"KEIKO?Have you noticed anything strange around the station lately? I mean, things working differently?"
"Why, no. Everything seems to be just fine."
"But …" But that's just what I mean. O'Brien started to explain, then changed his mind. He kissed his wife and daughter good-bye.
"Oh, Miles, could you stop at Garak's and pick up Molly's new jumpsuit? He said he'd have it finished by today."
"Sure. But—"
"What? Is something wrong?"
"Uh, no. Never mind. It's no trouble."
O'Brien got off the lift tube at the Promenade. Most of the strangeness seemed to be turning up here, in the domain of private enterprise. Quark's casino was crowded, even at this early hour, and there was a line outside the Replimat, but the people seemed full of cheerful anticipation, not irritated at having to wait.
He went into Garak's shop. The Cardassian tailor's face still showed the healing scars. "Morning, Garak. I see your shop repairs are all finished. My wife said you have her order ready—a child's jumpsuit?"
Garak gave him that slightly too familiar smile. "Of course, Chief, it's all finished. I'll bring it out. Just wait right here."
In a moment he was back with the garment. "There it is. I think your little girl is going to just love it!"
"Mmm. Garak? I thought your patternfitter was broken in the explosion, isn't that right?"
"Oh, yes, it was. But I got it fixed."
"Fixed?"
"Well, I couldn't do any work without it. I am a clothier, you know, Chief."
"Right, of course." In point of fact, as O'Brien was well aware, Garak was perhaps rather more than just a clothier. He was generally believed to be in the business of receiving, or passing on, information—to the Cardassians, possibly to some other governments.
But none of that was quite relevant to O'Brien at the moment. "Um, could I see it? Just—you know—professional curiosity?"
"Why, do you know how to fix a patternfitter, Chief? If I'd known that …"
"Well," O'Brien laughed, slightly uncomfortable, "not that I've ever had a chance to work on one, you understand. But on a starship, if you can't fix it, it doesn't get fixed, you know. And how complicated can a patternfitter be, after all?"
Garak gave him a raised eyebrow, but led him to the piece of equipment, and O'Brien examined it, saw how it had been broken and reassembled, the painstaking welds—a careful, meticulous job. "It works just as well as it used to?"
"Better. The calibration is more even now. The cut is more precise. You should appreciate the difference on your daughter's jumpsuit."
"Ah, right. Well, that's good to hear." O'Brien left the shop, scratching his head. No doubt about it. There was something peculiar about this situation. Damned peculiar.
But he didn't have time to think about it right now. Too much work to do.
"O'Brien to Odo. How's your picture now?"
"Coming in clear."
"That's as well as we can fix it now, with the parts we've got here."
"I appreciate it, Chief."
Miles O'Brien gave his Bajoran technician a friendly thump on the shoulder. "Good work, Jattera. That's the last of them."
At Odo's insistence, seconded by Commander Sisko, the job of restoring DS-Nine's security sensor grid to full operational status had been given top priority. O'Brien had done his best, despite the pilferage that was one of his biggest problems on the station—people lifting usable components from one unit to repair another. He'd done enough of this himself to understand the temptation.
But there were a few cases, obvious to his trained engineer's eye, in which the security system had been deliberately, skillfully sabotaged. This was an unsettling thing to see on a station where a terrorist bomber was on the loose. Especially unsettling to a man with his wife and daughter living here.
"Do you think this 'deserter' might have something to do with the bombings?" he'd asked Odo. "Could it be the Cardies trying to sabotage the station?"
"So you think so, too?" the security chief said testily. "I don't know if there really is a deserter or not. Major Kira was asking that same question, but remember, the first bombing took place before the Cardassian ship even arrived in the system. The only thing I'm sure of is that someone's been tampering with my security system!"
"I'm afraid that's true," O'Brien said. "Um, you know, Odo, about those 'anomaly' things you were talking about?"
"What anomalies?"
"Um, never mind. It was just a random thought." O'Brien supposed that maybe he ought to leave actual security matters to the security people and just concentrate on repairing their sensor array. But there was something unusual going on around the station.
The technician Jattera had packed up his tools. "Care to get something to eat up in the Promenade?" O'Brien suggested.
