CHAPTER
        1

THE UNIVERSE was about to make sense.
    Quark stood behind the bar and anxiously studied the
display screen above the replicator. His body was rigid with
tension, motionless but for his eyes as he scrutinized the
data before him. He held his arms folded tightly across his
chest, as though trying to insulate himself against a cold
wind.
    Gripped by both expectation and apprehension, Quark
felt isolated, although all about him, his establishment was
awash in the sounds and sights and scents characteristic of a
busy night. Conversations overlapped everywhere, glass-
ware rang as customers were served, footsteps fell noisily on
the deck plating and up and down the winding metal
staircases that rose to the second level. Reds and greens and
indigos gyred around the walls as the spinning dabo wheel
reflected the ambient artificial lighting. And the odors of the
occasional exotic drink floated through the air--as did the
odors of the occasional exotic alien.
    But Quark was aware of all this only in a peripheral way,
his focus was the display. He examined the various readouts
as tiers of white digits adjusted themselves on the dark
screen, as costs and prices fluctuated according to innu-
merous and often unpredictable economic factors, as
months of his intricate planning and manipulation ad-
vanced toward a conclusion. Every few seconds, one
complicated set of matrices replaced another, causing the
display to emit a soft electronic hum, and Quark's mind
hummed along with it.
    It~ going to happen, he thought: monetary values would
slide the way he had foreseen, he would arrange the final
transactions in this elaborate financial dance, and it would
be done. Soon, he would be one step closer--one significant
step closer--to being able to purchase the moon he had
long dreamed of owning.
    On the display, one of the numbers brightened, its hue
shifting from white to a vibrant orange as it jumped past a
threshold Quark had earlier defined. The value decreased
for an instant, but then climbed once more, causing a
staccato color change: orange, white, orange again.
    If it did come, Quark knew, this would be one of those
moments that rarely happened by chance. In truth, at least
in his own experience, it would be the type of moment that
seldom occurred even when painstakingly planned. How
many times had he attempted a gambit such as this? How
often had he scoured the business world for just the right
set of circumstances upon which to found his financial
future? Uncounted times, too many times, to be sure. True,
there had periodically been a measure of accomplish-
ment--Quark certainly felt justified in considering him-
self a successful businessman--and yet the level of his
achievement had never attained the scope of his ambition.
By Ferengi standards--and by his own as well--Quark
knew that he so far had been only a marginal player in the
thoroughly capitalistic system in which he had been raised.
But now, at last, after months of labored and complex
machinations, and after a lifetime of effort, lines of com-
munication and intention--his intention--threatened to
converge.
    Quark's mind devoured the ever-changing numbers on
the screen in front of him, willing them to achieve the
values necessary for the fulfillment of his plans. He re-
mained fixed in place, waiting nervously, until the heavy
shuffling of feet directly behind him prompted him to move.
In a single swift motion, his hand darted up to touch a
control on the smooth surface of the display, blanking the
data, and he turned to find out who had come within
eyeshot of his work.
    It was only Morn, Quark was relieved to see. He watched
as the lumbering figure dropped onto a seat on the other
side of the bar and set down a tall, cobalt-blue glass. The
sole menace Morn posed, Quark mused, would be if he were
to end his patronage here; because Morn had been a regular
in the bar for almost as long as the place had been open,
Quark had come to regard the monthly payment of his tab
as a long-term business asset.
    "You need a refill," Quark said, nodding toward the glass,
and he was surprised to find that he felt momentarily
Unburdened as the simplicity of bartending replaced the
relentlesshess of his high-risk dealmaking. He reached for
the glass, but Morn pulled it away and pointed a finger
inside. Quark peered over the rim and saw a small amount
of a bright-yellow liquid. "Oh, you don't want that," Quark
said in a tone he had cultivated over the years to imply
sincerity. "There's no flavor left in it." He reached forward
again, more quickly this time, and took hold of the glass just
above Mona's gloved hand. Quark tugged, and after a
moment, Morn relented.
    "You're really going through this stuff," Quark com-
mented. He bent down behind the bar and quickly found
the right bottle: short and bulbous, transparent, not even a
quarter filled with what Morn had been drinking. An
import hologram decorated with the circular ensign of the
First Federation was wrapped about its squat neck. "I'm
going to have to order another case of tranya from my
supplier," Quark added as he stood and emptied the bottle
into Morn's glass. He placed the exhausted container on a
shelf, adding it to a motley collection of other discards.
Later, he or one of his employees would dispose of these
using the replicatot, recycling their matter into stored
energy.
    While Morn picked up his glass and sampled his replen-
ished drink, Quark took the time to scan the rest of the bar',
after all, his vigilance at the display had left him standing in
a manner he ordinarily avoided--with his back to the rest
of his establishment. When filled with people, Quark's
demanded attention. Ears open, eyes wide, went an old
Ferengi saying, reflective of the wisdom that taught that
customers should be trusted precisely as much as employees
should be--which is to say, not at all.
    Quark gazed about, concentrating on picking out indi-
vidual sounds amid the clamor of the bar. He heard the
odd admixture of sibilant and rasping speech of a pair of
Gorn huddled somewhere on the upper level; the voices
sounded to him like air escaping the station into space
while somebody complained angrily about it. A lone
Otevrel--evidently an outcast to be this far from home
and in no apparent hurry to return--sat quietly in a far
corner, one slim tendril tracing the lip of his glass with a
slight, silky tone. Closer to the bar, Lieutenant Command-
er Dax was down from Ops to provide her amusing,
sometimes biting commentary of the weekly dart match
between Chief O'Brien and Dr. Bashir. Intermittent
flashes of light and bursts of high-pitched peals also
emanated from that direction, produced by the board as
darts struck it and points were scored.
And somewhere, Quark was fairly sure, Odo lurked.
Upstairs, he thought. Perhaps near the entrance to Holo-
suite Three. If the station's constable was still in the bar, he
was stationary at present, but earlier, Quark had heard the
shapeshifter come in, had heard the strange liquid rushing
sound Odo made whenever he moved quickly, no matter his
form. The sound, though nearly subaudible, was unmistak-
able to Ferengi ears. Quark had never let on to Odo that he
could sometimes hear the internal flow of the changeling's
fluidal anatomy. Having taken advantage of the ability on a
couple of occasions, though, he thought it likely that the
constable suspected the truth; of late, it appeared to him
that Odo was careful to move more slowly whenever he
wished to go undetected.
    Quark strained for a moment to listen specifically for
Odo, without result. He was about to return to monitoring
the status of his deal, but the sudden cry of"dabo" stopped
him. He looked past Morn and over at the gaming table; it
was ringed with people, many of them smiling and laughing.

Quark glanced up at a pair of inconspicuous convex mirrors
strategically positioned to allow him to observe the entire
surface of the dabo table. The ample quantities of gold-
pressed latinum in the house's coffers were evidence that
the house had been winning tonight, but the dabo girlma
lithe Bajoran named M'Pellamwas now disbursing some of
those funds to one of the players. The victor was a young
Starfleet officer, Quark saw, one of those on leave from the
U.S.S, Ad Astra, which was presently docked here at Deep
Space Nine.
    "Starfleet," Quark grumbled to himself. "Worthless. Value-
less." He looked at Morn. "They're always more than willing
to take my money at the dabo table," Quark said, as though
the two had been in midconversation, "but they never want
to drink anything." Quark briefly considered this, then
added, "And when they do drink, it's usually only synth-
ehol."
    Beside M'Pella, the young officer took two handfuls of
latinum and held them up as though they were trophies. The
lustrous ingots caught the light and scattered golden reflec-
tions throughout the room.
    "Of course, what should I expect from customers?" Quark
complained. There were fifty-seven separate words for cus-
tomer in the Ferengi language; the one playing through his
mind right now had the secondary definition "river sludge."
    "I'll tell you what I should do," Quark said. "I should
close this place to Starfleet officers." Even though he was
looking directly at Morn, Quark was really talking to
himself. He did this out of habit, knowing that Morn was a
talker, not a listener.
    As if to confirm this, Morn shrugged--as best Quark
could tell, his answer for everything that did not directly
involve him--and went back to his drink. Absently, Quark
began to clear the empty bottles from the shelf and place
them in the replicator. He had grabbed the tranya bottle in
one hand, and the curving, tapered neck of an amber
Saurian brandy bottle in the other, when another thought
occurred to him. He looked back over at Morn.
    "You know, what I should do is just close the entire
place down." The idea probably did not sound like a
genuine suggestion, Quark suspected, certainly no more
than it had any of the times in his beleaguered past when
he had voiced similar notions. On those other occasions,
though, the words had merely been a means of venting his
frustrations about some unsatisfactory aspect of his life.
But now... now he found that the idea suddenly held real
appeal.
    "I could do it," Quark told Morn earnest13,, talking to
him now, his hands waving the empty bottles about as he
spoke. "If the deal I'm working on right now proceeds the
way I designed it to, I should have enough assets to make a
successful transition to a new business." Quark felt a flash
of heat reach up his neck and across the back of his bare
head at his own mere mention of the deal. Disquiet and
fear mixed together in the four lobes of his brain. Before
now, Quark had not told anyone anything about the deal
he had been trying to engineer, not even of its existence.
He had spoken of it only to the principals involved--
discretion had been required from the outset--and even
they were only aware of their isolated roles. Quark had
diligently avoided doing anything that might even re-
motely jeopardize this potential masterpiece of his finan-
cial acumen.
    "I could do it," Quark said. He put the bottles down in
the replicator and pressed a control; they dematerialized in
a cornscation of red light. "I could start a new business,"
Quark continued telling Morn. "It would take some time
to prepare, and I'd have to find the right situation, but I
could do it." It was a revelation: the profits he hoped to
earn today would create not just a single opportunity for
him, but many. For the first time in a long time, abandon-
ing the bar for another, better venture would be an actual
option. He would no longer be trapped by circumstance in
this often troublesome corner of the universe.
    Morn raised his glass, threw his head back, and downed
his drink in one massive gulp. The movement seemed
unrelated to anything Quark had been saying. It was diffi-
cult to know if Morn had even been listening; he had such
small ears.
    Morn brought his empty glass down and pushed it
forward; it left two thin trails of liquid behind as it moved
through a tiny puddle on the bar. Quark automatically took
the glass, grabbed a rag, and wiped down the wet surface.
Then he bent beneath the bar and exchanged the rag for
another bottle of tranya. He broke the seal with the edge of
one blue fingernail and removed the stopper.
    "Why don't I just leave this here," Quark suggested as he
poured another drink. He corked the bottle and placed it on
the bar. Morn smiled and nodded his agreement, then lifted
his glass in a mock toast.
    "As I was saying," Quark went on, undeterred, "what do
I need this place for anymore? It's always been more
trouble than profit." Morn gazed askance over the rim of
his glass.
    "What?" Quark asked, reading the doubt in Morn's
expression. "You don't think I would do it? You think I
need this place?" Quark swept his arm out in an arc to take
in his entire establishment. "I don't need this. Not for much
longer, anyway."
    Quark's voice was beginning to rise in volume, his words
beginning to come faster. It was not what he was saying, he
realized, but the anxiety and concern he felt about his deal
that were surfacing. He was very worried that this business
would not take place, even after all of his effortsmor
worse, that the deal would transpire, but not in the way he
had planned. Still, apart from all that, who was Morn to
tell him that he couldn't move on from here to a better
livelihood?
    "I'm not just a bartender, you know. I'm not even just a
bar owner." Quark leaned forward over the barmpalms flat
on its surface, his elbows akimbo~to emphasize his point.
"I'm a businessman. There is a difference."
Morn continued to regard him without saying anything.
"Fine," Quark told him. "Keep staring at me like that. It
won't change things, won't--" Quark gestured broadly
again with his arm. This time, his hand struck the bottle of
tranya, sending it skidding toward the edge of the bar.
    Quark lunged. So did the usually sluggish Morn, who
somehow managed to get there first; Quark's hands landed
atop his, which in turn had wrapped around the bottle and
prevented it from crashing to the floor. The gloves Morn
wore on his hands felt papery and rough.
 "You must really love this stuff," Quark said, looking up
from where his upper body was stretched across the width
of the bar. "I don't think I've ever seen you move that fast."
Morn opened his mouth to reply, but before he could, a
sound drew Quark's attention. Quark straightened quickly
and spun toward the display screen.
    The sound was a repeating pattern of tones, pitched so
low that it was beyond the abilities of most humanoid races
to hear. Quark stepped over to the screen and touched a
finger to the control section. The alarm ceased.
    Quark glanced around and saw Morn still holding the
bottle of tranya. Out on the floor, several of Quark's
employees were looking in the direction of the bar, evi-
dently curious about what they had heard. Quark gestured
to them with both hands, his fingers moving in an outward
sweeping motion, an obvious signal that they should get
back to work.
    "Morn," Quark said, "why don't you sit back down and
enjoy your tranya. I've got work to do."
    As Morn eased onto his chair, Quark returned to the
display and brought the arrays of data back up on the
screen. In the background, he heard a dart thump into
the board, causing a raucous electronic siren to play. From
the disappointed words of Chief O'Brien, the winning dart
must have been thrown by Dr. Bashir. Quark pushed those
and all the other sounds around him away, once again
immersing himself in the business at hand.
    He scanned the readouts. Symbols representing dozens of
different currencies--Ferengi, Bajoran, Bolian, Yridian,
and others--decorated the screen. Latinum conversion
factors competed with production assessments for impor-
tance. Treasury inventory quantities, pecuniary exchange
rates, and tallies of monies in circulation aligned them-
selves in rows and columns. As before, numbers were
spelled out in white digits and changed values several times
a minute, some with even greater frequency. But now, five
numbers were displayed in bright orange instead of just one;
having attained specific values, it had been these which had
prompted the alarm to sound. Quark had instructed the
computer to emit the tones should all of the financial
conditions he required finally develop.
 For a short time, the reality of the situation failed to
impress itself upon Quark's awareness, even though he only
moments before had been anticipating this very event.
Initially, there was no joy as he surveyed the numbers and
applied to them only the general fiscal meaning he normally
would. But by degrees, the significance of what he was
reading crept into his mind. His mouth opened in prelude
to a smile, revealing his sharp and irregular teeth, but a
cynical disbelief born of experience prevented it from fully
materializing. Cautiously, he allowed himself to recognize
that the successful culmination of his labyrinthine scheme
might possibly be at hand. A slight tingling began in his
earlobes.
    Quark glanced furtively around to assure himself that
he was not being watched. Even though the bar was filled
with people, nobody seemed to be paying him any atten-
tion. He listened for any movement by Odo, but he heard
nothing.
    Quark's fingers skittered across the controls. He entered a
command protocol and one of the readouts changed to
produce a directory of his personal files. He keyed in an
access code and retrieved a file he had set up previously; it
was his confirmation of the individual transactions compos-
ing the overall deal. He reread the file while his hand
hovered above the TV, ANSMrr button.
    Quark hesitated. Once he approved the transactions,
there would be no turning back. Everything would have to
proceed, and if he had failed to consider some hidden
aspect of the deal, or if he had erred in any of his
assumptions or mistimed any one of the many actions he
had initiated, he would wind up insolvent. That thought
alone made him draw back his hand.
    No, Quark insisted to himselfi This is your best chance,
the best deal you've ever put together. It will work. He
repeated the 62rid Rule of Acquisition in his head: The
riskier the road, the greater the profit. He jabbed the button,
transmitting the file to a financial institution located on
Bajor through which he had filtered all of the arrangements
in this enterprise.
    He waited. He felt incapable of moving his body. His eyes
locked on the display. He was so intent on his own actions
that he felt physically segregated from everybody and
 everything that formed his surroundings. The many voices
 and sounds of the bar did not remain distinct as they
 reached his ears, but blended together in an incomprehensi-
 ble cacophony.
    Failure now would destroy him, Quark knew that, and
not just financially. When he had first conceived this plan
and then devised its blueprint, he had told himself that
victory was not only possible, but inevitable. He discerned
now, though, that he had never truly believed his grand
design would climax as it now appeared it might, in what
was nearly the deal of a lifetime for him. Nearly, because
the ultimate deal would be the one that provided him the
ability to acquire the moon for which he had so long
yearned.
    The moon, Quark thought, and very specific images were
conjured in his mind. His cousin Gaila owned his own
moon, and Quark's memories of visits there provided a
basis for his fantasizing. He recalled the luxurious estate
from which Craila ruled his natural satellite, the ultramod-
em facade of the structure contrasting both with the lush
countryside in which it was set and with its more traditional
Ferengi furnishings. The only contemporary section of the
interior was the office, where sophisticated equipment
allowed inspection and control of the mining operations on
the moon; a communications console also permiRed moni-
toring of three different financial exchanges. Standing in
that office, Quark recalled, had felt like being at the hub of a
personal commercial empire.
    For years, Quark had privately aspired to Gaila's stan-
dard of achievement. Even in public, he had revealed
the purchase of his own moon to be a long-term goal of
great moment to him. But his inner voice, speaking to
nobody but himself, identified ambitions surpassing more
than just the possession of some inconsequential rock in
space.
    Over time, Quark's brother had come to share in his
vision, or in what he must have believed that vision to be,
anyway. Whenever the subject arose, Rom would visibly
take delight in discussing it, frequently entreating Quark to
describe the moon and the home he intended to have
constructed on its surface~ Ram would even offer his own
 details of life there, talking about "his room" and about
 what he would do there, mentioning such activities as
 raising small animals--cotton-tailed jebrets and treni cats
 and the like--and planting a garden. It was never clear to
 Quark whether his brother proposed to take up permanent
 residence on the moon, but he assumed that would be the
 case; after all, Quark knew that Rom was not fully capable
 of taking care of himself without his help.
    But the tranquil picture Rom painted of life on the moon
bespoke his view that Quark would retire there. And
whenever Quark verbalized his desire for his own moon to
anybody else, they always appeared to infer that he wanted
to settle there in order to live in leisure. But Quark had no
intention of dwelling in retirement. The moon was an
objective, but it was not an end in itself. Quark was, at this
point in his life, to one extent or another, what he had
always wanted to be: a businessman. Business was not only
his livelihood, it was his recreation as well. Success in the
world of commerce would not motivate him to leave that
world, but to climb to another stratum within it. What
reason would there be to excel in a way of life you enjoyed
if, in doing so, you were forced to abandon that way of life?
Had Zek attained the office of grand nagus for the sake of
the office itself?. No, of course not: money begets money,
and power begets money, and the nagus, while serving in
his official role, also used the influence and resources of his
position to continue engaging, with great success, in his
own business ventures. On his moon, Quark would do the
same.
    Gaila's survey of the financial exchanges and his mining
operation merely hinted at what Quark planned for himself.
Quark's communications center would not simply track the
three most important indexes, but all the interstellar finan-
cial data available in the Alpha Quadrant. Utilizing his
connections on Deep Space Nine, on Bajor, and on the other
side of the wormhole, he would also keep abreast of
business opportunities in the Gamma Quadrant. He would
not build and manage mining facilities, which would neces-
sarily incur high overhead, but would instead peddle the
rights to mine his moon to the highest bidders. He also
envisioned endless rows of cheaply constructed warehouses
sitting on the horizon of his little world, storage installa-
tions for rent to the traders near whose routes he would
settle. He would also provide landing rights for the many
ships that would use Quark's as a way station. Maybe he
would even open up a bar.
    Quark could not refrain from smiling at the irony of that
last thought. As he did so, two words began to flash on the
display: ISCOMINO V~a~SMlSSION. The thoughts of the moon
in his future were eclipsed by the business in his present. He
thumbed a control and the brief contents of the incoming
message spread across the readout. There were acknowledg-
ments of all but one of the separate pieces of his confirma-
tion file, which meant that only a single transaction
remained to complete the deal.
    Quark felt exhilarated and terrified at the same time. His
lobes buzzed now as though with an electric charge. Con-
tracts had been written and agreed to, monies had been
spent and received, inventories had been purchased and
sold, all as a result of his foresight and maneuvering. Like
the proverbial wise man, Quark could hear profit in the
wind; it sounded sweet.
    Barely able to curb his excitement, he manipulated the
display controls to gain access to his primary account on
Bajor. Numbers danced across the screen. His gaze traveled
to the bottom line of the report. A long string of digits,
representing his net worth, was displayed there in red.
    Right now, Quark was deeper in debt than any individual
in the quadrant.

    The ninety-seven minutes following Quark's financial
ruin were among the most difficult to live through in his life.
He struggled to act normally, struggled not to entertain
thoughts of bankruptcy, of the forfeiture of all his property,
of a future plagued by litigation and garnishment. But
walking through the bar, taking orders and serving drinks,
he remained distracted by all of these fears, so much so that
he found himself deaf to many of the conversations taking
place around him. He interacted with customers, entered
their orders and accepted their payments on the personal-
access display device he carried with him, but it was as
though he were watching and listening to somebody else
 performing these tasks. In his mind, there were great
 patches of silence that simply overwhelmed his abilities to
 process the input of his senses on anything more than a
 superficial level.
    It will work out, Quark tried to convince himself. Every-
thing is happening just the way you planned it. Except he did
not really know whether that was true. Apart from the final
transaction, yes, everything Quark had done had concluded
successfully, producing exactly the results he had expected.
But without the successful completion of that final transac-
tion, he would gain nothing. More than that, he would lose
everything.
    The image of the red number denoting Quark's net worth
haunted him. His debts not only surpassed his assets, they
dwarfed them. He had known this would happen, had
prepared for it, but still, it was painful to actually experi-
ence it. He had to continue to remind himself that this was
really the foundation upon which his entire plot had been
built.
    The great sums Quark owedinto financial institutions, to
governments, as recompense for monetary maneuvers he
had orchestrated in the exchangesmall of that had gone to
fund a single purchase. The commodity was one not typb
cally available to individuals, both because of the nature of
the merchandise and because of its immense price. But
Quark had been in the right place at the right time, hearing
early rumors of the impending sale. He had immediately
understood the potential to reap substantial profits by
setting himself up as a middleman, by buying and reselling
the merchandise himself. But the amount of cash necessary
as earnest money, let alone for the full purchase, had far
exceeded Quark's resources.
    That was when Grand Nagus Zek had docked his new
vessel, Wealth, at Deep Space Nine.
    The nagus spent three days on the station preparing for a
trade expedition to the Gamma Quadrant, and Quark took
advantage of his proximity to the fiscal leader by doing what
he always did in like circumstances: he spied on him.
Quark's intimate knowledge of DS9's internal systems,
coupled with his copious supply of security-defeating hard-
ware and software, permitted him entry to many otherwise
protected areas of the station's computer. In that way, he
was able to access the companel in Zek's quarters and
monitor his on-line activities during his stay.
    Unfortunately, as Quark would have expected of any
good Ferengi businessman, the nagus erected barriers
against such surveillance. When he did not require Deep
Space Nine's superior computing facilities or its communi-
cations link to the other side of the wormhole, Zek con-
ducted his business aboard Wealth. And whenever he did
need to use DS9's computer, every bit of information he
entered or accessed was encrypted. All of his work also
carried a destabilizing virus to prevent recording, a virus
Quark was unable to neutralize in the short time the nagus
was on the station; Quark therefore had to perform his
observations in real time.
    For two and a half days, Quark tracked each use of the
corem panel in Zek's quarters. He forsook sleep as needed.
He kept the bar open, but left it in the hands of his new
manager, Broc, whenever the low-frequency alarm
sounded, signifying that the nagus was using the station's
communications or computer functions. In his own quar-
ters, Quark stared at the comm panel for hours, studying
Zek's handiwork as it was echoed there. The elegant,
branching structures of the Ferengi language cascaded
across the screen, its beautiful symbols and rich vocabu-
lary rendered unintelligible by ciphering. Quark ran de-
cryption algorithms, visually searched for patterns, pored
over the notes he took.
    His break came during the final fourteen hours of Zek's
stay. Weary from his efforts, Quark was debating whether or
not to continue when something in the scrambled data
swimming across the comm panel drew his attention. He
stared at the screen, but whatever it was had already been
swept away in the currents of Zek's activities.
    If only I could have recorded it, Quark thought, frustrated.
Confident that it had been the key, he tried to replay the
sequence in his mind, then sought to reproduce it on his
padd, but he could not quite grasp what it was he had seen.
All he could do was wait and watch and hope that it would
happen again.
  Forty minutes later, it did.

    It was nonspecific, not exactly a pattern in the code,
more a motif. Quark adjusted his decryption programs
and put them back to work. The strings of characters
transformed into something more recognizable, but not
fully deciphered. Quark nudged his procedures and set
them running again. Suddenly, the account codes and
financial endeavors of the grand nagus were completely
revealed. What he saw was unbelievable: Zek was losing
money at an incredible rate.
    Quark felt his eyes widen as the sense of that thought
penetrated his awareness. He was unsure how to proceed.
The financial leader of the Ferengi, the acknowledged
authority of all commerce, the man after whom Quark had
patterned his business life, was failing miserably, the deteri-
oration of his business skills making itself plain. Just in the
brief span he had been on D$9, the nagus had incurred
astronomical debts.
    It took more than ten hours of rigorous effort for Quark
to assemble a sketch of what Zek had done. It was astound-
ing. The methods, the decisions, the strategies, were far too
complex for Quark to completely understand, especially
since he had only been able to observe a portion of the
entire plan. But he eventually understood enough of the
broad strokes of the design: the nagus had floated obliga-
tions in currencies other than those in which they had been
covenanted; had borrowed on time; had bought and sold on
margin; had hedged his already considerable financial situa-
tion; and had promised, although he could not actually have
done so, to be able to monetize vast debts at any time within
a one-day period. It was impressive, it was brilliant, and it
was even legal, though just barely.
    But more was involved than that, Quark was certain.
Even though he realized that there were subtleties he had
doubtless overlooked, there also seemed to be something
vital missing, the bargain or the piece of knowledge or the
contact that allowed Zek the opportunity to do what he had
done.
    Basically, the nagus had re-created more than half of his
personal fortune--and far more than all of his liquid
assets--out of essentially nothing. That money--or more
accurately, that illusion of money--had been invented at
 the expense of tremendous debt, and the debt was a time
 bomb armed to detonate in one day if the nagus was unable
 to clear it. Even using the influence of Zek's office, what had
 been done could not be undone without hard currency to
 make good on the money he owed.
    The nagus departed Deep Space Nine and took Wealth to
the Gamma Quadrant. Quark awaited the ship's reappear-
ance with a growing sense of unease. He tapped into the
station's sensors so that he would be alerted as soon as
Wealth emerged on this side of the wormhole. Within a
day, the ship returned, but it bypassed DS9 and headed
directly for Ferenginar. Quark attempted to view the
accounts of the nagus, hoping that the access codes he had
purloined had not yet been changed. They had not, and
Quark marveled at what he saw: pure profit. The nagus had
constructed an apparition of value, had utilized it to fund
a deal, and then had recovered his imaginary investment
quickly enough to dissolve the monetary ghost before
anybody had a chance to uncover its want of substance.
And he had produced a net gain for himself. An ample net
gain.
    Quark studied what he knew of Zek's audacious plan for
weeks. He constructed time lines and business plans,
checked and rechecked the financial exchanges, ran simula-
tions. The genius of the nagus became more and more
apparent as Quark was forced to admit that what he had
witnessed was on the borders of his knowledge and abilities.
Even if he entertained the idea of imitating the nagus's
plan, he still did not fully understand the circumstances
under which it had been made to happen; such circum-
stances, he was convinced, were not only rare, but unlikely
to present themselves when they did occur. Quark was wrong.
    As he sat at the comm panel in his quarters day after day
and studied the tactics and strategies the nagus had em-
ployed, he was led repeatedly to the Bolian Credit Ex-
change. Finally, he saw it: a flaw in the trade rules of the
Exchange, a crack so slight that it was nearly undetectable.
The crux of Zek's bold work, the fault had probably been
virtually invisible prior to his actions, which had widened
it; if others exploited the weakness, it would widen further.

 Before long, the fissure would be as great as Terekol Chasm
 on Ferenginar, and as easy to see. When that happened, the
 Bolian regulators would seal the loophole.
     Until that time, Quark could act. He recalled the upcom-
 ing sale, its demand for massive monetary commitments,
 and its potential for producing large profits. He began
 devising his strategy and then executing it. Unlike Zek,
 whose personal fortune buttressed his financial credentials,
 Quark had relatively little to reinforce himself. In the end,
 what his maneuvers obtained for him was a two-hour
 window in which he could resell the commodity he had
 bought. If he was able to close the deal, he would be able to
 cover his debts; if not, he would be destitute.
     In one regard, the value currently representing Quark's
 net worth was erroneous, since Quark now owned merchan-
 dise which, if he was able to sell it, would offset his
 obligations and provide him with a handsome profit. But
 because Quark's purchase had been clandestine, and be-
 cause the merchandise was practically unsalable, it retained
 no value whatsoever without a buyer.
    The list of potential customers was a short one. The black
market, a usually reliable outlet for almost any commodity,
was not an option: few would be able to pay at cost, much
less at a reasonable price. If the buyer Quark had lined up
reneged--very much a possibility with this type of dealq
he would probably be unable to move the goods within the
two-hour time span. His creditors would not be under-
standing.
    Trying to keep his emotions level and his thoughts
positive, Quark continued to wait on customers in his
establishment, snaking through the tables in a practiced but
mindless way. Each time he returned to the bar to make
drinks, he checked the display. There was nothing. He
probably should have set another alarm to sound when a
transmission did arrive, but he could not bring himself to
do so; he was hoping for good news, but he was dreading
bad.
    Back to the bar again, this time to mix a Finagle's Folly
for Dr. Bashir, Quark saw the words INCOMING TRANSMISSION
flashing on the display. His earlobes grew cold from fear,
heat slipping from them like water spilling down a drain. He
punched the RECEIVE button and the message printed on the
screen. Quark read it twice, then a third time, just to be sure
he did not miss or misread any details. He checked the
chronometer: ninety-seven minutes since he had received
the first set of confirmations. He had another twenty-three
minutes yet to make good on his debt.
    Twenty-three minutes. He smiled, It had not even been
dramatic.
    Quark worked quickly at the display. He made the
necessary transfers of funds and confirmed them. It would
be several minutes before the transactions would be posted
to his account on Bajor.
    While he waited for that to take place, he turned back to
the bar, which now suddenly came alive to him. The din
became a mixture of discernible voices once more, the
crowd a set of recognizable individuals. Quark noticed Dr.
Bashir gazing in his direction. He motioned that he would
be right there, then took out a glass and began preparing the
drink the doctor had ordered. A shot from this bottle, a
splash from that one; Quark's arms flew vigorously about, a
frenzy of mixological 61an. He felt thoroughly energized.
    Quark delivered the drink to the table where Dr. Bashir
sat between turns in his dart match with Chief O'Brien. The
doctor thanked him and sipped from the glass. A startled
look materialized on his face, accompanied by a throaty
COUgh.
    "Is it my imagination, Quark," he asked in his distinctive
British accent--Kwahk, he pronounced it--"or is there
more alcohol in this than usual?"
    "Don't be ridiculous," Quark responded, but he did not
stay to debate the matter. Time enough had passed. He
headed back to the display behind the bar.
    Nervous, Quark failed at first to accurately specify his
account information. The second time, his fingers played
more carefully across the controls and he gained access to
his account on Bajor. His net worth came up in black; it did
not have as many digits as when it had been drawn in red,
but there were enough to indicate that the deal had been
very profitable.
    He had done it. He had completed the most lucrative deal
of his life, had managed to navigate the complexities in
making a deal with the Ferengi Alliance itself. Now, finally,
Quark had seed money. From here, he could really start to
deal, really begin to build up his finances to the point where
he could afford the moon and its accoutrements.
    A pleasant rush of heat suffused Quark's lobes, and he
smiled broadly. He turned to face the rest of the bar, raised
his arms above his head, and said loudly, "Everybody,
drinks are onto"
    --the house, he had been about to say. But he was
interrupted by the financial planner in his head, who
wanted to know why, just because he had successfully
concluded a deal, he was about to behave so foolishly.
About half of the people in the bar looked at him, waiting
for him to finish. Morn sat straight up in his seat and gazed
at Quark with an expression of what could only be inter-
preted as joyful expectation.
    "--sale," Quark said. "Drinks are half-price for the next
quarter-hour." There was a murmur among some of the
customers, and several either held up their glasses or moved
toward the bar. Morn slumped back down in his chair, his
body language conveying his obvious disappointment that
free drinks would not be forthcoming. Still, he picked up
the bottle of tranya and held it up for Quark to see,
indicating that he too would take advantage of the transient
bargain.
    Nobody said anything directly to Quark, though. The
smile left his face, and under his breath, more to himself
than to anybody else, he said, "Don't bother to thank me."
And he thought: I really should give up this place.
    But as Quark considered just how he could leave Deep
Space Nine, about how the realization of his deal actually
made that possible, he found that his resolve could not
stand on its own. Leaving this place--and these peoplem
would be nice, and Quark eventually would. But not yet.
    Being here at the mouth of the wormhole, on the very
edge of the frontier, had permitted him to make this first
sizable deal, and with his newly acquired wealth, being on
D$9 would now provide him with many more opportunities
to make such deals. Quark had lived unappreciated--and
even disdained--by the Starfleet and Bajoran officers on
the space station for years now. For the sake of profits--for
the sake of his moon--he could take this place and these
people just a little bit longer.
    Turning once more to the display, Quark reexamined the
number spelling out his net worth. The smile returned to his
face: the figure was still black, still sizable, and he knew it
would remain that way. He closed the access to his account.
    This makes sense, Quark thought. This is how the universe
is supposed to work,

