Title: Render to Caesar
Author: Paula Stiles (thesnowleopard@earthlink.net)
Series:DS9
Part: NEW 1/1
Rating [PG]
Codes: [B, SEC 31]


Summary: In this future (alternate?) ending to 'Inter Arma Enim Silent Leges,' Bashir
finally takes a stand regarding Sloan and Section 31 (some spoilers for the end of the
episode). This one is short, the way all kiss-offs should be.

Disclaimer: Paramount owns all of the Star Trek characters. It's not my fault they don't
ever do anything fun with them.

Archive: Sure--if you ask first.

Warning: Some bad language. Bashir finally gets rude. Can you blame him?

Originally posted on  alt.startrek.creative on March 7, 1999.




				RENDER TO CAESAR


     Bashir woke in the middle of the night. At first, he thought he'd had a bad dream.
Then, he sensed a familiar presence in the chair at the foot of his bed. 

     *So,* he thought. *Here we are.*

     "Lights," he called out, and sat up. "Hello, Sloan," he said.

     Sloan looked as if he had not moved from Bashir's chair since the last time he had
come. He had his hands clasped in his lap, and one leg crossed over the other. He
had the same black suit, the same smug smile, the same dead eyes. Bashir sincerely
hoped that he, himself, would never have such eyes. Perhaps, after tonight, he could
fear that a little less.

     "I'm terribly sorry if I've disturbed your sleep, Doctor--" Sloan began.

     Bashir cut him off. "No, you're not, so spare me the hypocrisy."

     Sloan blinked, then forged blithely on. "--but I have a mission for you."

     *That's what you think.* "Yes, I suppose you think you do. I don't suppose it has
anything to do with the conference that I'm to attend on Klaestron IV next week."

     Sloan smiled, as if Bashir were an especially bright pupil. "Why, how perceptive of
you, Doctor. As a matter of fact, it does."

     "That's a pity," Bashir said. "Because I'll be too sick to go." He reached into his
dresser drawer, pulled out a hypo and a phaser, and placed them both on the dresser.

     Sloan didn't move. He undoubtedly had some trick up his sleeve to deal with the
situation of an armed Bashir. Either that, or he was convinced that Bashir would never
shoot him. Probably both. He looked pleased, as if Bashir had just done something
utterly predictable. "Now, Doctor. Put that phaser down. There's no need for dramatics.
Of course you'll be going. You might as well reconcile yourself to it."

     Bashir picked up the hypo and pressed it to his neck. "No...I'm afraid not, since I'll
have a full blown case of Cartellian Fever about 16 hours from now. You see, I just
injected myself with the serum."

     Sloan's mouth dropped open. Bashir decided right then that the Section 31 chief's
expression was indeed worth spending the next two weeks breathing through one's
mouth and hallucinating in pink. 

     Then, Sloan laughed. He didn't believe Bashir, of course. Bashir hadn't expected
him to--not right away. "Now, Doctor, that's overdramatic, even for you."

     Bashir shrugged. "Maybe so, but you should still leave if you don"t want to catch it.
I'll become contagious some time in the next 2 hours. Cartellian Fever is incurable,
you know. It won't kill me, but there's no way to avoid being sick as a dog for the next
few weeks. So, I guess I won't be attending that conference, after all. 

     "I might add that I will be sick the next time you show up with a mission, as well. I'm
thinking Mylorian boils. If I have to infect myself with a disease every time you drop by,
just to get you off my back, I may as well try something interesting. Bubonic Plague,
perhaps. I've always wondered what that's like.

     "By the way," he added. "This is for you, not me." He picked up the phaser (which
still had the safety on), muzzle end first, and tossed it at Sloan. Sloan caught it. The
Section 31 chief was beginning to look just a little bit rattled. *Good,* thought Bashir.
*Now you know how it feels.*

     "What's this for?" Sloan demanded, handling the phaser as if it were a snake.

     "To shoot me with," Bashir said. "I thought I'd save you the trouble of bringing your
own weapon."

     Sloan stared at Bashir for at least a minute. "Why would I want to shoot you?"

     Bashir regarded him blandly. "Why, because I'm telling you to take your mission
and go fuck yourself with it, that's why. How am I doing, so far?"

