The BLTS Archive - Business As Usual
by Katrine Myra (kat@saers.com)

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Disclaimer: I own very few, if any fandoms, Star Trek included. I make
no money from this.

Archiving: Yes please, but let me know.  :)

Beta: Roadstergal, who does not read this forum, but who is awesome!

Notes: "Fellatio"-joke blatantly stolen and adapted from Ms Margareth
Cho. I hope she will forgive me.

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"It's old Bashir again," they whispered, covering their grins behind
newsprint sheets and PADDs, never staring directly at him. He tried
his best not to notice.

The android waiter took his order, and without comment, returned to
the kitchen. Presently, he returned with a Centurian martini, one
single slice of star-fruit adorning its elegant rim. The glass, as
always, was chilled to perfection, a small sprinkling of vanilla sugar
slowly settling on the bottom, near the elegant, long stem.

Bashir swirled the glass around a bit, allowing the white  powder to
mix with the drink, then took one long, drawn out sip. Exquisite. As
always. How tediously dull.

It was early afternoon still, and the streets were full of people.
Cars were banned on this part of New Paris. The old saying; if you
can't afford a transporter, you can't afford New Paris. Julian Bashir
could afford a transporter. He had several, one in his apartment just
off Santiago street, and another in his ship in orbit. Acquiring
latinum or any other local currency of preference was simple enough
for a man of his talents. Or rather, a man of the talents he used to
have.

Now, the bright summer sun shone down upon the streetwalk, and he
finished his martini. Several handsome young men in expensive designer
outfits walked by, a few of them making eye-contact, all of them
grinning. They all knew who he was, of course. Everyone did.

In his own good time he paid his bill, sticking an extra slip of
latinum into the tipping-slot in the pocket of the waiter's uniform
shirt. This pointless extravagance amused him, as it was meant to do.
He sometimes wondered who ended up with all the excess latinum, but
not for very long. Life, of late, had grown too short to consider such
trifles. The waiter thanked him politely, flashing him a brilliant,
flirtatious grin. Somehow that new-fangled detail, surely added since
he'd been here last, unnerved him somewhat, and he almost forgot his
hat as he left.

"La Casa" was conveniently located just a short walk from the main
promenade. The façade blended in perfectly with the surrounding
scenery; you didn't notice it unless you knew it was there. Somewhere
in the back of his analytical mind, Julian realized that this was done
with clever holographics and cloaking-devices, but the overall
impression was no less impressive. Locating the entrance with
customary ease, he tipped his hat to the doorman, who was new, and
brushed his fingertips along the DNA-triggered lock.

He'd started going here after he and... After their affair was over,
and somehow had never gotten out of the habit. He'd even taken Miles
once, during the short-lived disaster that could hardly be described
as a relationship. "But why here?" Miles had asked, whispered, even as
they'd entered the club. The man simply had no sense of discretion.
"Why not just go to Risa? Everyone else does, and it's not like
there's anything on offer here that can't be got over there..."

At this point Julian had been forced to hush him up, as people had
begun to look at them reproachfully. The fact that everyone DID go to
Risa was exactly why places like New Paris existed, Julian had
explained later, in the privacy of their room at The Savoy Ultra -
this was before the apartment. If you went to Risa, everyone would
know why - or think they know. You went to Risa for an orgy of the
pleasures of the flesh, which in most people's cases meant all-night
interspecies sex-marathons. But New Paris... You went to New Paris for
a luxurious vacation in an exotic part of newly colonized space. The
sex was like a surprise that just sort of happened. "Oh, fellatio! I
didn't know!"

People with latinum expect something a little extra, something
exclusive. Then Miles had asked, not for the first time, where the
latinum for their trip had come from, and Julian had been unable to
answer him. Three awkward days later, Miles was on his way back to
Keiko, the usual shame and confusion torturing his soul. Julian never
invited him back.

Now, as he stood once again in the lush, velvet-clad halls of the old
"Casa", he could scarcely believe he had ever been away. There were no
mirrors, he noted thankfully. This was a detail he'd never really
noticed when he was younger, and although he knew why this was, he
refused to go further down that line of thought. Instead, he settled
himself in one of the many comfortable pseudo-leather love-seats that
lined the walls, and waited. A drink appeared out of nowhere, handed
to him - presumably - by one of the human servants that La Casa
employed simply for the novelty. They were known for their uncanny
ability to never be seen. It was a local brandy, a particular favorite
of his. He no longer reflected on the fact that they seemed to know
better than him what he craved. As he sat contemplating this, an
immaculately dressed butler discreetly handed him a silver tray, on
which a small card rested, face down. He took the card, waiting to
read it until the butler had withdrawn, which he did quite swiftly.
The card, when turned over, read merely: "3."