0

CHAPTER
       2

THE CONFLUENCE OF space and time and thought sat inside a
small box atop a table in the anteroom.
    The box--unlike the object it contained--was unre-
markable: a rounded, truncated pyramid, barely a meter
around at its base. Simple designs had been fashioned in the
dark wood that composed its exterior. A pair of hinged
doors, closed at the moment, were set into one side. Even
illuminated by a single, narrow shaft of light, as it currently
was, the box did little to draw the attention of the eye.
    In a corner of the octagonal room, Grand Nagus Zek
stood leaning on his cane, his ancient, gnarled hands
clasped around the great ornamental knob that decorated
one end. Zek used the walking stick to get around, but it was
also a conceit: he had long ago had the knob crafted in his
own likeness from gold-pressed latinurn. Such a wanton and
ostentatious exhibition of ego and wealth was just one
symbol of his great success as the ranking officer of Ferengi
commerce.
    From his vantage across the room, the nagns regarded the
old wooden box. He had chosen the plain case because of its
contrast with what it contained. Sealed up as it was, the box
hardly seemed impressive, but Zek smiled widely as he
contemplated how much profit he estimated its contents
would bring him.
    The nagus gazed around, verifying that arrangements
were complete. Devoid of people but for himself, the room
was quiet and still. Furniture of a decidedly Bajoran design
currently lined its eight-sided periphery, and complementa-
ry artwork decorated the walls. The entrance to the tooram
a single-paneled door that slid horizontally into the wall to
allow access and egress--stood closed on one side. A
second door, also closed, was set opposite the first; it led
into a large meeting chamber adjacent to the anteroom.
    There were no windows here, although there appeared to
be one. It was in a side wall, two meters wide and half as
tall, divided into four identically sized panes. Beyond it,
seemingly, lay a tranquil scene: the tree-covered hills of
Zhentu Province sloping away to an open meadow, a blue
sky above beginning to fade into the striated reds and pinks
of a Bajoran sunset. But the vista was no more real than the
window itself.
    Zek walked across the room, leaning only lightly on his
cane. The grating scrape of his shoes shuffling along the
wooden flooring alternated with the thin tap of his cane. He
sat down in a stuffed chair that would have been comfort-
able had its seat been lower, but Ferengi and Bajoran
anatomies being what they were, the nagus's feet dangled
above the floor. Never believe anybody taller than you, his
father had once warned him, and it had proven to be
judicious counsel, given that the average Ferengi tended to
be shorter than the members of most humanoid races.
    Zek surveyed his surroundings from his new point of
view in the chair, wanting to be sure of every detail. As
always, he had ordered the room prepared to specifications
he had researched himself, but he usually found it necessary
to make adjustments once things had actually been set up.
He started to see that some minor changes would be
required now.
     For his own tastes, the environment that had been re-
 created here was lackluster: there were no sounds to speak
 of, the colors were too muted, the air too stagnant. And yet,
 even .now, Zek loved this room, this and the seven others
 like it that surrounded the meeting chamber. The ante-
rooms demonstrated a clever synthesis of business and
technology. Environmental controls made it possible to
adjust the temperature, the gravity, even the composition of
the atmosphere, to comfortably support members of virtu-
ally any species. By means of holographic imaging and a
transporter system, furniture could be modified to accom-
modate any type of physiology, and artwork--and myriad
other accoutrements, such as windows--could be made to
reflect countless styles and tastes.
    The ostensible purpose of the anterooms was to provide
people with a place to wait before entering the meeting
chamber, where business would then be conducted. In
practice, though, the rooms served a business tactic: to force
potential customers and trade partners to tarry in whatever
setting would best bend them in the direction of completing
a deal. The rooms and their furnishings could be molded in
such ways as to soften people, or disarm them, or even make
them uncomfortable, if that was what was needed.
    The chameleon-like rooms had been Zek's innovation,
one facet of a minor revolution he had introduced into
Ferengl trade practices. The prevailing and seldom-
questioned sentiment of his predecessors had been not to
conduct business with outworlders on Ferenginar itself.
Previously, when attempts to transact business on Ferengi-
nar had been made, they had generally been unsuccessful.
The inconvenience of the planet's location, combined with
its intemperately wet climate, had apparently poisoned the
spirits of potential customers and partners. The program-
mable anterooms had proven to be at least a partial cure in
some circumstances. While doing business on Ferenginar
with outworlders was still not widely practiced, there were
occasions when it was not only done, but it was an asset.
 This occasion, Zek believed, was such a time.
 "Computer," he said into the stillness of the room. He
 detected a slight echo, obviously the result of a floor that
 was uncarpeted, and walls that were bare but for a few small
 paintings. "Eliminate the glass from the window." There
 was a shimmer in the space on the wall where the window
 was being simulated, though it was impossible to tell from
 where Zek sat that the glass was no longer there. "Now, I
 want a light breeze. Warm. And sweeten it with the scent of
some popular native flowers." At first, there seemed to be no
change in the room, but then the air began to circulate
gently. Zek felt the thick hairs in the centers of his ears
quiver in the shifting currents.
    That's better, thought the nagus, believing that the breeze
would have a calming effect on the people who would soon
be passing through here. The anteroom had been configured
for the imminent arrival of a delegation from Bajor led by
their minister of religious artifacts, a vedek named Pralon.
The Bajorans were vigorously seeking to obtain the object
that now sat in this room, in the box sitting on the pedestal
table: an Orb of the Prophets.
    The Orb was one of only nine such objects known to
exist. Each had been discovered in or about the Bajoran star
system during the past hundred centuries. At one time,
every known Orb had been kept on Bajor; they had been
public objects of worship and spiritual contemplation,
enshrined in ornately jeweled cases and cared for by Bajor-
an monks. But when the decades-long Cardassian Occupa-
tion of Bajor had ended, several years ago, all but one of the
objects had been seized by the departing conquerors.
    Zek had come into possession of his Orb--the Ninth
Orb, the so-called Orb of Wisdom--through a contact on
Cardassia III. The Bajorans were currently negotiating with
the civilian arm of the Cardassian government, the Detapa
Council, for the return of the Orbs. The Ninth Orb, though,
had somehow slipped away from the Council during the
recent unrest in the Cardassian Union, and Zek had taken
advantage of the rare opportunity and purchased it himself
on the black market.
    The nagus stood up and walked over to where the Ninth
Orb sat. He reached forward to open its case, but then
pulled his hand back sharply, as though he had touched
something that had burned his flesh. The nagns had once
experienced a powerful vision while inspecting his Orb, a
vision that had temporarily altered his mind, and he had no
wish for a recurrence of that incident.
    The Orbs were curious artifacts. Hourglass-shaped and a
vibrant green in color, they glowed from within and had
been known to defy gravity. Other, more spiritual powers
had long been rumored--to which Zek could testifyrebut
as far as Zek knew, they had largely gone undocumented.
Examination of the nagus's Orb by his scientists revealed
only that it appeared to be an energy vortex of some kind,
drawing in spatial, temporal, and mental forces. If the
Bajorans or Cardassians had studied the Orbs--and the
nagns was sure that they hadmwhatever they had learned
remained a mystery. Zek suspected, though, that they had
been able to uncover nothing more than his scientists had.
No, the nature of the Orbs was unknown, and perhaps
unknowable.
    Despite their enigmatic nature--perhaps even because of
it~the Orbs were a vivid symbol of the deeply held
religious beliefs of the Bajorans. The strange objects were
accepted by them to be manifestations of their gods, sent to
teach them and guide their lives; they were thought to have
originated in the Celestial Temple. The discovery of the
wormhole, along with the aliens who had constructed it and
lived within it, had not shaken the faith of the Bajorans, but
had instead served to strengthen it. That the Celestial
Temple could be explained scientifically as a wormhole, that
the Prophets could be identified as alien beings, only
underscored the plausibility of their beliefs. Could the
Bajorans construct a wormhole themselves, they reasoned?
Could the Federation, or the Cardassians, or anybody else?
No; only the Prophets could. And like the Orbs, the aliens
who lived within the wormhole--the Prophets residing in
the Celestial Temple--were fundamentally unknown, and
perhaps unknowable.
    The Orb was the type of commodity that the nagns loved
to peddle, because many factions were compelled by differ-
ent reasons to possess it. There were those who sought it
because of its intractable and potentially powerful nature.
Others pursued it for its scientific mystery, still others for
the political weight it would lend them with the Bajorans.
And of course, there were the Bajorans themselves, whose
campaign to acquire the object was born of possibly the
most compelling reason: its great religious significance to
them, a significance heightened even more now with the
possibility of the return of all the Orbs but this one.
    Zek had initially thought that he would merely sell the
Orb directly to the Bajorans, but after some other business
dealings, he had seen that there was another way to maxi-
mize his profit. After bringing it back to Ferenginar, he had
made his ownership of the Orb known in all quarters,
although he had not immediately accepted any offers for it.
Rather, he had let demand build.
    As Zek had anticipated, for no group did that demand
increase as much as it did for the Bajorans. For months,
they launched one diplomatic sally after another. In a series
of unprecedented visits, various functionaries of the Bajor-
an government--from the ambassador-at-large to the sec-
ond minister--met with the nagus on Ferenginar. Bajoran
religious leaders, including several vedeks, journeyed to
Ferenginar as well They asked, cajoled, demanded. Zek put
them off, maintaining that there was other business he
needed to conduct before he could even concern himself
with the sale of the Orb. He knew that they did not believe
him, even though there had been at least some truth in his
words.
    Eventually, the nagus had received an impassioned letter
signed by both the Bajorans' highest governmental official
and their religious leader. In the letter, the first minister and
the kai argued that because the Orb had originally been
found in their star system, and also because of its revered
place in their religion, it truly belonged to the Bajoran
people. Recognizing the role of the nagus as the current
possessor of the Orb, though, they pledged to pay a reason-
able price for it. Further, the subtext suggested that they
might even be willing to pay an unreasonable price, if that
was what was required of them. Simply stated, they had to
have the Orb.
    Zek had expected the letter, or something very much like
it, and he used it as the impetus to begin the process--an
auction--that would lead to the eventual sale of the Orb.
He solicited secret offers from many potential buyers. The
Bajorans objected to the auction through official channels,
renewing their claim that the Orb legally belonged to them.
But Zek categorically denied that claim. With no other
recourse, the Bajorans had entered the bidding.
  What else could they have done? Zek thought now.
    The nagus stepped away from the encased Orb and
headed for one of the doors, which glided open to reveal the
meeting chamber beyond it. He turned in the doorway and
scanned the room a final time. It was too quiet, he decided,
even for people such as the Bajorans, whose sense of hearing
was not nearly as sensitive as that of the Ferengi.
    "Computer," Zek said, "generate some background noise
consistent with a meadow on Bajor. Leaves rustling in the
breeze, birds singing, that sort of thing." Immediately, he
heard the lilting chirps of several birds, underscored by the
sough of a mild wind slipping through trees and grasses.
    Zek looked over at the box in which the Orb sat. During
the past several months, the nagus had reviewed a consider-
able number of tenders for the inscrutable object. He had
narrowed the field of bidders in stages. From scores of
initial offerers, only seven now remained. With the arrival
today of those seven on Ferenginar, that number would
ultimately be reduced to three, after what the nagus knew
would be several weeks of his drawn-out consideration
about the relative worths of the offers.
    Zek wondered what the Bajorans would bid for it today.
There seemed little question that the amount would be
sizable. It might even be a sum that would strain the
financial reserves of their world.
    In the empty waiting room, Zek burst into a reedy cackle.
Sometimes, he was taken with his own brilliance. Whatever
amount the Bajorans bid, he knew it would not be enough.


PART i

The 2nd Rule




CHAPTER
       3

MAJOR KIRA Nrmvs strode into Quark's near closing time.
Because of the lateness of the hour, only a handful of
customers remained in the bar. A few sat scattered at tables,
pulling slowly at their drinks. Two older Bajoran gentlemen
huddled about the dabo table, intermittently squawking
their displeasure as their long night of gaming dwindled
along with their reserves of latinurn. And perched upon his
customary seat, as if he had been born there and would
likely die there, was Morn.
    Quark usually hated this time of night in the bar, it was a
time when revenue faded, but overhead did not. For that
reason, he had already sent all of his employees home, but
for one of the dabo girls--Leeta--and Broc. And if he
could have fully trusted Broc to close up, Quark would
himself have headed for his own quarters. With so few
customers, he was not only failing to make much of a profit,
he was also thoroughly bored.
    Occasionally, on a night such as this one, Quark would be
able to dispatch the nocturnal doldrums by picking up some
valuable morsel of information. As the night deepened and
closing time approached, some customers would grow tired
or intoxicated--or both--and lips would be loosened. A
crumb of useful rumor might be given voice, or a succulent
tip let slip. It happened only rarely, but it did happen.
    The possibilities tonight had seemed limited to a pair of
Frunalian traders sitting at a table on the upper level. They
were second-rate peddlers who had stopped on the station
before, whose wares had never seemed worth enough even
to pay for their travels, but the two had somehow stayed in
business together for several years. They had been discuss-
ing their impending trip to the Gamma Quadrant and
drinking kiriliona--a strong Frunalian liquor--since the
middle part of the evening.
    Quark had attempted to eavesdrop on the traders' con-
versation for hours, but he had been unable to do so
effectively from his position on the lower level. He had
picked up provocative words like delivery and latinurn and
profit, but nothing more than that. At first, it had been
because the rough voices of the pair had dropped frequently
into whispers, and Quark had patiently waited for the
alcohol they were drinking to become his ally. But as their
states of inebriation had deepened and their voices had
risen, the traders' speech had become slurred and difficult
to understand. Still, if they possessed information of any
value, there would have been no better opportunity to
uncover it.
     Quark had climbed the winding stairway at the end of the
 bar, carrying a small handheld sterilizer as his only cover.
 Once on the upper level, he had pressed the power switch on
 the device, which had clicked beneath his touch. The device
 had beeped once and then begun operating with a soft whir.
 He had set to wiping down tables, his ann sweeping out
 across their surfaces in wide circles.
     As he moved from one table to another, Quark's proximi-
 ty to the traders had rendered everything they said, even
 drunkenly articulated, plainly understandable. The details
 of their plan had rapidly grown clear.
     It was as Quark cleaned a table next to the railing that he
 noticed Kira enter from the Promenade. Quark always
 noticed Kira. He had done so when she had first arrived on
 Deep Space Nine as a Cardassian slave worker--her formfit-
 ting outfit had been particularly flattering that day, he
recalled--and he had continued to notice her, albeit in a
less conspicuous manner, even after she had rebuffed his
advances.
 "You want something, Quark?"
    Quark turned from peering down at Kira. Both of the
Frunalians were looking at him. Quark recognized the voice
as that of Crimmon, the taller--and less friendly--of the
two traders.
    "MET" Quark answered. "No. I'm just getting ready for
closing time." The sterilizer in his hand continued its
electronic purr, although Quark had for the moment
stopped moving it across the tabletop.
    "'Closing time'?" asked the other trader, Wyra. He
checked a timepiece. "But it's only--"
    "Sorry," Quark interrupted. "Captain Sisko enforces a
strict curfew on all the businesses on the Promenade."
    Wyra looked disappointed, but Crimmon's expression
was clearly one of disbelief--and with good reason, Quark
knew, since he had been lying about Sisko's rules. But
Quark had no desire to stay open past 0300 for the paltry
number of customers still in the bar. Nor did he need to
ingratiate himself with these two; he had already gathered
enough from them. The speculative venture for which they
were taking their freighter into the Gamma Quadrant had
been orchestrated based on hearsay, second- and thirdhand
data, the origin of which was itself in doubt. Everything
Quark had so far learned was either something he already
knew, or something he knew to be untrue. There was no use
in pressing Crimmon and Wyra for more information; he
could not hope to strengthen his knowledge of commerce
and opportunity in the Gamma Quadrant--and he cer-
tainly could not possibly hope to find his own next deal--
based upon anything this pair knew.
    Quark glanced over the railing and saw Kira standing
at the bar, talking to Broc. She had entered the bar by
herself, Quark realized. That was uncharacteristic; she al-
most never came in unaccompanied by at least one of her
friends.
    "There must be time enough for one more drink," Wyra
commented, even though the glass sitting before him was
nearly full.

    "Of course," Quark said, turning to the two traders.
"What can I get the two of you? Another pair of kirilionas?"
    As he waited for their answers, Quark looked downstairs
again. Broc was pointing up toward the second level, he saw.
K_ira followed the gesture until she spotted Quark. She
made eye contact with him and then, unaccountably, she
smiled. Quark shivered involuntarily; he was only slightly
less wary of people who smiled than he was of people who
made promises.
    "Yeah, a kiriliona," replied Wyra, evidently after some
thought--or at least after an attempt at thought. His eyes
were glassy.
    "I want a margarita." Crimmon seemed to offer this as
more of a challenge than a request.
    "A margarita?" Quark asked, shifting his gaze away from
Kira. "We don't get call for many of those. Let me see how
much tequila I've got on hand."
    Quark turned off the sterilizer with a click and set it down
on the table, then drew a padd from an inside breast pocket
in his jacket. He stole a glance back down at the bar, but
Kira was no longer in sight. He quickly worked the controls
of the padd and consulted the readout.
 "Here we go," he said. "Plenty of tequila. Ice? Salt?"
 "Yeah, ice. No salt."
    "All right then. One margarita and one more kiriliona,
coming right up."
 Crimmon grunted his acknowledgment.
    Quark keyed in the order and returned the padd to his
pocket. He retrieved the sterilizer, then headed for the
stairway. As he did so, he heard the ringing sound of boots
on the metal stairs. Since the narrow staircase could accom-
modate only one person comfortably, Quark waited for the
person coming up to reach the second level: it was Kira.
    "Hello, Quark," Kira said, and there was that smile once
more. Even worse than a smile in general, Quark thought,
was a smile on the face of somebody who never even so
much as grinned. Well, who never even so much as grinned
at him, anyway.
 "Major. What can I do for you?"
 "How are you?"
 Quark blinked.
    "How am I?" he asked, unable to keep a note of shock
from his voice. This was going to be worse than he thought.
"Major, what do you want from me?"
    "What makes you think I want something from you?"
Kira evaded. Her tone made her sound anxious.
    "Call it 'Ferengi intuition,'" Quark explained, sidling
past Kira and starting down the stairs. "We always know
when our pockets are about to be picked," he finished over
his shoulder. Behind him came the hollow sound of Kira's
footfalls as she followed him back down to the first level.
    "I heard you completed an amazing deal not too long
ago," Kira offered as she trailed him toward the bar.
    So that was it. Quark had completed the deal seventeen
days ago, and while he had not divulged the precise details
of his business to anybody--for several reasons, including
that he knew that the Starfleet personnel would not ap-
prove-he had still managed to tell several of the station's
residents a rousing tale about it. So it was hardly surprising
that Kira had learned of it. If she had mentioned it without
some ulterior purpose, that would have been surprising. But
Kira's undeclared motive seemed clear to Quark. He
stopped and turned to face her.
    "Yes. I made a wondrous deal a while ago," Quark told
her. "It was masterful, and lucrative, and just barely legal."
Quark held up his hand, thumb and forefinger only a
centimeter or so apart to demonstrate just how close to
unlawful his actions had been. "But you know what, Major?
I didn't break any laws. I didn't cheat anybody. So go back
to Odo and tell him you couldn't find out anything from me
because there isn't anything to find out." His voice had
become louder as he spoke, easily filling the nearly empty
bar. Quark glanced around and saw that everybody in the
place was looking at him; even Crimmon and Wyra were
eyeing him from upstairs.
    "Last call," Quark announced. Morn produced a sour
look when he heard this; it was the same sour look he always
put on his face when the bar was about to close. Quark paid
him no attention. Instead, he moved behind the barmKira
following slowly in his wake until she was standing across
 from him--took out his padd, and set both it and the
 sterilizer down. He consulted the readout of the padd, but
 only in a cursory fashion; he knew what the Frunalians had
 ordered. He opened a compartment beneath the bar and
 moved some bottles around, but he could not find the one
 he needed.
      "Broc." Broc was leaning one elbow on the bar, his chin
 resting in his hand, listening to Morn.  "Yes, sir?"
  "Go get a bottle of tequila from the storeroom."
  "Tequila?" Broc seemed uncertain.
     "Tequila," Quark repeated. "A human alcohol." He
 pronounced the word hyoo-mon, distinctly separating the
 two syllables. Quark punched up the inventory on his padd
 and held the device out so that Broc could see it. "There
 should be three bottles of it down there," Quark explained
 as Broc came over to peer at the display.
     "Yes, sir." Broc took the padd and moved out from
 behind the bar, passed Kira, and made his way toward the
 stockroom.
  Kira? Why was she still here?
  "Something to drink for you, Major?" Quark asked.
    "No," Kira said. Her mouth only approximated a smile
this time.
    "Is there something else on your mind then?" he asked.
"Because if there's not, I'm getting ready to close for the
night."
  "Actually, there is something," she said.
 "Imagine my surprise."
    "I was wondering," she started, but then she hesitated.
She looked tired and troubled to Quark. She sat down at the
bar before continuing. "I was wondering if you would do
something for me."
 That was a surprise.
    I can't believe my ears, Quark thought. And that~ saying
something.
    Kira behaved in many ways Quark did not appreciate--
she was rigid, strident, thoroughly Bajoran--but she was
not hypocritical, which meant that she did not typically ask
for favors--acts of friendship--from people she did not
like. And although she had become less vocal over the years
 regarding her feelings of antipathy for Quark, she neverthe-
 less left no doubt about how she felt toward him. If she was
 seeking his assistance in some matter, then that matter must
 be very serious, and Kira very desperate.
     "That would depend on what the something is you want
 me to do," Quark said. "So what is it?"
  "How well do you know Grand Nagus Zek?"
    Quark felt the fleshy ridge that ran from ear to ear above
his eyes involuntarily raise high on his forehead. He was
nonplussed by Kira's question. The nagus was a well-known
figure outside of the Ferengi Alliance, in the same way that
the president of the Federation and the first minister of
Bajor were known to Quark. And like all the inhabitants of
DS9, Kira must have known that Zek had visited the station
on several occasions, and that he had had dealings with
Quark during those visits. On one of the more memorable
of his stays, the nagus had named Quark to be his successor;
although Zek had done this in order to subsequently fake
his own death and test the mettle of his son, Krax, it still
demonstrated a relationship of some sort between Zek and
Quark.
But why wouM Kira want to know about that relationship?
"The nagus?" Quark asked her. While he was suspicious
of Kira's motives--it was in his nature to be suspicious of
everybody's motives--he saw no reason not to answer her
question. "Well, I'd have to say we have a rapport."
 "What does that mean, exactly?"
    "It means he likes me," Quark further explained. His
brother maintained the reverse, that Zek actually despised
Quark, but what did Rom know?
     "He likes you," Kira repeated. "Are you certain? Because
I really need to know." Her tone was imploring.
 "Why, Major? Why do you need to know?"
 "I thought you would have guessed."
    Quark thought this over. Absently, he picked up the
sterilizer, activated it, and began cleaning the top of the bar.
He wondered what he could have possibly known that
would interest Kira. What could have provoked her to
pursue his aid? He did not know.
 "I'm deaf to whatever it is you're saying."
 "The Orb."
     "The Orb of the Prophets? Which one? The one the nagus
 is auctioning off?"
     Kira's eyes grew suddenly cold. It was a look with which
 Quark was not unfamiliar.
     "Yes," she responded, her voice dropping portentously.
 "The Ninth Orb, the one he won't sell to Bajor."
    Finally, Quark understood. Kira was deeply committed
to her religious beliefs, the greatest tangible symbols of
which were the Orbs of the Prophets. If she believed that the
nagus would not sell the Orb he possessed to her people, she
would have been roused to action, to do whatever was
within her abilities to see that the mystic item was returned
to what she felt was its rightful place. But Quark knew of no
reason why the nagus would not sell to the Bajorans for the
right price.
    "Of course he'll sell the Orb to your people. All they have
to do is make a high enough bid. Surely the people of Bajor
are willing to pay for something they so desperately want."
    "We are willing to pay," Kira barked at him. "But that
doesn't seem to matter."
    "Paying always matters," Quark insisted. He flicked the
sterilizer off and put it down on the bar. "In fact, that ought
to be a Rule of---"
    An unexpected thud drew Quark's attention away from
Kira. She also turned her head toward the sound: Broc had
returned from the stockroom and placed an unopened
bottle of tequila on the bar. Quark had been so focused on
Kira that he had not heard Broc come back.
"There's still one more bottle in stock," Broc said.
"Did you adjust the inventory accordingly?" Quark
asked, turning off the sterilizer and sticking it beneath the
bar.
    "Yes, I did." Broc smiled broadly at what he must have
considered an achievement for himselfi
    "Good. Now get on that order." Quark hiked his thumb
up toward the second level. "Those two Frunalians up there
are waiting for their drinks."
    "Yes, sir." Broc's smile faded. He rechecked the drink
order Quark had entered on the padd.
 Quark turned back to face Kira.
"Now then, as I was saying, I'm sure that if the Bajorans
just commit enough of their resources--"
    "The nagus expelled Bajor from the bidding for the Orb
earlier today."
    Quark had not heard that. If it was true, then it explained
why Kira was here talking with him. What it did not explain
was why Quark had not heard about it. He thought his ears
were always open for such information; it was vital to his
future business interests that he keep himself constantly
well-informed.
    "Why would they be expelled from the bidding?" he
asked.
    The sounds of glass against glass, of liquids being poured,
drifted to Quark's ears from where Broc was mixing drinks
for the Frunalians.
    "Seven factions bid," Kira explained. "Four were sup-
posed to be eliminated, leaving three to bid in the final
round."
    "And Bajor didn't make the cut," Quark concluded.
Kira's only visible response was the setting of her jaw as she
clenched her teeth. Quark could easily see a fierce anger in
her eyes, an emotion she was evidently attempting to hold
in check. "I'd heard about the multiple rounds in the
auction, and the lengthy periods between the rounds,"
Quark continued. "Very unusual, particularly in Ferengi

commerce. Of course, I'm certain the nagus has his rea-
sons." Quark considered this for a moment, but could not
immediately determine what any such reasons might be.
    "There was no justification not to sell the Orb to Bajor."
Kira's words were delivered through her still-clenched
teeth, her voice sounding like the growl of a dangerous
animal.
    "Well, there was obviously one reason," Quark said.
"One good reason. Why didn't the Bajorans bid enough?"
    "We bid all that we could," Kira snapped back, rising
from her seat, her temper flaring. She glanced over at Broc
and Morn, who were now staring back at her, then took a
breath and settled herself back down onto her seat. She
proceeded in a level voice. "Our treasury would have been
gutted to pay for the return of the Orb."
 That did not sound quite right to Quark. The Bajorans
were certainly not the best businessmen in the galaxy, but
they were also not that bad. As important as the Orbs of the
Prophets were to them, he could not believe that they would
bankrupt their world simply so that they could possess one
of them; after all, they had lived without all but one of the
Orbs ever since the Cardassians had withdrawn from their
occupation of Bajor. Still, Quark had expected that the
Bajorans would have tendered a handsome offer for their
lost artifact; with their planetary resources and the in-
creased commercial base the wormhole provided, it had
seemed reasonable to conclude that Bajor would win the
auction with ease.
    Quark looked over at Broc, who was just finishing mixing
the margarita for Crimmon. He had already prepared
Wyra's kiriliona. Broc started to put away the bottles from
which he had been pouring, but Quark stopped him.
    "Broc, forget about cleaning up right now; get those
drinks out. Our Frunalian friends have been waiting long
enough."
    "Oh, yes, right away." Broc put down the bottles and
lifted the two drinks onto a tray. A very light gas emanated
from the kiriliona, dissipating just above the rim of the
glass. Broc picked up the tray with both hands and headed
for the two traders on the second level.
    Quark walked over and started to shelve the bottles on
the bar. Without looking back at Kira, he knew she was
watching him; he heard the slight sound of the skin of her
neck scraping against her uniform collar as she swiveled her
head to do so.
    "Well, Major, this is all very interesting," he told her,
"but I'm not exactly sure why you're telling me. Clearly
there's nothing I can do about it." "Are you sure about that?"
    The question stopped Quark. He was holding the bottle
of kiriliona in one hand, the bottle of tequila in the other.
He turned to Kira, who returned his gaze without blinking.
    Remarkable, Quark thought. She really thinks I can help
her. But he had been serious when he had told her there was
nothing he could do. Quark put the Mriliona and the tequila
in their places beneath the bar before answering.
 "Actually, I'm quite sure about this." He picked up the
other two bottles on the bar. "If the nagus has made a
decision--"
 "--Then you can speak to him," Kira interrupted.
 Quark walked over to Kira, the bottles still in his hands.
 "Speak to the nagus?" he asked.
 "He likes you," Kira reminded him.
    Quark found that he could not stop from smiling. She
grinned back at him. It was all very disconcerting.
    "And what is it you think I can do?" Quark asked. He
moved away from Kira again and shelved the last of the
bottles, then came out from behind the bar and sat down
next to her. "You can't possibly believe I could change the
nagus's mind?"
    "Why not?" Kira wanted to know. "You can be very per-
suasive."
    "Yes," he agreed. "Yes, I can be. But should I be in this
case?"
    Kira jerked her head back as though she had been
slapped.
    "All I want you to do is urge him to reinstate us in the
bidding."
    "Grand Nagus Zek is the highest financial officer in the
Ferengi Alliance. For me to try to change his mind..."
    "I would try to change Shakaar's mind about something
important like this," Kira argued.
    "Yes, well, I'd say your relationship with the first minister
is considerably different than mine is with the nagus." Kira
had fought by Shakaar's side in the Resistance during the
Occupation, and when they had recently been reunited, the
two had entered into a romantic relationship.
    "It doesn't matter, Quark. You can still talk to the
nagus."
 "Yes, I can. But should I talk to him?"
 "Of course you should: it's the right thing to do."
    "That's your opinion, Major; it's not necessarily a Ferengi
opinion."
    "You mean it isn't your opinion, don't you, Quark?" Kira
accused.
    "I don't know," Quark admitted. He stood from the seat
and paced slowly back and forth beside Kira. "You haven't
given me enough time to think about this."
    "You don't need to think about this," Kira said gently.
When Quark continued to pace, she stopped him by saying;
"Quark. Look at me."
 Quark stopped and met Kira's eyes.
    "You do not need to think about this," she told him
again. "I am asking this favor of you." It seemed to Quark
as if the effort Kira was making in treating him like this--
like an equal, if not like a friend--was costing her. And for
some reason, he wanted to help her. He was not sure why;,
he had lusted after Kira, but he did not really feel that he
liked or respected her. Perhaps he simply appreciated being
treated by her as if he possessed at least some degree of
value. But he was fairly certain that Kira did not know the
difficulties involved in what she was asking of him.
    "Major, we--the Ferengi~we have rules about these
sorts of situations." He sat back down on the seat, facing
Kira.
 "Yes, I know that."
    "And the second Rule of Acquisition is: 'The best deal is
the one that brings the most profit.'"
    Kira fixed him with what she must have believed to be her
most earnest look. It was definitely the most earnest look
Quark had ever seen on her face.
    "The Orbs of the Prophets are religious artifacts, Quark,
religious symbols. They are extremely important to ns as a
people... historically, socially, spiritually. Allowing the
Bajorans to purchase the Ninth Orb so that we can bring it
back to our world is the fight thing to do. We're not
demanding that the Orb be given to us; we're willing to pay
for it. We're willing to pay well."
    "I understand your perspective. Try to understand
mine."
    "I don't." She paused, looking for other words, Quark
was sure. "Quark, I know that you and I have never realJy
gotten along." She looked almost apologetically at him.
Quark supposed it was easy to see the error of your ways
when you wanted something.
    "On the contrary, Major. I have always gotten along with
you."
    "Yes, well... we are not friends, but I'm nevertheless
asking a favor of you. I'll ask more plainly. Will you please
try to convince the nagus to reinstate the Bajorans in the
bidding for the Orb of the Prophets?"
    Quark wanted to say yes, wanted to tell Kira that he
would gladly be on her side and do what he could to help.
But as best he could tell, the nagus had acted properly. Even
if Quark could convince the nagus to grant him an audi-
ence, how could he possibly hope to get him to reverse a
perfectly executed business transaction? At the same time,
how could he possibly make Kira understand the situation
she was asking him to face?
    "Major, would you ever attempt to get Kai Winn to
change her beliefs?"
 "I've argued loudly and often with the kai."
 "Would you try to change her religious beliefs?"
    "What I'm asking of you has nothing to do with religious
beliefs."
    "You're wrong. What you're talking about concerns the
tenets of business, and business is the most important thing
to the Ferengi. The acquisition of profit is as meaningful to
us as the spiritual life is to the Bajorans."
    "I know the point you're trying to make, but if I thought
the kai was wrong, if she had somehow misinterpreted our
sacred beliefsre"
    "And what if you believed the kai was right? Would it be
possible for anybody to coax you into changing her mind
then?"
    "Are you saying that the nagus is right in refusing to sell
the Orb to Bajor?"
     "For just a moment, think like a businessman. What goal
drives business?" "Profit?"
    "Profit. This is true in business in general, but it is true
most especially for Grand Nagus Zek. The nagus is not
merely a businessman; he is also a symbol, virtually a
religious symbol--" Kira opened her mouth, apparently to
protest Quark's use of the word religious, but he continued
to speak, not allowing her to interrupt. "--of financial
acumen for the Ferengi. As you've explained the situation
to me, the offer the Bajorans made for the Orb was not one
of the three highest tendered. Since the rules of the auction
declared that only the three highest bidders would be
permitted in the final round, the nagus's only option was to
eliminate Bajor from the auction. There were no other
alternatives open to him. And for me to attempt to change
his mind about that, to even suggest that he should consider
reversing his decision and taking some other course of
action, well, I would be inviting censure and a fine. And I
would be wrong to do it." Kira simmered.
    "Can't you at least try to understand what I'm saying?"
Quark asked.
    "Oh, I understand: Your people are greedy. You are
greedy." Kira stood from her seat and stared down at
Quark. "Profit is more important to the Ferengimto you,
Quark--than the spiritual needs of an entire population."
    "Major Kira, you want me to help Bajor, and to get me to
do that, you're trying to get me to see your point of view, to
understand and even agree with your beliefs. But you're not
even considering my beliefs. Perhaps if you could do
that--"
    "I don't want to do that," Kira interrupted. "I would
never want to do that." Kira turned and slammed into Broc,
who had returned from delivering the drinks to the Fruna-
lians. Both stayed on their feet, but the tray Broc was
carryingmand the empty glass on it--flew through the air.
Broc looked stunned, but Kira still looked angry; the sound
of the glass shattering as it struck the floor seemed to Quark
the perfect accompaniment for her mood. He watched her
as she strode quickly around Broc and out of the bar.

CHAPTER
       4

KIRA WAS IN QUARKS when the Bajorans retaliated.
    She was sitting on the floor, with her back against an
outer bulkhead, her head just below a window. A large book
was propped open on her knees. The volume was old and
worn: its textured, crimson cover was faded, its spine
cracked, its gold-inlay title almost completely rubbed away.
A sour but not unpleasant scent drifted up from the dried,
yellowing pages; it was the smell of age.
    The book had been a gift to Kira many years ago, given to
her in her childhood by a woman she had barely known.
Kira remembered only the given name of the woman--Kly-
ta--and she was unsure even of that. She recalled the
woman's plain face, her short brown hair, and the way her
eyes had filled with tears when she had presented the book
to Kira, but all other details had faded with the years.
    Later in her life, it was explained to Kira by her father
that the great crimson tome had been passed on from one
generation of Klyta's family to the next, from mother to
eldest daughter. But Klyta had had no children of her own,
nor any siblings, and after she had suffered a serious injury
while on a raid against a Cardassian garrison, it had become
 apparent that her family's lineage would likely end with her.
 Determined to preserve her heritage in some fashion, she
 had chosen to give the heirloom to her closest friend's only
 daughter: Kira.
    As Kira opened the book now, its often-handled cover
smooth against her fingertips, she thought of Klyta, and she
regretted that the family name of her father's friend had not
fixed in her little-girl's mind. She felt it unbefitting that such
a gift did not carry along with it the surname of the people
to whom it had so long belonged. Kira would have liked to
have researched the archives on Bajor to learn more about
Klyta and her kin. Perhaps she might even have been able to
identify surviving relatives, if there were any. Still, despite
the paucity of Kira's knowledge about Klyta, she had always
treasured the book as the profoundly meaningful gift it had
been.
    Kira turned to the table of contents, the brittle pages
crackling beneath her touch, the sound like that of flames
consuming dead wood. She ran her hand across the familiar
chapter headings--"Home in the Firmament," "Bajor
Rises," "Prophecy," and others--and found consolation in
the simple contact with this most treasured and important
of her possessions. The text was one of Kira's favorites, an
historical work punctuated with ancient tales, spiritual
interpretations, and the auguring of things to come. It had
been written centuries ago by Vedek Synta Kayanil, a heroic
and beloved figure from Bajor's past, and it was now
considered a major canonical work of the Bajoran religion.
Kira had always found it both poetic and insightful.
    Entitled When the Prophets Cried, the narrative included,
among its many stories, accounts of the discoveries of the
seven Orbs known at the time of its writing. At the time
Vedek Synta had penned the great book, the Orbs had been
known solely as the Tears of the Prophets--they were still
sometimes called that, even now--an appellation derived
from the belief that the Orbs were constituent parts, small
but significant, which had fallen from the Prophets to the
people when direct contact between the two had somehow
been lost. The Tears, it was held, were the last physical links
that connected Bajor to the Celestial Temple.

     The book was the lone object Kira retained from her early
 childhood. She had carried it with her through her many
 travels: through her youth during the Occupation, through
 her efforts in the Resistance, and now through Reconstruc-
 tion and her time on Deep Space Nine. It was in so many
 regards a guidepost for her; it tethered her to Bajor's rich
 history, to the legacy of a family she had never really
 known, to her own father, and to a spiritual bedrock. So
 often in the course of her life, Kira had retreated to When
 the Prophets Cried in search of solace, or inspiration, or
 enlightenment. Most often, she had sought guidance among
 the words and ideas contained in the old pages. Remark-
 ably, after all this time and after so many readings, Kira still
 managed to gain fresh insight from the venerable work.
  It was guidance that Kira sought right now.
    It had been three days since the leader of the Ferengi had
announced that the Bajorans would no longer be permitted
to bid for the Orb of the Prophets he possessed. Kira had
grown furious with Grand Nagus Zek for his actions, and
with that rodent Quark for his insensitivity and his unwill-
ingness even to try to help Bajor. The Ferengi were little
more than vermin to her, admittedly greedy, no better than
thieves most of the time, and for them to stand in the way of
the proper return of the Ninth Orb to Bajor was profane.
    Kira also found herself angered by her own people. So
many who now led Bajor, though they had fought coura-
geously during the Occupation to expel the militarily supe-
rior Cardassians from their world, continually battled each
other in their quest to bring about their society's rebirth.
Such infighting, Kim felt, was not only internally detrimen-
tal, but also rendered the Bajoran leaders ineffectual in
matters beyond their world; their inability to bring the
Ninth Orb to Bajor demonstrated that clearly. Oh, there
had been official condemnations of the nagas's actions, by
both civilian and religious leaders, and there had been
public outrage, but nothing had really been accomplished.
    As these thoughts filled Kira's mind, her eyes lifted from
the book and stared unseeing into the shadows of her
quarters. When she looked back down, she found that her
hands had tightened into fists. With an effort, she relaxed
 them, her fingers opening like the petals of a flower.
 Crescent-shaped indentations lined the bottoms of her
 palms where her nails had bitten into her skin.
    Potent emotions such as anger and frustration and rage
were not new to Kira; she had lived with them virtually all
of her life. She had always decidedly been a woman of
action, and she had often used such feelings as motivating
forces. But Kira was also deeply religious, and as she had
matured, she had come to understand that a life filled
exclusively with violent passions held little room for genu-
ine spirituality. Her adult life had been blessed by the
presence in it of two exceptional people--Kai Opaka and
Vedek Bareil--who had helped her see the need to cultivate
peace within herself; they had also aided her in discovering
how to make that inner journey. Both Opaka and Bareil
were gone now, but Kira felt that their influences would
never leave her. She reached out to those influences now as
she struggled to tame her rage.
    Kira paged through the antique volume until she came to
the chapter called "The Third Tear." She had read this
particular section of the book enough times that she could
very nearly recite it verbatim. But this recounting of the
finding of the Orb of Prophecy and Change, of the Orb's
subsequent loss for scores of years and its eventual rediscov-
ery, was what she needed at the moment; she needed to
understand that it was all right for the Bajorans not to take
custody of the Ninth Orb right now, that if it was the will of
the Prophets, the Orb would one day be brought back to
Bajor.
    Kira had read five pages of the story and was already
feeling more at easereit helped that she knew just how the
tale would progress to its conclusion--when the door chime
sounded.
    "Come in." Her words were expressed more as a question
than as a statement; she had not been expecting any visitors,
especially this early in the morning.
    The door to Kira's quarters slid into the wall to reYeal the
Emissary standing beyond it. He leaned in from the corri-
dor, holding on to either side of the doorway to maintain his
balance. He peered left and right into the room, obviously
not seeing Kira in her spot on the floor.