The Bajoran paused. "All right."
Seated in the Replimat, Jattera chose the first thing on the menu, a fish-and-dumpling stew, while O'Brien ordered grilled mutton chops and fried potatoes. "And two tall, cold synthales," he added with a sense of cheerful anticipation. Miles O'Brien loved his wife, he really did, but sometimes the things that Keiko could put on the table—kelp and plankton and …
Well, sometimes a man just needed to tuck into a good, hearty meal. "What I wouldn't give," he sighed wistfully, "for a good Irish ale right about now."
"Irish?" Jattera asked in pardonable confusion.
"A nation on Earth. My homeworld. My ancestors were Irish. Ah, I can almost taste it, that ale, washing down those mutton chops."
The waiter had been in earshot. "You'd like an Irish ale, sir?"
"What? You're serious? The real stuff? Imported from Ireland? From Earth?"
"Well, no, not imported. But our synthesizer can provide whatever type of beer or ale you can name," the waiter said proudly.
"We'll see about that," O'Brien declared. But when the glass was brought to the table, he took a hard look at the color, the creamy texture of the head, the size of the bubbles streaming up the side of the glass. He frowned. He took a sip, and his eyes went suddenly closed, while a blissful expression played across his face. "Faith! It's the real thing! I'd swear it!" he exclaimed, opening his eyes.
The waiter looked smug.
"What about kanar?" Jattera asked tentatively. "Do you have that?"
"Coming right up!"
"Kanar?" O'Brien asked. "You drink that stuff?" It was a favorite drink of Cardassians, and he was surprised to find a Bajoran ordering it.
Jattera shrugged apologetically. "I guess I got used to the taste. During … you know. It's been hard to find around here, these days."
A few moments later, the waiter brought their orders, with Jattera's kanar and another Irish ale for O'Brien. The mutton chops were thick, browned, savory, and edged with a crisp border of fat. Juices flowed as O'Brien cut into the meat. "Oh," he moaned in pleasure, chewing. "Oh, my sainted mother, this could have come right off the top of her stove!"
The waiter hurried off in satisfaction to take another table's order. "How's yours?" O'Brien asked Jattera after a few more blissful bites.
"Good. Um, surprisingly good, in fact."
O'Brien nodded agreement, his mouth full. But about the time he was soaking up the last mutton juices with a slice of potato, he was starting to wonder: Was he really in the Replimat on DS-Nine? It hardly seemed possible. Since when did things work so well around here?
"Back again, Chief? Was there something wrong with the jumpsuit? Didn't it fit?"
"Ah, no. I mean, I haven't had time to take it home yet. You know, Garak, I'd like to know just who fixed that patternfitter of yours. They did a good job." He laughed. "If they're not already working for Operations, I'd like to recruit them!"
Garak's expression blanked slightly. He looked down to adjust a display of tunics, evading O'Brien's eyes. "Well … I'm not sure who did the work, exactly. It was picked up and delivered back here when it was fixed."
"Oh? And who picked it up?"
"The Ferengi boy."
"Nog?" This was crazier and crazier! O'Brien supposed there must be some capable engineers and technicians among that race, but the only Ferengi he knew of on DS-Nine were Quark and his crew of quick-change artists. And he'd have bet against any odds that the Ferengi boy, Nog, was no technician. A pickpocket, maybe, but that was about the extent of his visible skills. O'Brien had heard more than enough about Nog from his Keiko, who kept trying to interest the boy and his father in the value of an education.
But Garak said uneasily, "I understand he's working for someone who's just starting up a business in repairing equipment. About time, too," he added, "the way so many things have been allowed to deteriorate around here."
O'Brien ignored the slighting reference to his department's efficiency. "Someone?"
"That's right," Garak answered evasively.
"About when did they start this sideline? Whoever they are."
"Mmm, well, I guess I heard about it three days ago. I couldn't do any work without that patternfitter, you know. He said they'd give it priority attention."
"For an extra fee, I suppose."
"Well, yes. But I needed it fixed. Is that a problem, Chief?" He leaned slightly closer across the counter.
"No!" O'Brien assured him quickly, backing away. "Not at all."
It was just bloody strange, that's all.