Julian thinks what a wonderful opportunity this would be to study android physiology. The other half thinks it has been far too long since he’s slept with another man. So, basically, he’s all in.
He gives his best roguish grin. “My place or yours?”
-
Julian runs a hand through his hair, lungs still struggling to find enough breath. “That was…” He swallows. “And you’ve never done that before? Because… I mean… wow.”
Sitting at the edge of the bed, facing away from Julian, Lore shrugs. “My programming includes a wide variety of pleasure techniques.”
“I know.” Julian starts to giggle but catches himself. “But… er… was it good? For you, I mean.”
“The purpose was met.”
“So, you did… Didn’t you?”
“No.”
“Oh.”
Lore looks over his shoulder. “Don’t beat yourself up too badly. I wasn’t trying to.”
Julian sits up, covering himself with a pillow. He feels oddly exposed at the moment. “Why not?”
“I didn’t do this for pleasure. The only thing I wanted was to spite my dead father’s memory by losing my virginity to a genetically engineered human. He was virulently opposed to people like you, did I tell you that? Something to do with a distant relative’s dabbling ruining the family's good name.”
“Glad to be of service.” There’s acid in Julian’s voice but he makes no move to get out of bed. He’s got at least one more round left in him and who knows when he’ll get plowed like this again. He can take a little bigotry; he’s done so his entire life. And rarely with such a reward.
“But now that I have that out of the way…” Lore crawls up the bed. “Maybe you’d like to show me how.”
“How? How to what?”
Lore lifts his eyebrows but says nothing.
Oh. “You don’t know how…?”
“Dr. Soong neglected to include that in my programming,” Lore explains.
“No wonder you hate him.”
“What do you say?”
Julian reaches out, pressing a hand to Lore’s chest, feeling heat radiate off of the projected muscle. “If I show you, I need you to do whatever I say.”
“I live to serve.”
“Good. Now lie on your back.”
-
Lore stretches his arms behind his back and then pulls them in, pillowing his head on his palms. “Well, I certainly understand the appeal. But is this really what inspired so many wars and—even worse—poems?”
Julian shifts next to him.
“You were good. Don’t get me wrong,” Lore adds. “But all told it only lasted for a few seconds.” He whistles lows. “Millennia of evolution across countless species driven by just a few seconds of sensation. You organics truly are a base people.”
Julian doesn’t rise to the bait.
“Can you do it again yet?” Lore asks. “I know you have some kind of refractory period. Horribly inefficient from a biological perspective. Although I suppose without it, breeding would go unchecked and the galaxy would have a more virulent organic infestation than it already does.”
Julian groans into his pillow. His arm, moving seemingly of its own accord, flops onto Lore’s chest. Despite Lore’s wishes for a more southerly trajectory, Julian’s hand clamps over Lore’s mouth.
Based on the slow, steady pulse thrumming against Lore’s chin, Julian has been asleep for at least the past five minutes, his body only returning to a shallow state of semi-consciousness to make Lore shut up.
Lore supposes he owes the man who gave him his first orgasm that much. Even if the man in question got more than one of the same out of the bargain.
He looks so peaceful lying there all naked and exhausted. Is there anything more vulnerable than a naked human passed out from overexertion? Lore could hurt him so easily in this state. Well, to be fair, Lore could hurt him so easily in any state. But this whole tableau exaggerates how unequal they are in strength and vulnerability.
It’s like dangling a skinned rabbit in front of a starving wolf.
But Julian Bashir is no prey animal. He’s a smart man—not as smart as Lore, but smart nevertheless. He wouldn’t allow himself to fall asleep like this if he wasn’t absolutely certain Lore couldn’t hurt him.
Which he can’t.
Lore peels Julian’s arm off his chest, watching it snake under the pillow Julian hugs to his face. Lore pulls up the blankets, covering Julian’s bare flesh, earning a contented sigh.
Oh lord, he was cold. Lore forgot you had to keep them warm. He sneers at Julian’s sleeping form. “Sleep well, you sick bastard.”
-
Julian harnesses every last shred of his willpower—which, considering his very poor impulse control, is far from considerable—and takes two steps back, leaving a column of air between him and Lore.
“We can’t do this now.”
Lore sighs. “It’s been nine hours. How much more recovery time do you need?”
“I don’t need—” Julian pinches the bridge of his nose. He doesn’t get headaches—thank you, genetic engineering—but it’s one of many non-verbal shorthands he’s learned to mimic. “I’m at work.”
“The door is closed. Noise cancellation protocols are engaged. I doubt anyone will catch us.”
“That’s not the point.” Julian lowers his hand. “Having sex in my office would be highly unprofessional both as a doctor and a Starfleet officer.”
“But no one will ever know. Why do you even care?”
“Because. Unlike you, I possess some small measure of self-esteem. And I don’t like damaging it by acting below my dignity.”
“Hey, I have plenty of self-esteem. I am vastly superior to any other creature—android or organic—who’s ever lived. And that’s a direct quote. From me.”