  "Major?"
     "Captain," Kira answered, closing the book and rising to
 her feet. Though she believed that she sounded natural, it
 required a deliberate effort for her to invoke the title of
 captain--or any Starfleet title--with regard to Sisko. She
 had served on Deep Space Nine as Benjamin Sisko's first
 officer for almost four years now, and in all that time, the
 basic process of addressing him had never become instinc-
 tive. Yes, he was her commander, but it was in the position
 he occupied in the Bajoran religion--as the Emissary--in
 which Kira foremost thought of him.
    "Come in, Captain. Please." As Kira walked toward the
door, she saw the beginnings of a grin play along one side of
Sisko's mouth. She felt her face flush; she was embarrassed
to have been found sitting on the floor. Thank the Prophets
that she had already changed from her nightclothes into her
uniform.
    "Thank you." Sisko stepped over the raised threshold of
the doorwaymKira had never understood the Cardassian
notions of convenience and amenity~and into her quar-
ters. "I didn't realize the station was all that comfortable,"
he said, pointing to the spot along the bulkhead where Kira
had been sitting and reading.
    "Oh, well, it isn't, really," Kira stammered. "I just... I
don't know .... "Her voice trailed off. She felt silly.
    Sisko laughed loudly, his lips parting and forming into a
wide smile. The whiteness of his teeth was striking against
the rich, dark color of his skin. Sisko had recently chosen to
shave his head, and to allow the facial hair around his
mouth to grow; now m~re than ever, he was an imposing
figure.
    "It's all right, Major," he told her when he stopped
laughing. "Me, I sometimes stretch out on the grass when
I'm watching a baseball game in a holosuite."
    Kira smiled, appreciating Sisko's attempt to put her at
ease, and then she began to chuckle at the image in her
mind of the captain lying on his side out in a field, his head
propped up on his hand so that he could observe the
holographic program he was running. Sisko was in many
ways an odd man, Kira thought. His love of a centuries-old
Earth game seldom played anymore, his bursts of humor at
 unexpected times, the staccato rhythms of his speech, his
 command style that varied from informal and almost
 playful to serious and rigid... so many things about him
 were unusual. But then, he was the Emissary; how could he
 be anything but singular?
     "Are you laughing at me?" Sisko asked, suddenly very
 stern.
     "No, no, not at you," Kira said, immediately fearful that
 she had hurt his feelings, but then she realized that his
 sudden sternness had been reigned; he was joking with her.
 "Well, you have to admit that lying around out in a field is
 not exactly captainqike behavior," she teased back.
     "No, I guess not," Sisko agreed, and he smiled once more.
 "But then again, I'm not always a captain, now am I?"
    "I thought Starfleet liked its officers to be Starfleet at all
times."
    "You'd be surprised," Sisko countered. Then he glanced
around without moving his head, his eyes darting from side
to side, and leaned in close to Kira as if about to confide a
secret to her. "What would you say," he whispered, appar-
ently very serious, "if I told you that I once saw Admiral
Nechayev dancing in a nightclub on Mars?"
    "Nechayev?" Kira asked, mimicking Sisko's solemn de-
livery. She had difficulty visualizing the staid Nechayev
even being out of uniform. "You're kidding. I thought she
was born an admiral."
    "Evidently not. I think she was even enjoying herself."
Kira and Sisko regarded each other in their mock-serious
manners for a moment more before both began to laugh.
    When she had first come to D$9, Kira remembered, such
an exchange with Sisko would not have been possible. It
might not have been possible even a year ago. One of the
reasons for that, she knew, was that she had been a very
different person at the end of the Occupation than she was
now. But another reason was that Sisko was a person who
was not easy to get to know well. Part of that undoubtedly
had to do with the loss of his wife almost seven years ago,
she was sure, but there was also a strange depth to the man,
and a means of thinking which did not run straight and
true. She had witnessed Sisko act on intuitions and insights
which would never even have occurred to another person.

 And he was a man of convictions, strong, honest, and
 forthright. He was a good man, and Kira was pleased that
 she could now think of him not only as the Emissary and
 not only as her commanding officer, but also as a friend.
"Would you like to sit down?" Kira motioned to the sofa.
"Thank you," Sisko said, and took a seat. Kira set her
book down on the small table in front of the sofa and sat
down in a chair across from him. She saw him glance at the
gold-flecked cover of the book, the insubstantial traces of
color the only remnants of what had once been letters
spelling out the title. "When the Prophets Cried?" he asked.
 "Yes," Kira said, surprised. "Do you know it?"
 "I've had occasion to read some of it, yes."
    Kira suppressed a smile, but it pleased her to hear that
Sisko was familiar with the ancient writings. It was just one
more indication--and she had seen more and more of them
of late--that the Emissary was interested in the Bajoran
culture, and that he might someday come to embrace his
role in it.
  "I was looking for some direction," Kira told him.
    "The Ninth Orb?" he asked. She nodded. "I can under-
stand that. The nagus getting hold of it was unexpected."
    "Yes." Kira sighed in frustration and stood from her
chair. She paced over to the oval window and looked out
into space. She tried to pick the pinpoint of light that was
Bajor out of the background of stars, but she could not find
it; it was probably on the other side of its orbit.
 "Why him?" she asked softly, still gazing out the window.
 "What?"
She turned to face Sisko, her hands coming up to her hips.
"Why him? Why the grand nagus of the Ferengi? Of all
the people the Orb could have found its way to?" She
paused, suddenly realizing the tension in her muscles. She
dropped her arms to her sides, then moved to sit opposite
Sisko once more. "Why not the Klingon emperor, or the
Romulan praetor, or even the Orion chancellor? We could
have dealt with one of them."
    "One can typically deal with the Ferengi," Sisko noted.
"It's what they do."
    "But not in this case. Bajor would have paid hand-
soreely."
    "'The will of the Prophets is sometimes elusive,'" Sisko
quoted. He held his hands apart, palms up, indicating that
he had no other answers for her.
    "How can this be the will of the Prophets?" Kira wanted
to know.
    "I don't know," the captain admitted. "Frankly, I'm
more concerned about Bajor."
    "This is hard for the people to accept," she said, "espe-
cially after the Detapa Council agreed to discuss returning
all of the Orbs to us."
    "It is that lack of acceptance which concerns me," Sisko
said gravely. He leaned forward and picked up When the
Prophets Cried from the table; he held the book between
both hands. "Major, I'm sure you're acquainted with the
account of the Third Orb."
"Of course. As a matter of fact, I was just reading it."
"Good. Then you know that it was lost to the Bajoran
people for nearly a century. And in that time, the world did
not fall to pieces, people's faith did not vanish."
    "NOD" Kira agreed, although she was not sure of the point
Sisko was trying to make. "But those were difficult times on
Bajor. Perhaps if the Orb had not been lost, things would
have been better."
    "Perhaps." The captain seemed to weigh this thought
before continuing. "But even given that possibility, would
the mere chance of possessing the Orb have been worth
fighting for?"
    Kira did not answer, but only looked at Sisko. She had the
feeling that he was saying more than she was hearing.
 "Would it have been worth dying for?" he went on.
 "What is it you're trying to tell me, Captain?"
    Sisko placed the book back on the table. He let out a
breath, then wiped a hand first across his face, and then
across the top of his bald head.
    "The official Bajoran response to Grand Nagus Zek's
actions has just been issued," he revealed.
    "And you're telling me that it's not just a simple protest?"
Kira asked.
    "That's right, Major," Sisko intoned. "It's quite a bit
more than that."

    Kira touched two fingertips to the signal panel set into the
wall. Beyond the door, the chime sounded. She waited a
couple of moments, then touched the panel once more.
There was still no response.
    Kira looked both ways down the corridor, almost expect-
ing Quark to round a comer and come walking toward his
quarters. But the corridor was silent and empty. Few of
Deep Space Nine's personnel were housed on this deck, in
this particular section of the Habitat Ring, Kira knew, and
so the lack of activity at this time of morning was to be
expected. On the other hand, because of the early hour, she
had presumed that Quark would be in his quarters.
    Where wouM he be at this time of morning? she wondered.
She knew that he did not usually open the bar until later in
the day. Still, perhaps he was there checking his inventory
or counting his receipts. She decided that it would not
surprise her to learn that Quark actually slept with his
profits.
    Kira made her way to one of the central turbolifts and
ordered it to take her to the Promenade. She paced in the
lift--two steps in one direction, two steps in the other, her
boot heels ringing on the metal floor--unable to remain
motionless even in the enclosed space; she was energized by
the news Sisko had given her. She did not know whether her
world's official response to the nagus's actions would result
in the Ninth Orb being brought to its proper home on Bajor,
but she was proud of the stand her people had chosen to
take. And if the deliverance of the Orb was not achieved,
she mused, then at least another, lesser problem would be
solved: she never did care much for the Ferengi.
    The Promenade was just coming to life when she arrived
there. The lighting was growing in intensity as the new day
progressed, approximating the rising of the Bajoran sun.
Some of the shops were just opening, while one or two were
already doing business. Many of the restaurants were busy
serving breakfast; the change of shifts was close at hand,
and Kira spied quite a few station personnel having their
morning meal before reporting to duty.
    The doors to Quark's bar were closed. As she had at his
quarters, Kira touched the signal panel a couple of times.
There was no answer. As she considered where next to look
for Quark--maybe he was in one of the docking bays,
receiving a shipmentwshe suddenly heard him. It had only
been for a second, and she had not made out the words, but
she was certain it had been his voice. She waited for a
moment, and then she heard it again.
    "Never mind how I came by it," Quark was saying loudly.
"But you want one, and I happen to have one." The words
were coming from the Replimat.
    Kira walked over to the self-service eatery and peered
inside. The small place was nearly filled with diners, most of
them wearing either Bajoran or Starfleet uniforms. Kira's
gaze moved from table to table until she spotted Quark. He
was near the back wall, having breakfast with somebody she
did not recognize, somebody clad in civilian clothes. The
stranger's light-blue skin and the bifurcated ridge running
down the center of his face identified him as a Bolian, no
doubt a trader on his way to or from the Gamma Quadrant.
    Kira slipped into the Replimat and weaved through the
morning diners. On her way past one table, she felt a tug at
her arm. She was moving with such purpose that she had
already taken another step before she was able to stop and
see that it had been Dax trying to get her attention.
    "Nerys," Dax said with a smile. "Join us for breakfast."
She was sitting with Worf.
    "I can't right now," Kira said hurriedly. "I have some-
thing to do." She started once more on her way toward the
back of the Replimat.
    "Listen," Quark was telling the Bolian as Kira ap-
proached the two, "Betazoid gift boxes aren't exported, so
their availability outside of Betazed is generally very low.
You couldn't find--"
    "Quark," Kira interrupted. He looked up at her, his wide
merchant's smile never faltering. "I want to talk to you,"
she told him.
    "Major," Quark acknowledged. "You seem to want to
talk to me a lot lately. Unfortunately, as you can see--" He
nodded his head in the direction of the Bolian. "mI'm in a
business meeting at the moment. If you would just---"
    "This won't take long," she cut him off. "I have some
news I'm sure you'll want to hear."
"I'm sure I will," Quark said in a manner that revealed he
was sure of no such thing. "But I don't have the time right
now."
    "That's all right," the Bolian interjected. "I think we're
done anyway." He pushed his chair back from the table and
stood up. Kira noticed that the Bolian had not been having
a meal; there were dishes only in front of Quark.
    "Wait," Quark said excitedly, jumping up from his own
chair. "I haven't even described the distinctive luxury
features of this particular gift box."
    "I've heard all I need to hear," responded the Bolian.
"Major," he said, politely bowing his head to Kira. He
started to leave.
    "Come by the bar later and I'll show you the box," Quark
called after the Bolian, leaning to one side so that he could
see past Kira. "It's quite a piece of merchandise."
    Kira turned and watched the Bolian exit the Replimat; he
did not look back.

    "Thank you, Major," Quark said sarcastically to Kira's
back. She turned to face him. "You may have just cost me a
sale."
    "Don't worry about it. I don't think he wanted to buy
from you anyway." Quark sat back down at the table and
picked up a half-empty glass of some clear liquid.
    "Even if that was true," Quark said after he had drunk a
couple of swallows, "I would have changed his mind." He
set the glass down.
    "It's your mind you need to worry about changingm
yours and the nagus's."
 "I already told you, there's nothing I can do."
    Kira smiled; it was an expression, she knew, that was not
filled with warmth. She sat down at the table opposite
Quark.
    "You'd better hope you're wrong about that," she offered
conversationally. "Because if you're not, then you'll no
longer have a home."
    "Really?. Well, then I guess I'll just have to go find myself
a nice peaceful moon somewhere." It was clear that Quark
did not take her suggestion seriously. He began to reach into
the bowl of noodles sitting before him.
    "Listen to too, Quark. Bajor officially responded this
morning to being removed from the bidding for the Orb."
    "And they decided that, because of what the nagus did
and the fact that I can't help you, I won't be allowed to live
on the station anymore?" Quark was rejecting, at least
outwardly, the notion that the Bajorans would take action
against him for what Grand Nagus Zek had done. But when
he pulled his hand from the bowl, Kira saw that he had not
grabbed any food.
    "What they decided was to demand that the nagus
reinstate Bajor in the final round of the auction within
exactly three days."
    "They demanded?" Quark seemed to consider this.
"Well, Major, I suppose I understand why your people
would do that, but I really don't see how that will change the
nagus's mind."
    "It might not," Kira granted. "But if the nagus doesn't
announce within three days that Bajor will be given another
opportunity to purchase our Orb--"
    "'Our Orb'?" Quark blurted. "I think you have your facts
wrong, Major."
    "If we're not given another chance to purchase our Orb,"
Kira continued, emphasizing that she had not misspoken,
"then all Ferengi will be evicted from Bajoran space."
 "Evicted? I can't be evicted; I have a business here."
    "Right now, you do," Kira said. "But three days from
now, that will all depend on Grand Nagus Zek."
    "Wonderful," Quark said. He seemed to deflate in his
chair. "Who am I supposed to trust to run the bar until this
pain in the lobes goes away? And what about my access to
the Gamma Quadrant? It will be extremely inconvenient if
I can't live on the station."
    "It won't matter where you live, Quark," Kira explained.
"No Ferengi will be permitted anywhere within the Bajoran
system, at any time. Nor will any Ferengi shipments. That
means you won't be able to travel through the wormhole, or
send or receive goods through it." Quark gaped at her; he
was obviously beginning to understand the practical and
very serious consequences for him in this situation.
    "But my business... so much of it depends on the
Gamma Quadrant .... "
    "Then I guess you'll just have to get there the hard way.
Let's see... if you take a ship at warp five, it should take
you--" She did a quick, rough calculation in her head.
"--oh, about three thousand years."
 "Thank you for your compassion."
    A surge of anger rose within Kira, and she felt her face
change: her eyes drew almost into a squint, her jaw set, any
trace of a smile disappeared.
    "Is it any less than the compassion you showed for Bajor
when we were told we would not be able to bring the Ninth
Orb home?"
    "I did have compassion for you," Quark argued loudly.
"But there was nothing I could do."
    "Well, I guess you'd better find something to do now."
She stood from the table. "And you won't have to find
somebody to manage the bar while you're gone. If the
deadline passes, your business will be nationalized and
made an asset of the Bajoran people--not that it's much of
an asset."
    "That's robbery," Quark yelled. He stared at Kira, his
eyes filled with venom.
    Kira met Quark's glare with her own. A slight movement
caught her attention then, and she looked at its source: the
bowl sitting on the table in front of Quark. She had thought
the bowl held short, stuffed noodles of some kind, but now
she recognized the meal for what it was: a serving of live
grubs. One had been bitten in half, she saw, and was oozing
a greenish ichor. Her stomach tightened at the sight.
    "You know, Major, this isn't fair." She raised her eyes to
look at Quark. "I didn't do anything."
    She was astonished that he could even begin to defend
himself.
    "No, you didn't do anything," she said. "But you should
have." She left without waiting for him to respond.




CHAPTER
        5

QrAmo's ~oEe. s dashed across the controls of the comm
panel in his quarters like the legs of a trained and hyperac-
tive spider. The display reacted to his movements, spinning
out webs of text in all directions. His hands paused briefly,
hovering, as his eyes sought to inspect the results of his
queries. Then, not satisfied, he dexterously operated the
panel once more.
    The chaotic readout buzzed electronically, blinked, and
changed. Quark leaned forward in his chair to examine the
new data, but his brother, standing beside the comm panel,
bent in past him and obstructed his view. Quark tried to see
around him, but Rom's nose was nearly pressed against the
display.
    "Do you mind?" Quark scolded. Rom turned to look at
Quark without managing to get out of the way.
    "What?" Rom asked. A look of confusion decorated his
features: his eyelids were half-closed, his mouth was haft-
open, his brow was furrowed.
    "As empty as your head is most of the time," Quark
upbraided his brother, "it's not transparent, and I'd like to
be able to see what I'm doing."

"Oh," Rom offered feebly. "Sorry." He straightened and
moved behind Quark's seat.
    Quark returned his attention to the comm panel. The
contents of the file he had just located and dumped filled the
screen. He began to peruse the data, but after a few seconds,
he was distracted by something he detected in his peripheral
vision. He turned his head to find Rom leaning over his
shoulder, peering intently at the display. The light glow of
the readout shined on Rom's face.
    Quark watched his brother for a few moments, expecting
him to register his further irritation and back away. When
that showed no signs of happening, though, Quark decided
to surrender the battle and resume his work.
    He scanned the corem panel. To him, the readout resem-
bled a visual puzzle: the irregular polygonal shapes and
circular sections of the station's so-called shatterframe
displays always looked like related pieces that failed to fit
together properly. Having spent nearly a decade on Deep
Space Nine--all the way back to when the Cardassians had
manned the station as Terok Nor--Quark had certainly
gained a facility in understanding and using the graphical
interface of the Cardassian-built computer, but he had
never grown to like it.
    Some of the splendid symbols and patterns of the Ferengi
language spread across the comm panel now as Quark
searched through the file he had just downloaded from a
database on his native world. The Ferengi text looked like
artwork, Quark thought, particularly when juxtaposed with
the relatively dull characters of Federation Standard also on
the screen. Unfortunately, even though the text was aesthet-
ically pleasing, Quark found as he scrolled through the data
that it did not contain the information he wanted. He
sighed in frustration and weariness.
    "What's the matter, brother?" Rom asked. "Can't you
find him?"
    Quark switched off the comm panel. The screen went
dark. In the glossy, black surface of the now-empty display,
he saw both his own reflection and that of his brother, and it
occurred to him that Rom almost never called him by his
name.
      "No," Quark answered, swiveling in his seat to face Rom,
 who backed up a step. "I don't think he's there."
  "Not where?"
  "On Ferenginar."
    "Oh." Rom seemed to consider this. "But where else
would he be?"
    "He could be anywhere, you idiot." Quark stood up,
brushed by Rom, and paraded over to the sofa.
    "Maybe you should leave him a message like you did for
the others."
    "I would leave him a message if I knew where to leave
one," Quark explained, aggravated with his brothefts en-
during inability to understand the simplest concepts. Rom
was family, and valuable in his own way--when he had
worked in the bar, he had single-handedly kept its electron-
ics up and running--but he was often an annoyance, and
sometimes even a burden.
    Quark let himself drop onto the soft cushions of the sofa.
It was late and he wanted to sleep, but even though he was
tired, he knew his mind would not rest until his fears had
been allayed. He felt optimistic that the nagus and the
Bajorans would arrive at a compact regarding the Orb, and
that his bar would therefore remain his, and yet without
actual confirmation of an impending agreement, he found
that his optimism fell short of certainty.
    "Maybe one of the others you left messages for will
contact you soon," Rom suggested hopefully.
"Maybe," Quark agreed, though without conviction.
Rom apparently had no response to that. He started to
wander aimlessly about the room, first over to the outer
bulkhead and the window there, then back over to the
comm panel. Quark watched as his brother made several
trips back and forth, eventually stopping by the comm
panel and pushing in the chair. Rom stared at the blank
display for a short time, then came over and joined Quark
on the sofa.
    The two sat together awhile without talking. The room
was dimly lighted right now, and relatively quiet; the deep
thrum of the station's power core was the only sound, and it
was barely distinguishable. Quark found himself staring at

 the wall, his mind drifting. Again, he thought about sleep,
 and again, he dismissed the possibility.  
"Brother?" Rom finally said.
     "What is it?" Quark asked, still looking straight ahead.
 He knew what Rom was going to say.
  "I don't want to have to leave Deep Space Nine."
  Bull's-eye, as O'Brien or Bashir might have said.
  "Don't worry, Rom."
  "But I like it here."
  "Don't worry," Quark repeated.
    "I mean, I have friends here, and I'm on Chief O'Brien's
engineering team," Rom continued plaintively. "This place
is my home."
    "Stop whining," Quark snapped loudly, turning quickly
on the sofa to face his brother. Rom flinched away, as
though Quark had moved to strike him. "Listen," Quark
went on, softening his tone, "I told you not to worry about
this; we're not going to have to leave."
    "If you really believe that," Rom wanted to know, "then
why are you trying to contact all those people on Feren-
ginar?"
    "It's not 'all those people'; I've tried to contact four
people there, and one of them doesn't even appear to be on
the planet anymore."
    "But why are you trying to contact anybody on Ferengi-
nar at all?"
    "I just want to make sure that Grand Nagus Zek is going
to allow the Bajorans back in the auction for the Orb, that's
all. Once I've confirmed that, won't you feel better?"
    "Yes," Rom admitted, "but how can you be so sure that's
what he's going to do?"
"Because that's what makes the best business sense."
"You may think letting the Bajorans bid for the Orb is
good business," Rom said with obvious alarm, "but what if
the nagus doesn't think so?"
    Quark rolled his eyes and dropped his head into his
hands. This had certainly been a day of surprises; it had
begun with Kira telling him he might have only three days
to vacate the station, and it was now approaching its end
with Rom--Rom.t--challenging his financial acuity.
    That's like having a Klingon question your sensitivity,
Quark joked to himself. Unless you happened to be an
active volcano, the Klingon would have no basis to do so.
    "Rom," Quark began, lifting his head back up. "I know
you don't have the lobes for business, but even you can
understand this." Quark did not really feel like explaining
the situation, but neither did he feel like listening to Rom
fret about it. He stood up and paced over to the window. Off
to the left, he spied a lighted speck moving swiftly against
the static background of the stars. Quark watched it ap-
proach DS9 until it was near enough to recognize as one of
the station's runabouts, and then he turned to face Rom
across the room. "The holder of a simple auction," he said,
leaning back against the bulkhead and folding his arms
across his chest, "makes the most profit by selling his goods
to the highest bidder."
 "I know that, brother."
    "Good," Quark said, genuinely pleased that Rom pos-
sessed even that much business knowledge. "But the auc-
tion for the Orb is no longer simple, since the Bajorans have
placed conditions on its outcome. If the nagns sells to the
highest bidder now, he'll make an immediate profit, but
he'll also lose far more in future profits because he won't be
able to continue his numerous business ventures in the
Gamma Quadrant."
    "That's right," Rom said excitedly, getting to his feet. He
sounded as though he had just experienced a revelation.
"The nagns does do a lot of business in the Gamma
Quadrant."
  "Yes, he does."
  "But... ?"
    "But what?" Quark asked, somewhat harshly. It was
frustrating to think that he had calmed his brother's fears,
only to discover in the next instant that he had not. But
quelling Rom's anxieties and keeping him secure, Quark
had long ago realized, were among the most difficult tasks in
the galaxy.
    "The nagus could just get other people to ship products
into and out of the Gamma Quadrant for him," Rom
reasoned.

     "Yes, but employing intermediaries to act clandestinely
 on the nagus's behalf would be very costly; it would
 radically diminish, if not totally destroy, his profit margin."
     "Oh," Rom said noncommittally. Then, after mulling it
 over for a moment, he added, "You're fight." He actually
 sounded sure.
    "Of course I'm right." Quark turned in place and
propped his hands atop the curved sill of the window. The
metal composing the bulkhead was cool against his palms.
He peered out at the approximate place where the worm-
hole was visible when it was open. "Believe me, brother,"
he told Rom, "Zek needs the wormhole a lot more than he
needs the few extra bars of latinurn he might be able to get
from selling the Orb to somebody other than the Bajorans."
    Quark heard Rom's footsteps as he walked over from the
sofa. He stood beside Quark and gazed out the window with
him.
  "Thanks. I feel much better now."
  "Are you sure?"
  "Yes, I'm sure."
    "Good." Quark regarded his brother and saw what ap-
peared to be an expression of genuine relief on his face.
Abruptly, he was reminded of another time, back in their
youth on Ferenginar, when Rom had worn a similar visage.
    The incident that had led to that time had started for
Quark when Rom ducked through the short, circular door-
way into the front room of their family's home. Rom did
not even bother to shake the rain from his clothes before
coming inside. Instead, he scurried through the front room,
droplets of water falling from him and spattering the floor
in his wake. He ignored Quark and their parents, rushing
through the house to the bedroom he and Quark shared.
That was the first indication that something was not right:
the usually loquacious Rom never came home without
wanting to share the events of his day with the entire family.
    Father immediately followed Rom to his and Quark's
room; Quark and Mother trailed along behind. They found
Rom manic and distraught: he bounded frenetically about
the room like the ball in a dabo wheel. It took some time
before Father was able to coax him into sitting down on his
bed and keeping still, and even longer to persuade him to
confide his troubles. When Rom finally recounted the cause
of his agitation, his story came in fits and spasms, and it was
mixed with tears.
    Rom admitted that he had been transacting business with
other boys outside of school over the course of the past
several seasons. Such behavior was not atypical for a boy of
Rom's age and inexperience; learning the process of deal-
making was considered an important and necessary step on
the journey to manhood, and figuring it out on the street
was often more valuable than studying it in school.
    Quark thought he saw pride in their father's countenance
at Rom's disclosure, although Father hid it from Rom,
whose bearing remained grave. Their mother, smiling be-
hind a hand she raised to her mouth, also seemed pleased,
and understandably so; after all, she had been the one to
teach the Rules of Acquisition to both of her boys. And
Quark himself was gratified that his brother was at last
demonstrating the willingness and the ability to succeed at
the Ferengi way of life.
But then Rom confessed that he had not succeeded.
Some of the boys with whom he had done business were
older and more adept than he was, and one of themmBreek
or Breel, Quark thought now, unable to recall the boy's
name with surety--had maneuvered Rom into a desperate
position. A debt had arisen from the many deals Rom had
made, insignificant in its magnitude, but inescapable in its
terms. Breek-or-Breel had obtained this marker on the sly
and presented it during a brief period of time in which Rom
found himself completely without resources. Rom had been
left with no alternative but to offer remuneration in what-
ever manner his unexpected creditor would allow. Amid a
large group of boys from school, Breek-or-Breel insisted
that, as payment, he be given ownership of Rom's right
hand.
    Quark remembered how small and humiliated his broth-
er had looked as he had related his woeful tale. Rom had
resisted the outrageous demand, even though he had been
confident that Breek-or-Breel would never require him to
amputate his hand or do something with it he did not wish
to do. He understood that, for the older boy, the lawful
change of ownership of a part of another person's anatomy
was trophy enough, proof to himself and to his cohorts that
he had mastered the art of business manipulation. But for
Rom, the consequences would still be cruel. In the end,
though, there had been nothing else he could do but
acquiesce.
    As Rom finished telling his family what had befallen him,
his crying became uncontrollable, his whole body shaking
furiously as he sobbed. Father held him and rocked him
back and forth. Mother went to him too, trying to help calm
him.
    Quark observed all of this in silence from the doorway,
until he could watch the pathetic tableau no longer. He fled
to the main room of the house in order to escape his family,
but he could not escape his own thoughts. He regretted what
had happened to his brother, but at the same time, he
recognized that business deals created profit and loss; this
time, Rom had lost. Quark believed that Father should not
have been attempting to soothe Rom, but to educate him to
be a better businessman; Rom's need to learn the craft of
commerce was far greater than his need to have his tears
dried.
    That night, Rom dropped quickly off to asleep, evidently
exhausted from his emotional day, but Quark's own emo-
tions would allow him no rest. It was late when he heard
somebody leaving the house. He jumped up out of bed and
cracked the bedroom window in time to see Father making
his way purposefully into the street. Quark knew right away
that he was headed to confront or Breek-or-Breel's own
father. That, far more than Rom's business failure, dis-
gusted Quark: Rom had made a deal, and it was both
inappropriate and weak for their father to seek redress for
the lawful results of that deal. Breek-or-Breel's father evi-
dently concurred with that opinion, for Quark learned the
next day that he had refused to take any action to alter the
outcome of the business that had transpired between his son
and Rom.
    Appalled by his father's impotence, embarrassed by his
brother's incompetence, and giving no thought at all to his
mother--she was only a female, and therefore without legal
or financial power in Ferengi society--Quark felt the weight
of the responsibility to protect his family fall upon himself.
Under the pretense of tutoring Rom in business, he ex-
tracted from his brother a precise accounting of all the
business he had conducted during the past year. He also
began to covertly research the financial status of Breek-or-
Breel and his family. Eventually, Quark constructed and
implemented some deals of his own.
    It took nearly a year, but ultimately, Breek-or-Breel
suffered much the same fate as he had brought to Rom.
Quark managed to obtain a sizable number of specific types
of debts that Breek-or-Breel owed. These debts all h_ad
variable terms, with the highest margins for the creditors
coming with the passage of time. But Quark did not wait to
collect; instead, he called in each of the debts at the same
time. Breek-or-Breel, unable to immediately discharge all of
the obligations at once, was constrained to negotiate with
Quark. In short order, ownership of Rom's right hand
passed to Quark, and then on to Rom.
    The expression of relief that had appeared on Rom's face
all those years ago when Quark had presented him with the
title to the legally missing piece of his own body, Quark saw,
greatly resembled Rom's expression of relief now at realiz-
ing that they would not have to leave Deep Space Nine.
    He should have been relieved back then, Quark thought. I
charged him next to nothing when I sold him back his hand.
    "Brother," Rom asked, intruding into Quark's reminis-
cence. Quark took his hands from the windowsill and
straightened up. "What would have happened if we had
been forced to leave the station? Where would we have
gone?"
    "It doesn't matter," Quark told him, annoyed. He could
not tell whether Rom was merely speculating, or whether he
now doubted what Quark had told him and was once again
concerned about their immediate future. "It's pointless to
even think about it."
"I guess we would have gone to stay with Moogie, huh?"
"Absolutely not." Quark despised their childhood nick-
name for their mother, but his brother had never outgrown
using it.
    Quark looked over at the doorway to his bedroom.
Perhaps he should reconsider trying to get some sleep; Rom
was tiring him out. But no; fatigued as he was, he knew he
would only lie awake in bed. Ever since he had been a boy,
incomplete or uncertain business matters had afflicted him
with insomnia. Instead of heading for bed, he padded back
over to the sofa and flopped back down on it.
 "Brother?"
    "Will you trust me, Rom?" Quark said. "We're not going
to have to leave. I'm going to stay right here on the station
and use my connections in the Gamma Quadrant until I
earn enough profits so that I canto"
     "mSo that you can buy your own moon," Rom finished
for him excitedly. "Yes."
    "I can't wait until you have your own moon, brother."
Quark glanced over and saw Rom smiling widely, his hands
joyfully clasped together in front of him; he looked like a
child. Then, as Quark watched, the smile transformed into a
frown. "But what if---"
    "Stop it," Quark yelled, grabbing a pillow from the sofa
and throwing it across the room at his brother, it flew past
Rom, hit the window with a muted thump, and fell to the
floor. "It's not going to happen. Listen, ever since Sisko
blackmailed me into staying here and keeping the bar open,
everybody else has been trying to push me off the station."
Quark stopped, suddenly inundated by the memories of all
the difficulties he had abided since Starfleet had taken over
DS9. "Odo would love to throw me in the brig for all
eternity, Worf'd be happy to have me as an appetizer with
dinner some night, and Kira..." Quark trailed off without
finishing, suddenly not comfortable recognizing aloud all of
the animosity so often shown to him.
 "She doesn't like you," Rom noted.
    "Thank you, I know that." Quark stood up and walked
over to the window, bent down, and picked up the pillow.
"She continued to make that abundantly clear this morning
when she so gleefully told me that we might have to leave.
You know, I think she just hates Ferengi."
    "She wasn't mean to me when she told me. She even
seemed sorry about it."
    "She talked to you too?" Quark asked. He tossed the
pillow back onto the sofa.
"Yeah. I think she told all the Ferengi on the station about
the situation. She is the Bajoran liaison."
    "Well, she probably was mean, and you just didn't
understand it."
    Before Rom could respond, a signal from the comm panel
sounded. Quark and Rom glanced at each other as the
computer announced: "Incoming transmission."
    Rom arrived in front of the comm panel first, but Quark,
following, pushed him off to the side; he did not want his
brother visible to whoever was contacting him. He touched
a control to activate the comm panel, then another to
receive the transmission. The display came to life, revealing
the image of a formally dressed Ferengi. The man's jacket
was accoutred with the emblem of the nagus's palace, and
an impressive, bejeweled chain hung about his neck.
    "Quark, you one-lobed wonder," the man squawked. He
wore a broad smile on his face, his ragged dental work
erupting from his mouth at all angles.
    "Listen to who's talking, Zhrel," Quark retorted, also
smiling. "At least I don't have to wait for the nagus's hand-
me-down business tips to earn a living." Zhrel was one of
Zek's financial functionaries, holding a minor place in the
grand nagus's extensive commercial operations.
    "That's right: you can make bad deals on your own,
without any help at all."
    "If you only knew what I've been up to." On the surface,
Quark was playing with Zhrel, as he normally would, but he
also could not stop himself from thinking about his marvel-
ous deal of a few weeks ago.
    "How can you be sure I don't know what you've been up
to?" Zhrel asked.
    "You don't know," Quark asserted. "But believe me,
you'd like to."
    "What I'd like," Zhrel declared, "are the ten strips of
gold-pressed latinum you promised on your message if I
returned your transmission."
    "I said I'd give you five strips oflatinum if you answered a
question for me."
    "You want information?" Zhrel asked with obviously
reigned incredulity. "I think that should cost more than five
strips."

     "Perhaps it should," Quark agreed. "By the way, how is
 that crazy woman of yours? Parilka, is it?"
     "Yes, Parilka. She's fine, why do you ask?" Zhrel sounded
 suspicious.
      "Oh, I was just curious if that holorecording of her attired
in that freighter officer's uniform was ever made public."
 "How do you know about that?" Zhrel demanded.
 "Like I said," Quark offered smugly, "there's a great deal
 about me you'd like to know." Quark had heard this rumor
 about Parilka the last time he had been on Ferenginar, but
 he was not actually in possession of any holorecording. He
 required so little from Zhrel, though, that he believed he
could easily bluff his way through this conversation.
 "Will I still get the latinurn?" Zhrel asked.
    "Just a minute," Quark said. Impatient, he expertly
worked the console until he had initiated a transfer of
twenty strips of gold-pressed latinum--a full bar--from
one of his accounts on Bajor directly into Zhrel's holdings
on Ferenginar; it was usually good practice to keep some of
Zek's men on your side by bribing them with more than
they deserved. "There. Do you see the transfer?"
    "Yes," Zhrel said, working the controls of his own comm
panel. "It's confirmed. Now, what is it you want?" He did
not even acknowledge the inflated paymenL
    "Just one basic piece of information: Is the nagus going to
reinstate the Bajorans in the auction for the Orb?"
    "That's it? That's easy. The nagus was going to issue a
statement tomorrow, but I can tell you now what he's going
to say. There is nothing the Bajorans can do that will
compel him to reverse his earlier decision."
    Quark felt his lobes go cold. Off to the side of the comm
panel, a shocked yelp escaped Rom's lips.
 "What?" Quark asked. "Are you sure?"
    "You sound surprised, Quark. Did you really think that
the nagus would succumb to financial terrorism?"
    "But not allowing the Bajorans... that doesn't make any
sense... the Second Rule of Acquisition..." Quark could
not seem to unite all of his thoughts into a coherent
sentence. His words were being jumbled in his head by the
certainty of his nowqmpending expulsion from Deep Space
Nine.
 "About that holorecording..." Zhrel said.
    "Don't worry," Quark said without inflection; he was
numb. "I don't have it."
    "Somehow, I didn't think you did," Zhrel said evenly.
"As always, Quark, it's been a pleasure doing business with
you."
 "And with you."
    Zhrel broke the subspace connection, and the words
XRA~SMISSION appeared on the display, superimposed atop
the symbol of the Ferengi Alliance. Rom stepped over to the
comm panel and leaned heavily against it.
 "What are we going to do, brother?"
    Quark gazed at Rom and answered him with the only
reasonable solution that occurred to him.
    "We're going to do the one thing we can do: we're going to
beg."