     Sloan gaped. Now, he really was rattled. "Doctor, *what* has gotten into you?"

     Bashir crossed his legs, and sat, Buddha-like, on the bed. "You mean, besides
Cartellian Fever? Well then, let me explain: 'Render to Caesar the things that are
Caesar's, and to God the things that are God's.' That's from the Christian Bible, you
know. The Gospel of Saint Mark, chapter 12, verse 17."

     "Why Doctor," Sloan said, his smile, mocking now, returning. "I didn't know you
were a Christian. Christ was talking about paying taxes to Rome in that passage, you
know."

     "I'm not." Bashir replied. "And Jesus wasn't just talking about Roman coinage. You
know, Sloan, since your last visit, I've done some thinking. You told me that good,
decent people like me couldn't survive without people like you. You implied that it was
my decency, my goodness, that made me so vulnerable to your manipulative little
tricks. 

     "You know what? I don't think that's true at all. Just the opposite. I think that you get
to me because I'm not decent *enough* to stop you. After all, the first time we met you
twisted me around with accusations about my genetic status. You knew that I felt guilty
about deceiving Starfleet, even though it wasn't my fault that I was enhanced. You
knew that I was afraid the Dominion had done something to me when I was their
prisoner, and you used that against me. If I were truly decent, you couldn't have done
that."

     Sloan yawned. "Get to the point, Doctor."

     "The point is," Bashir continued, very slowly, as if speaking to a stupid child. "That in
order to get you to leave me alone, I don't need to become *more* like you, but less.
Look at saints--Muslim, Christian, Buddhist, whatever; take your pick. Saints
throughout history have faced down people *much* more frightening than you, or the
Cardassians, or the Dominion. And all they had was their decency. That's all they
needed, really."

     "Well, of course," Sloan said. "They were religious fanatics."

     "Some of them were," Bashir admitted. "Some of them were frauds. Not all of them.
Some of them were the real thing. And I do believe that I would rather 'walk with the
angels' than crawl with you. So, go ahead. Prove me right. Shoot me."

     Sloan laughed. "And how does shooting you prove you right, Doctor. You'll be
dead."

     "Yes," Bashir replied calmly. "And you'll have killed one of the people that you're
supposedly protecting. How do you justify yourself, then? How am I threatening the
Federation, Sloan?

     "'Render to Caesar...' Well, my soul doesn't belong to Caesar, and I believe I've
paid enough coin already. So, shoot me or don't. Either way, I win." 

     Sloan looked thoughtful. He toyed with the phaser for a moment, then raised it,
flicked off the safety button, and sighted down the barrel at Bashir. *I will not scream. I
will not faint. I will not jump off the bed,* Bashir told himself. * I did this. This is my
decision, not his.*

     Sloan held his aim for a long time. He looked more smug than ever. Bashir waited.
He made himself breathe normally. He didn't flinch. Then, a shadow of disappointment
slid over Sloan's face. The crisis passed. He lowered the phaser.

     "Decided not to do it after all, eh?" Bashir said. He was careful not to tremble, or let
his triumph show.

     "I'm feeling charitable, today, Doctor," Sloan sighed. He put the phaser back on
safety and tossed it back to Bashir. Bashir opened his dresser drawer and dropped the
phaser back in. "But don't think this is my last word on the subject."

     "I don't," Bashir replied. "In fact, I'm quite certain that you will require this lesson
repeatedly. I've already resigned myself to catching most of the known non-lethal
viruses in this quadrant. I hope, when you do finally get the point, that you'll be kind
enough to let me know. Still, I don't suppose it will matter, one way or the other, if you
don't.

         "Now," he said, lying back down and pulling up the covers. "I'm beginning to feel
quite ill. Unless you want to get Cartellian Fever as well, and miss that conference on
Klaestron IV, I suggest that you leave. Computer. Lights off." The room went dark,
which was good, because Bashir could already feel the start of a raging headache.

     Sloan knew when to make a strategic retreat. "Very well, Doctor," he said. "I'll come
back when you are, ah, in better health. Good night, Doctor...I *will* be back."

     *Yes, God help me, I'm sure you will,* Bashir thought. *And the answer will still be
'no.'*

     He didn't hear Sloan leave.

END