Finishing his drink, Julian rose and pocketed the card. He knew
exactly where to go - it was not a large building, and he had spent
far too many hours here. The corridor in front of him gave way to a
long, winding stair-case. In all likelihood, teleporters had been
discretely placed at every mezzanine level, allowing those in ill
health or bad shape to reach the top floors without much effort.
Happily, this would not be an issue for Julian either way, as he was
just going one floor up. Even the oldest, fattest patrons he'd seen in
this place could manage that and still have enough energy for what
awaited them.

Arriving at the top, he scanned the corridor with curiosity. Numbers 1
and 2 were nowhere to be seen, meaning they were occupied, and thus
camouflaged into non-existence. Number 4 was visible towards the other
end from where he was standing, a small, pulsating light indicating
its designation. Number 3 was not blinking, but it was there, its
constant light signalling a "booked - as yet unoccupied"  status. He
adjusted his collar - a silly, sentimental thing - and entered.

Most patrons preferred their entertainers to be in the room as they
arrived, for whatever reason. Julian didn't know why, just that this
was what most preferred. He didn't. He didn't quite know why that was
either, but part of it could certainly be that he appreciated (if not
exactly enjoyed) the anticipation. You never booked ahead, or made any
kind of reservations at La Casa. Nor did you, at any point, indicate
what it was that you wanted during your stay. Just like the drinks,
everything was selected and arranged for you, and like the drinks,
everything was always perfect, and exactly what you needed. The rooms
were all high-quality holosuites, of much higher grade than even the
holo-decks of Federation star-ships. This had not surprised Julian
when he'd heard of it; it made sense if you thought about it. If
something went wrong with a holo-deck on a starship, the crew simply
diagnosed it, eliminated any problems resulting from it, and made
repairs. Whereas if something went wrong with the holo-suites in La
Casa, people got sued. This particular room was currently made up to
look like a luxurious, tastefully furnished hotel room from Earth,
sometime in the late 20th or early 21st century. The walls were white,
with a subdued golden pattern that hovered somewhere on the edge of
perception; the drapes were pale yellow and heavy, covering non-
existent windows. The bed was large and inviting, in the same soft,
creamy tones. Julian lay down, ready for whatever would come.

The boy could not have been older than 18 or 19, just a few years
above the age of consent for human beings in the Federation, and
certainly not old enough to be allowed to do this kind of work.  But
New Paris was not officially a part of the Federation yet, and their
large colony of lawyers kept busy finding various ways of
circumnavigating whatever laws did apply to them. He didn't look 18,
of course. He looked like a middle-aged Cardassian, but Julian was
used to holo-masking techniques, and could always tell.

"Why don't you come here and sit down," Julian offered, patting the
side of the bed. Trying to look confident, the entertainer came
closer. Not only was he young, but clearly new in the game. As he sat
down his hands didn't keep still in his lap, as though he was unsure
of what to do with them, which probably was the case. Julian waited
for him to say something.

"It is good to see you," he began, but Julian grabbed his hand, and
shook his head.

"Please. I enjoy the mask - I need the mask - but don't. You couldn't
pass for a Cardassian if I were blind drunk and you had a bag over
your head. So don't even try. In fact, don't even say anything."
Julian was a little drunk, he suddenly realized, and what he'd just
said wasn't entirely the truth. Memories are powerful things, and
this boy, even if he couldn't act the part, looked it to a tee.
Overcome suddenly, he grabbed the boy hard by the arms, pulled him
close, and kissed him hungrily. Then he got a hold on himself, and
pulled back.

The boy smiled, and the smile was eerily real. Maybe it was something
about the way those brow-ridges restricted the movement of facial
muscles, but the expression took Julian's breath away. "They told me
you'd want to talk first," the boy said.

Julian shook his head. "They also told you not to break the illusion
with a patron, but what did you just do?"

"But you told me to..."