CHAPTER
        6

THE BUILDING that housed the office of First Minister
Shakaar sat not in the center of Bajor's capital city, but on
its outskirts. On the balcony just outside the office, Shakaar
stood with his face angled up toward the clear azure sky,
basking in the enchanting blanket of warmth provided by
the springtime sun. The rich green landscape, dotted here
and there with nascent bursts of wildflower color, was a
glory to the eye, and the sweet scents of growth and renewal
were an ambrosia in this season of sowing.
    After fighting for more than a quarter of a century to free
his world and its people from the Cardassian Occupation,
Shakaar found that there were few things that pleased him
more than simply gazing out at the majestic Bajoran wilder-
ness slipping away to the horizon. In those quiet moments,
he approached as close to a state of inner peace as he was
ever likely to get. Years spent on the run, leading friends and
strangers into guerrilla raids that often left them maimed or
dead, with home not even a memory, but merely a dream of
a future that would probably never come... all had left
Shakaar scarred. Although some of those scars might pale,
he accepted that none of them would ever completely
vanish. In this life, he knew, serenity would never truly be
his, but he contented himself with an occasional glimpse at
its elusive promise.
    Those glimpses were the reasons that, when he had been
elected to the highest political station on Bajor, Shakaar had
chosen to relocate the first minister's office here, to the
periphery of the city. But while the city was not a refuge for
tranquillity, Shakaar certainly acknowledged that it was
beautiful in ways that the undeveloped land of Bajor was
not. The loveliness of the city was different than the love-
liness of nature, an art practiced not by the Prophets, but by
the people themselves. Pedestrian thoroughfares and public
squares accented the people's joyous sense of community,
the melting together of voices in these gathering places an
ever-changing song. Buildings flowed together with a re-
markable fluidity and grace, a man-made sea of rounded
forms and vibrant colors. The architecture was more than
art: it was culture and history and hope.
    Like all of Bajor, the city had been ransacked during the
Occupation, its treasures plundered, its monuments aban-
doned to the ruinous effects of the elements. Bajor had
never been a home to the Cardassians, only a conquered
land to be stripped of everything of value and left to die.
They had made no efforts to maintain the cities or the lands
during the Occupation, and when they had finally with-
drawn, it had been with a malicious contempt: buildings
had been burned and soil poisoned all over the planet.
    And yet, even after these obscenities had been visited
upon them, the people of Bajor had remained proud of who
they were and of what their world represented to them. In
just three and a half years, they had made great progress in
their quest to restore the physical beauty of their planet, and
nowhere was that progress more visible than in the capital,
a vigorous and undeniable symbol of the people's collective
will to endure.
    Shakaar walked to the end of the balcony, leaned out over
the railing, and peeked around the comer of the building.
He eyed dusty patches of brown twining through the nearby
trees, unpaved roads that marked the outer reaches of the
capital. Beyond, he could see the city grow until it reached
its heart. At the very center of the city, the renovated
structure of the Great Assembly claimed the highest point
around, its wide, shallow dome sitting atop a circle of regal
columns.
    For Shakaar, the capital was both a link to the past and a
reminder of the future. For even though the Cardassians
were gone, some of their footprints remained, and that
meant there was work yet to be accomplished. He did not
view this as a burden; it was an inevitability. Rebuilding
Bajor and its culture had become his life, and it would no
doubt become his legacy. He felt no bitterness that there
was no genuine peace in his love for his people and their
world, How could there be peace, he often wondered, when
he now knew that his duty to them would not end in this
portion of his existence? When eventually he came to walk
with the Prophets in the Celestial Temple, he had faith that
he would at last be able to rest. Sometimes when he thought
about his desire for repose, it was a struggle to avoid
growing resentful, for why should a man be made to have
such an acute need for something so basic?
    One does with a life what one must, Shakaar told himself.
He moved back to the middle of the balcony, planning to
look out once more across the natural splendor of his world,
but what he saw instead were the events that had defined his
life. Yes, one does what one has to do, he thought again.
Circumstances were what they were, and he would do
whatever he could for his people, and love doing so, until
the day his life ended.
    For all of Shakaar's adult life--and even before that, in
his youth--what he had been able to do for his people had
been to battle ceaselessly against tyrannical invaders. The
straggles of the group of Resistance fighters he had come to
lead during the Occupation had evolved into something of a
modern legend; the Resistance cell had even come to be
known by his name. Reports and rumors of their engage-
ments had abounded during the fighting, he knew, and
bothmreports and rumorsmhad now passed into the realm
of history. In truth, many of the tales now told about his
cellmand many other stories concerning the rebellion, he
was sure--were exaggerated, or even apocryphal. There had
been successes against the CardassianstShakaar was espe-
cially proud of his role in liberating the forced-labor camp
at Gallitep, at which unspeakable atrocities had routinely
been committed under the command of Gul Darhe'el--but
those successes could be measured only by individuals: the
man who had not been killed, the mother who had not been
mutilated, the daughter who had not been raped. Those had
all been laudable and important triumphs, of course, but
they had fallen far short of the ultimate objective of the
Resistance, which had been to repel the Cardassians. In that
regard, Shakaar and his compatriots had failed: the Cardas-
sians had left Bajor when they had wanted to leave, and that
had only been once they had torn all of the readily har-
vested resources from it. That the various Resistance cells
had been at all effective in repelling the Occupation had
been an illusion, a desperate wish to cleave to on the cold
nights when people had felt lost and beaten and so far from
home that it had seemed they might never see it again.
    What Shakaar believed he had really done for Bajor was
to keep the dreams and aspirations of its people alive. And
even that had been less his doing and more the deep,
abiding spirituality of the people themselves. The rich
heritage and religion of Bajor had truly provided the hopes
to which all had clung
    And yet Shakaar continued a hero. Because of that, when
the opporUmity to seek the position of first minister had
arisen, he had eas'dy won the election. Shakaar had not
relished the prospect of assuming the mantle of the highest
office in the land, nor had he even anticipated the possibili-
ty. After the Occupation had ended, he had effectively
attempted to "retire," traveling back to Dahkur, the prov-
ince in which he had been born. There, with friends from
the Resistance, he had sought to eke out an existence as a
simple farmer.
    But then First Minister Kalem Apren had diedtof nat-
ural causes, in his sleep--and the provisional government
had appointed Kai Winn to replace him on a temporary
basis, until a special election could be organized. When it
had become clear that Winn would run in the election,
Shakaar, like many others, had understood the necessity
that she be opposed. Because he had also felt it crucial that
she be defeated, he had allowed himseft to be drafted to run
against her; his popularity as a hero of the Resistance, he
had known, would bring him victory.
    It had not been because Shakaar thought that Winn
would have done a poor job that he had wanted to prevent
her from being elected to a six-year term as first minister.
Whether or not her means of governing would have been
fight for Bajor, he genuinely did not know. As kai, she had
servedrand would no doubt continue to serve--admira-
bly well as the spiritual leader of the people. There was no
doubt of her faith, and her actions--whether one agreed
with them or not--had always seemed buttressed with the
intention of helping Bajor; this had been true even during
her brief tenure as first minister. She was a courageous
figure as well, having lived through five years in one of the
Cardassian camps; after witnessing the survivors of Galli-
tel), Shakaar could honestly say that he would not have
wished such an experience on anyone, not even on a
Cardassian.
    But for all of that, Shakaar also thought that Winn was
potentially dangerous. Her religious beliefs sometimes
verged on fanaticism, and as a result, she had sometimes
brought Bajor to the edge of precipitous issues. And al-
though she had demonstrated on many occasions her abili-
ties to be good and kind, she had also displayed tendencies
to be unforgiving and self-righteous~and even, when it had
furthered her ends, a liar.
    Still, Winn was so enigmatic that it was possible that in
any capacity of leadership, civil or ecclesiastic, she might
yet be a savior for the Bajoran people. But because she
believed that herself, Shakaar thought that she also posed a
great threat to those she would be striving to help. As a self-
styled messiah, Winn granted herself a moral imperative
she did not truly possess, even as kai. "Minister?"
    Shakaar jumped, startled from his thoughts. He turned
away from the lush vista spread out before him and around
toward the doorway separating his office from the balcony.
Just beyond the threshold stood Kai Winn.
    "I'm sorry, Eminence," Shakaar said. "I didn't hear you
come back in." At his prompting, he and the kai had taken a
few moments' pause during their morning meeting; he had
felt the need for a respite before moving on to discuss the
issues of the Ninth Orb and the Ferengi. The kai had
indulged him, but now it was clear that she wanted to
continue their meeting.
    "Not at all," Winn replied. Although her words and
demeanor appeared neutral, Shakaar detected something in
her mannermperhaps it was the forced, unnatural evenness
of her voice--that suggested rancor. And he had seen the
muscles of her jaw tighten when he had addressed her as
"Eminence," from which he inferred that she suspected he
was being less than sincere. Even though that was untrue, he
understood the source of her feelings: the two had certainly
had vociferous disagreements with each other in the recent
past, both privately and publicly. There was also the issue of
his having opposed her for the position of first minister.
Winn had quickly withdrawn from the race after Shakaar's
entry into it, and she had even been an advocate for his
campaign, but Shakaar was unsure whether her support had
been a matter of her confidence in his abilities, or of her
plain, pragmatic view that she would best be served by
endorsing the eventual winner of the election. He thought
that it had probably been the latter case; he sensed from her
a consciously buried bitterness born of a poorly hidden
belief that she would have been a better selection for the
high office.
    "It's just that I look out at our land sometimes, and I lose
myself in its beauty," Shakaar said, explaining his day-
dreaming. "The Prophets have been generous with us."
    Although he was not often vocal about it, Shakaar was a
devout man. As a leader, though, he had always felt it
necessary to hold his religious beliefs close to himself, to
avoid spiritual conflicts with those who followed him. That
was particularly important now, he felt, because of his
position as first minister. For while most Bajorans em-
braced the same basic doctrine--beliefs in the divinity of
the Prophets, in the existence of the Celestial Temple, in the
sanctity of the Orbs--there were also differences among
those who maintained that doctrine; and there were of
course those who possessed a thoroughly distinct set of
tenets, as well as those who held to no religion at all.

Shakaar had been chosen to lead all of his people, regardless
of their personal beliefs, and so he felt it appropriate, and
ultimately best, to insure that his own faith did not interfere
with the business of his governing.
    "We are truly blessed," Kai Winn told him, agreeing with
his assessment of the bounty that was their world. "Unfor-
tunately, there is little time right now to spend appreciating
the land; we have much work to do."
    She is so hardened, Shakaar thought, without antipathy.
Her time in the camps must have been so difficult.
    Shakaar held the post of kai in high esteem, and despite
his numerous disagreements with her, he regarded the
woman occupying that post with similar respect. Winn was
not somebody whose opinions could easily be dismissed;
she was insightful, and her perspective was never without
reason or thoughtful consideration. Much of the time,
Shakaar concurred with her viewpoints, and when he did
not, she was sometimes able to demonstrate to him how his
own conclusions had been reached in error. And no matter
their differences, they shared a common vision: Bajor, safe
and free, independent and strong, resurgent.
    "Yes," Shakaar agreed. "I guess we do have work to do."
He started forward, taking in a healthy breath and the
wafting scents of spring--was that the savory smell of a
nerak blossom he detected?--before stepping through the
doorway and back into his office.
    Inside, the kai crossed to an overstuffed chair and sat
down. Shakaar followed, taking a seat on a sofa next to her.
There was no conference table or desk in the office; Shakaar
found it difficult to sit in one place for very long, the by-
product, he supposed, of his many years on the run. During
the Occupation, whenever he had needed to do something,
he had managed to do it wherever he happened to be at that
moment. Although he was now constrained to labor in this
office much of the time, he still completed most of his work
in that fashion: standing, leaning, sitting on the floor,
wherever he happened to be in the room.
    "We have made it clear to the Ferengi," Winn reviewed,
"that all of Bajor is united in our quest for the return of the
Ninth Orb."
 "Yes."
"Our peremptory position is strong and unambiguous,"
she continued.
    "I believe it is, but there's been no official response yet
from the Ferengi nagus. There are reports here on Bajor of
his impending compliance, but I believe those are only
rumors created by the people's considerable desire to secure
custody of the Orb. We have nothing conclusive, and there's
been no word at all from either Major Kira or the Emissary
on Deep Space Nine."
    "We must be prepared, then, to act on the admonition we
delivered to the Ferengi," Winn asserted. Her strength and
certitude were a marvel to Shakaar; he wished that he
shared her confidence in the course they had chosen in this
matter.
    "I understand," he said, "but we should speak plainly
about this, at least with each other: we did not present an
'admonition' to the Ferengi; we threatened them."
    "You are entitled to that interpretation, of course," Winn
said, diplomatically disregarding his point. "However, it
remains that Bajor must be ready to carry forth with the
actions we promised should our request not be honored. If
we do not act, then we enfeeble ourselves, deprive ourselves
of our own power."
    "I agree, Eminence, but I have to confess that I am not
entirely comfortable with our threat." Shakaar elected to
ignore Winn's substitution of words like admonition and
request for what their official communiqu6 to Ferenginar
had been, just as she had elected to ignore his employment
of the word threat.
    "You do not doubt that this is for the greater good,
child?"
    "No," Shakaar answered. Although Winn often used the
appellation child when speaking with individual Bajorans,
chiefly with those younger than she was, Shakaar had
difficulty believing that it was not intended to carry some
derogatory connotation in this instance. "But it seems
unfair to act against all Ferengi when it is only the deeds of
one, the nagus, which impede us."
    "It may or may not be unfair," Winn said, "but it is
politically necessary. Were we to attempt to take action
exclusively against Grand Nagus Zek, and not to prohibit
all Ferengi from passing through our system in order to
travel to the Gamma Quadrant, there is little question that
there would be those Ferengi who would function as his
surrogates. It might be somewhat more toilsome for him to
conduct business, perhaps even somewhat less profitable,
but he would not measurably be affected."
    "Even if we close our borders to all Ferengi, the nagns will
surely employ other agents to do business for him in the
Gamma Quadrant anyway."
    "Which is the reason we must also step up our customs
policing, coincident with closing the borders." As was
usually the case, Winn was prepared to answer all criticisms
and defend all proposals.
    Because she's right about this, Shakaar thought. But that
did not mean they were required to ignore the unattractive
aspects of what they were about to do.
    "It just seems harsh to me," he admitted. Winn looked at
him for a few moments before responding, taking the
measure of him in some way he could not quite apprehend.
    "It is harsh to me as well," Winn told him. She stood, and
he moved to stand up too, out of politeness, but she stopped
him with a gesture. "Minister Shakaar, I am not without a
heart."
"Forgive me, Eminence; I did not mean to imply--"
"But neither am I taken with the notion of some person
or faction conducting themselves heedlessly, with no con-
sideration of--and in contrast to--what our people want
and need." Winn's voice had risen slightly; she took a
moment to gather herself, then paced across the office as she
continued. When she spoke again, it was with her back to
Shakaar. "It is critical that we do not display weakness in
this matter, for Bajor is already widely perceived in that
vein." She stopped near the doorway leading to the balcony
and looked out.
    "Frankly, I really don't care what anybody outside of
Bajor thinks of us," Shakaar said, moderating his tone with
deliberate effort; he did not want Winn to interpret his
statement as an attack.
 "I find that unfortunate," Winn said, almost as though
 she were expressing an afterthought. "Four and a half
 decades ago, nobody cared about the Cardassians' assess-
 ment of Bajor."
  Shakaar was thunderstruck. He shot to his feet.
     "Are you suggesting that our people were responsible for
 the Occupation?" he demanded to know. He immediately
 regretted asking the question.
  Of course that's not what she meant.
     Shakaar expected the kai to whirl on him and raise her
 voice in anger. That would have been a normal reaction, he
 thought; it was the way he would have reacted. Instead,
 Winn slowly turned her head to face him, then returned to
 gazing out through the balcony doorway.
    "No, child," she said. "That is not what I am suggesting
at all." Winn's tone remained calm, though her words were
delivered with control.
    Her reserve, Shakaar thought, was remarkable; she was as
unfiappable as a stone. He did not know whether she lived
each day with absolute peace of mind, but it was that serene
state that she almost never failed to project.
    "But perhaps if Bajor had not been such an obvious target
for the Cardassians," she continued, "history would have
been kinder to us." She slipped away from the doorway and
walked back across the room to Shakaar. "To that end," she
told him earnestly, "we cannot allow history to repeat."
    "My pardon, Eminence. Of course that is the point you
wanted to make. But this is hardly the same situation."
    "If we allow ourselves to be trod upon by one group in
this situation, it encourages the next group to try to do the
same and more in the next situation. And they will be able
to do it, because we will have lost our will, perhaps even our
ability, to stop them. We will have learned to meekly accept
defeat, even to justify to ourselves that this is the path the
Prophets have chosen for us."
    "I understand your arguments." Shakaar sighed and
wiped his fingers across his forehead; they came away damp
with perspiration. He had not noticed before now, but the
offce had grown much warmer as the day had progressed.
"And I agree with your arguments. You must know I believe
that, when it is warranted, a battle must be waged; I led our
peoplere"

    "I am aware of your accomplishments, Minister," Wirm
interrupted, "just as you are aware of mine. Now is not the
time to review them."
    "The only reason Ira" Shakaar started, but he was
interrupted by a melodic chime sounding in the room.
"Excuse me," he told Winn. He walked over to a small table
into which a corem panel had been set. He touched a
button, opening an audio channel to his assistant's offce.
"Yes, Sirsy?"
    "Minister, there are two gentlemen here to see you."
Sirsy's voice came through the speaker with a thin, tinny
quality.
    "Two men?" Shakaar furrowed his brow, trying but
failing to recall what other appointments he had for today
beside his meeting with the kai. "Am I expecting them?"
 "No, sir, but they claim that it's urgent."
 "Wellre"
    "I'm not just claiming that it's urgent," came a loud male
voice, obviously calling across Sirsy's outer office so that he
could be heard on her comm panel. "It is urgent." There
was a roughness to the voice, and an odd accent, as though
it was not easy for the speaker to move his lips around his
teeth.
 "What is it they want, Sirsy?"
    "We want," said the voice, clearly much closer to the
tompanel now, "to speak with you about your intention of
closing your system to all Ferengi."
    Shakaar reflexively looked over at Winn, who raised an
eyebrow in curiosity. The corem panel connection was
severed. Shakaar waited, and after a few seconds of silence,
he grew concerned. He was about to leave his offce to find
out what was happening when the connection was reopened
and Sirsy spoke again.
    "I'm sorry, Minister. These two Ferengi gentlemen reside
on Deep Space Nine, and they say they would like to discuss
amnesty for themselves should the nagus not allow Bajor to
bid for the Orb."
    "Foolishly not allow," called the owner of the voice that
had already been heard. Apparently the second individual
did not have anything to say, at least not in this awkward
forum.
     "I see." Shakaar glanced over at the kai once more. He
 considered what to do, then operated the controls of the
 comm panel and reviewed his schedule for the remainder of
 the day. "I am occupied at the moment," he told Sirsy, "but
 if the two gentlemen would like to wait--"
     "Minister," Winn interrupted quietly. She came over to
 stand beside Shakaar, and in a whisper low enough that the
 comm panel would not pick up her words, she said, "A
 moment, please."
     "Excuse me, Sirsy." He toggled a switch, closing the
 audio channel. "What is it?"
     "Forgive me," Winn said in a tone that did not sound as
 though she was really interested in forgiveness, "but it
 sounded as though you were going to grant an audience to
 those two Ferengi."
     "I didn't think I was going to 'grant an audience' to
 them," Shakaar said, "but yes, I was intending to speak with
 them, give their grievances a hearing."
     "Are you certain that is a good idea?" Clearly, Winn did
 not feel the idea had much merit.
"I can't see any harm in meeting with them. Can you?"
"I'm afraid I can. Grand Nagus Zek refused any conver-
sation with Bajor after removing us from the auction for the
Ninth Orb. For us not to reciprocate in kind would be a
demonstration of precisely the kind of Bajoran weakness
we've been discussing."
    "I understand your perspective, Kai Winn, but it could
also be considered a sign of strength to be willing to listen to
our adversaries, even when they will not listen to us."
    "Our official imperative to Grand Nagus Zek and the
Ferengi Alliance specifically stated that, in view of their
unwillingness to speak with Bajor, there would be no room
for negotiation with respect to our request to be reentered in
the auction."
 "Mustn't there always be room for negotiation?"
    "No. Not always. What we want is simple and under-
standable. It is also eminently within the authority of the
grand nagus to provide us with it. If we renege so quickly
and easily on the conditions we ourselves have set, it
undermines the strength of our position. Further, it exhibits
our inability to effectively protect our interests."

    "Yes," Shakaar said, weighing the arguments Winn had
presented. Distasteful though it was to him--he had de-
spised the Cardassians for never listening to the pained
Bajoran voices crying out to them--he knew that the kai
was correct in her assessment. "I see what you mean," he
told her.
    Winn moved back to the chair she had earlier taken.
Shakaar turned back to the corem panel. He reactivated the
audio channel connecting his office with that of his as-
sistant.
 "Sirsy?" he said.
 "Yes, sir?"
    "Please tell the two gentlemen that I will be unable to
meet with them until after the--" Shakaar searched for an
appropriate word, failed to find one, and settled for anoth-
er. "msituation between Ba'jor and Ferenginar has been
settled."
    As Sirsy acknowledged Shakaar's orders, he heard in the
background the voice of the Ferengi who had spoken up
earlier.
 "He won't see us? Wait. Minister... ?"
    "If the two gentlemen refuse to leave, please have security
escort them out." The mention of security appeared to
inhibit the owner of the voice.
 "Yes, Minister," responded Sirsy.
 "Thank you."
    Shakaar thumbed off the comm panel, then walked over
to the sofa and sat down near Winn. They were quiet for a
few moments.
"Do you think this will work?" Shakaar finally asked.
"Truly, I do not know, child," Winn answered. "I think
there is an opportunity for it to work now. The Ferengi are a
society for which business is, by their own word, of para-
mount importance. That's why we made the decision to act
as we did; even if the Ferengi do not recognize that what
they have done is wrong, there is every chance that this
action will drive them to do as we have asked." Shakaar
continued to find Winn's use of words like ask curious; to
him, it seemed a denial of the truth. "I know this, though: I
am confident that the Prophets will see the Orb returned to
Bajor."
    "I am too, Eminence. I'm just not certain when it will
happen. You recall the story of the Third Orb."
     "Of course," Winn told him. "But those days are long
passed; Bajor is stronger now, and we are resolved."
 "Yes," Shakaar said. "I suppose .... "
    "Good. Now then," Winn said, changing the subject with
apparent ease, "we have other business with which to deal.
First, there is the problem of--"
    But Shakaar was still thinking about the problem that
they had not actually solved yet.

0

CHAPTER
        7

As mE LIFT ASCENDED, Quark considered once more the
possibility of bribery. Now more than ever before, he was in
a position to practice such a tactic. Not that he had not
attempted it many times in the past--he had, and often
with some degree of success--but with the recent increase
in his net worth, he would now be able to meet the threshold
prices of more people in more situations.
    But Sisko has no price, Quark thought. That was not
entirely true, of course; as he had learned as a boy on
Ferenginar, and as his life experience had reinforced, abso-
lutely everybody had a pricereit was a Rule of Acquisition.
Very often, people even had more than one price. Unfortu-
nately, the costs to buy some people could not always be
measured monetarily. Val-effs, those people were called:
value frauds, individuals who refused financial payoffs on
the basis of their "values," but who could not even begin to
tell you the worth of a bar of gold-pressed latinum. And
Sisko was one of them.
    Damn Starfleet, Quark railed to himself. And damn Bajor
too. Even though he and his brother had not been permitted
to speak with First Minister Shakaar, Quark realized that
such a discussion would likely not have been fruitful any-
way; even Shakaar's assistant had been unwilling to accept a
bribe. Kai Winn's security team had also turned down his
offers when he and Rom had sought to meet with her,
although Quark was certain that, if they had not been
escorted from the grounds of her residence, his douceur
would have ended up being rejected by the kai herself.
    This was why I'd wanted to leave Terok Nor, Quark
thought in frustration, remembering back to when the
Cardassians had abandoned the space station and the
Federation had taken over. Back then, Quark had suspected
that it would be impossible to do business with either
Starfleet or Bajor, and he had been right; they were so
uncivilized. At least some members of the Cardassian
military, Quark recalled wistfully, had recognized the prin-
ciples and the usefulness of graft.
    The turbolift reached the apex of its journey, and Ops
spread out before Quark. He stepped out of the lift onto the
outer, upper level of the complex. Most of the control
panels were in use at the moment, he saw, operated primar-
ily by Starfleet personnel, but also by several officers of the
Bajoran Militia. For the number of people present, he
thought, the overall noise level was rather low; the bar was
much louder than this on a regular basis. Of course, there
was no dabo table in Ops.
    "The Calliope's drive reads clean," Quark heard Dax
announce. He looked over and saw her seated at her
sciences console on the upper level. She consulted her
readouts, looked briefly over at the main viewscreen--
Quark looked too and saw the image of a docked Terran
freighter displayed theremand then peered down to where
Kira worked at her own position on the lower level. "Their
repairs must have been successful."
    "Right," acknowledged Kira. "Then let's get them on
their way. Releasing the docking clamps on Lower Pylon
Three." As Kira operated her controls, Quark started
around the perimeter of Ops toward Sisko's office. With
everybody busy, he was hopeful that he could sneak past
unnoticed; he had no interest in having another confronta-
tion with Kira.

     "Calliope acknowledges," Dax said. "They're engaging
 thrusters .... "As he passed the viewscreen, Quark saw the
 freighter slipping away from its mooring.
     "They're clear of the dock," said Kira. "Moving away
 from the station .... "
    "They signal clear," Dax reported. "They're on their
way."
    "Good job," Kira said. "Now, we've got to keep that dock
free for the Maurit'li'och; it's coming in this afternoon, and
it's a pretty big vess--"
    When Kira cut herself off not only in midsentence, but in
midword, Quark had the uneasy feeling that it was because
she had seen him. His suspicion was confirmed almost
immediately as she called out loudly to him.
 "Is there something I can do for you, Quark?"
    Quark chose not to answer, instead ignoring Kira and
continuing on his way. He recognized the sound of her
hurried footsteps as she left her station and mounted the
steps to the upper level. She intercepted him just as he was
about to reach the captain's office, moving in front of him
and blocking his path.
    "I asked you a question, Quark," she said. She stood with
her hands on her hips and her elbows out, her pose
accusatory.
    "Major Kira," Quark responded, filling his voice with
mock surprise. "A question? I'm sorry, I must not have
heard you." He saw Kira's eyes dart left and right as she
glanced at his ears, and he almost could not contain a
sudden urge to laugh. She was right, of course: with lobes
like his, he rarely had the opportunity to make such a claim.
    "Where are you going?" Kira asked harshly. Her attitude
toward Quark appeared to have degenerated even further
since yesterday, when she had taken such visible delight in
delivering the news of the Bajoran edict to him. With the
pressure to solve his own problems escalating because of the
Bajoran deadline--he had just two days to construct a
means by which he could stay on D$9--Quark rapidly lost
his ability to tolerate Kira's combative disposition.
    "Where does it look like I'm going? I'm headed to the
planet Risa for a much-needed vacation," Quark said
sarcastically. He attempted to step around Kira, but she
moved sidelong and obstructed his way once more. He
looked up at her, and when it became evident that she was
neither going to say anything more nor let him pass, he told
her, "I'm here to see Captain Sisko."
 "For what reason?" Kira demanded.
    "For my reason," Quark fired back. "And it's none of
your business."
    "You mean like the way it's not Grand Nagns Zek's
business to keep the Ninth Orb from the Bajoran people?"
She delivered her words like photon torpedoes, discrete
packets of energy targeted at her quarry.
    "Listen, Major," Quark said, almost pleading for her to
believe him, "I told you that there was nothing I could do."
    "Yes, you did," Kira agreed. "And there's nothing I can
do for you either. Captain Sisko is a very busy man; he can't
just stop what he's doing to meet with whoever decides to
come up to Ops."
    "Which is why I have an appointment to see him--"
Quark peeked at a nearby console to check the current time.
"--three minutes ago." He was determined not to allow
Kira to succeed in her obvious desire to thwart him
however she was able.
    "You have an appointment?" Kira asked him, a joyless
smile on her face. "I don't believe you."
    "I know you don't," Quark said, returning her empty
smile. "But like everything else I've been telling you, it
happens to be true." He raised his arm and pointed across
toward the sciences console. "Ask Dax," he said. "She set it
up for me."
    They both looked over to the other side of Ops. Dax was
peering back at them from her station, where she had
apparently been listening to their conversation. A grin
played across her features and she shrugged at Kira, mute
confirmation that she had indeed scheduled Quark's meet-
ing with the captain.
    "Fine," Kira offered grudgingly, glancing back down at
Quark. Her irritation was conspicuous. She was clearly
unhappy to discover that Quark had done nothing wrong,
that he had sought a dialogue with Captain Sisko in an
appropriate manner, through an appropriate channel. Still,
she did not move from in front of him. He waited for a few
seconds before realizing that she had no intention of getting
out of his way.
    "That's all right, Major, stand right there," Quark said to
her, holding his face expressionless. 'TII be happy to just go
around you." He sidled past her and climbed the few steps
leading up to the captain's office. He tapped the signal panel
beside the doors, willfully not looking back at Kira.
    "Come in," Sisko called from inside the office. Quark
started forward and the doors opened, sliding horizontally
apart. He entered the office and stopped just inside.
    Captain Sisko was seated in the chair behind his desk,
leaning back, his feet up. Behind him, the vividly drawn
contrast of the starscape--the deep black of the void,
punctuated by colorless pinpoints of illuminationmwas
visible through a large, eye-shaped window. The captain
was reviewing the contents ofa padd he held in one hand; in
his other hand, he clutched a baseball. As the doors closed
behind Quark, Sisko glanced up from what he was doing.
    "You're late," he said. His tone was level, his face
impassive. Because his sense of humor often tended to be
dry, it was difficult for Quark to know right now whether or
not he was joking.
    "Yes, well, you can blame Major Kira for that," Quark
replied. "She didn't want to let me in here."
    "I see. Is that why you wanted to see me then, so you
could register a complaint about my first officer? Because if
it is, I'm really not in the mood for it."
    Again, it was unclear to Quark whether Sisko was being
playful or serious. For now, he chose to assume the best.
    "I'd love to complain, Captain," Quark jested, "but for
every problem I have with Kira, I'm sure she's got ten times
as many with me, and I know you don't have time for all
that."
    "You're probably right," Sisko responded. He slipped the
padd onto the desk and swung his feet down to the floor.
"So," he said, bringing his hands together around the
baseball and leaning forward on his elbows, "what is it you
did want to see me about?"
    "It's really very simple," Quark began, endeavoring to
infuse his voice with a casual quality he did not actually
feel. He moved forward a couple of steps until he stood
immediately across the desk from Sisgo. The captain mo-
tioned to a chair there, and Quark sat down. "My brother
and I don't want to leave Deep Space Nine."
    Sisgo regarded Quark intently, as though expecting more
to be said. In his hands, he spun the baseball around, the red
stitching which held the pale, old-fashioned sphere together
occasionally peeking out between the captain's fingers.
Finally, Sisleo took his elbows from the desk and leaned
back.
    "Is that all?" he asked with what seemed to be intentional
informality. The message Quark took out of the words was
that Sisko was either unable or unwilling to help.
    "Surely you don't support the Bajoran edict?" Quark
stated more than asked.
    "I don't?" Sisgo asked rhetorically, giving no indication
of whether or not he agreed with the ultimatum issued to
the nagus by the first minister and the kai. The captain rose
from his chair and came out from behind his desk. He
moved to the far end of the room, where a replicatot was set
into the wall
    "Captain," Quark said, "I know you consider yourseft a
fair man--"
    "Yes, I do," Sisgo interrupted before Quark could finish.
Then to the replicator, he said, "Pooncheenee." It was a
Bajoran beverage, Quark knew, typically served at break-
fast. Made from the fruit of the pooncheen tree, which grew
in the equatorial regions, the drink was very sweet. Quark
used it as a mixer in the bar, but he had no taste for it at all
himself.
    The replicator hummed, and a tall glass filled with the
orange-red liquid materialized. Sisko picked up the glass
and sipped from it. He still carried the baseball in his other
hand, Quark noticed.
  "Something for you?" Sisgo asked.
     "Thank you, Captain, no," Quark answered. "But as I
 was starting to say--"
  "--You're here to ask for my assistance," Sisgo inter-
rupted once more. "Is that it?" He returned to his desk,
setting the glass ofpooncheenee down on it.
    "That's not what I was going to say, but yes," Quark
admitted. "On behalf of myself and my brother."
    "I'm afraid I can't help either one of you in this in-
stance."
    "What?" Quark asked. "Why not?" He was startled at the
bluntness and the finality of the captain's statement. He had
known that it might not be easy to enlist Sisko's aid, but he
had fully expected that the captain would be able to<see the
injustice inherent in the actions taken by the Bajorans, and
therefore at least be open to the possibility of helping. There
was no indication of any of that in the captain's words or in
his manner.
    "I'm sure you already know the answer to that," Sisko
said. "I know you have the resources and the business sense
to keep up on local politics, so you must have learned about
the resolution the Federation Council passed. They have
chosen to view this as solely a Bajoran matter."
    Quark involuntarily rolled his eyes at the mention of the
Federation Council. While he had felt the chance to per-
suade Sisko to his cause, he had no such illusions regarding
the Federation's governing body. While Sisgo might have
dealt with him as an individual, as a man, the Council--if
they even ever would have agreed to hear Quark's case--
would have dealt with him as a Ferengi. And though the
Federation and the Ferengi Alliance were at peace, and even
had several trade agreements, Quark knew that the people
of the Federation looked down on the Ferengi. Oh, they
espoused tolerance and acceptance, but they were hypo-
crites.
    "'A Bajoran matter,'" Quark echoed, returning his gaze
to the captain. "Well, that's why I tried to speak with First
Minister Shakaar yesterday."
    "I know," Sisko said. "At least, I suspected it was you and
Rom when the minister informed me that two Ferengi, one
of them very loudre"
 "I'm not loud," Quark barked.
    "--had come to see him about continuing to live on Deep
Space Nine, no matter what the final disposition of the
Ninth Orb turns out to be."
    "That was us," Quark said. "He wouldn't even let us talk
with him."
    Sisko reached forward and plucked the glass of poon-
cheenee from his desk. He took a long drink, then put the
glass back down. Softly, he began to toss the baseball up a
few centimeters into the air, catching it with the same hand.
    "For whatever it's worth," Sisko said, "I think the minis-
ter should have spoken with you and your brother."
    "Did you tell Shakaar that?" Quark wanted to know.
Perhaps he would be able to resolve this situation with the
first minister after all, he thought. But Sisko shook his head
slowly from side to side.
    "I was not asked for my opinion," he said, "and it was not
my place to give it."
    "Not your place?" Quark questioned. "You're the al-
mighty Emissary; he would've listened to you." The ball
continued to move up and down, out of Sisko's hand and
back into it. Quark could not decide whether he found the
motion hypnotic or annoying.
    "Perhaps. It's difficult to know', my relationship with
Shakaar is still... young," Sisko said. "But the possibility
that he might heed my suggestion emphasizes the impor-
tance of my remaining silent. The resolution makes it clear
that I cannot offer my assistance when it has not been
solicited."
  '7'rn soliciting your assistance," Quark contended.
    "But you are not the leader of the Ferengi Alliance. You
have nothing to say about this issue."
    "That's exactly my point," Quark asserted. He leaned
forward and gripped the edge of the desk as he spoke. "I'm
not the nagus, so why should I be punished for something
he's doing?"
    That stopped Sisko. The baseball came down into his
hand and did not go back up. For a moment, he was silent,
and Quark thought that he might have won the captain over
to his side.
    "You know," Sisko said at last, "I have to tell you that it
surprises me that you and your brother even want to stay on
DS9." He examined the baseball and rubbed away what
looked to Quark like an imaginary blemish. "Well, maybe
not Rom," Sisko amended, "but certainly you."