Julian rolls his eyes. “People with high self-esteem don’t go out of their way to develop a holosuite addiction. You may think only of yourself, but you don’t think too highly of your favorite subject.”
Lore grimaces, darting his tongue in and out of his mouth like he’s accidentally swallowed a cat hair. “This is a very unpleasant conversation.”
“We’re both unpleasant people,” Julian says flatly.
“True. But I’m more unpleasant than you.” Lore brightens. “Look at that. Self-esteem.”
Julian chuckles. “That’s self-deprecation.”
“I’m not technically a person. It’s a miracle I can do either.” Replacing one form of tension with another, Lore’s gaze trails up and down Julian’s body. “Now, is there anything we can do in here that won’t bruise your self-esteem?”
Julian rifles through his mental list of Socially Acceptable Things One is Allowed to Do in the Office that will satisfy his lingering urge to grab at Lore. Coming upon something he saw Dr. Girani and one of her wives do once under much more dire circumstances, Julian steps forward. “Come here.”
Lore quirks an eyebrows and walk towards him until they are chest to holographic facsimile of a chest. Julian wraps his arms around Lore, pulling him impossibly nearer. Lore stiffly reciprocates.
“What is this?” Lore asks. “What are we doing?”
“Hugging,” Julian answers.
Lore pauses, taking it in. “This is deplorable.”
“It is.” Hugging Lore seems infinitely dirtier than bedding him. Julian pulls back. “We can stop.”
Arms tighten around him.
“You next appointment isn’t for another seventeen minutes,” Lore says, his body—that projection of hard bulk—giving way against Julian’s.
-
“I called yesterday at our usual time but you didn’t answer,” Data says. “I was worried you may be in detention again.”
Lore stares absentmindedly at his fingernails, now kept short and even at Julian’s request. “No, I was at work.”
“At work?” The words ‘on what’ hang in the air.
“Oh, I didn’t tell you? I got a job.”
“A job?”
“Nothing nefarious. I’m doing menial labor at the Bajoran shrine.”
“Lore, that’s wonderful.”
“‘Lore, that’s wonderful,’” Lore says, putting on his ‘I’m performing a mocking impression of you but not a realistic one because then I wouldn’t change my voice at all given that we are largely identical’ tone. It’s his first refuge whenever Data says something sincere or vaguely complimentary.
“What kind of work do you perform?” Data asks, his interest so sincere that Lore has to stop himself from mimicking the words right back at him.
“Oh, you know. Clerical work.”
Data giggles at the pun for a full minute. Lore does not like this new emotion chip; it’s like dealing with a drunk person.
Disturbed, Lore cuts off Data’s hysterics with a straightforward description of his job. “Currently, I’m sorting through the decades of anonymous religious commentaries penned during the Occupation often written on the walls of prison camps, carved into rocks or whatever else was available. Using forensic analysis and a series of algorithms, I’m working to identify which texts were written by which author and when.”
“That sounds very interesting,” Data says.
“It isn’t. The work is tedious, and the vedeks take my conclusions as mere suggestions. They keep insisting that they know their people and their Prophets better than I do. I suppose some people just need to feel important.” Lore sighs.
“I’m sure the vedeks are grateful for the work you’ve done for the community.” Data has zero grounds to make that statement but states it anyway. That damn chip.
Lore scoffs. “I’m not doing this for the gratitude. I need the latinum.”
“Am I not sending you enough? I can see if Starfleet…” Data trails off. He cocks his head to the side, peering at Lore intently. “Are you on drugs? Is that why you need currency? Have the other criminals gotten you addicted to drugs? You can tell me, Lore. I will not ju—”
“I’m not on drugs.” Not for lack of trying. “I want to amass a fortune disproportionate to my actual needs so I can exert subtle, indirect control over the legions of impoverished beings within the latinum economy.”
Lore takes his eyes off his nails long enough to savor Data’s reaction: a jaw dropped open just enough to reveal the tips of his front teeth.
“I know. ‘Where ever did I learn such language?’” Lore goes back to his nails. “The bartender here has very interesting ideas about hegemony under the free market. He seems to be in this largely for the shiny objects. But me? I couldn’t care less what the currency looks like just so long as it enhances my influence within an inherently undemocratic system. Not that anyone’s gotten rich working at a Bajoran shrine. This is just a stepping stone and a nice distraction besides. I swear, if I didn’t have this job, I would…”
Lore snickers, his gaze taking aim at the vidscreen once more. He leans closer. “You know your friend, Dr. Bashir? We’ve got a thing going on. A sexy, flirty, fighty thing. We don’t really define it. The upshot is we’re having just massive amounts of sex. I’m talking constantly. I mean, he wakes up, he takes lunch, he gets off work, and we are just on each other.” This is only a slight exaggeration. “And even with all that, I still can’t stop thinking about him. The job helps but still there’s times when I’m reading about the Prophets and my body is just on fire. I just want it, you know? I just want him to come into the shrine, throw me down on a pile of scrolls, and take—”
The vidscreen clicks to black. Transmission lost.
A shit-eating grin plasters across Lore’s face. It really is the little things that make life worth living.