"Yes, I did. But you're supposed to keep quiet, not argue with me. Or
make excuses."

"I wasn't trying to..." the boy began, but caught himself, and looked
embarrassed. Julian studied him quietly, amazed at the awkwardness the
boy was able to radiate just sitting still next to him.

"How old are you?" Julian blurted out.

"As old as you want me to be." The answer, well-rehearsed, came
automatically.

"At least you've got that part down," Julian mumbled. "I suppose it's
none of my business anyway." He suddenly felt older than ever.

The boy, perhaps sensing that something was the matter, reached out
towards him. His arm, casually outstretched, was dressed in Rigellian
silk, part of an elaborately embroidered blouse that seemed oddly
familiar. The room started to blur, and Julian grabbed hold of the
arm, as if to steady himself. The boy looked at him, patient, but
expectant.

He would hate himself in the morning, he really would. Then again,
when didn't he hate himself? He closed his eyes, and let it happen.

Masking holographics had become much more sophisticated since he'd
been there last, or maybe he just didn't remember. Even super-human
memories degrade with time, and Julian's was no exception. Still, how
could he have forgotten the way they could make a non-Cardassian body
seem so like the genuine article, even down to the pulsing, changing
colors of the scales of the lower body when aroused? The holographic
membrane even extended into the entertainer's own body, making Julian
marvel, even in the heat of passion, at the uniquely textured,
extending scale-skin around the genitals, which - incredibly - were
indeed nuzzled inside that protective cocoon he'd caressed into
opening like a flower-bud so many times. This one had not needed
prompting though, revealing the human nature of its wearer.
Cardassians were slow to warm up, like a salamander sunning itself in
the mid-day sun - but they were ferocious and unstoppable once
awakened.

The entertainer didn't speak again, and Julian almost wished he had.
He would... They would always talk when making love. It was like a
game, trying to see who could remain calm and coherent the longest.
Julian invariably lost, but that didn't matter. Of course, there was
no way this youngster could ever imitate that. He was skilled, though,
and perhaps not as inexperienced as Julian had initially thought. He
knew exactly what to touch, and how, and when, and for how long. Did
they teach them these things now? Almost before Julian had realized
what had happened, the youth had positioned himself below him, and was
guiding and pushing Julian towards him. This too was wrong, but Julian
was too far gone now to protest. His body didn't process alcohol as
well as it used to, and that Centaurian martini had not been his first
drink of the day. Desire mixed with drunkenness egged him on. It
didn't last very long.

---

He'd fallen asleep, he realized as he woke up in what was informally
known as the "recovery room". He'd taken patrons there himself, many
times. Some had been too drunk to do anything, some had taken ill,
some had merely fallen asleep from exhaustion. Julian had always felt
slightly sorry for those cases, who were usually old and frail, their
bodies no longer able to handle more than a few minutes of
"entertainment". And now here he was. A young man, probably a doctor
or nurse of some kind (they didn't used to have them, did they?) was
watching him with some concern. Julian gave him his most disarming,
reassuring smile, and sat up despite the myriad pains in every joint
in his body.

"It's alright," he said, still smiling, "I'm a doctor." For this he
was rewarded with polite laughter, and an offered hand to support him
as he staggered towards the door, which he waved away. No one was
waiting outside to escort him out. Looking thoughtfully at the
elaborate, tastefully decorated front door, he shrugged, feeling an
odd sense of relief, and slowly started walking in the opposite
direction.

The exit was still where he remembered it; nothing had changed but a
fresh coat of paint, and the unfamiliar scent of pine from an
air-freshener. Several of the off-duty entertainers were there, giving
him odd looks as he passed them by, his eyes trailing the floor. They
didn't want to see him; a reminder of what they could, probably would,
become if they stayed. If they didn't get away from what was both
officially and unofficially termed "the entertainment business," while
they still had somewhere else to go Wrapping his coat around him
tighter, he walked through the rickety door, into the waiting
sunshine.

He shouldn't have come here; he'd started thinking he was better than
them. He wasn't. No one on New Paris was. With a sigh, he turned down
the street towards his apartment. It was sunny now, but they'd
mentioned it was going to rain. It didn't look like it would, but on
New Paris, it never looked like it would rain. That was the trouble.

Favoring the foot that hadn't fallen asleep, Julian Bashir walked
home, to wait for the rain.

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The End