     "Why is that?" Quark let go of the desk and sat back in
 his chair.
     "I just didn't think that you were very happy here," Sisko
 explained. "And frankly, you've never really been what I
 would call an 'upstanding citizen' in our little community."
    It took a few seconds for the impact of what Sisko had
said to strike Quark, but when it did, resentment and anger
swelled within him. He had learned to live with the vocal
disapproval of so many of the Starfleet officers--Kira,
O'Brien, Worf--but he had not known that Captain Sisko
was so unappreciative of all Quark had done for him.
  Very softly, he said, "Captain, I am your community."
    "What?" Sisko asked, clearly not understanding the com-
ment. "What does that mean?"
    "It means," Quark said, unable to keep his voice from
rising, "that three and a half years ago, you forced me to
stay on this heap when I wanted to leave--"
    "I don't know if I'd say I really 'forced' you to stay... I
offered you a choice--"
    Quark jumped up from his chair and leaned forward
across the desk. His splayed fingers rested on the desktop,
not far from the glass ofpooncheenee. He glared at Sisko.
    "You know you offered no real choice." Rom's son, Nog,
had been caught pilfering from the assay office during
Sisko's first days on the station. Sisko had given Quark the
nominal choice of remaining on DS9 and keeping the bar
open, in which case his nephew would have been freed, or
vacating the station, in which case the boy would have been
left to the full extent of Constable Odo's brutal sense of
justice. "Don't equivocate, Captain. You blackmailed me."
    "'Blackmailed,'" Sisko repeated melodramatically. "My,
that sounds wrong." This time, it was plain that the captain
was joking, and thereby conceding the point. But there were
still other points Quark wanted to discuss.
    "You demanded that I keep the bar open for the sake of
your crew's morale, not too many of whom were very happy
to be here, if you recall." Quark straightened from the desk
and began pacing slowly about the room. "And you wanted
me to be an example to attract other businesses to the
Promenade. You wanted the station to thrive, you wanted it
to be--"
 "mA community," Sisko finished.
    "Yes. A community. I stayed here so that could happen.
And it did happen."
    "Oh, I think the wormhole may have had a little some-
thing to do with the way the Promenade--and DS9 over-
allJhas grown and flourished," Sisko said, standing from
his chair. "You stayed here for the same reason you do
everything," he told Quark, who had stopped moving
around and now stood in a comer across the room. "To
make a profit."
    "Until recently, I barely made enough profit to be able to
take care of my little old mother on Ferenginar," Quark said
excitedly. "And now that I finally have had some success,
you're not willing to help me fight to keep it." His words
were coming faster and faster now, reflecting the increasing
sense of anxiety he felt. He had not come here to have such
a heated exchange with Sisko, but because that was the way
events had unfolded, he knew that his chances of enjoining
the captain to assist him were diminishing rapidly.
    "I'm not sure I believe that you take care of your mother,
Quark. In fact, I'm not even sure I believe that you have a
mother." Sisko walked around the desk and toward Quark,
flipping the baseball from one hand to the other and back
again. "That's part of the problem: I'm not sure I believe
anything you say. You live by your own rules." He stopped
just a few steps from Quark.
    "I live by the Rules of Acquisition, but I also live by your
rules. How many crimes have I been convicted of on Deep
Space Nine?"
    "Not being convicted doesn't mean that you haven't
committed any crimes," Sisko noted.
    "And it doesn't mean that I have. I thought Federation
law presumed innocence."
    "It does," Sisko agreed quietly. For the second time, he
appeared to seriously consider something, although this
time, Quark could not tell whether it was something that he
had said to the captain, or something that the captain had
thought of himself.
     "You may not realize it," Quark said, trying to focus his
 point, "and you certainly may not appreciate it, but I am an
 important part of your 'little community.'" Quark paused,
satisfied with the argument he had made. Then, more to
ease the tension in the room than to enhance his position,
he added, "Not to mention that I cater the best parties in
the sector."
    Sisko laughed, and then, without warning, he tossed the
baseball to Quark--it seemed to just pop up out of Sisko's
hand in a lazy arc. Quark fumbled the ball several times~it
rolled down and up one arm and across his chest--before
getting hold of it. Sisko walked back across the office and
once more sat behind his desk. As he did so, Quark held the
baseball up before his eyes to examine it. OFFICIAL BALL, it
said, and I989 WORLD SF. RmS. Beneath it was what looked We
a signature.
 "A. Bart--" he read haltingly.
    "--A. Bartlett Oiamatti," Sisko said. "I just had that ball
replicated. Giamatti was one of the true gentlemen and
heroes of the game. President of the National League,
nineteen eighty-six to eighty-eight; commissioner in nine-
teen eighty-nine, unt'fi he suffered a fatal heart attack."
    "Really?" Quark said, not at all interested in what the
captain was saying. He had tried to watch a baseball game
once, in one of the holosuite programs he had procured for
Sisko, but none of it had made any sense to him.
    "Many people believe," Sisko continued, "that the loss of
Giamatti--who possessed a genuine love and understand-
ing of the game, and who had a wonderful vision for its
future--ultimately ushered in the end of professional base-
ball on Earth."
 "Uh-huh," Quark responded noncommittally.
    "Oh," Sisko said, apparently realizing that he had the
wrong audience for him to talk about baseball. "Sorry."
    "It's all right," Quark said, coming over and sitting down
across from Sisko again. 'Tin used to Rom prattling on
about his engineering work all the time, and that doesn'f
make any sense to me either." Sisko smiled, then shifted the
conversation back to its original heading. With the brief
diversion, though, Quark felt that the friction between the
two men had lessened.
    "Okay," Sisko said. "So what you're suggesting is that,
because l... 'encouraged'... you to stay on Deep Space
Nine in the first place, and since you believe you've been
such an integral part of the station, I should now help you
try to stay." Sisko paused and seemed to mull this over for a
moment. "It occurs to me that this may all be unnecessary:
it is possible that the nagus will permit the Bajorans back in
the auction, and therefore Bajoran space will not be closed
to the Ferengi, in which case you wouldn't have to leave."
     "Zek isn't going to let them back in the auction," Quark
revealed. Sisko raised an eyebrow. "You're sure of that?"
    "Yes," Quark said. "As you said, I have resources." Sisko
took in a deep breath, held it for a few seconds, and let it
out.
    "Even if I do agree with some or all of the things you've
saidmand I'm not saying that I domI just cannot get
involved in this. As I told you, the Council is considering
this to be strictly a Bajoran issue."
    "But is it strictly that?" Quark asked. "We're talking
about Ferengi being evicted from a Federation space sta-
tion."
    "This is a Bajoran space station," Sisko corrected. "In
Bajoran space."
"The designation 'Deep Space Nine' is Bajoran?"
"Starfleet is a guest here," Sisko said. "We were invited to
maintain the station for the Bajorans because, after the
Occupation, they did not have the tools to do so themselves.
You know that."
     "I know that's Starfleet's story," Quark said. "But do you
think the Federation has no vested interest in being here?"
 "I didn't say that."
    "Good," Quark said, "I'm glad you at least see that,
because this hegemony of the Federation over Bajor isn't
just about responding to a cry for help; having a Starfleet
presence here is a tactical advantage, and it was even before
the wormhole was discovered. Face it, Captain: you deni-
grate the Ferengi for our pursuit of profit, but you are
imperialists."
    "If you're trying to get on my good side," Sisko said, "it's
not working."
    "Do you want to talk about good?" Quark asked. "Forget
about my business, forget about the Federation needing to
support the Bajorans. Do you know why you should help
me?"
 "Apparently I'm going to find out," Sisko answered.
 "You should help me because it's the right thing to do."
    "Is that a moral argument?" Sisko asked. "You surprise
me, Quark."
 "Is it working?"
    "Let me ask you this: Don't you think the right thing
would be for the Bajorans to be given possession of their
sacred religious artifact?"
    "If they pay enough for it," Quark said. "Sure, fine, let
them have their artifact. What do I care?"
    "But wouldn't it be the right thing to do to give them the
Orb?"
    "'Give them the Orb'? No. The nagus owns the Orb. He
didn't steal it; he purchased it."
    "The Orb was stolen from Bajor by the Cardassians,"
Sisko argued.
    "The spoils of war, I suppose," Quark said. "The fact is
that the nagus didn't steal the Orb, but made a legitimate
purchase. So why should the Bajorans be allowed to lay
claim to something which they no longer own?"
    "Understand," Sisko urged him. "They are a very reli-
gious people. The Orb is sacred to them."
    "It's sacred because they say it is. What if the Bajorans
were to say that the planet Earth was sacred to them? Would
humans--" Hyoo-rnons. "--give up their world?"
    "Look, we're not accomplishing anything here," Sisko
said tiredly. "Now, it seems to me this is not a debate you
and I need to have. Even if we were to come to some
understanding between ourselves, it would mean nothing to
the actual participants."
    "I agree with you. So help me debate the issue with
Shakaar."
    "No. The first minister made it clear when he and I spoke
that because of the edict, both he and the kai believe it
would be inappropriate for either of them to meet for any
reason with any Ferengi."
    "Then you talk to him," Quark insisted. "Tell him you
think he should let Rom and me stay on the station."
    "I didn't say that's what I believed," Sisko corrected
Quark. "I only said I thought that the first minister should
allow you to speak with him. It would still be his prerogative
to stand by the Bajoran edict."
    "But how can Starfleet--how can you--possibly support
such an unjust policy?" Quark wanted to know.
    "Racist? I don't see the policy as unjust. The Bajoran
government is reacting to a specific action taken by the
Ferengi."
 "By an individual Ferengi."
    "Yes, but that individual Ferengi is the leader of your
entire alliance."
    "But because of that one Ferengi's actions," Quark con-
tended, "regardless of whether I agree with those actions, I
am being required to abandon my home and my business."
    "I understand how you feel," Sisko said, not unsympa-
thetically. "As it happens, I agree with much of what you've
said. The Bajorans should not punish innocent Ferengi--if
there is such a thing--for the actions of the nagus. But
that's only what I believe; the Bajorans believe differently,
and so my hands are tied."
    Quark was running out of options. He looked at Sisko,
desperately trying to think of another argument to make.

    "Would you talk to Shakaar," he finally asked, "as a
personal favor to me?"
  "A favor?" Sisko asked, seemingly incredulous.
    "Yes," Quark said. "Out of friendship." Sisko laughed
aloud.
    "Don't try to sell me that line. We are not friends." Sisko
raised a hand and aimed a finger at Quark. Smiling broadly,
he said, "I wouldn't be your friend if you paid me."
    "You're right, we're not friends," Quark admitted. "But I
would be your friend if you paid me to be." Quark stood up
and walked to the doors, which opened at his approach. He
saw several faces in Ops--Kira's included--look up in his
direction before he turned back to Sisko. "I might even be
your friend," he said, "if you applied your vaunted Federa-
tion morality to the Ferengl." Sisko's smile evaporated.
  "You're calling me a hypocrite," he said angrily.
     "If it was somebody else who had the Bajorans' Orb,
 Starfleet would be offering to negotiate between the two
governments. You would be offering. But in this case, you're
happy no matter the outcome: either the Bajorans get the
damned Orb, or you don't have to put up with Ferengi in
the Bajoran system and the Gamma Quadrant."
    Quark suddenly realized that he was still carrying the
baseball. He let it drop from his hand. It struck the floor
with a thick, dull sound and rolled a short distance toward
the desk. He pivoted on his heel and exited the office,
unsure where he was going or what he would do next.



CHAPTER
       8

JACKIE ROBINSON swung at the first pitch. He made solid
contact, but high: the baseball shot downward into the
summer-baked hardpan in front of home plate. The ball
bounded up and over the pitcher, whose leap atop the
mound brought his glove just under the chopper as it shot
past him, headed toward second. The shortstop and sec-
ond baseman both sped toward the middle of the dia-
mond, instinctively measuring the trajectory of the ball.
The two fielders covered a lot of ground, but the ball
landed on the infield dirt and rolled into the outfield ahead
of them.
    A tweener, thought Sisko from his place in the stands.
That ball had eyes.
    Robinson reached first base and took a wide turn. In
center, the outfielder ran in and bent low to gather in the
ball, but he was momentarily distracted--did he glance
toward first, concerned about how far past the base the batter
had run?--and it kicked off the heel of his glove. Robinson
did not hesitate; he immediately raced toward second. The
center fielder quickly retrieved the ball and threw it in to the
shortstop, who had circled back to cover the base, but too
late: a cloud of dust marked where Robinson had already
slid in safely.
    "Beautiful," Sisko said aloud. He was sitting on the edge
of his seat, his hands resting on the back of the Brooklyn
Dodger dugout. All around him, the hometown crowd at
Ebbets Field roared their approval of Robinson's base-
running theatrics. "Dad?"
    Sisko turned in his seat and looked up into the stands,
hunting for the source of the voice. At the top of the cement
stairs leading down to the section in which he was sitting,
the holosuite doors stood open. On the other side of the
threshold, Sisko knew, a simulated night had fallen on a
space station hundreds of light-years from the world of his
birth; on this side, it was a crisp summer afternoon on
Earth. Beyond the doors, gazing out over the stadium from
a hallway on the second level of Quark's, was his son. Sisko
waved up to him.
 "Jake, down here," he called loudly. "Here."
    Jake looked down toward the dugout, scanning the rows
of spectators there. He spied his father and waved, then
started down the steps. Behind Jake, the holosuite doors
closed with a hard, metallic sound and vanished.
     "Jake-o," Sisko said as his son reached him. "What are
you doing here?" "Hi, Dad."
    "Here, sit down," Sisko said, offering up his own seat. He
began to move over to the next seat, but it was already
occupied by a rather burly man. The man was paying no
attention at all either to the people around him or to the
game being played in front of him, instead focusing his
energies on devouting a hot dog piled high with ketchup and
relish; a fresh red stain stretched down the center of his
white shirt. "Computer," Sisko ordered, "delete the fan in
the seat next to mine." The image of the burly man blurred
slightly as it faded out of existence. Sisko moved into the
vacated seat, and Jake sat down next to him.
    "What game is this?" Jake asked, peering out at the two
teams on the field.
 "Oh, just a regular-season game from the nineteen-forty-
nine Major Leagues," Sisko said. "The Brooklyn Dodgers
hosting the Boston Braves. Nothing special."
    "I thought they were all special," Jake said in a playfully
mocking manner, a boyish grin on his face.
    Sisko smiled and clapped his hand on his son's back.
While Jake shared his interest in and enjoyment of baseball,
Sisko knew that he did not possess his overriding passion
for the game. Few people did--few enough were even aware
of the existence of the game itselfawhich was hardly
surprising, considering that the sport had last been played
professionally more than three centuries ago. Still, Sisko
was delighted that Jake had grown up knowing and liking
baseball, and that their mutual appreciation of the game
had helped to enhance and even strengthen their relation-
ship through the years.
    "I guess you're right," Sisko said. "To me, they are all
special."
    The sharp report of a swinging bat striking a pitched ball
rang out, and the crowd around Sisko and Jake rose to its
collective feet as one. They automatically did the same.
Sisko's first reaction was to look toward the outfield, think-
ing that the batter had hit the ball deep, but there had been
no roar from the crowd, and the people around them were
looking straight up into the air. Sisko and Jake quickly tilted
their heads back as well, their eyes searching the sky. They
both spotted the foul ball at about the same time; it landed
twenty or so rows in back of them. Nobody caught the ball;
it landed in the stands and ricocheted about the slatted,
wooden seats. Several people scrambled to retrieve it, and a
young man finally recovered the ball and held it aloft,
displaying his trophy from a day at the ballpark. There were
scattered cheers and applause for the boy as people sat back
down.
    "So, Jake," Sisko asked a second time, "what are you
doing here?"
    "Well, I got back to our quarters and I saw your bedroom
door was open," Jake explained. "I looked in to see if you
were there, but all I saw was your uniform lying on the bed,
so I figured you might be here." Sisko almost always wore
his Starfleet uniform when he was on the station and not in
his quarters; as the commander of Deep Space Nine, he had
a responsibility to maintain a public air of authority. One
exception to this was when Sisko spent time in a holosuite;
he liked to dress in an appropriate style whenever he visited
one of Earth's old baseball stadia: right now, he was wearing
black slacks, a white, button-down shirt, and a herringbone
sport coat. "I knew you had an early meeting tomorrow,"
Jake continued, "so I got a little worried when you weren't
home."
     "You're right," Sisko said. "I have to be in a briefing at
oh-seven-hundred. But it's not that late, is it?" 
"Almost oh-one-thirty," Jake answered.
    Sisko groaned; he had not realized the lateness of the
hour. For him, baseball was a time machine, able to
transport him through hours in the blink of an eye.
    "I know, I know: time flies when you're watching a good
game," Jake teased, as though he had read Sisko's thoughts.
"What's the score, anyway?" he asked, at the same time
looking out toward right field, where the scoreboard was set
into the outfield wall.
    "It is a good game," Sisko told him. "One to one in the
bottom of the seventh, but the Dodgers have a man on
second with nobody out." Jake gazed out at the middle of
the infield, to where the runner danced off second base.
    "Jackie Robinson?" Jake asked, pointing out at the
runner.
 "Number forty-two himself," Sisko confirmed.
    He and Jake watched as the pitcher delivered the ball to
the plate. The batter swung and hit a grounder toward right
field. The second baseman moved to his left and gloved the
ball deep in the hole, then pivoted and threw to first base
ahead of the batter. The cheers of the crowd rose and fell as
what had appeared to be a run-scoring single became the
first out of the inning.
 "Good play," Jake commented.
    "Eddie Stanky," Sisko said, identifying the player. "Used
to be on the Dodgers." On the play, Robinson advanced to
third base, where it would take only an outfield fly to score
him at this point.
    The action on the field captivated Sisko now, and evi-
dently Jake as well: the game could turn on this at-bat. They
looked on as the next hitter marched to the plate. He swung
and missed the first pitch, then took two balls. Through
each of the pitches, Jackie Robinson was constantly astir,
darting quite a few steps down the third-base line toward
home, then darting back when the ball reached the catcher.
He was always in motion, both to distract the pitcher and to
achieve as long a lead as he could, Sisko guessed. The
infielders had crept up onto the grass, Sisko noticed; they
would try to throw Robinson out at home if the ball was
grounded to them.
    Something else suddenly occurred to Sisko, pulling his
focus away from the game.
    "Jake, if it's almost oh-one-thirty, then why is it that you
just got home?" he asked. "Where were you so late? Just
because you're closing in on eighteen doesn't meanre"
    "I was over at the O'Briens'," Jake rushed to say, no
doubt to preempt the lecture he thought was about to begin.
"The chief was telling me some of his family's ancestral
stories about old Ireland." Jake had recently decided that he
wanted to be a writer, and in pursuit of that goal--or in the
creation of it--he had developed a love of storytelling.
Sisko was impressed at the breadth of his son's appreciation
for almost any sort of tale: contemporary or classic, human
or alien, short stories or novels, written or spoken. To Jake,
each combination of style and form was apparently one
facet of the overall art. "What I want to know," Jake said,
"is why are you here so late?"
    "Oh, I don't know," Sisko hedged, unsure whether he
really wanted to discuss what it was that was bothering him.
"I think I just needed to get away for a little while."
 "Did something happen?" Jake wanted to know.
    Sisko hesitated before answering, and then said, "He
popped it up," referring to what was happening on the field
and at the same time evading his son's question. Jake
looked out at the diamond to watch the playrathe batter
had hit a ball high into the air, and the third baseman
drifted back and caught it on the edge of the outfield grass--
then returned his attention to his father. "Two outs," Sisko
said, feeling Jake's gaze upon him. "Now they'll need a hit
to score the go-ahead run." He continued to look straight
ahead, out at the field.
  "Dad, you don't have to tell me what happened," Jake
said softly. "Just tell me if you're okay." Sisko turned to
Jake, proud and pleased that his only child had grown up
not only to be a good son and a fine young man, but also to
be his friend.
     "It's a complicated story." And maybe one it wouM be
good for me to talk about, Sisko thought. "1 love stories."
    "I know you do." Sisko did not think Jake was pressuring
him to discuss what had happened, but merely letting him
know that there was somebody who would listen if he
wanted to talk. "It was nothing terribly significant, just a
meeting I had earlier today with Quark." 
"Quark?" Jake sounded surprised.
    "He asked me to help him and his brother," Sisko said.
"The nagus has announced that he isn't going to let the
Bajorans back in the auction--" Just as Quark predicted,
Sisko thought. "--and so the Bajorans may now carry
through on their threat to close their system to all Ferengi.
But Quark wants to stay on the station."
    "Is that because he can't find a buyer for the bar?" Jake
asked.
 "What?"
    "I talked to Rom on my way up here. Quark is so
desperate to sell the bar that he's got Rom and Broc running
it while he tries to locate a buyer."
    "I saw Broc when I came in," Sisko said. "He was the one
who let me into the holosuite, but I thought I saw Quark
working."
    "If he's there," Jake told him, "I'm sure he's not taking
orders and serving drinks. Rom told me Quark's doing
everything he can to sell the bar."
    Sisko thought about this for a moment. He considered the
possibility that Quark's inability to liquidate the assets he
held in Bajoran space might have been what had motivated
him to want to remain on the station. In light of their earlier
conversation, though, Sisko was fairly certain that the
circumstances had been reversed Quark now wanted to sell
the bar only because he feared that, if he did not sell it by
the time the deadline passed, the Bajorans would take it
from him.
 Around Sisko and Jake, the noise generated by the crowd
suddenly increased. Many people rose to their feet. Sisko
looked out at the field and saw an instant of motion
followed by a billow of dust rising up around home plate.
The umpire's arms went wide, almost as though he were a
huge bird attempting to take flight.
    "Safer the umpire bellowed, loud enough for Sisko to
hear it in the stands. The crowd grew even louder, yelling
their admiration for the man who had just scored the run
that put the Dodgers ahead in the game.
 "Jackie Robinson stole home?" Jake asked.
    "I guess so." Robinson picked himseft up and jogged
toward his team's dugout, at the same time trying to brush
away the infield dirt he had collected on his uniform during
his trip around the hases. "He was quite a ballplayer," Sisko
said, but in an offhand way; his mind was still busy Wiling
over his meeting with Quark.
    "Dad, do you want to stop the game so we can talk?" Jake
was still so much a boy--he could get so exuberant about
little things, he was often shy around girls, he had difficulty
keeping his room cleanrebut there were glimpses more and
more often now of the man he would soon become.
  This is one of those glimpses, Sisko thought.
    "Sure," he told Jake. "I'd like that." Then, in a slightly
louder voice, he said, "Computer, pause program and
save." All about Sisko and Jake, movement stopped: base-
ball fans froze in position as they stood up or sat down or
cheered, the Dodgers and Braves themselves became m0-
tionless on the field, the wispy clouds overhead ceased
scudding across the sky.
 "Program saved," replied the computer.
    "Come on," Sisko said, "what do you say we take a
walk." Sisko climbed up onto the roof of the Dodger
dugout, and Jake followed. They made their way to the end
of the roof and jumped down onto the playing field. As they
strolled over to the first-base line, Sisko marveled, as h~
always did, at the cushiony spring of the grass, which was as
thick and as full as a earpet. When they reached the line,
they headed toward right field.
    "I don't think Quark asked me to help him because he
couldn't sell the bar," Sisko began to tell Jake, endeavoring
to articulate what it was that was troubling himmnot only
to his son, but also to himself. "I think he's trying to sell the
bar because I wouldn't help him."
    "Is that what's bothering you?" Jake asked. "That you
refused to help Quark?"
    "Not exactly," Sisko said. "The Federation Council's
resolution is pretty clear on this: we cannot interfere in this
situation between the Bajorans and the Ferengi." "How come?"
    "Well, I told Quark that the Federation was considering
this a Bajoran matter, but the truth is that siding with either
faction would place the Federation in a precarious posi-
tion," Sisko explained. "We can't side with the Ferengi
because of our relationship with the Bajorans, but if we side
with the Bajorans... well, their current stance is consid-
ered extreme. The Council believes the proper thing for the
Federation to do is to remain neutral in the face of opposing
viewpoints, neither of which we feel is right."
    "Why not try to help both sides?" Jack asked. It was
something Sisko had been asking himself all day.
    "We could try to elevate both sides," Sisko said, "but the
Council is handling this in much the same way that Starfleet
handles Prime Directive situations." As he walked, his foot
brushed against the baseline, sending up a puff of white
chalk into the still air. "Our belief that both the Bajorans
and the Ferengi are wrong does not give us a moral basis to
impose that belief, either explicitly or implicitly, on their
cultures. In fact, we have an obligation to avoid doing so."
 "Okay," Jake said. "So what's the problem?"
    Sisko opened his mouth to answer, but stopped: this was
hard. After Quark had been in his office this morning, Sisko
had begun to feel vaguely uneasy. There had been much to
occupy him throughout the day, diverting him from that
uneasiness, but he had discovered when he had gotten off
duty this evening that the feeling had not abated. He had
tried to define the emotion, had tried to understand and
deal with it, but even now, its precise cause remained
elusive.
    The two walked all the way into right field without saying
anything further, Sisko grateful that Jake respected his
silence. At the outfield fence, the grandstands angled in
close to fair territory. Sisko looked up and read some of the
advertising that covered the wall: ESQUIRE BOOT POLISH, GEM
~XZOP, S A~D SLnDES, and the famous ASœ STAtue sign, on
which the tailor proclaimed to batters HIT SAIL, Wm SUIT.
    Underfoot, the manicured emerald grass gave way to dirt.
It was the warning track, a band three meters or so wide at
the edge of the playing surface, intended to alert fielders of
their proximity to the fence. Sisko and Jake turned to follow
the track across the outfield. To their left, not too far away,
stood the immobile figure of the right fielder.
    "The problem," Sisko said, speaking slowly as he re-
sumed the conversation, carefully measuring both his words
and his thoughts, "is that the Federation has sent Starfleet
to mediate disputes between other cultures before, cultures
with motives that were far more suspect. I've mediated such
disputes. Would it really be wrong to do that in this case?"
    "I assume Starfleet hasn't been asked to mediate," Jake
commented.
    "No, it hasn't," Sisko granted. "And the Council has
ruled that even offering assistance would be a bad idea. But
the Bajorans and the Ferengi are both mature cultures;
merely suggesting that they might benefit from a third-party
moderator is not going to unduly influence their civiliza-
tions."
    "I don't know," Jake said. "Maybe because you're the
Emissary..."
    "Maybe," Sisko agreed. "But I don't have to be the one to
actually help, or even to offer help."
    As they walked, the scoreboard loomed up to their right,
built into the outfield wall. It rose to a height of about ten
meters and stretched away into right-center. Its configura-
tion was peculiar, Sisko knew, even for the time in which it
had been constructed: its upper half was vertical, but its
lower half was concave and sloped away from the playing
field. During the 1916 season, Sisko remembered from his
baseball references, a player on the Robins--as the Brook-
lyn team had then been known--had hit a ground ball that
had struck the oddly angled scoreboard and vaulted up the
fence and out of the ballpark for a home run.

    "Dad," Jake said, "what does this have to do with your
meeting with Quark?"
    "Quark proposed that the reason the Federation isn't
interested in lending a hand to resolve this situation is
because the people being wronged are the Ferengi." Even
repeating Quark's belief, Sisko found, was not easy; the
values embodied by the Federation were very serious to
him, and very personal. To even consider that those values
were not practiced--or worse, that they had somehow
become corruptedNseemed unthinkable. 
"Well," Jake said, "is Quark right?"
Now, that's the important question, isn't it? Sisko thought.
"My immediate reaction is: no," he said. "Certainly, it's
my belief that the history and the actions of the Federation
reflect that it treats all peoples equally."
    "But?" Jake asked, either hearing doubt in Sisko's tone,
or anticipating that an "immediate reaction" implied an
additional response.
    "But I can't honestly speak for the members of the
Federation Council. I can only speak for myself."
 "Thads all any of us can do, right?" Jake noted.
 "Right," Sisko said.
    "So why are you letting something Quark said get to
you?"
    "There was a time when I never would have allowed that
to happen," Sisko said, recalling another conversation he
had had with Quark, some time ago. "Remember back a
couple of years when you and Nog and I went on that
camping expedition to the Gamma Quadrant, and Quark
insisted on coming along?"
    "Sure," Jake answered. "That's when you and Quark
were captured by the Jem'Hadar."
    "Quark and I were together for a long time when we were
being held, and we talked a lot." Sisko thought back to the
incident, and to all of the observations Quark had offered
up about humans. "Well Quark talked a lot, anyway," Sisko
amended. "And one of the things he claimed was that
humans generally disregarded out of hand anything any
Ferengi had to say because of the nature of the Alliance's
capitalist culture. He specifically said this was true of me,
that I never paid any attention to him or took him seriously,
strictly because he was a Ferengi."
    "I remember that," Jake said. "Quark repeated some of it
to Nog, and Nog told me about it."
    "Yes, well, I told Quark that he was wrong, but when we
returned to Deep Space Nine, I began to notice that there
was a certain... insensibility... even sometimes a call-
ousness... with which Quark was treated by many people
on the station. I therefore took pains to be sure that was not
true of me."
    "How'd you do that?" Jake asked, sounding genuinely
curious.
    "For one thing, I tried to be more receptive to Quark,"
Sisko said. "I also tried to keep an open mind about the
views he expressed. As it turned out, I think he may have
been right about me not paying him much attention,
because I found that I quickly learned something about
him."
 "What was that?"
    "I came to realize that Quark lives his life under a fairly
strict set of rulesre"
 "The Rules of Acquisition," Jake supposed.
    "The Rules of Acquisition, yes," Sisko concurred, "but as
interpreted through Quark's own unique perspective. And
as he pointed out to me this morning, he also lives by our
rules."
    "Yeah, I guess he's never been in one of Constable Odo's
holding cells for too long," Jake joked.
    "That's exactly what I mean, though," Sisko said. "He's
never been convicted by Bajor or the Federation of any
crimes. And yet I'd always perceived him as a lawbreaker."
    "I don't think I'd actually describe Quark as honest,
Dad," Jake said.
    "I'm not talking about honesty. I'm not even really
talking about Quark as much as I'm talking about myself.
I'd always thought of Quark as having a complete lack of
respect for the laws and rnles of the Federation and Star-
fleet. Of Bajor too. But he's actually lived for a long time
within those parameters."
  "So what does that mean?"
  "It means that, at least in some ways, I was wrong about
Quark," Sisko admitted. He saw that they had come to the
.point where the right-field fence met the center-field fence
m an oblique angle. It was the deepest part of the ballpark.
Sisko looked back toward the infield and saw that they were
indeed a long way from home plate.
    "Okay," Jake said as they passed the place where the
fences joined together. "But that's not a crime. People do
make mistakes."
    "It's not criminal if I made those false estimations of
Quark based upon who he was and how he acted, rather
than upon the fact that he was a Ferengi."
    "That's what's really bothering you, isn't it?" Sake asked
in a grave tone. "You're worried that you're a racist."
    Sisko Wok a deep breath and let it out very slowly. The
words, spoken aloud and without pretense, were very
heady.
    "No, I don't think that's the case, but I am concerned that
some--or any---of my actions have been motivated or
tainted by racial biases."
    "I think it's probably impossible to prevent yourself from
behaving that way some of the time," Jake said. "Don't we
all? I mean, everybody has biases."
 "I didn't think I did. Not those types of biases, anyway."
    "You do, Dad. Everybody does." Jake spoke with appar-
ent certainty.
    "You're talking about something specific, aren't you~'
Sisko asked.
    "No," Jake said. "Well, not on purpose. I was thinking
about the way you treat Nog."
    "Nog? I helped him get into Starfleet Academy. I spon-
sored his application."
    "Yes, you did," Jake said hesitantly, "and he's grateful to
you for that. And I am too. But it took a lot of convincing
before you were willing to recommend his admittance."
    "Well, no Ferengi had ever---" Sisko stopped, shocked at
what he was hearing himself say.
     "Right: no Ferengi had ever entered the Academy. But
that says virtually nothing about Nog as an individual."
 "I see your point."
 "And you were never very nice to Nog" Jake continued.
 "I'm sorry, Jak~, but the truth is, I didn't always like
Nog." Sisko spoke more harshly than he had intended; he
was suddenly feeling very defensive. "Why not?"
    "For one thing," Sisko said, deliberately moderating the
timbre of his voice, "when you and I first got to the station,
Nog was arrested by Constable Odo for stealing. Not exactly
the type of influence I wanted to have around my teenage
son."
 "So that was a reasoned criticism?"
 "Yes."
    "And therefore not based on the fact that he was a
Ferengi."
    "Okay, Jake, so you've made both points: that I am
biased against Ferengi, and that I'm not."
    "What I'm saying is that everybody has biases, Dad; they
can't help it. It's only natural to draw inferences from the
compilation of your life experiences. It's only when some-
body does that without thinking, or to adversely affect
another person, that it's a bad thing. In your case, your
biases showed with Nogmand maybe with Quark--but you
recognized that fact and overcame them. The fact that
you're now questioning yourself about the Federation's
role--and your own role--in this affair between the Bajor-
ans and the Ferengi is an indication of that."
    "I guess the problem I have is that I usually fight to
defend the things I believe in, and in this case, I think the
Bajorans are wrong to threaten to close their borders to all
Ferengi if the nagus won't reinstate them in the auction.
And yet I'm not fighting to reverse that course."
    "Do you really think the Bajorans will do that? Do you
really think they'll expel Quark and Rom and the other
Ferengi from their system?" Jake asked. These were issues
Sisko had been wrestling with since he had learned of the
edict.
    "Honestly, no, I don't think so," he said. "It seems so
cold and... so unjust... an action. Quark was right
about that, at least. But even though I don't think innocent
Ferengi should suffer the consequences of the nagus's ac-
tions, that doesn't mean I think what the nagus is doing is
fight. The Orb was stolen from the Bajorans in the first
place."

    "And that's not right," Jake commented, "but they've
done fine without any of the Orbs the Cardassians took."
    "Yes, but it appears as though the Bajorans may be taking
all of the others back fairly soon. In fact, they're in
negotiations right now with the Detapa Council to do just
that."
    "So why not talk to the Bajorans about the edict?" Jake
asked, and then immediately answered his own question.
"Oh: the Council's resolution?"
 "Yes."
    lt~ a circle, Sisko thought. And there did not seem to be
an answer anywhere on its circumference.
    He and Jake walked again without speaking for a while.
They were nearing the left-field line, having traversed most
of the outfield, when Jake broke the silence.
    "You know, Dad," he said, "it seems to me that some-
body biased against the Ferengi wouldn't be thinking about
these issues; he wouldn't be asking these questions of
himself."
    "I guess I don't really believe that I treat Quark and his
people unfairly," Sisko said, "but I find this problem
between the Bajorans and the Ferengi very troubling."
    "I know," Jake said. "Well, as far as the Ferengi are
concerned, I think it's important for you to realize that it's
because you believe so deeply in your own philosophywin-
cluding the Federation Constitution, Starfleet regulations,
and the Prime Directive--that it's difficult for you to credit
not only a foreign notion of right and wrong, but something
that was previously considered wrong in Earth's past.
Capitalism and greed almost destroyed our world."
    "And yet, somehow it seems to work for the Ferengi,"
Sisko said, shaking his head at the strangeness of the idea.
Jake shrugged his shoulders comically, and Sisko chuckled.
"Come on," he said to his son, "we better get out of here. I
have that briefing in the morning." The two stopped walk-
ing as Sisko called, "Computer, exit."
    The hydraulic sound of the holosuite doors opening
drifted to them from behind and to their left. Sisko and Jake
turned to see the doors in the middle of left field, an
incongruous sight amid the spectacle of the ancient baseball
cathedral. The rich texture of the grass and the bright
sunshine seemed far more inviting than the cold deck
plating and dim night lighting waiting on the other side of
the doorway.
    "End program," ordered Sisko, and Ebbets Field and its
thousands of occupants disappeared, revealing a room far
too small to accommodate anything of so grand a scale.
Sisko walked with his son across the empty holosuite floor.
The holographic imaging system embedded in the walls and
ceiling and floor was an impossible and unrecognizable
echo of the sights and sounds it had created.
    With Jake at his side, Sisko exited the holosuite, leaving
behind reproduced images and approximated moments out
of history, but taking with him his son's insight, his own
introspective questions for which he still needed answers,
and--far back in his mind, but still there--the memory of
a man named Jackie Robinson.

CHAPTER
       9

Two UOURS before the Bajoran deadline, Quark did not have
a buyer for the bar.
    "I'm ruined," he told his brother. Rom, though, seemed
unconcerned. He had apparently made peace with their
impending expulsion from Deep Space Nine, no doubt
confident that his older brother would take care of him.
Where he thought they would go, Quark did not know, nor
did he even really want to know.
    He probably thinks we're going back to Ferenginar to live
with Mother, Quark realized with a shudder.
    "Don't worry," Rom said in response to Quark's talk of
ruination. "You made that great deal a few weeks ago; I'm
sure you'll be able to make others."
    "Don't you understand, you idiot?" Quark growled. "The
reason I was able to make that deal was because of my
contacts in this area of space and my proximity to the
Gamma Quadrant and the wormhole. When I start doing
business in another location, it'll take me years to reestal~
lish all the advantages I had from being here--if I'm able to
do it at all If I could afford my own moon right now, that
would be a different matter, but I can't."
"Well," Rom offered, "at least we have each other."
"Wonderful," Quark muttered. "That and two slips of
latinum'11 get me a cup of raktajino." He could not even
force a sardonic smile. It was early morning and they were
in the bar--it was closed, with only a few lighting panels
switched on--and Quark was attempting to contact what
he knew would be his last hope of making any kind of a
profit before the Bajorans made it illegal for him to be here
and they took possession of his business.
    In the two days since he had met with Sisko, Quark had
relentlessly sought a purchaser for the bar. Few parties had
shown any desire to buy Quark's, and those who hffd shown
interest had also believed that they would be able to make a
better deal in just a few days; after all, the Bajoran govern-
ment was not likely to want to maintain ownership of a
drinking and gaming establishment. Quark had exhausted
virtually every avenue available to him. He had slept poorly
during the intervening nights, and now he was drained,
physically, mentally, and emotionally. His ears felt as
though they might shut down at any moment and not hear
another sound for a week.
    "Are you trying to contact cousin Gaila again?" Rom
asked. He was seated at the bar, across from where Quark
stood at the comm panel. Rom was picking at a plate of
food, a human breakfast that included scrambled eggs. It
nauseated Quark even to look at the amorphous yellow
mass. It was amazing to him what some people could eat.
    "Yes. Trog told me where I could supposedly find him."
Trog was one of Gaila's business associates. Quark had tried
numerous times over the past couple of days to reach his
cousin, but he had so far been unsuccessful. His search had
ranged fa~. he had hunted--via subspace transmissions--
in scores of different locations, scattered across Gaila's
moon, a dozen different planets, and twice as many space-
craft. He had left messages everywhere, but there had been
no response to any of them. Finally, just moments ago, he
had managed to find Trog. After accepting an appropriate
fee, the opportunistic Trog had purported to reveal where
Gaila could be reached, although Quark was dubious about
the authenticity of that information; Trog was not a man
known for his probity.

    Quark operated the comm panel, and the words ESTAB-
LISHING LINK . . . appeared on the screen. He waited tensely
as time dragged on, each second bringing him closer to the
certainty that he would be unable to contact Gaila before
the deadline.
    Suddenly, an image replaced the words on the screen: a
striking young woman with piercing eyes and a smooth,
bald head, she was obviously a Deltan. It was equally
obvious from the expression on her face that she was not
pleased to be responding to this communication. She said
nothing.
 "Uh, my name is Quark."
 She still said nothing.
 "I was looking for Gaila," Quark said uncertainly.
     "I cannot help you," the woman replied. Her distinctive
accent clearly distinguished her as a native of Delta IV.
 "What? Why not?"
    "Gaila--" the woman said, and stopped. She looked off
to the side for an instant, and then back at Quark. "Gaila is
not available," she finished.
    Not available! Then at least this woman knows Gaila, and
perhaps knows where he is.
     "Who are you?" Quark wanted to know. "If you don't
mind my asking." "I do mind."
    "All right." Quark automatically suppressed the anger he
felt, knowing intuitively that he would learn nothing from
this woman if he displayed a temper. "I realize this is a
terrible inconvenience," Quark said, using one of his many
salesman's voices, "but I really must speak with Gaila as
soon as possible."
 "Does he know you?"
"Yes, yes, absolutely," Quark answered. "I'm his cousin."
"You're Gaila's cousin?" The woman sounded skeptical.
"Yes," Quark said. "I'm his cousin and--" He quickly
reviewed the woman's reactions and demeanor in his mind,
trying to decide the proper tack he should use with her.
"--I'm his cousin and I need his help," he ventured.
 Once more, the woman was silent.
    "He owes me," Quark said at last, desperate for a
response. He got one.
    "I wouldn't exactly say I owe you," came a voice from
off screen.
  "Gaila? Please tell me that's you."
    A Ferengi male appeared on the corem panel beside the
young Deltan woman, pushing her partially out of the
picture. The man was a contemporary of Quark's, though
somewhat older, and there was at least some small resem-
blance in the lobes.
    And not just physically either, but businesswise. Quark had
often told himself that, anyway, particularly after his cous-
in's many successes.
 "Gaila," Quark said, delighted.
    "Quark," Gaila acknowledged. "How did you find me
here?" It did not sound as though Gaila was happy to have
been found.
    "I think that, when you return, you'll discover that Trog is
a few bars of latinurn richer than when you left," Quark
explained.
    "Ah, Trog," Gaila said, smiling, his displeasure at having
been located evidently mitigated because it had merely been
as a result of his cousin bribing one of his business partners.
"He's like family."
 "Obviously," Quark said. "He took my money."
 "What is it you want; Quark?" Gaila asked.
    "Do you know about the situation going on with Bajor
and the nagus?"
    "I heard the Bajorans were angry about making a poor
bid in the auction for that relic of theirs."
    "There's more," Quark said. He explained what had
happened--and what was likely to happen--in detail.
    "And what is it you want me to do?" Gaila asked when
Quark had finished. "Even if I was inclined to buy the bar
from you, what would be the point? The Bajoraus would
take it from me for the same reason they're going to take it
from you."
    "I realize that," Quark said. "But I thought you might
know somebody who--"
    "Quark, what are you doing on a Federation space station
anyway?" Gaila interrupted. "Listen, this could be the best
thing for you. Why not join my business?"
    "I don't want to join your business. I want to keep my
business."
    "But you can't keep your business; that's why you've
contacted me." Beside Gaila, the Deltan woman rolled her
eyes and moved completely out of view.
 "I know," Quark said, "and if you could just--"
    "This is not an offer I make every day, or to many
people," Gaila cut Quark off again. "Actually, I don't ever
make this offer to anybody. But you helped me out when I
needed it." Years ago, Quark had helped Gaila out of some
trouble, eventually loaning him the funds to establish his
arms-dealing business, which had subsequently prospered.
 "So you do owe me," Quark argued.
 "I gave you that small ship," Gaila said.
"A defective ship that crashed," Quark countered.
"Cousin, I'm trying to help you," Gaila replied. "I've
presented you with this proposition before, and you've
never taken it. Why not? I'm doing well..." He made a
motion off to the side which Quark could not see, but the
beautiful Deltan woman reappeared on the comm panel as
she returned to Gaila, who slipped an arm around her.
"... extremely well... as you can see."
 "Yes, I see, but I just can't join your business."
    "What's the matter with you?" Gaila asked, clearly
confounded by Quark's rejection of his offer. "I think you
must have gotten soft living among humans and Bajorans;
your values have become tainted by the Federation and
Starfleet. Where is your sense of profit, your instinctive
need for gain?"
    "My need for gain is fine," Quark snapped back. "But I
can't make any profit if I'm dead. Your business is danger-
ous, and I'm not a brave man. I don't want to get involved
with the people you deal with."
    "Well, then," Gaila said, surrendering, "there's nothing
more I can do for you."
    "'Nothing more'?" Quark said. "You haven't done any-
thing."
    "He gave you an opportunity to join his business," the
Deltan woman bristled.
    "And the opportunity will remain open to you, Quark, at
least for now," Gaila said.
     "Are you sure--" Quark began, but the comm-panel
 screen went dark, the image of Gaila and his consort
 replaced by the words œm> ~SMISSION.
     "That didn't go so well," Rom observed over his break-
 fast.
     "No," Quark agreed. He was stunned. He had finally
 been able to locate Gaila, his final hope, and now that hope
 was gone.
  "Now what, brother?" Rom asked.
    "Now," Quark answered, "I'm ruined." He came out
from behind the bar, barely aware of the movement of his
limbs; he felt as though he were in a trance. "The best deal
of my life... all that profit I made... it'll have to sustain
us for a long time, until I can establish a whole new business
somewhere else." He walked over to the front doors and
operated the lock.
  "What are you doing?" Rom asked.
    "I'm opening the bar." It was hours away from the time
Quark typically opened for business, but what else was
there to do? "I might as well make the last few strips of
latinurn I can before the Bajorans come up here and steal
my bar from me." The lock mechanism disengaged with
several electronic beeps and an audible snik. Quark touched
a button on a nearby control panel and the doors parted and
slid open. He touched another button and activated all the
lights in the bar, throwing the place into bright illumina-
tion.
    "But who'd want to come to the bar so early in the
morning?" Rom wanted to know.
    "People coming off the night shift, maybe," Quark
guessed, joining Rom back behind the bar. "I don't know;
that's why we're never open at this hour."
    "I thought it was because you liked to sleep late," Rom
said.
    Quark started to reply, but he was distracted by the
sudden, slightly metallic sound of something being moved
across the floor. He and Rom looked over and saw the
source of the sound: at the end of the bar, near the doors,
Morn had taken a seat.

    Thirty minutes later, there were two dozen customers in
the bar. Most were on their way to their day shifts and were
having breakfast, but there were a few who were winding
down after a long night's work.
    "I guess we should have been opening the bar earlier all
along," Quark said from where he stood next to the
replicatot. "People apparently want another option for
breakfast."
    "It can get pretty boring always eating in the Replimat,"
Rom said. He was still seated at the bar, although he had by
now finished his morning meal.
    "Of course, I find this out," Quark said, not without some
bitterness, "just as I'm about to be banished from the
station."
    "Are you sure that's going to happen?" somebody asked.
Quark turned to find that Dax had entered the bar. She sat
down on a chair next to Rom.
    "These days, Commander," Quark said, "it's about the
only thing that I am sure of."
    "Sounds like you're feeling sorry for yourself," Dax
noticed.
    "Sure, and why not? I'm about to be punished for
something I didn't do--more than that, for something I had
absolutely nothing to do with at all." To his brother, he
added, "At least Odo only ever tried to catch me breaking
the law; he never wanted to charge me with a crime I didn't
commit."
    "Such praise," Dax said. "I'll have to make it a point to
let the constable know how highly you regard him." She
smiled in her playful way. Quark ignored the comment.
 "What can I get you, Commander?" he asked.
 "I don't know," she said. "I could use something."
 "Tough shift?" Rom inquired.
    "Uh-huh. I worked a double. I'm tired, but I felt like
relaxing a little bit before I headed for my quarters. I was
just going to get something to eat at the Replimat when I
saw that the bar was open."
    "For a limited time only," Quark said loudly. "So, what'11
it be?"
  "I think I'd like something different."
  "Well, I'm clearing the decks," Quark said, spreading his
 arms wide as he peered beneath the bar at the stock there.
 Across the room, a customer waved. "You're needed over
 there," Quark told his brother, pointing. Rom looked
 around at the customer with her hand raised; it was Ensign
 Holdbrook. Rom stood up and headed for her table.
    "I thought Rom wasn't working here anymore after his
appointment to Chief O'Brien's engineering team," Dax
said.
    "He wasn't, but now he's about the only one who is,"
Quark replied, pulling out a bottle from beneath the bar.
"Except for Broc, the rest of my waiters have already
packed up and left the station." All of the waiters previously
employed at Quark's had been Ferengi and, in view of the
Bajoran edict, they had each been anxious to depart D$9.
The consensus was that any Ferengi remaining on the
station after the deadline had passed would be arrested and
jailed. Quark had been able to convince only Broc to stay
this long, although Quark had also demanded that Rom
forgo his engineering duties in order to help out at the bar.
    "What's this?" Dax asked, referring to the bottle Quark
was holding in his hand.
    "Just a little something from Earth I think you might
find... intoxicating" Quark said, removing the stopper.
The bottle was rectangular in shape, clear, and almost
completely full of a pale, amber liquid. "What is it?"
    "It's called tequila," he said. "It's got quite a kick, from
what I understand. Naturally, I thought of you when I heard
that." Dax frequently claimed to be seeking out new experi-
ences and new ways of enjoying her life.
    Quark set the open bottle down on the bar, and Dax bent
in close to the neck. She sniffed the liquor, then examined it
visually. After a moment, she wrinkled her nose in apparent
confusion.
    "What is that?" she asked, her fingertip pressing against
the side of the bottle.
    "What?" Quark leaned in toward the bottle to see where
she was pointing. "Oh, that. That's just a worm of some
sort. It's an old custom, I'm told." "Uh-huh."
 "Can I pour you a round?" Quark asked.
 "You know, I think I'll just pass."
    "Whatever you say." Quark replaced the stopper and
returned the bottle to its location beneath the bar. "How
about a kiriliona?"
 "No, I think I'll try a--"
"What are you doing open?" a loud voice interrupted.
Quark and Dax spun around to the source of the voice: it
was Kira, standing just inside the doorway, her hands
perched on her hips. Having gotten Quark's notice, she
marched over to the bar, where she stood beside Dax. At the
same time, Rom returned.
    "What did the ensign order?" Quark asked his brother,
referring to the customer who had summoned Rom. He did
not respond to Kira.
    "Nothing," Rom said. "She just wanted to pay." He
handed over several slips of gold-pressed latinurn.
    "Latinurn instead of a charge," Quark said. "How
thoughtful."
    "Did you hear me, Quark?" Kira asked. "The deadline is
up in ninety minutes. Shouldn't you be packing?"
    "Don't worry, Major," Quark told her. "I'll be gone soon
enough."
    "Not soon enough to suit me," she retorted. "But I'm not
worried at all. What I am is delighted that Deep Space Nine
will finally be rid of its infestation."
 "Kira--" Dax started, but Quark talked over her.
    "You and your people have certainly left me no choice in
the matter but to leave," he said, then raised his voice
nearly to a shout as he finished, "even though I didn't do
anything."
    "I don't care what you did or didn't do," Kira told him.
"This couldn't happen to a more deserving person."
    "You know, Major Kira," Rom interjected, "my brother's
right: we really didn't do anything wrong." Kira looked at
Rom as though she had not seen him until just now.
    "Oh, you consider me a person now, not an infestation,"
Quark said. "I suppose I should be flattered."
    "You should be flattered," K. ira said, returning her atten-
tion to Quark, "that I haven't chased you away long before
this."
 There was a pause as Quark developed--and Kira waited
for, he was surema harsh response. Instead, though, Quark
chose to lower his voice and calm his manner.
    "You're right, Major," he said, which seemed to startle
Kira. "Then again, I was ready to leave here when Starfleet
took over, but the Emissary invited me to stay. In fact, he
insisted that I stay."
  "You're lying," Kira said.
    "Ask him yourself. It doesn't matter, though. I'll be
leaving now--" He glanced over at Rom. "My brother and I
will be leaving now so that the great Bajoran religion can
exact its revenge on innocent people."
  "You call yourself innocent?" Kira exclaimed. "Ha."
    "Kira, I think--" Dax said, standing from her chair, but
Kira continued.
    "I can't wait until you're gone. You never deserved to
pass through the Bajoran system, much less live here. You're
a--"
    "Major Kira," Dax said forcefully. "I need to speak with
you." Kira looked at her and, after a moment, smiled
bemusedly.
 "Can't it wait?" she asked.
    "I need to speak with you now." Dax had lowered the
volume of her voice to just above the level of a whisper. It
apparently convinced Kira of the serious and imperative
nature of her appeal. "All right."
    Dax touched Kira lightly on the arm and led her a dozen
or so steps away from the bar.

    Quark watched Dax lead Kira over toward the dabo
table, which was currently empty. There, the two officers
faced each other. Kira still seemed perplexed, but Dax
looked as though she had reverted to her usual cool and
composed selfi
    From his place at the bar, it was an easy matter for Quark
to overhear what they were saying, despite his fatigue. The
women were only halfway across the room, after all, and the
bar was not exactly filled to capacity. 
"What is it, Jadzia?" Kira began.
    "I just wanted to stop you before you embarrassed
yourself any further."
    "Excuse me?" Kira asked in an incredulous voice. Quark,
too, was surprised at Dax's words.
    "Whether you believe it or not," Dax stated, "Quark's
innocent in this matter. But even if he weren't, your
behavior is still inexcusable. If Quark had suggested to the
nagus himself that the Bajorans should never be given an
opportunity to purchase the Orb of Wisdom, then he would
now be suffering the consequences of his actions with the
loss of his bar and his forced departure from Bajoran space,
and your behavior here would still be poor."
"You don't understand," Kira said. "I was just--"
"Just what?" Dax demanded. "By coming in here now,
you've gone out of your way to berate Quark. Did you think
he didn't know how you felt? Of course he knows. And you
came in here anyway to tell him again, maybe even to hurt
him. Hardly the kindness and caring that the Bajoran
religion advocates."
    Quark almost could not believe the vehemence with
which Dax delivered her words. He understood that her
remonstration was less a defense of him and more a rebuke
of Kira's conduct, but he found that it nevertheless pleased
him.
    "But the fate of the Ninth Orb is at stake," Kira pro-
tested. "We're not just talking about some valuable piece of
property, some object the Bajoran people want to own for
no good reason. We're talking about a sacred artifact
created by the Prophets themselves."
    If the Prophets wanted you to have the Orb, Quark thought
cynically from across the room, then why did They ever let it
be removed from Bajor?
    "I realize that, Nerys," Dax said, her tone softening as
she used Kira's given name. "But is that really a reason to
treat Quark--or anybody--so badly?"
    There was a brief silence during which Quark thought
Kira was going to answer Dax's question, but it was Dax
who spoke next.
    "Has Quark ever told you that he's happy that the Ninth
Orb isn't on Bajor," she asked, "or that he's pleased that
your people were expelled from the auction?"
    "No," Kira admitted, "but he refused to try to persuade
the nagus to reinstate Bajor in the bidding."
    "I know that," Dax said, "but I also know that Quark
opposing the nagus would be like you opposing the kai."
    "Well, when I've believed she was wrong, I have" Kira
argued. "I've certainly had my disagreements with Kai
Winn."
    "But what about with Kai Opaka?" Dax asked, bringing
up Kira's old friend and mentor.
    "That was different," Kira claimed. "I liked Opaka. I
respected her as a person and as a leader, not just as a
religious figure."
    "Aren't those the same types of feelings that Quark has
for Grand Nagus Zek?"
    "You sound like you're on Quark's side," Kira said
indignantly.
    "I'm not on anybody's side. But I honestly think the way
you've behaved here is wrong. I'm saying this to you as your
friend: Kira, you can be better than this."
    "Why don't you tell Quark that he can be better than he's
being, that he could at least try to help bring the Orb back to
Bajor." It was not a question, Quark thought, but an
accusation.
     "How do you know I haven't?" Dax asked. Kira's jaw
dropped in surprise. "Have you?"
    "No." Kira's expression hardened immediately. "I haven't
told Quark he can be better in this situation because I don't
necessarily think that he's done anything wrong."
    Kira was quiet again for a moment. She looked down,
shaking her head slowly left and right a couple of times. Her
hands tensed into fists very briefly, Quark saw, then opened
again as she brought her emotions under control. Finally,
she looked back up at Dax.
    "Then Quark's not the only one who's wrong," she said.
She spun on her heel and paced quickly out of the bar, not
even glancing at Quark on her way out the door.

    "She sure looked angry," Quark said as Dax returned to
the bar. He nodded his head in the direction Kira had
taken.
 "Mad enough to chew neutronlure," commented Rom.
    "Don't pretend that you didn't hear every word we said,"
Dax told Quark.
    "With such good hearing, Commander, I really couldn't
help myself." Quark glanced over at the chronometer on the
corem panel. The Bajoran deadline was not much more
than an hour away. "But there's very little point in chastis-
ing me for eavesdropping; Rom and I have to be on our
way."
    Despite Kira's remarks suggesting the contrary, Quark
and Rom had already packed up their personal belongings,
along with a few particularly useful and valuable items from
the bar. Quark had discovered that shipping the entire
contents of his business out of Bajoran space would have
been cost prohibitive; consequently, he was going to aban-
don everything in the bar. If there had been more time, he
would have held a sale, but the three days leading up to the
deadline and his frantic efforts, first to find a way to remain
on the station, and then to sell the bar, had left him no
opportunity to do so.
    "In fact, you should go make sure everything's ready for
our trip," Quark told Rom. "And make sure Broc's ready to
go too."
 "Okay," Rom said. He headed for their quarters.
 "I never did get that drink," Dax said, sitting down.
 "What was it you wanted?" Quark asked.
 "How about a Finagie's Folly."
    "Coming right up." Quark pulled a glass and the neces-
sary ingredients from beneath the bar and began mixing the
drink.
 "Where will you be going?" Dax asked.
 "Alastron Four, for now."
    "There's not much there, is there?" Dax said. "Why did
you choose that place?"
    "The only ship departing the station this morning before
the deadline is an Alastron shuttle headed back to their
world."
 "where will you go after that?"
    "who knows? I haven't really had much time to make any
concrete plans." Quark finished preparing the Finagle's
Folly and pushed it across the bar.
     "I see," Dax said, lifting the drink to her lips and taking a
 sip. "So tell me again, why is it that you're leaving?"
     "Pardon me?" Quark said. "I may have excellent hearing,
 but sometimes I can't believe the words that come out of
 people's mouths."
    "I wanted to know why you're leaving," Dax repeated. "I
know about the Bajoran edict, but what is it you expect to
happen if you don't go?"
    "If I stay on Deep Space Nine," he said, "then they'll
probably arrest me and throw me in jail." Remaining on the
station in violation of the edict had never seemed like a
reasonable alternative.
    "Who would?" Dax asked. "Odo? Do you really think
he'd arrest you for no good reason?"
    "He's been trying to arrest me for any reason at all for
years."
    "But think about that for a minute," Dax said. "The
constable could have arrested you whenever he'd wanted to
during that time. Why didn't he?"
"Because he never caught me committing a crime."
"Exactly. You know what Odo says: 'Laws change, but
justice is justice.' And if it's justice he's interested in, do you
think he's going to arrest you when you really haven't done
anything wrong?"
"I don't know." This had never really occurred to Quark.
"Besides, this isn't a matter of station security, and so it
doesn't fall within his responsibilities. And you know that
no Starfleet officer is going to arrest you; we're keeping out
of this."
    "Well, then I suppose they'll send somebody here from
the planet."
    "Maybe," Dax allowed. She took another sip of her drink.
"But I'm not so sure how well Starfleet would like that
happening on their space station."
    "As Captain Sisko likes to point out," Quark said, "this is
a Bajoran space station."
    "And how do you think it would reflect on Bajor, in light
of their petition to join the Federation, for you to be
arrested?"
 "What are you saying, Commander?" Quark asked. "Do
you know for a fact that nothing's going to happen to me ifI
decide to stay here?"
    "I can't say that, no," she said. "But do you really want to
leave this place? It's become your home."
    "I'm not sure how much of a home it is," Quark said,
"but it is where my business is." And that was everything to
him.
    "That's what I'm saying," Dax said. "Are you going to let
somebody destroy your business for something you didn't
do?"
 "I don't appear to have much choice," Quark said.
 "I think you do."
    "Well, I don't think we're going to have a chance to find
that out," Quark said as he checked the chronometer once
more. It was getting late; he and Rom and Broc were
scheduled to be on a shuttle departing the station thirty
minutes prior to the deadline--just long enough for them to
get clear of Bajoran space--and that time was approaching.
    "I really have to be going, Jadzia." He took a step away
from the bar and addressed the customers remaining. "Last
call," he told everyone. "And I do mean 'last.'"
    From the end of the bar, Quark saw, Morn was gazing at
him with an expression that seemed equal parts sadness and
terror.

    The cogwheeMike inner hatch rolled to one side along its
track, revealing the short corridor that was Docking Bay
One. Attached to the outside of the bay was the Alastron
shuttle Aran'tsah. Quark, Rom, and Broc stood on the
station side of the hatch with the bags they would be
carrying with them on the shuttle; Rom and Broc had seen
to it that the remainder of their personal belongings had
already been loaded aboard Aran'tsah.
    After the hatch had opened fully, Rom and Broc hefted
their duffels and passed through it, on their way to the
shuttle. Quark lifted his bag as well, but he did not move
from where he stood. At the inner hatchway, obviously
realizing that Quark was not with them, Rom and Broc
turned around.
 "Are you coming, brother?" Rom asked.
    Now, that really was a legitimate question, wasn't it?
Because when it came down to it, Quark found that he did
not really want to leave Deep Space Nine. Dax had talked
about this place being his home, and even though Quark felt
that was a subject for debate, it certainly was the case that
DS9 was the place where he practiced his livelihood. And
since Quark's business was his life, well, then that meant
that this was where his life was.
    But what price was he willing to pay to keep it? He had
told Gaila that he was not brave, and that was positively
true; Quark ran from fights not just as a rule, but as a way of
life. It had not been a lie when he had told Gaila that he had
not wanted to get involved in dealing arms because the
people involved in that business--and the very nature of
the business itself--scared him.
    What about that lucrative deal you just made, then? he
asked himself.
    Well, that had not been an exercise in dealing weapons
per se. And Quark had taken the time and had made the
effort before embarking on that deal to assess its risk factors
with respect to its participants. Had they even been moder-
ately high, he would not have engaged in any of the
transactions. At any rate, he had only been an intermedi-
ary-not even an intermediary, really, but more of a
facilitator. And the people he had been dealing with had
been, well, reputable.
    So he was not a brave man, but just how much bravery
would would be required of him if he stayed here, if he
made the stand that Dax thought he should? Would he be
arrested? Would he be jailed? There seemed to be some
truth in Dax's argument suggesting that those things would
not happen, but could he be sure of that? After all, she had
only been speculating.
    What courage will you need for what lies on the other side
of that docking bay? Quark asked himself then. A complete
loss of his business, an uncertain future. Could he really
face starting all over again on his climb up the Ferengi
ladder of success?
 I don't know, he answered himself. I don't know.
 "Brother?" Rom called again from the inner hatch.

    Quark looked up at his brother, whose two hands were
clasped together on his shoulder, grasping the drawstring of
the duffel bag he carried. Broc stood beside him in a similar
pose.
    Quark regarded the two men. After a moment, he set his
own bag back down on the deck.



CHAPTER
      lO

ODO ADJUSTED HIS MOVEMENTS as he exited the turbolift onto
the Promenade. He tensed as best he could the internal
structure of his body, trying to reduce as much as he could
any interior flow of his changeling anatomy. The thorou~
bracing of his form in this fashion was not intuitive to him,
and it therefore required a concentrated effort to accom-
plish it.
    He strode carefully down the Promenade, cushioning his
feet as they came in contact with the deck. He walked past
the Replimat and other shops onhis way to Quark's. From a
distance, he could see that the bar was open for business, as
it had been yesterday and the day before, despite that the
deadline specified by the Bajorans had passed and the nagus
had not reinstated them in the auction for the Ninth Orb.
According to the edict, any Ferengi within Bajoran space
were now there illegally, but if there had been any effort to
expel or arrest--or even identify--such Ferengi, Odo was
not aware of it. Of course, as best he could tell, most of the
Ferengi on Deep Space Nine had left the station prior to the
deadline; he assumed the same was true of those who had
been on Bajor itself, or elsewhere in the system. As far as he
knew, the only Ferengi violating the edict were Quark and
Rom.
    As Odo neared the bar, he spied Quark inside the doors,
his back to the Promenade walkway. That was good: it
would allow Odo to easily test his ability to restrict the
internal motion of his body when in humanoid form.
    Odo entered the bar and approached Quark from behind.
He stopped just in back of the Ferengi and waited. Quark
was surveying the room--the bar was busy, as it often was
in the evening--and he had given no indication that he had
heard the constable arrive.
    Odo also looked around. With the exception of Rom, all
of the waiters were new to the bar, he noticed, and none of
them were Ferengi. Broc, who had remained on the station
right up until the deadline, had chosen not to stay beyond it.
All of the women working at the dabo table had also been
newly hired, and unlike their predecessors, they were not
Bajoran. Of course: either the locals had elected not to work
for a Ferengi after the deadline had passed, or Quark had
opted not to explore their loyalties.
    "Quark," Odo said at last. He was pleased to see Quark
start at the sound of his voice. The Ferengi turned and
gazed up at him.
    "Where did you come from?" Quark asked, seemingly
flustered. "How long have you been standing there?" Odo
did not believe that he was acting, but it was difficult to
know with certainty; Quark was nothing if not devious.
    "I didn't come from anywhere," Odo replied. "I'm always
by your side, Quark. How else would I be able to catch you
in the act of committing a crime?"
    "You haven't caught me yet," Quark remarked. "Then

again, it's always been my policy not to break the law."
    Odo tried to laugh. It came out as a quick exhalation of
breath, a fleeting burst of noise. He had learned much about
humor in his life, but it still often required an effort for him
to participate and react the way other people did. It was less
the result of his changeling nature, he thought, than the
philosophical rigidity born of his dedication to justice.
    "You're breaking the law right now," Odo reminded
Quark, "just by being in Bajoran space."
    "And yet you don't seem to be arresting me," Quark
noted.
    "Don't think I haven't thought about it," Odo told him
truthfully. "But the edict that the Bajorans issued is not a
matter of station security; it is therefore not within my
jurisdictional purview." Which was also true, although Ode
also realized that he might have found it difficult to arrest
Quark and Rom even if he had been ordered to do so. For
all of the time and effort the constable had expended
through the years attempting to find a legitimate reason to
apprehend Quark, he had no desire to take him into custody
when, at least in his own view, no real crime had been
committed.
    "Well, you shouldn't sneak up on people," Quark said.
"It's not right."
    "It wouldn't matter whether or not I sneaked up on you ff
you had nothing to hide, now would it?" Odo responded.
    "My life and my business are open books," Quark
claimed.
    "If you ever opened your books, I'm sure they'd read like
a fairy tale."
 "They do have a happy ending, though."
 "For you, yes, I'm sure they do." Odo turned to go.
    "Next time," Quark called after him, "make some noise
when you come into the bar."
 Odo did not bother to respond.

    The Daily Criminal Activity Report was going to be
propitiously short. In his office, in preparation for his
morning meeting with Major Kira tomorrow, Odo recorded
and described the one minor incident that had occurred
that day. Odo glanced up at the security monitors and saw
that the two detainees in the brig were quiet at the moment;
one was a local Bajoran shopkeeper, the other a Bolian
freighter who had apparently felt cheated in some transac-
tion. Their altercation had landed them here, where they
were currently cooling off in separate cells.
    Odo paused as he ended the report, debating as he had
the previous two nights whether or not to append it with an
informational notation. It should have been easier to make
the decision tonight, he thought, considering that he had
made it twice already. And yet the same arguments for and
against the addendum raged with each other in his mind.
Ultimately, he came to the same conclusion he had reached
in preparing his two previous reports. Under the heading
ADDITIONAL NOTES, he recorded:

In defiance of the Bajoran decree that all Ferengi
depart the system, two individuals remain on Deep
Space Nine. As such matter does not come under the
heading of station security, no action has been taken.

    In some sense, Odo felt that, in not acting on Quark's and
Rom's refusal to leave the station, he was disregarding the
order that had been issued with the force of law by the
Bajoran government. At the same time, he assuaged to some
degree these concerns by including in his reports his lack of
action with respect to this matter. When he had first done
this, Kira had questioned his decision not to arrest Quark
and Rom, but she had then accepted his explanation of his
insufficient authority to apply this particular law on the
station. Further, no word had yet been issued on Bajor
regarding any penalties or law-enforcement procedures for
individuals who were in violation of the edict.
    Odo finished the report and was about to move on to his
next order of business when the doors to the security office
slid open. Odo looked up from his console to see Captain
Sisko enter, accompanied by two individuals with whom
the constable was not familiar. The two, a man and a
woman, each wore the apricot-colored uniform of the
Bajoran Militia. The woman carried a Bajoran padd, while
a small instrument pouch was slung on a strap across the
man's shoulder.
 "Captain," Odo said, rising from his seat.
    "Constable Odo," Sisko returned. The captain's face was
barren of expression. "This is Lieutenant Carlien and
Sergeant Onial," he said, introducing first the woman and
then the man. Carlien was a head shorter than Odo, fit but
not skinny, with wavy red hair falling to her shoulders; her
most striking feature was the greenish tint of her eyes. Onial
 was slightly taller, and slim; his straight brown hair, combed
 back away from his face, was nearly as long as that of the
 lieutenant.
     "How do you do," Odo said with appropriate formality.
 He knew why the two Bajorans were here even before Sisko
 told him.
     "The lieutenant and the sergeant have come from Bajor
 to enforce the edict regarding the banishment of all Ferengi
 from Bajoran space," Sisko said. "Apparently there have
 been reports from Bajorans living on the station indicating
 that there are still several Ferengi aboard Deep Space Nine."
     "Not several, Captain," Lieutenant Carlien corrected. At
 least on the surface, Odo noted, she did not seem awed to be
 in the presence of the Emissary, as so many Bajorans often
 were. "Two individuals named--" She consulted her padd.
 "-,Rom and Quark. Do you know of them, Constable?"
    Odo glanced at Sisko. The captain inclined his head
slightly to the side, shrugging his shoulders almost imper-
ceptibly. The two men had discussed the situation regarding
Quark and Rom. While they both disagreed with the
Bajoran position, neither of them were prepared to lie about
anything.
    "Yes, I believe they are still on the station," Odo in-
formed Carlien and Onial.
    "May we ask why they have not yet been taken into
custody?" Onial asked.
    As explanation, Odo related the range of his authority as
he interpreted it. Carlien and Onial seemed to accept the
rationale at face value.
    "I understand the limitations incumbent upon your posi-
tion," Carlien said to Odo. Then, to Sisko, she continued,
"As militia officers representing the government in the role
of system-wide law enforcement, however, we do possess the
authority to act in this matter."
    "Of course," Sisko acknowledged. He held out his hand
to Carlien and said, "May I?" She handed him her padd,
and he passed it on to Odo. "First Minister Shakaar himseft
has signed arrest warrants for all Ferengi in the system."
    Odo perused the document on the readout. When he
finished his examination, he came around his security
console and delivered it back to Carlien.

 "All seems to be in order," Odo confirmed.
    "So," Carlien said, "will you please take us to these two
men, Constable?"
 Again, Odo looked to Sisko for assistance.
    "Yes, of course," the captain answered, motioning toward
tb.e door. "Constable?"
    Odo sighed--a habit he had learned to unconsciously
mimic by observing humanoids in moments of frustra-
tion-and turned to pick up a tricorder from atop his
console. Reluctantly, he then led Sisko and the two Bajorans
out of his office.
 "This way," he told them.

0

CHAPTER
      11

"RIGHT THIS WAY, Lieutenant, Sergeant."
    Odo's voice was not extremely loud, but it did not need to
be in order for Quark to hear it. Even the constable's
footsteps were conspicuously audible as he marched
through the Promenade toward the bar. All of which was
strange, Quark knew, since Odo's appearances were so often
unheralded.
    "The bar is just down here, on the left," Quark heard Odo
say.
    Lieutenant, thought Quark. Sergeant. Sergeant was not a
Starfleet rank; it was a Bajoran one. It could be one of the
Bajoran otticem assigned to DS9, but--
 reno. They were coming for him, he realized.
    "Rom," Quark called across the room. Rom looked up
from where he was taking a customer's order at a table.
Quark beckoned him with a gesture, then raced over to the
end of the bar, to where Morn was sitting in front of a mug
of lager. Quark grabbed his elbow and leaned in close to
him. Mona's breath smelled liked his drink.
 "It's time," Quark told him. "You're in charge."
 Morn spun around on his stool to face Quark, the smile
on his otherwise-droopy countenance by far the biggest
Quark had ever seen there. It was unnerving.
    "Don't drink all the profits," Quark enjoined him. Morn
said nothing, but he continued to smile as he got up and
moved behind the bar.
    "Is it time, brother?" Rom asked, arriving beside Quark.
"Are they coming for us?"
    "They're coming," Quark said, ducking behind the bar
for a moment to retrieve a satchel. "Let's go." He shoved
the satchel into Rom's arms and pushed him toward the
nearer of the two winding staircases that led up to the
second level. They had just started up when Odo spoke
again.
    "Right over here," Quark heard him say. From the
volume and direction of his voice, Quark judged the
constable to be just outside the entrance to the bar. Rom
must have heard him too, because he stopped halfway to the
second level and peered over the staircase railing at the
main doors. Quark pushed him again to get him moving.
    By the time they had dashed the rest of the way up the
stairs, Quark could make out the sound of a portable
sensing device down below thom.

    Odo watched as Sergeant Onial swept the handheld
Bajoran scanner back and forth in front of himself, attempt-
ing to detect any Ferengi life signs. The two Bajoran officers
stood ahead of Odo and Captain Sisko, just inside the doors
to the bar.
    "Anything?" Lieutenant Carlien asked her subordinate
over the electronic whine of the scanner.
    Odo gazed about the room. Neither Quark nor Rom were
there, he saw, but Morn was working behind the bar, a clear
indication that Quark believed the situation to be desper-
ate. Morn was smiling broadly as he poured a tall glass of
some brightly colored liquid. Odo wondered idly whether
the drink was intended for a customer, or if the new
bartender was indulging in what he considered to be a
perquisite of the job he had been asked to do.
    "Yes," Sergeant Onial answered the lieutenant. He held
the scanner pointed in the direction of the stairway near the
end of the bar. His hand then rose until the device was
aimed upward, toward the second level. "They're on the
deck above us."
  "Both of them?" Carlien asked.
  "Yes."
    The lieutenant headed immediately for the stairs. The
sergeant followed in her wake, and Sisko and Odo trailed
along after them. Odo noticed several of the bar's customers
look up from their drinks and their conversations as the
quartet passed.
    Once they had reached the second level, Onial paused to
confirm his sensor readings. He started toward the walkway
of the Upper Promenade, on a zigzag course amid the
people seated at the tables there.
    "This way," he said, but then he halted abruptly in his
path.
 "What is it?" Carlien asked.
    "The readings are fluctuating," he said. "It's almost as if
they're intermittently being masked."
    "Constable?" Sisko said, but Odo was already activating
his own tricorder. His actions were born more out of habit
than out of duty, Odo recognized, as were those of the
captain, he was sure.
    "They are trying to mask their life signs," Odo verified.
"If they're successful, we won't be able to read them at all."
    "Can you pinpoint their location, Sergeant?" Carlien
wanted to know.
    Onial studied his scanner. Holding the device steady, he
pivoted on his heel; Odo found the movement reminiscent
of a compass needle finding a magnetic pole.
    "They're through there," Onial said, indicating a
doorway.
    "Confirmed," Odo said, looking at his own sensor read-
ings.
 "What is through there, Captain?" Carlien asked.
 "Holosuites."
    "That may be how they're trying to block our scans,"
Onial theorized.
    "The readings we're getting aren't just holosuite projec-
tions, are they, Constable?" Sisko asked.
    "Negative," Odo said, checking his trioorder. "I'm read-
ing two actual life-forms, both of them Ferengi."
 "Then let's go," Carlien said.
    Onial led the way this time. Through the doorway, a short
hall led to Quark's holosuites. Onial stopped at the first one
and examined his scanner.
    "They're in here," the sergeant announced. Carlien step-
ped up to the doors, but they did not open. Odo slipped past
her to the other side of the doorway, where the control panel
for the holosuite was set into the wall. Odo operated the
panel.
     "The doors have been locked," he told everybody.
"There's a program running in there."
 "Shut it down," Sisko ordered.
 Odo worked the controls.
    "I'm not getting any response," he said. "I'll initiate the
override protocols." Sisko walked over and stood beside
Odo, observing him as he worked. After a few seconds, Odo
glanced back over his shoulder and said, "There's no
response from the overrides either." "Cut the power."
    Odo acknowledged the captain with a nod and set to
bypassing the primary holosuite functions. He accessed the
emergency power shutdown procedure and triggered it.
There was no effect.
    "Nothing's happening," Odo said. "I think the panel's
been reconfigured. In fact, I'd guess that the whole system
has been thoroughly modified."
 "Can you shut it down manually?" Sisko asked.
    "I can try." Sisko backed away as the constable dropped
to one knee. Odo set his tricorder on the floor and removed
the access plate situated on the wall beneath the main
holosuite controls. He peered inside at the circuitry junc-
tion there, located the manual cutoff switch, and reached
for it. There was a snap as he threw the switch. He retrieved
his tricorder, stood up, and checked the control panel. Sisko
moved back in next to him and looked at the panel as well.
 "Nothing," Sisko said.
    "They must have shunted the power through another
system," Odo concluded. "It'll take some time to isolate the
circuit."
 "Is there any way to unlock the doors?" Carlien asked.
 Odo used his tricotaler to learn the answer.

    "This looks like one of Rom's specialty jobs," he said.
"Getting past the security locks he's put in place will also
take some time."
 "Can we beam in?" Carlien persisted.
    "No," Odo replied. "Part of Rom's locking strategy is to
set up repeating, low-level antiresonance bursts. It makes it
impossible to focus a transporter beam."
    "A transporter beam originating outside the antireso-
nance field," Sisko said. "But the holosuite is active. What if
we tapped in to its internal transporter system?"
    "Hmmm," Odo said, considering the suggestion. "We
could use the station's transporters, but direct the remateri-
alization subroutine to use the holosuite's emitters."
Sisko tapped his combadge. "Sisko to Chief O'Brien."
"O'Brien here," the chief responded. Sisko quickly de-
scribed what they wanted to do. It took only a few moments
for O'Brien to make the necessary adjustments to the
station's transporter software.
    "We're ready whenever you are, Captain," O'Brien re-
ported. "But once we put you down inside the antireso-
nance field, we won't be able to fix a transporter lock on you
to beam you out of the holosuite."
    "That's all right, Chief," Sisko said. "Once we're inside,
Rom should be able to get us out. If you haven't heard from
us in thirty minutes, then cut your way through the doors."
  "Aye, sir."
  "Energize."
    There was a pause, and then Odo heard the faint, high-
pitched hum of the transporter effect arise in the corridor.
Pearls of soft red light closedaround him, flooding his
vision, then released him after a subjectively immeasurable
span of time. When his sight cleared, he saw right away that
there was indeed a program running in the holosuite.
    The four officers were standing on a large veranda over-
looking a tropical landscape. A breeze blew, taking the edge
off the high temperature. Above the group, gently undulat-
ing in the moving air and providing sanctuary from the sun,
a light fabric covered the veranda in tentlike fashion. A few
small tables were scattered about, as were several sunken
tubs. People congregated in twos and threes, here and there
in larger groups, everybody clad--or unclad--in an appro-
priate manner for the climate. Servers wandered unobtru-
sively through the scene, delivering food and beverages and
taking people's orders. Everybody appeared happy and
serene.
    Beyond the veranda, off to the right, a lush forest swept
up a mountainside. Extending away from the base of the
mountain was a beach of pale sand, connecting the verdan-
cy with the crystalline waters of a vibrant, blue-tinted sea.
Here too there were people, swimming in the surf, playing
in the sand, relaxing.
 "Risa," Sisko informed everybody.
    Risa, Odo thought. He had heard of the world, of
course--it was famed for its weather-controlled beauty and
its magnificent resort facilities--but he had never traveled
there. Until now, he had never even seen a holographic
representation of the place; Odo was not enamored of
fantasies.
 "Wow," Onial said quietly. 'Tve never been to Risa."
    "And you still haven't," Lieutenant Carlien told him
brusquely. "Where are they?"
    Onial flushed as he raised his scanner, obviously embar-
rassed at his reaction to the holoprogram. He operated the
device, again swinging it around in an attempt to pick up
Ferengi life signs. Odo consulted his own tricotaler.
    "They're down on the beach," Onial said finally, just as
Odo reached the same determination. Carlien started for
the stairs that led down to the sand. Onial, Sisko, and Odo
followed.
    Walking on the beach, Odo discovered, was not an easy
matter, at least not for him. He felt awkward and uncom-
fortable, unsure of his movements; the rises of the fine
grains of sand did not provide adequate support for the
weight of his faux Bajoran body, perched as it was on his
fanx Bajoran feet. He therefore willed his feet to flatten and
widen as he tramped along, which shored up his footing
considerably.
    Onial led the way with his scanner, with Carlien at his
side and Sisko and Odo behind them. They passed imagi-
nary patrons of this imaginary Risa, none of whom paid
them any attention. Above, the projected cerulean sky was
cloudless.

    They stopped about two-thirds of the way to the water,
when they reached two lounge chairs. Onial motioned with
his scanner, indicating that the two Ferengi were in the
chairs, which faced away from the officers. Carlien circled
around to see for herself. The others followed.
    Odo was surprised by what they found. Because Rom was
a capable and creative engineer, and because the trail had
taken them to a holosuite, Odo realized now that he had
suspected they were chasing a ruse, the Ferengi life signs
they had been reading an artifice somehow devised and
executed by Rom. Consequently, he had not expected to
find what they did: lying in one lounge chair was Quark, in
the other, Rom.
 "Is one of you Quark?" Carlien demanded.
    "Do I have to answer that question, Captain?" Quark
asked. In his hand, he held what looked to be some sort of a
tropical drink, a straw emerging from it, the container
brightly decorated.
    "I don't think not answering will make any difference,"
Sisko replied.
 But Quark did not answer. Neither did Rom.
 "Captain?" Carlien asked.
"This is Quark," Sisko said, pointing. "And this is Rom."
"I am Lieutenant Carlien of the Bajoran Militia," she
told the two Ferengi. "I am informing each of you that you
are under arrest, charged with violating the statute estab-
lished by the Chamber of Ministers, which prohibits Fer-
engi from being within Bajoran sovereignty. In accordance
with that law, you will now be taken into custody."
    "Captain Sisko," Quark said; not moving from the lounge
chair. "I implore you: This isn't right. I've committed no
real crime."
 "According to them, you have," Sisko said.
    "Stand up," Carlien ordered. Next to the lieutenant,
Onial opened the pouch he was carrying, placed his scanner
inside it, then removed two sets of hand restraints. Odo
wondered if such measures were truly necessary, but he did
not say anything.
 "Captain, please," Quark tried again.
    "If you do not stand up," Carlien said, "Sergeant Onial
and I will force you to your feet."
    "I suggest the two of you comply," Odo said. "The
warrants for your arrest authorize the use of whatever force
is necessary in order to apprehend you."
    Quark looked over at his brother, and then the two of
them rose to their feet. Quark set his drink down on the
sand. Neither he nor Rom seemed as upset as Odo would
have expected.
 "Turn around," Carlien said.
    Quark and Rom did as they were told. Onial handed the
lieutenant one set of restraints, and she affixed it about
Quark's wrists, his arms behind his back. Onial secured the
other set of restraints on Rom in the same manner.
    "Will we have to wait for your officer to break us out of
here, Captain?" Carlien inquired.
    "I don't know," Sisko said. "Let's find out: computer,
exit."
    Several paces down the beach, the holosuite doors
appeared. They parted and slid open, revealing the corri-
dor on the second level of the bar from which the four
officers had transported to this simulated Risa. Carlien
reached out and took hold of Quark's forearms. Onial did
the same with Rom. The two Bajoran officers propelled
their prisoners ahead of them. Once more, Sisko and Odo
followed.
    The group crossed the sand to the doors. At the threshold,
Quark and Rom suddenly stopped and turned, each at-
tempting to wriggle free of their captor's grasp.
    "Captain Sisko," Quark said, "I really must protest this
treatment."
    Before Sisko could respond, Carlien forced Quark back
around and planted her hand between his shoulder blades.
When he did not begin walking, she pushed him. He
moved forward through the doorway... and vanished.
The hand restraints clattered to the deck. Everybody
seemed startled.
 Everybody but Rom.
    Carlien reached for Rom. She grabbed him by the upper
arm, pulled him from Onial's grasp, and strode with him
through the doorway. Rom disappeared too, the second set
of restraints landing on the floor beside the first.
    Lieutenant Carlien looked back through the doorway into
the holosuite, first at Onial, and then at Sisko and Odo.
 "Where are they?" she asked.

    Quark stood by the sealed inner hatch with his mouth
hanging open. He was dumbfounded.
    "Where's the transport?" he wanted to know. Staring
through the portholes in the inner and outer hatches, Quark
could only see the dark of space where he had expected a
ship to be.
    "It was supposed to be here," Rom said. He pulled a padd
out of his satchel and switched it on. Quark wrenched it
from his hands.
    "Give me that," he said. He accessed the readout of ships
scheduled to depart the station that day. He slid his finger
down the list of times until he came to x955. The corre-
sponding entry under the heading sn~PS read PVa~IN CaENriSE
(~G~SX~Y: RIOEL V); the entry under BAY read 6. The list
confirmed what Rom was claiming the transport was sup-
posed to be leaving from this docking bay in ten minutes.
  Unless the list is wrong, Quark realized.
    "When did you download this schedule from the station
computer?" he asked his brother.
 "When you told me to," Rom said.
 "When I told you to what?"
    "When you told me to record all the departure sched-
ules," Rom answered. "So we could get out of Bajoran space
if the Bajorans decided to come after us." Rom's words
came very quickly, a sign Quark recognized: his brother was
nervous that he had made a bad mistake. Quark was
suddenly nervous too.
 "I told you that two and a half days ago," he said.
 "Right."
     "Right?" Quark asked. "Don't you think that the sched-
ule might've changed between then and now, you idiot?"
 Rom did not answer.
    It really was unbelievable, Quark thought. Rom could
construct out of scrap parts a system to project false Ferengi
life signs, and another to conceal their actual life signs, but
he could not manage to successfully complete other, simpler
chores.

Profit and loss, Quark told himself. Profit and loss.
Quark reached over and took the satchel out of Rom's
hands. He opened it, pushed the padd in next to a small
contrivance that was currently emitting an electric hum,
and pulled out three isolinear rods, orange-hued and about
ten centimeters long each. Quark was not authorized to
possess any of these rods; one of them contained various
station security programs, and it was this one that he
selected for use right now.
    Quark knelt down to the side of the inner hatch and
pulled an access plate from the wall to reveal a circuitry
junction. He studied the configuration for a moment, then
slipped the isolinear rod into a suitable slot. 
"Open the hatch," he told Rom.
    Rom operated the control panel on the wall and the hatch
rolled open along its toothed track. Quark removed his
isolinear rod from the junction and replaced the plate. He
stood and pushed his brother into the short corridor of
Docking Bay Six, then followed him inside.
    "Close it," Quark said, knowing that Rom would not
require a security override to do so. It was important that
they get out of sight as quickly as they could. It would
probably not be long before Odo and the Bajorans discov-
ered that they had been duped, and they would assuredly
commence a search of the whole station.
    Rom worked the controls located inside the docking bay.
The inner hatch spun closed.
 "Now what, brother?" Rom asked.
    "Now we try to figure another way off the station and out
of Bajoran space."
    "Maybe we should're left before the deadline," Rom said.
"When we wouldn't have had to run and hide."
    Maybe we should have, Quark thought. Somehow,
though, he had not believed that the Bajorans would carry
out the threat they had issued in their ultimatum to the
nagus. He had prepared for it--the satchel, telling Rom to
track the station's departure schedule, transferring all of his
financial accounts to institutions off Bajor--but he had not
actually thought that such precautions would be necessary.
And, when Quark had finally been willing to think about it,
he had found that he had not really wanted to leave the bar.
Perhaps he had also invested too much in what Dax had
said to him. He had figured that if the Bajorans came
looking for him, he could just board the nearest ship and
flee the system. But until that time, he had planned to
continue running his business and making profit, working
toward his dreams. His real mistake, he knew now, had
been to trust Rom with anything.
    Quark removed the access plate in the docking bay. He
exchanged the isolinear rod he had just used for a second
one. He installed the new rod, then worked the control panel
and brought up a readout of the departure schedule for
today. There was only one ship leaving the station within the
hour: an Andorian freighter. Of course, true to his luck, the
ship was on the opposite side of the Docking Ring.
    "An Andorian freighter, headed back home," Quark said
to himself. "Wonderful." It was bad enough that Andorians
were a self-described violent race, but if Quark could not
convince the pilot of the freighter to make an unplanned
stop at some other world, he and Rom would end up on the
other side of Federation space--deep in foreign territory,
and a very long way from the Ferengi Alliance. Quark had
worked on a freighter himself for eight years, though--a
Ferengi freighter, but still a freighter--and he hoped that
his experience would help him deal with the Andorian pilot.
    Quark shut down the control panel, then bent to retrieve
his isolinear rod. He replaced the access plate and stood to
face Rom.
    "All right," he said. "We've got to get all the way over to
Dock Eleven."
"That's on the other side of the station," Rom protested.
"What do you want to do?" Quark asked sharply. "Wait
here until salvation arrives on the other side of one of these
hatches?" He thrust one thumb in the direction of the outer
hatch, one thumb in the direction of the inner hatch. "I guess not."
    "You guess not. Well, good." Quark opened the satchel and
dropped the isolinear rod inside, then reached in and pulled
out a small, homemade device. "Will this thing continue to
mask our life signs until we get across the station?" Rom took
the device and examined it; it was humming faintly.
 "I think the power'11 last," he said. "But it may not do us
much good. If they get into the holosuite and find out we
created false sensor readings, they'll probably start scanning
for a sensor hole."
 "How long will it take them to find us?"
 "That depends. It could take a few hours."
 "That's all the time we need."
 "Or it could take five minutes. If they're lucky."
 "Wonderful."
    "Even if we get to the Andorian ship," Rom said, "what
makes you think Captain Sisko will let it leave the station?"
    "The freighter's already been scanned and cleared for
departure," Quark explained, "so unless Sisko catches us
boarding the ship, he'll have no legal grounds to scan it
again. And anyway, I know the Andorians. They're not
going to let anybody prevent them from meeting their
schedule. If they had to, they'd blast their way out of here."
 "Are you sure?"
    "Of course I'm sure," he told Rom. He was not sure, but
he did know that even though they were members of the
Federation, the Andorians had a passionate distrust--may-
be even a hatred--of Starfleet. If he needed to, Quark could
probably use that fact to help them get aboard the freighter,
and Sisko would not be able to search the ship or keep it
docked indefinitely without starting a diplomatic incident.
Such an incident with a member world of the Federation
would be something the Bajorans would want to avoid.
    "Okay," Rom said. "So we'll be okay if we can get to the
freighter, and we can probably hide our life signs on the way
there, but how are we going to prevent ourselves from being
seen?"
 In response, Quark pointed at the ceiling.

    "Can you scan for sensor holes?" Lieutenant Carlien
asked.
    It was precisely the course of action Odo would have
taken, he thought, if this had been his investigation.
    "We can," Sisko answered. He was standing beside Car-
lien, on the lower, inner level of Ops. "Dax?"
    "Yes, sir," she said from her position at her sciences
console. "Beginning scan."
 After it had become clear that Quark and Rom were
interested not only in violating the Bajoran edict, but in
fleeing from the authorities, Lieutenant Carlien had re-
quested the use of Deep Space Nine's sensors to aid in her
search for the fugitives. Sisko and Odo had led Carlien and
Onial up here to Ops, where a scan for Ferengi life-forms
had turned up negative.
    "How long will this take, Captain?" Sergeant Onial
inquired. Sisko looked to Odo, who had been observing the
operation from the outer, upper level.
    "That depends on a number of factors," Odo said,
padding down to where Sisko stood with Carlien and Onial.
"One of which is luck. But a sensor sweep of this type,
across the entire station, should take several hours, at
least."
    "How many ships are scheduled to leave within that time
frame?" Carlien wanted to know.
  "A few, I'm sure," Sisko answered. "Why?"
    "Isn't it obvious?" Carlien asked, rather impertinently,
Odo thought. "We want to prevent the Ferengi from escap-
ing Bajoran space."
    "I thought that was what you wanted," Odo commented.
"The Ferengi out of Bajoran space."
    "We do, but Rom and Quark are in violation of the law,"
she explained. "They must be arrested."
    "Frankly," Sisko said, "their violation of the law notwith-
standing, I'm not clear on why you wouldn't welcome theft
departure. Denying the Ferengi access to the wormhole is,
after all, the real threat contained in the Bajoran injunction
to the nagus. It's that which may have an influence on Zek,
not jailing a couple of Ferengi Citizens whose incarceration
will have no effect at all on the grand nagus's business
interests."
    "My orders are unambiguous, Captain," Carlien stated
flatly. "We are here specifically to apprehend the two
Ferengi on Deep Space Nine who refused to comply with the
edict. They must not be permitted to abscond from us."
    Sisko took a deep breath, then walked away from Carlien
and Onial. He mounted the steps to the upper level of Ops
and paced a short distance around its periphery. Finally, he
faced Carlien again, though now from a distance.
 "I will not prevent you from searching for Quark and
Rom on DS9," he said. "I'll even help you do so--" Odo
knew that Sisko had little choice but to help; despite
Startleet's presence, this was still a Bajoran space station.
"rebut I cannot search or detain any ships without just
cause."
    "Harboring outlaws who are evading arrest is just cause,"
Carlien maintained.
    "And so if our sensor sweeps show Quark and Rom
boarding a ship docked at DS9, then you can search that
ship," Sisko granted. "Otherwise, if you wish to delay any
ships, I'm afraid you'll have to find the means to do it
yourself." That, Odo knewmas Carlien must have as
well--would not happen both Defiant and the tractor beam
on the station were Starfleet property, and Bajor had no
spacefaring fleet beyond a small number of cargo vessels,
personnel transports, and short-range impulse ships; that
was one of the primary reasons the Bajorans had invited
Starfleet to operate Deep Space Nine in the first place.
    "I understand," Carlien said, acknowledging the limita-
tions Sisko was imposing upon her. "Will you show me the
schedule of upcoming departures?"
    "Major Kira should be able to provide you with that
information."
"I can bring up the data here at my station," Kira said.
Odo realized that the major had been unusually quiet
since he and Sisko had escorted the Bajoran officers up to
Ops. Odo was aware of Kira's antipathy toward Quark, and
of the resentment she felt because of the situation involving
the Ninth Orb, but he was not sure whether he understood
her silence now. Did she not trust herself to speak because
of her feelings of acrimony? Or had she perhaps been the
person who had reported to the Bajoran government that
Quark and Rom were still on the station, causing her now to
experience recriminations for that action? Neither reason
satisfied Odo--they did not seem consistent with Kira's
character--but he could not at the moment conceive of any
others.
    Carlien and Onial went over to Kira's console as she
retrieved the information they desired.
    "Here," Kira said after she stopped working her controls.
She pointed to an entry on her screen. "Two vessels will be
leaving within the next ninety minutes, both freighters. One
is Andorian, the other, Bolian."
 "After that, when does the next ship leave?" Onial asked.
 "Not for four hours," Kira said.
    "Which of the two freighters departs first?" Carlien
asked. "And where are they headed?"
    "The Andorian ship leaves first," Kira said. "But it's on a
direct voyage back home. The Bolian ship is going toa"
Kira tapped a control on her console. "--it's going to
Alastron Four."
    Alastron Four, Odo thought. According to Dax, that had
been Quark's intended destination before he had opted to
remain on the station. Should I say anything? Odo asked
himself. His beliefs regarding Quark's character to the
contrary, he still had misgivings about this entire affair. As
chief of security, though, he had an obligation to--
    "Dax, didn't you say that Quark booked passage on a ship
headed for Alastron Four a couple of days ago?" Kira asked.
    "Yes," Dax said, with apparent reluctance. "I did say
that."
    Although Kira had effectively relieved the constable of
the necessity of making a decision about whether to reveal
personal information regarding Quark, Odo felt no relief.
This matter was monstrously troublesome for him. He had
devoted his life to the one thing about which he felt most
strongly: the pursuit of justice. But when the law and what
he believed justice to be were at odds, what was he to do? To
arbitrarily disregard the law--or worse, to transgress it--
was anathema to him.
    "Captain, to eliminate the pOSsibility that the Ferengi will
beam over to one of the docked ships," Carlien said, "I'd
like to ask that the station's transporters be shut down."
 "Very well," Sisko said.
    "And that all transporters on the docked ships be deacti-
vated."
    "I don't have that authority," Sisko said. "Those ships are
not my personal property, Lieutenant, and the crews on
them have rights."
    There was a tense stillness when Carlien did not respond.
After a moment, Kira looked up from her console.
  "Rather than shutting down the transporters, we can
raise the deflector shields around the station," she sug-
gested, "and send antiresonance bursts through the open
hatches to inhibit transport through them. That should
accomplish the lieutenant's objective."
    "Thank you, Major," Sisko said. Odo did not know with
certainty--the captain was frequently circumspect about
revealing his feelings--but it seemed to him that Sisko was
not pleased that Kira had chosen to offer such counsel at
this time. "Will that satisfy you, Lieutenant?" he asked.
 "Yes, it will."
 "Very well," Sisko said. "Take care of it, Major."
 "Yes, sir." Kira operated the controls at her station.
    "I would also like to watch the Andorian and Bolian
ships, maintain surveillance on all avenues of entry to
both," Carlien ventured. "With your permission, Captain,
I'd like Sergeant Onial to assemble two squads of off-duty
Bajoran security personnel." Odo was not sure that Carlien
required Sisko's permission for such an action, but she was
obviously bright enough to sidestep any possible issues by
explicitly requesting the use of Bajoran officers quartered
on DS9.
    "Of course," Sisko said. "Constable Odo can help coordi-
nate. He is the ranking security officer of the Bajoran Militia
on the station." The captain's message to Carlien was plain:
Sisko would offer his assistance in her mission to arrest
Quark and Rom on Deep Space Nine, but his officers would
be in command.
    "Thank you," Carlien said, obviously perceiving that she
should press no further. Sisko did not respond, but turned
and walked into his office.
 "Constable?" Onial asked.
    "I'll bring up the deck plans for the Docking Ring," Odo
said, moving to an unstaffed console, still wondering how
he felt about what was transpiring.

    Quark stopped when the systems-access tunnel in which
they were crawling intersected with a vertical tube. The
joints in his arms and legs ached from the long journey
across the station, but he and Rom were close to Docking
Bay Eleven now. He looked back over his shoulder to check
on his brother. Rom was nowhere in sight.
    "Rom," he called in an urgent whisper. There were
several thumps, and then Rein came scrambling around a
corner, dragging the satchel behind him.
    "I'm here, brother," he said. "I was just looking at a new
dynamic relay conduit--"
    "Does it have anything to do with us?" Quark asked in
frustration.
  "No," Rein answered.
    "Then forget about it," he said. "Now, is that--" He
pointed down the vertical tube. "--where we're headed?"
    Rein pulled the satchel up beside him and rummaged
through it. He found the padd and consulted it.
      "That's it," he said. "The access panel at the bottom of
the shaft leads directly into Docking Bay Eleven."  
"All right. Let's get going then."
    Quark hoisted himself out of the tunnel and onto the
ladder that extended up and down the length of the tube. He
climbed down to the floor at the base of the tube, then
waited for Rein to join him. Once they were together,
Quark moved to the access panel that led into the docking
bay. Moving his ear close to the panel, he listened.
    "I hear footsteps," he told his brother. "Back and forth
between the inner and outer hatches."
 "Could it be somebody from the freighter?."
    Quark wanted to say yes, because that was what he
wanted to be true. But he knew that it was not.
    "No," he said. "Security's patrolling for us." Ode and the
Bajorans had uncovered their ploy, and now they were
guarding all of the docking bays on Deep Space Nine. Even
if Rom could renew the power in the device he used to mask
their life signs, they could not continue to hide out on the
station; either a sweep for sensor holes or a physical search
would eventually see them captured. No, they somehow had
to board one of the docked ships and get away. But there
was no other way onto any of the ships other than through
the docking bays. Except--
    "Rein, can you patch in to the station's transporter
system?" Quark asked.
 "Uh, maybe," he said.
 "Do a site-to-site transport to get us on to the freighter?"
 "Maybe."
 "Don't tell me that. Yes or no?"
    "Well, yes," Rom said. "But I can't do it if we're shielding
our life signs. The same interference that blocks the sensors
would make it impossible to fix a transporter lock on us."
    There was not much of a choice. Whether they con-
fronted a security officer while trying to board a ship, or
allowed themselves to be scanned by dropping the sensor
mask, they had to come out of hiding. But the likelihood
that their life signs would be scanned in the brief moment it
would take them to beam across to the Artdorian freighter
seemed remote compared to the chance of them being
seized attempting to make their way past a security guard.
Of course, in either case, Quark would have to talk quickly
to the pilot in order to explain their presence aboard the
freighter; then again, Quark possessed an aptitude for cold
selling.
    "Tap into the transporter," Quark told Rein. "Get us
aboard that ship."

Ode noticed it at the same time that Kira did.
"Lieutenant Carlien," the major said, "I think we may
have something." Kira's fingers sped across her console, and
Ode guessed that she was trying to gather all of the
information available about what they had just seen.
    "You found something?" Carlien asked anxiously, com-
ing down to Kira's station from where she had been pacing
the perimeter of the upper level.
    "Captain Sisko to Ops," Kira called, the communications
monitor automatically opening a channel and relaying her
message. Then to Carlien, she announced, "Transporter
contact with the deflectors."
    "Transporter contact?" Carlien seemed confused. "But I
thought --"
    "They tapped into the system directly," Kira explained,
"bypassing the transporter controls, which we'd shut
down."
    "What have you got, Major?" Sisko asked as he entered
from his office.
    "Somebody just attempted to beam off the station," she
said.
     "They were unsuccessful," Odo amended. He studied the
 data marching across Kira's console. "It looks like the
 transporter contact may have been on the Docking Ring."
    "Where did they try to transport from?" Carlien wanted
to know. She crowded about Kira's console, but she was
obviously unable to understand the readouts.  "Chief?." Kira said.
    "Working on it," Chief O'Brien said at his station on the
upper level. His brow furrowed as he worked, his eyes
darting from side to side as he scrutinized the data coming
up on his console. Finally, he looked up. "Reflecting back
from the point of transporter contact with the shields, it
looks like the transport signal originated right outside
Docking Bay Eleven."
  Odo watched as Kira furiously worked her controls.
      "I'm reading a sensor hole there," she reported. "In a
systems-access tube leading directly to the bay."
 Lieutenant Carlien activated her combadge.
 "Carlien to Sergeant Onial," she said.
  "Onial here," came the sergeant's disembodied voice.
  "Where are you, Sergeant?"
    "I'm in a corridor leading to the inner hatch of Dock
Two." It was where the Bolian ship bound for Alastron IV
was moored.
 Carlien related the location of Quark and Rom.
 "I understand," Onial replied.
     "Sergeant Onial," Sisko said after activating his own
cornbadge. "This is Captain Sisko." "Yes, Captain?"
    "I want you to wait for Constable Odo to arrive before
taking any action." Sisko peered over at Odo; he was
already breaking away from Kira's console and heading for
the steps to the upper level.
    "Captain, please," Carlien appealed to him. "The Ferengi
could run off in the time it will take the constable to get
down there."
    "And where will they run to, Lieutenant?" Sisko asked.
"Don't worry; we'll keep a close watch on them from up
here." Then, looking across to the sciences console, he said,
"Dax?"
 "I'll put a sensor lock on the hole," she said.
 "Lieutenant?" Sisko said.
     "Very well." She tapped her combadge again. "Sergeant
Onial, you are to wait for Constable Odo." 
"Yes, Lieutenant," Onial responded.
    "And Sergeant," Carlien said, "do not contact the guard
inside the docking bay; the Ferengi have exceptional
hearing."
 "Acknowledged."
     Odo had reached the upper level and was on his way to
the turbolift when Sisko called after him. "Constable."
 "Sir?" Odo said, stopping and turning to face Sisko.
    "You're in charge. I don't want things to get out of hand
down there."
    "I understand," Odo said, recalling that Carlien and
Onial were authorized to use force to apprehend Quark and
Rom. Since the two Ferengi had not been able to depart the
station by now, it was clear that they would be taken into
custody. It was apparent to Odo that the captain did not
want them hurt--for their own sakes, of course, but also to
avoid any escalation of the troubles between the Bajorans
and the Ferengi.
    Odo would make sure that the arrest went smoothly. He
entered the lift and ordered it to take him to the Docking
Ring, Bay Eleven.

    "What happened?" Quark asked. They had begun to
transport, but when the beam effect had dissipated, he
found that they were still at the base of the systems-access
tube.
    Rom operated his padd, which was now patched by
means of a fiber-optic line into one of the data-transmission
cables in the access tube.
    "What's taking so long?" Quark demanded when Rom
did not immediately reply.
    "I have to locate the transporter logs to find out why we
weren't successful," Rom said.
    "Well, hurry up." Time was growing short, Quark knew.
As each moment passed, the possibility of being found
increased, as did the level of his anxiety.
 After a while, Quark heard the inner hatch of the docking
bay open, followed by the sounds of voices. Just then, Rom
discovered the information for which he had been
searching.
    "The deflectors are up around the station," Rom told
Quark.
    "Wonderful," Quark said. "Now what are we going to
do?"
    He did not have to wait long to have his question
answered. Right next to him, the access panel leading from
Docking Bay Eleven opened.

    On his way to the Docking Ring, Odo redeployed the
security force. He stationed a pair of guards outside each of
the access panels that led in to the network of systems-
access tubes and tunnels surrounding Bay Eleven.
    When Odo arrived at the dock, he found Onial pacing
back and forth in front of the closed inner hatch. He verified
with Kira that Quark and Rom were still in the same place,
quickly briefed the sergeant on his intended plan of action,
then operated the control panel beside the inner hatch. The
door wheeled open. Inside the bay, the security otficer
posted there looked up, his hand phaser drawn and aimed at
Odo and Onial. When the guard saw who had opened the
hatch, he lowered his weapon.
    "Report," Odo said as he entered the docking bay. Onial
was at his side.
 "All's been quiet, sir," declared the guard.
    Odo motioned to Onial and then pointed to the access
panel just inside the inner hatch, on the left-hand side. As
Onial bent beside the panel, Odo gestured to the guard,
holding two fingers to his lips, indicating that the guard
should not ask about what Odo and Onial were doing.
 "No sign of Quark and Rom?" Odo asked as cover.
 "No, sir."
    Odo squatted beside a second access panel, this one set
opposite the first, in the wall to the right of the inner hatch.
Odo made a rhythmic movement with his hand, then
counted out with his fingers: three, two, one. On the last
beat, Odo opened the right access panel; on the other side of
the bay, Onial opened the left.
 Odo peered through the opening and saw nothing. He
quickly turned to look in Onial's direction. Visible past the
sergeant's body was Quark, and past him, Rom.
    Onial grabbed for Quark, but the Ferengi kicked out,
more a reflex than an attack, Odo thought. Because the
access panel was set low on the wall, Onial was squatting,
his body weight fully on his toes, and the force of Quark's
kick sent him over backward. Rom disappeared up the
ladder. Quark quickly followed.
 Odo slapped at his cornbadge.
    "Odo to security detachment. Go." The otficers stationed
at the access panels would now open those panels and enter
the systems-access network, then wait for Quark and Rom
to come to them.
    Odo raced across to Onial to ascertain whether or not he
had been injured. The sergeant brushed off his efforts.
"I'm fine, I'm fine," Onial squawked. "Go after them."
Odo knelt and thrust his head and shoulders through the
opening. He was in time to see Quark's foot disappear down
the horizontal tunnel that intersected with this tube.
    "Quark," he called. There was no response. Only the
sounds of the two Ferengi scrambling to escape drifted back
to him.
    In his mind, Odo saw currents, drifting rivers of motion
sliding effortlessly through space and time. Within the
currents, he conjured the images of eddies, and within the
eddies, he perceived their intangible derivatives: dimen-
sionless points in space defining instantaneous rates of
change.
    Odo envisaged the change he sought, although he had
never experienced this change in exactly this way. It was
always new, anyway, with only the vaguest reminiscences
connecting him to what had transpired previously, to what
he had been previously. That was the primal aspect of the
joy of being a changeling, that the universe within was
always archetypal.
    And so: the change, proprioception delivered into the
consciousness, driving up through the queue in reverse,
from the fluxion of the nonexistent point, through the
eddies circling in countermovement to the current, which
grew encompassed by the internal tide, became directed,
and so: the change.

    Odo felt himself go, his mercurial corporeality softening
and shifting, becoming something other than it was, becom-
ing more than it was, becoming the embodiment of his own
thought. There was quicksilver movement, and his human-
oid shape was a memory only. And he became--
    --Became a cyclonic mass swirling inward on itself, and
upward against gravity, and through the vertical systems-
access tube. Sight was gone, and hearing, and even touch in
the humanoid sense, but there was yet sensation, full
sensation, and with it a knowing, a perception of the outer
universe.
    Up through the tube, and then over, in that direction, into
the access tunnel, and down with gravity, to the floor of the
tunnel, landing, and the process of becoming again, just a
mass now, but a unique mass, unique because it was him,
because it was Odo, but also because it was something he
had never been, not precisely, that was not the nature of his
existence, even when he was the humanoid, he was the
humanoid anew each time. And there again, in that direc-
tion, with sense came knowledge, the understanding that
Quark and Rom were fleeing in that direction, toward
whichever security officor was patrolling at the next junc-
tion. There would be no escape, Odo knew.
    Becoming again, a tube in a tube, flowing not directly
against gravity now, but perpendicularly to it, again some-
thing different, but also with spiral motion, always circles
within circles, and points without shape creating shape--
  --And becoming the humanoid constable once more.
  "Quark."
    Quark stopped. He was on his hands and knees. He
looked back past his body.
 "It's over," Odo told him.

Quark peered back and saw Odo lying in the tunnel.
Good, he thought. Now at least he could stop running--
or crawling, to be more accurate. After the trip here from
the other side of the station, and then this frantic attempt to
flee, his knees and elbows felt raw.
    "Brother?" Quark looked ahead and saw that Rom had
also stopped. "What should we do?"
    "Do?" Quark asked. "I think we should rest." He col-
lapsed onto his side, still breathing heavily from the exer-
tion. "What do you think, Odo?"
    "I think you have to surrender now, Quark," he an-
swered. "There are security officers stationed at all of the
tunnel junctions around Dock Eleven. There's no way for
you and Rom to escape."
    "Well then," Quark told Odo, "congratulations. You
finally got me."

    Odo crawled backward down the tunnel, keeping Quark
and Rom in view as they followed along after him. At the
junction with the vertical tube leading directly to Docking
Bay Eleven, Odo climbed onto the ladder and upward,
allowing his two captives to mount the ladder and descend
to the floor. Finally, the three of them clambered through
the access panel.
    When Quark and Rom had agreed to surrender, Odo had
contacted Ops and informed the captain. Consequently,
they found Captain Sisko and Lieutenant Carlien waiting in
the docking bay, along with a number of the station's
Bajoran security officers. Once Quark and Rom had risen to
their feet, Carlien stepped up to Quark and gazed down at
him.
    "I am Lieutenant Carlien of Bajor. I am informing
you--" She glanced from Quark to Rom and back again.
"--both of you, that you are under arrest. You are both
charged with violating the law that prohibits Ferengi from
being within Bajoran sovereignty. In accordance with that
law, you will now be taken into custody." She raised her
hands, in which, Odo saw, she held the restraints. As Odo
wondered again whether such measures were truly neces-
sary, Captain Sisko moved next to Carlien and raised his
hand between her and her prisoners.
"Are those really required, Lieutenant?" he asked.
"With all due respect, Captain," Cafiien said with great
sincerity, "I think they are. These two have already demon-
strated that they are willing to flee from arrest."
    "And yet they just surrendered peaceably, without the use
of weapons," Sisko argued. "I think they're no threat to run
if you simply keep an eye on them."
  "Again, I must disagree ...."Carlien's words trailed into
silence.
    There was a pause. The tableau was frozen: Carlien and
Sisko staring at each other, Quark and Rom waiting for
something to happen, Sisko's hand motionless between
captor and captives. Odo wondered what the captain's
response would be and how he felt about what was happen-
ing. And Odo considered his own feelings.
    How strange, he thought. All these years pursuing Quark,
seeking to bring him to justice, and now that he had just
assisted in apprehending Quark for violating the law--
more than one law, if you included his flight from arrest--
he felt no satisfaction.
    At last, Sisko moved, dropping his hand and stepping
back.
  "As you wish," he told the lieutenant.
    Carlien opened the restraints. Quark stood with his hands
at his sides.
    "Please turn around and present your hands," Carlien
said.
    Quark did not move. Rom glanced over at his brother
with what Odo thought was a concerned look. As badly as
Rom was so often treated by Quark, Odo had no doubt that
he still loved his older brother.
 "Quark," Rom said. "Don't you think--"
    Cafiien signaled to Sergeant Onial, who approached
Quark from behind, causing Rom to swallow his words.
Sisko quickly stepped forward again.
    "Force will most definitely not be necessary," Sisko
insisted strongly. Softening his voice, he said, "Quark, I
think you need to make this easy on yourself and your
brother."
    Quark said nothing, but he looked up at Sisko with an
expression that Odo interpreted as contempt. After a tense
moment, Quark raised his hands, although he did not turn
around. Carlien attached the restraints--compromising
with Sisko in some way, Odo realized, because she secured
Quark's hands in front of him this time--then moved
sideways to stand in front of Rom. Before she had even
opened the second set of restraints, Rom had lifted his
hands, his wrists up as though in supplication. She opened
the restraints and attached them.
    "You must be enjoying this," Quark suddenly said. His
voice was low, clearly filled with enmity. Odo looked over
to see who he was addressing and was startled to find that
Quark was glaring at him. "What?"
    "You've wanted this for so long," Quark said. "You only
wish it was you applying these manacles, don't you?"
    Because his true feelings were not so uncomplicated, Odo
was appalled by Quark's comment. But of course Quark
would feel that way, Odo realized; if events had been
different, if Odo had caught him violating the law--other
laws, fair laws--then he no doubt would have felt as Quark
had suggested.
    "I--" Odo started, not knowing what he was going to say,
or even what it was he wished to convey. "I must admit," he
began again, "the sight of you in shackles does seem
appropriate." But the words were hollow, barren of the
righteousness they should have had. Where Odo should
have felt a sense of justice, he only felt a sense of inequity.
"Of course, Rom doesn't belong in restraints," Odo added
weakly, attempting to temper his previous statement.
    "But he does, Constable," Carlien said. "Both of these
men have broken the law." To Sisko, she said, "May we go
now, Captain?"
    Sisko nodded but did not say anything. Carlien circled
around Quark until she stood at his side. Onial shifted over
to stand beside Rom.
    "Please thank your crew for their efforts," Carlien told
Sisko. "And we thank each of you," she said, looking at
both Sisko and Odo. She took hold of Quark's arm and led
him out of the docking bay. Onial followed behind her with
Rom.
     Once they were gone, Odo looked around until he picked
out the ranking security officer present.
 "Walenista," Odo addressed her.
 "Sir?"
 "Dismiss the security teams," he ordered.
 "Yes, sir," Walenista acknowledged. She directed her
contingent out of the docking bay and away, leaving Odo
alone with Sisko.
    Odo looked over at the captain, and he found that he
wanted to say something, to talk about what had just
happened, about how he felt about it. But he was not sure
how to begin, or even if he was capable of beginning.
Instead, the docking bay was filled with silence and stillness.
Finally, the two men left together without saying a word.

$

CHAPTER
      12

Qu~d~ EYED His }mOTUER across the breadth of the shuttle.
Rom had been completely silent ever since they had
boarded the shuttle at Deep Space Nine and started their
trip to Bajor. He was seated facing forward, the restraints
about his wrists secured to the back of the chair in front of
him. Quark was positioned in the same attitude on the
other side of the compartment. They were in the middle of
the shuttle, in the third of six rows of bench seats, a center
aisle running between those seats to port and those to
starboard.
    Lieutenant Carlien sat with her back to the bulkhead that
separated the pilot--Sergeant Onial, Quark supposed,
though there could have been somebody else up there--
from the passengers. The lieutenant was pretending to
watch both of her prisoners, but for the most part, she kept
her eyes trained on Quark. She carried a weapon at her side.
    "Do you really think we're that dangerous?" Quark
asked, shifting his gaze from Carlien's eyes down to her
sidearm. When he looked back up at her, she looked away,
ignoring him. "We may have run," he told her, "but we were
unarmed. As you know from searching us."
  She still did not respond to him.
     "Since you have a weapon, though," he went on, keeping
 his tone light, "it's possible that we might somehow get
 possession of it and force you to free us. We would leave the
 system, nobody would get hurt, and you'd never have to see
 either one of us ever again."
    He had her attention now, he saw, although she still
refused to say anything.
    "Now, how could we possibly get hold of your weapon?"
Quark asked rhetorically. "You're not likely to drop it, are
you?"
    He waited for a moment, allowing her time to answer,
knowing that she would not.
    "And there doesn't seem to be much chance of us
overpowering you," he continued. "Hmmm. I wonder how
we can get it." He tilted his head back and looked toward
the ceiling, as though in vigorous thought. He contorted his
face continuously, trying to comically reinforce that im-
pression. Eventually, he returned his gaze to Carlien. He
was pleased to see that her eyes were still focused on him.
    "I know," Quark said, with a suddenness that suggested
that what he was about to say had just now occurred to him.
"We could buy your weapon from you." Quark caught a
slight movement in his peripheral vision, and heard the
sound of flesh brushing against fabric; he knew that Rom
had turned to watch him.
    Although Carhen had already been regarding Quark, it
seemed that only now did she actually see him. When she
did not say anything, though, Quark pushed on.
    "Of course, I'm sure such a weapon must be very expen-
sive, and considering how much--"
    "Shut up, Ferengi," Carlien ordered. Her facial features
appeared rigid, her jaw was clenched.
    "Is that supposed to be an aspersion?" Quark asked.
"Because it's not; I happen to be a Ferengi. Would you be
insulted if I called you 'Bajoran'?"
 "I can be proud to be a Bajoran," she said.
 "I'm proud to be a Ferengi."
 Carlien laughed derisively.
 "Yes," she said. "Your culture is so rich--" Her use of the
word was clearly as a double entendre. "--that you feel
completely comfortable engaging in graft."
    "If you're referring to my attempt to bribe you," he
informed her, "you're using the wrong word. I'm in no
position to practice graft right now. And anyway, graft is
more of a strategy; bribery is simply a tactic."
    "You actually do sound proud," Carlien said. She stood
up and took a couple of paces toward Quark. "And yet you
are insolent enough to ask me to betray my government, my
duty, for mere profit."
    "There is no such thing as 'mere' profit," Quark said.
"You shouldn't be offended, Lieutenant; even you must
realize that everybody has a price."
    "You disgust me," she said, taking several more steps
toward Quark. Then she stopped abruptly. She seemed
suddenly to realize that she was getting too close to her
prisoner, as though he had been trying to antagonize her so
that he could draw her in and somehow physically subdue
her.
    Quark chuckled to himself: such an idea was preposter-
ous; he would no sooner do battle with Carlien than he
would ask someone to cut off his lobes.
    "Are you sure it's me that's disgusting you," he asked her,
"or have you perhaps thought of a price you would be
willing to accept?"
    Carlien's eyes narrowed briefly, then she turned and
marched back to her seat. But instead of sitting, she
removed her weapon from her side and placed it on the
chair. Then she walked down the aisle of the compartment,
between Quark and Rom, and sat down in the seat behind
Quark. He snapped his head around, unsure--and fear-
ful--of her intentions. Slowly, she leaned toward him,
evidently to say something to him. She brought her mouth
close to his ear--which was unnecessary, of course, consid-
ering the quality of his hearing.
    "Actually," she told him quietly, "I do have a price." To
Quark's surprise, there was no lilt in her voice, no quality
which readily identified the statement as sarcasm or mock-
ery. The lieutenant sounded serious.
 Did she just think of something she wanted? Quark
speculated. Something important to her, or something she'd
ever given up hope of acquiring? If so, it did not necessarily
bode well for Quark's ability to provide her with what she
wanted, but at least there was a chance.
    Quark struggled to turn his head around further. Cafiien
leaned forward more, until they faced each other at close
range, over Quark's shoulder. They locked eyes. She ap-
peared very serious indeed. He smiled at her, not broadly,
and not just a grin, but a little smile, filled--he hoped--
with charm and a sense of understanding.  
"Tell me," he whispered to her.
She said: "I want the Orb of Wisdom returned to Bajor."
Quark stared at her for a long moment, then turned his
head to face forward again. Cafiien rose and returned to her
seat at the front of the compartment, retrieving her weapon
as she did so. Quark looked up at her and saw that she had
returned to her businesslike demeanor. But there was no
business in that behavior, only a warped notion of duty. He
saw no hope for himself with this woman.
    "You could have had the Orb," Quark told her, "if only
your people had possessed some sense of its worth." In spite
of everything that had happened, Quark still did not
understand why the Bajorans had not been willing to pay
the nagus's price, to tender the highest bid and buy the Orb;
were they that poor, or were their business faculties that
bad?
    "Apparently," Carlien said, "the Orb is worth more than
your freedom."
    Quark closed his mouth. Right now, there was nothing
more to say.

    The trip through the atmosphere of Bajor was bumpy but
uneventful. There were no windows to look through in the
passenger compartment, and Carlien had not told them
where on Bajor they were going. To the capital, Quark
supposed, to stand trial and be sentenced. He could not
imagine that he and Rom would receive much of a prison
term; they might even be escorted out of Bajoran space
immediately, although he guessed that Shakaar and Winn
would probably want to try to make some sort of a
statement to the nagus by actually jailing a couple of
Ferengi for at least a few days, or even a few weeks--as if
that would impress the nagus at all.
    The shuttle slowed in its approach to its landing area,
hovered momentarily as it ceased its forward momentum
entirely, then began a short, vertical descent. There was
another bump as it finally touched down.
    Carlien stood from her chair and touched a small control
panel set in to the bulkhead against which she had been
sitting.
 "Are we secure, Sergeant?" she asked.
    "Not yet," came Onial's response through the panel.
"Colonel Mitra wants to meet and inspect the prisoners
personally. He should be out shortly."
    "Acknowledged," Cafiien said. She sat back down and
waited.
    Colonel? Quark thought. Why would such a senior officer
of the Bajoran Militia be involved in this? For the first time,
Quark began to realize that the Bajorans were considering
this matter--not just with respect to the Orb, but regarding
his and Rom's failure to vacate Bajoran space before the
deadline--very seriously. Up until now, he had not be-
lieved anything worse than losing the bar would happen to
him and his brother. Suddenly, he was not so sure.
    About five minutes later, the door in the bulkhead that
separated the pilot from the passengers slid open, and Onial
entered.
    "They're ready for us now, Lieutenant," he reported.
Cafiien nodded and stood. She drew her sidearm, and Onial
drew his.
 "Ready?" Carlien asked the sergeant.
 "Ready."
    She turned and operated the control panel again as Onial
trained his weapon on Quark and Rom. There was a loud
hum and then a click, and the magnetic locks holding
Quark's and Rom's restraints to the backs of the chairs in
front of them let go. Carlien turned and raised her weapon.
 "Come forward," she said.
 Quark and Rom did as they were told.
    "There," she said, pointing with her weapon at the hatch.
She worked the control panel once more, and the hatch split
horizontally in two halfway up its height. The top portion
 lifted upward, the lower portion opened away from the
 shuttle and became a ramp down which they could exit. The
 air in the cabin cooled noticeably.
     "Move," Carlien said as she and Onial fell in behind
 Quark and Rom.
    The quartet walked down the ramp and out into an
overcast Bajoran day. When they stepped off the end of the
ramp onto hard, lifeless soil, Carlien ordered them to stop.
    Quark looked around and found it difficult to compre-
hend what was happening. The sky above was uniformly
gray, with not even a hint of blue. A wind gusted about
them, lowering the already cold temperature even closer to
the freezing point. He shivered only partially from the cold
as he looked into the distance and saw nothing: no trees, no
mountains or hills, nothing but desolate plains. Closer, he
saw a tall wire fence, with sentry posts at regular intervals.
Quark could not reconcile what he was seeing with what he
had expected to see. This was not the capital It was not
even the right hemisphere, he realized: it was almost
summer there, and it was definitely nowhere near summer
here.
    A line of five Bajoran Militia officers stood at attention by
the end of the shuttle ramp. The one in the middle stepped
forward, the rank insignia on the collar of his uniform
indicating that he was a colonel. He was an older man, but
solid, with chiseled features, and penetrating eyes, both
colder and grayer, Quark thought, than the weather around
them.
    "Welcome," he said to Quark and Rein, his voice full of
gravel and fire, "to Gallitep."

PART !1

Resolution 49-353



CHAPTER
      13

SISKO REaD the entire report again, attempting to put all of
the figures into perspective. But the second time through,
the implications engendered by the report grew no brighter:
something was definitely wrong. The door chime warbled.
    "Come in," Sisko called from where he sat behind his
desk. The doors parted, allowing a momentary rush of noise
in from Ops--voices, footsteps, the electronic clamor of
consoles being operated--and then the doors closed behind
Major Kira as she entered the office.
 "You wanted to see me, Captain?" she said.
    "Yes, Major. I've just been going over your report." He
held a padd up so that she could see it, then shoved it onto
his desk; it slid halfway across the smooth, glass surface,
coming to rest just short of a stand holding the 1989 World
Series baseball. "There are some disturbing numbers in
here."
    "That's why I wanted you to look at it as soon as
possible." She walked further into the room.
 "Frankly," Sisko said, folding his hands together atop his
desk, "I'm a little surprised you didn't come to me sooner
with this."
    "I really wasn't sure there was a problem before now,"
Kira told him. "In fact, I'm still not sure there is a problem.
We have ships scheduled to dock at the station all the time
that are days or weeks overdue, or that never even show up
at all. A lot of ships--freighters especially--run late or
change their itineraries. Some shipments get canceled. In
most cases, we only find out about the changes when a ship
doesn't show up when it's supposed to."
    "But this..." Sisko's voice trailed off as he reached over,
picked up the padd, and looked again at the report. Within
the lines of text that filled the small screen, numerous
italicized words--the names of ships--stood out. "Twenty-
nine vessels slated to dock at Deep Space Nine within the
past week... all missing."
    "If we knew that these ships were missing, then I really
would be worried," Kira said, taking one of the chairs in
front of the desk. "But we don't know that any of them are
missing, and we do know that at least some of them aren't;
they just never showed up here. It's the trend that concerns
me."
    Sisko thumbed the controls on the padd and paged
through the report. Blocks of text paraded up the screen,
recounting Kira's findings. Two ships absent each of the first
three days, three the next, then four, seven, and finally nine
today.
    "We know that some of these ships are all right?" Sisko
asked.
    "Yes. After the leap from four to seven no-shows yester-
day, I began contacting the ports of registry of the absentee
ships. A couple have sent messages indicating that the ships
in question are fine."
"Any explanation for why they didn't arrive at DS9?"
"No," Kira said. "The ports themselves wouldn't neces-
sarily know that, and a lot of shippers don't like to part with
that kind of information over subspace."
    "I'd guess that a lot of them don't like to part with any
information at all," Sisko said, and he saw from the
expression on Kira's face that she agreed with him.

    Sisko leaned back in his chair, the padd still clasped in
one of his hands. Kira was right, he thought, when she said
that there was no concrete evidence that there was truly a
problem here, but she was also right that the pattern of
more and more ships not arriving at the station as sched-
uled was troubling. If there was a cause, if this was not mere
coincidence, then Sisleo wanted to know what was happen-
ing, and why.
    "What does Commander Worf have to say about this?"
Sisko asked.
    "I haven't consulted with him about it," Kira replied.
"None of the ships we're talking about are from Starfleet."
    Sisko nodded his understanding. As the strategic opera-
tions officer for this sector, Worfs primary duty was to
coordinate the activities of Starfleet vessels in the region.
Still, within that context, his routine observations of the
Bajoran sector might allow him to provide some insight
into the situation. Sisko activated his cornbadge with a
touch.
    "Sisko to Worf," he said. He looked up toward the ceding
but did not see it, automatically vistmlizing the commander
in his mind's eye as he spoke. There was a short pause
before a response came.
 "Worf here," answered the bass Klingon voice.
 "Mr. Worf, I'd like to see you in my office."
 "Aye, sir. I'm on my way."
    The communication ended, and Sisleo looked back over
at Kira~
    "Perhaps he can shed some light on this from an intelli-
gence standpoint," Sisko explained. He glanced down at the
padd in his hand, then back up at Kira. "Major, since all of
these ships are freighters or trading vessels of one kind or
another, should we be considering piracy?."
    "It's possible," she allowed. "The businesses on the
Promenade have certainly been affected by their failure to
receive shipments this week."
    "I was down there yesterday," Sisko told her. "I noticed
that the crowds seemed a bit thin. I just assumed it was
because Quark's was still closed down." Quark had been
gone from the station for more than a month now. His
business had been officially nationalized on the day after his
arrest. Sisko assumed that the Bajoran government had not
yet sold the bar, as it had remained closed since that time.
    "Quark?" Kira laughed, although Sisko thought she did
so without humor. "I don't think anybody misses him."
    Sisko tilted his head slightly to one side as he regarded
Kira. He knew that his first officer had never gotten along
well with Quark, but her attitude now surprised him. She
was bright enough and honest enough that she should have
been able to know and admit the truth about Quark: he--or
at least his barmhad been well liked.
    "I wouldn't be too sure that nobody misses him," Sisko
said. "I think the closure of Quark's has had quite a
detrimental effect on the businesses on the Promenade--
and on the people who live on the station. Like it or not,
Major, Quark's was popular."
    "A small price to pay to be rid of that Denebian slime
devil," she said. '7 don't miss him."
 "I'm sure you don't. But obviously some--"
    The door chime sounded. Sisko called for the visitor to
enter, and the doors opened to admit Worf. Again, there
came a brief surge of sound from Ops.
"Commander," Sisko greeted him. "Please have a seat."
"Yes, sir," Worf said--rather stiffly, Sisko thought. Worf
had not served on DS9 for very long, and so Sisko suspected
that he had not yet fully acclimated to his new environment.
Fresh from duty aboard a starship, it seemed likely that
Worf still did not understand the rhythms of the station and
its crew, nor the sometimes-unorthodox manner in which
Sisko commanded.
    As Worf took the chair next to Kira, Sisko worked the
controls on the padd, paging through the report. The device
blinked and chirped until he stopped at the summary of the
situation that Kira had prepared. He handed it across the
desk to Worf.
 "I'd like you to take a look at this," Sisko said.
    Worf took the padd and read through the displayed text.
When he finished, he looked up.
 "I take it this is unusual," he said.
 "Not entirely," Sisko answered.
 "We have ships arrive late, or not show up, all the time,"
Kira clarified. "But not on such a regular basis, and not with
such steadily increasing numbers." "I see."
    "It may be nothing," Sisko said, "but I don't want to take
any chances. Is there anything that you know of, Mr. Worf,
that might help us explain this? Ships missing in a particu-
lar area, perhaps a new navigational hazard... anything?"
    "There have been no incidents in the sector involving
Starfleet vessels," Worf declared. "But there have been
several rumors about small ships being attacked in nearby
space. Nothing has been confirmed, but if it's true, it might
account for this." Worf held up the padd, just as Sisko had
earlier done.
    "Have you heard anything specific?" Sisko wanted to
know.
    "The reports I've received have been extremely sketchy,
and from sources I do not consider to be credible."
    "Still, coupled with the increasing number of ships not
making scheduled stops here," Sisko said, "there may be
something to what you've heard."
 "Even rumors are sometimes true," Kira noted.
     "Any word in those reports on who the attackers might
be?" Sisko asked Worf. "No, sir."
    "Could it be the Cardassians?" Kira proposed. Sisko
thought he detected in her voice an undercurrent of---what?
Fear? Anger? Probably a complicated mixture of those
emotions and others.
    "I think Central Command has its hands full right now,"
Sisko said, referring to the civil revolution on Cardassia
Prime that had not long ago wrested control away from the
military and placed it in the hands of the Detapa Council.
 "The Klingons then?" Kira ventured. "The Romulans?"
 "Perhaps the Dominion is attempting to disrupt life in
 the Alpha Quadrant," Worf suggested, "in preparation for
 an offensive."
    "Perhaps," Sisko said, but another possibility occurred to
him.
    "Major," he said, "have you spoken with First Minister
Shakaar recently?"
 "Not within the last few days, no," she said. "Why?"
"Maybe you should," Sisko said. "See ifBajor has experi-
enced any problems similar to the ones we're having."
    "Yes, sir," Kira said. She stood from her chair, evidently
prepared to leave to follow her orders, but then she gave
Sisko what he thought was an inquiring look. "Do you know
what's been going on, Captain?"
    "I have an idea," Sisko told her. "But it's only speculation
at the moment, and I want to try to remedy that." Sisko
shifted his gaze from Kira to Wolf. "Commander," he said,
"prepare the Deftant."

    From the command chair in the center of Defiant's
bridge, Captain Sisko watched his crew work. Dax was
stationed at the flight-control position, O'Brien was at
operations, Worf at tactical. Dr. Bashir also hovered about
the bridge, his presence on the ship precautionary; should
the rumors of ships in the sector being fired upon prove
true, Sisko wanted to be able to provide medical aid to any
casualties they might discover.
    "We're approaching the Bajoran trade routes," Dax an-
nounced, as Sisko had requested her to do.
"Mr. Worf," Sisko ordered, "engage the cloaking device."
"Sir?" Worf asked with obvious surprise. In a way, it
pleased Sisko: his newest crew member was perhaps not as
stiff and as unacdimated as he had previously thought;
Woff was at least comfortable enoughwand obviously
strong and independent enoughinto question his com-
manding officer.
    "You heard me," Sisko said. He saw Dax glance up from
her console, first at him and then at Woff, an amused grin
on her face. At his station, Worf complied with the order.
The interior lighting of the bridge dimmed as the cloak
began operating. About Defiant, Sisko knew, an energy
screen was being generated, a screen that refracted light and
energy waves in an unusual way, rendering the ship invisible
both to the eye and to most types of sensor scans.
    Sisko understood why Worf had felt the need to question
his order: the Romulan Star Empire had agreed to loan the
Federation the cloaking device for installation aboard Defi-
ant under the condition that it never be used within the
Alpha Quadrant. Sisko did not take this stipulation light-
ly--nor did Lieutenant Commander Woff, apparentlyre
but this was not the first time the captain had found
occasion to break it. But Sisko's justifications for transgress-
ing the accord with the Romulans were not based in some
Machiavellian ethic. Each of the few times he had used the
cloaking device, he had weighed heavily the moral implica-
tions of doing so, the possible consequences, and whether
he was violating the intent of the agreement that had been
forged with the Romulans. The Empire had provided the
cloak to enhance Starfleet's ability to protect the Alpha
Quadrantmand therefore the Empiresfrom Dominion
attack, but the Romulans did not want to have their own
ordnance used against them, or used to fortify the relative
power of the Federation. Sisko was always sure that he in no
way acted in contravention of that covenant.
    Deftant reached the location Dax had identified, and
Sisko ordered a change in course. The warship came about
and began tracing the trade route, traveling away from
Bajor. The way ahead looked clear on the main viewer. As
Sisko watched and waited for whatever it was they would
find out here~if they found anything at all~he wondered
whether his suspicions would be borne out. It was not long
before he learned the answer.
 "I'm reading a vessel," reported Worf.
    On the viewscreen, Sisko saw, there were still only stars;
the sensors had found the ship before it had even become
visible to the crew of Deftant.
    "Is it a freighter?" Bashir asked from where he stood at
the back of the Bridge. Sisko had forgotten that he was
there.
    "It is impossible to tell at this distance," Woff said. "But
the vessel is of an appropriate size to be a freighter."
    "Slow to one-half impulse as we approach," Sisko told
Dax.
 "Aye," Dax acknowledged.
 "Entering visual range," said Woff.
     Sisko studied the main viewer. He watched as a small,
unidentifiable shape materialized amid the scattered stars.
 "Magnify," he said.
    Woff jabbed at a control and the image on the viewer
shifted. The starscape did not change, but the shape in-
creased in size, became discernible as a slender, gray ship. It
was long and roughly tubular, with a pilothouse located
toward the bow, and what looked to be a large cargo bay
encircling the primary hull amidship.
    "That's an old Earth vessel," O'Brien commented. "Simi-
lar to the D-Y-eleven-hundred class."
    "Much older," said Worf, who was an expert at spacecraft
classification. "D-Y-seven-hundred, to be exact. It's naviga-
tional beacon identifies it as the Alerica."
"What can you tell us about it, chief?." Sisko asked.
"Records show it was built on Earth," O'Brien reported
after consulting the ship's database, "but it was later sold to
a Frunalian shipping company."
    As Defiant closed on Alerica, surface details of the freight-
er became visible. Interior lights shined through windows
fore and aft, docking clamps were secured beneath the
pilothouse, Frunalian markings decorated the hull.
    "One of the running lights is out," Sisko noticed. As he
looked closely, he saw several dark streaks along the main
body of the ship near the extinguished light. "What are
those black patches?"
    "They appear to be some sort of heat distress," Worf said.
"I'm picking up some very odd residual energy signatures
from them. They almost look like the remnants of phaser
fire."
    "They are," O'Brien said, checking the readings on the
operations console. "But from phasers fired at a power level
about ten percent of normal."
 "What's Alerica's status?" Sisko asked.
    "All systems are operational," Worf said. "No major
damage. It is heading under its own power away from
Bajoran space."
 "Can you find the attacker?" Sisko asked.
 "Scanning," answered Worf.
    "I don't understand," Bashir said, walking forward until
he came abreast of Sisko. "Did somebody attack that ship
with their phasers intentionally set at a useless level, or did
they just have inferior weapons?"
    "I hope it's the latter, Doctor," Sisko said, "but I doubt
that's the case."

    "Do you know something, Benjamin?" Dax asked, turn~
ing in her seat to face Sisko.
 "I suspect something," he told her.
 "Sensor contact with another vessel," Worf said.
 "It's not a freighter, is it?" Sisko asked.
    "No," Worf said. "It is much larger." He worked the con-
trols on his console. "The configuration is--" He stopped
and looked up at the captain. "It's Ferengi."
    "Damn," Sisko blurted, launching himself up out of his
seat and forward to where Dax sat at the conn. He searched
the readouts on her console for information. "What type of
ship?"
 "Definitely a Marauder," O'Brien said. "D'Kora-class."
    It was the largest, most powerful type of vessel in the
Ferengi fleet. And it was what Sisko had feared.
    "If the Alerica is a freighter," he said, "I want to know
what it's carrying."
    "I've got it, Captain," O'Brien said. "It's definitely a
freighter: it's fully loaded with a cargo of grain."
    "Wait a minute," Bashir said. "That doesn't make any
sense. I thought the freighter was headed away from Bajor."
    "It is," Sisko said, although he did not bother to check
any readouts to confirm this.
    "But Bajor doesn't export grain," Bashir said. "Thanks to
the Cardassians, there's not even enough arable land for the
Bajorans to grow sufficient crops for themselves."
    "Dax," Sisko said, ignoring the doctor for the moment, "I
want you to circumnavigate the Marauder on a sphere with
radius equal to--" He considered what an appropriate
distance would be. "--twice our maximum sensor range."
    "What do you expect to find?" Dax asked as she executed
the captain's command. Defiant responded immediately
onto its new course. The image of Alerica was swept from
the viewer, the stars now streaks of light as Defiant maneu-
vered on its axes. Sisko walked back to the command chair
and sat down.
    "D'Kora-class vessels are typically equipped with two
levels of weaponry, firing electromagnetic pulses mor in this
case, I guess, phasers--and powerful plasma-energy
bursts," Sisko explained. "If the commander of that vessel
had wanted to destroy that freighter, he would have. But he
wasn't trying to destroy it, or even damage it; he just wanted
to force it to change its course."
    "I have another sensor contact," Worf reported. "Anoth-
er vessel." Woff worked his controls. "It is another D'Kora
Marauder."
    "Another Marauder?" Bashir asked incredulously. "The
Ferengi can't possibly be preparing to attack Bajor." To
Sisko, the statement sounded like a question.
    "They're not going to attack," Sisko told his crew. "It's a
blockade of Bajor." Which is almost as bad as an attack,
Sisko realized; before long, the population of Bajor would
be facing starvation. "At least," Sisko amended, "they're
not going to attack yet."

CHAPTER
      14

KIRA SAT IN A CHAIR inside the office of the first minister and
looked across the room at him. He was standing in the
doorway that led to the balcony, peering out at the Bajoran
countryside as the last vestiges of day prepared to abandon
the capital to darkness. His shadow had grown long and
dim on the wall behind him, outlined with the fading
orange-red of sunset. The entire room had grown dim,
actually; the generous amount of illumination that entered
through two skylights during the day was nearly gone now.
    This was only the fourth time Kira had seen Shakaar in as
many weeks, and none of those visits--including this
one--had been of a personal nature. As she watched him,
she could see that the past month had taken its toll: he
seemed thinner, but worse than that, his wilted posture
betrayed his great fatigue--so much so that she was not
entirely sure how he was still managing to function. Of
course, Kira knew that this was not the first time in his life
that Shakaar had faced difficult, sleepless nights.
    I miss you, Edon, she thought. And in her mind, she
answered for him, hearing his voice in the soft tones she
knew he reserved only for her: I miss you too, Nerys.
    Kira was here on the outskirts of the capital city, as she
had been on the three previous occasions, in her official
capacity as the Bajoran liaison to Deep Space Nine. In this
difficult time, Shakaar was unwilling to leave his world,
even to meet with the Emissary on the station. For his part,
the captain was doing what he could back on DS9 to avert
the impending calamity on Bajor; this was what Kira
conveyed now to the first minister and the kai.
    "And how does Captain Sisko propose to help us, child?"
Winn asked in response. She was sitting opposite Kira
across a low, circular table, her facial features indistinct in
the developing gloom. There was skepticism evident in her
voice, a skepticism Kira recognized as the kai's doubt--sel-
dom stated outright, but often intimated--about whether
Benjamin Sisko was truly the Emissary. "We are only days
away from a terrible crisis," she finished.
    "Days?" Kira asked, stunned. She had known that the
blockade had begun to have a significant impact on Bajor--
even DS9 had been affected: at least a third of the shops on
the Promenade had been forced to close during the past
month--but she had thought that there was still time before
circumstances would become critical. "I understood that
the situation wasn't that desperate yet," she said. She
looked to Shakaar for verification.
    "It's not," confirmed Shakaar. He came away from the
balcony doorway and walked over to Kira and Winn.
    Winn peered up at Shakaar, and for a moment, her face
left the shadows and became visible in the dying light of the
room. She was smiling, Kira saw, despite being contra-
dicted, but Kira also saw that the smile did not touch
Winn's eyes.
    "With all respects," the kai said, "I have been in contact
with many of the provincial ministers, and they all report
that their local food supplies are extremely low."
    "Yes, I know," Shakaar said. "I've spoken to them as
well." Kira heard the weariness in his voice--the drawn-out
syllables, the diminished volume--and she understood that
he was not only physically tired, but emotionally tired as
well. "I've heard those same things."
 "Surely you don't disbelieve the ministers?" Winn said.
 "Not the ministers, no," Shakaar said. As he spoke, he
squatted down before the table--his knees crackling like
the sound of electric sparks--and reached out to open a
narrow wooden box sitting atop it. From the box, he
extracted a long, thin match. "I do disagree with their
assessments, though. We've been rationing food for weeks
now, and we'll continue to ration food; their projections
don't seem to adequately take that into account."
    "How long do you estimate before people begin going
hungry?" Kira asked.
    "They're already hungry," Shakaar replied, not without
some bitterness. Such hardships, Kira realized, harked back
to the brutal times under the Cardassians. "Three or four
weeks from now, though--perhaps as few as two--things
will be much worse than they are now." Shakaar swept the
match across the bare stone floor of his office; the tip flared
to life. He lifted the glass chimney of an oil lamp that was
sitting on the table and ignited the wick.
    "Weeks are better than days," Kira offered, "but that's
not all that far off."
    "No," Shakaar agreed. He replaced the chimney on the
lamp and turned the regulator; the flame blossomed, tall
and bright in its pellucid enclosure. Kira gazed across the
table and saw the faces of Shakaar and Winn kindled yellow
in the lambent glow.
    "Regardless whether our stores of food last weeks or
days," Winn said, "we have an even more immediate
concern: medical care."
    Captain Sisko had told Kira that he feared that would be
the case. While health-related resources were obviously not
being dispensed as quickly as food was, they were far harder
to ration. An individual in need of medicine or a surgical
procedure often could not be given a reduced dosage or have
a different operation performed on them.
    "This is one of the ways Captain Sisko believes he can
help us," Kira apprised Shakaar and Winn. "He is seeking
approval from the Federation Council to petition the nagus
to allow humanitarian aid through the blockade."
    "Captain Sisko wants to negotiate with the Ferengi?"
Winn asked with obvious contempt. "It is the Ferengi who
are keeping food and medicine from our people in the first
place."
    Kira felt her mouth open and close several times in
surprise at the kai's reaction, like the maw of a great fish
soundlessly breathing water in. She had expected her news
to be met with optimism and hope. Once more, she looked
to Shakaar.
    "Such assistance would be helpful, of course," he said, his
tone more moderate than the kai's, "but it seems unlikely
that the captain will be able to provide it." Shakaar still
held the burning match in his hand, and he got up now and
walked to over to where another lamp sat on a shelf. "The
Ferengi have made it clear that they are using their block-
ade--an attempt to starve our population--as leverage to
force us to allow them access to the wormhole. Why would
they gainsay their own strategy by allowing food and
medicine to be brought to Bajor?" He lighted the lamp and
moved across the room to another.
    "They are barbarians," said Winn. "Materialistic in the
extreme. They're not even interested in the welfare of their
own people who were taken into custody by the Militia."
    "What's happened to them?" Kira asked. "The Ferengi
that were arrested?"
    "They were being held for trial," Shakaar explained,
firing the third lamp, "but because of the blockade, they are
now being interned as political prisoners."
    "Oh," Kira said, unsure whether she was comfortable
with the notion of detaining people not because of the
crimes they had committed, but because of who they were.
The Bajorans had every right to close their borders to the
wretched little Ferengi because of the actions of their leader,
but to hold people in prison because they were Ferengi...
to her, such an action was dangerously reminiscent of those
taken by the Cardassians during the Occupation.
    "I suppose one way to end the blockade would be to
rescind the edict," Kira suggested. She personally thought it
would be wrong to capitulate to the Ferengi, but at the same
time, she understood the need to balance that view against
the possibility of saving Bajoran lives.
    "We will not bow to the will of the nagus," Shakaar said
flatly. He blew out the match--a curl of spoke drifted up
from its spent tip--and returned to the table. The room had
been transformed now, the east on the walls no longer the
orange of twilight--the sun had wholly departed--but the
yellow of lamplight. "What we require is another kind of
assistance."
    "What would that be?" Kira asked, confused; she had
thought the help Bajor needed was obvious: food and
medical aid.
 "We need to break the blockade," Shakaar said.
    "Well, yes, of course," Kira said, "but how do you
propose to do that?"
 "Captain Sisko could help us," Shakaar said.
    "What does that mean exactly?" Kira asked. She rose
from her chair and faced Shakaar, an anxious feeling
beginning to take hold of her as she inferred what it was he
was proposing. "Do you want Starfleet to confront the
Ferengi fleet?"
    "What we want," Winn said, "is to be left alone to live in
peace."
    "We're not asking the Federation to defend us," Shakaar
clarified. "We just want the means to be able to defend
ourselves."
    Kira stared at him. The flame of the lamp on the table
flickered, sending fleeting changes in light and hue rolling
across Shakaar's features like the shadow of a cloud moving
over land. Kira wanted him to articulate exactly what it was
he was suggesting. Eventually, he did.
"In this case," Shakaar said, "that means ships."
"Ships?" Kira asked. She walked across the room, away
from Shakaar and Winn, unable to contain the feelings of
shock and disbelief that overwhelmed her. Her views were
usually in harmony with Shakaar's, particularly in matters
of such importance. When she reached the far side of the
room, she turned back around, not even attempting to
check her emotions. "You're going to plunge Bajor into a
war in space?" she asked angrily.
"We are not trying to starve the Ferengi," Shakaar said.
Kira laughed once, a short, harsh sound that escaped her
unsmiling mouth before she could stop it. The sense that
this conversation was not really happening--that it could
not possibly be happening--washed over her. She paced
back over to Shakaar and Winn and looked this time to the
kai.
    "You can't possibly agree with him?" Kira asked, dis-
turbed at having to seek the support of this woman she had
so often opposed, against a man she had followed through
the Occupation, into his role as first minister, and finally,
into her heart.
    "The minister and I are united," Winn declared. The
flame of the lamp was reflected in the black of her pupils.
    Kira was quiet for a moment, her mind tallying all of the
reasons this was a bad idea. She decided to focus on the
most practical matters.
 "Who would fly these ships?" she asked.
    "There are plenty of Bajorans with experience command-
ing and crewing freighters and impulse ships and the like,"
Shakaar said.
    Freighters? Kira thought. Surely it was obvious that pi-
loting a freighter, or even the impulse ships used to defend
the high orbit of Bajor, hardly qualified somebody for inter-
stellar combat. Even the so-called assault vessels of the
Bajoran Militia were little more than personnel carriers.
 "This would be a war we couldn't possibly win," she said.
    "It was said that we would never be able to repel the
Cardassians," Winn said, "and yet, here we are."
    "The Cardassians occupied Bajor for forty years," Kira
exploded. "It was a miserable existence, costing millions of
lives and immeasurable suffering." She paused to calm
herself before continuing; nothing incited stronger emo-
tions in her than recalling the Occupation, the event that
had most defined her world within her lifetime. But she also
realized that there was nothing she could tell Shakaar and
Winn about the Occupation that they did not already know.
Instead, she told them, "I guess I can take solace in the fact
that the Federation will never go along with this."
    "Nevertheless, this is the official position of the Bajoran
government," Shakaar said firmly and coolly. Kira recog-
nized that he was speaking to her specifically on a profes-
sional level. "And we want you to make the request of
Captain Sisko on our behalL"
    "Perhaps the major might be uncomfortable doing so,"
Winn said, talking to Shakaar as though Kira were not
present. "We could send another representative--"
'7 am the Bajoran liaison," Kira interrupted. "I will talk
to Captain Sisko."
    "Major," Shakaar began, his employment of her title
sounding strange to her, "if this will be too difficult for
you--"
    'Tll do it," she said. She headed for the door. Shakaar
called after her. When she did not turn, she heard the quick
pace of his footsteps as he raced across the room and
intercepted her before she could leave. He put a hand on her
elbow and coaxed her to stop.
    "Nerys," he said, lowering his voice to just above a
whisper. "Nerys, this is the right course of action to pursue.
You remember what it's like to live under oppression. We
can't let the Ferengi destroy our way of life, especially not
after we just recovered it."
    "Of course I remember what it was like," she told him.
"And what I remember most is counting our numbers after
a fight to see how many of us were still left alive. I remember
.patching wounds with improvised medical supplies... see-
mg my friends maimed... Furel lost an arm." Her gaze
wandered from Shakaar as she thought of her old friend, so
large and filled with life, now reduced by war. And she
thought of others--there had been so many of them--not
lucky enough to have been merely wounded.
    Kira pulled herself back to the present. She peered over at
Winn, who was still sitting placidly, as though nothing
troubling had been discussed here at all. Kira looked up at
Shakaar again and then wrenched her elbow from his hand.
She thought once more, I remember, but she left without
saying another word.



CHAPTER
      15

"HE WANT'S what?"
"I know," Kira said. "I agree that it's ridiculous."
"'Ridiculous' doesn't even begin to describe it, Major,"
Sisko fumed. They were in his quarters aboard Defiant. The
cabin was very small, almost confining, although it was
slightly larger than all of the others on the ship, and the only
one with just a single bunk. Even aboard the Spartan
battleship, it seemed, rank had its privileges.
    Sisko had been on the bridge when Major Kira had
arrived back at Deep Space Nine after her meeting with First
Minister Shakaar. He had been awaiting her return, as well
as preparing for a meeting of his own out on the Bajoran
trade routes. Sisko had brought Kira here, to his quarters,
so that he could debrief her privately, and he was pleased
now that he had. Morale was low enough on the station--
with more Promenade shops dosing each day, there were
continually fewer services and fewer forms of recreation
available to the crew and the local inhabitants--without
people witnessing the anger and frustration of the captain.
    "I told Shakaar that the Federation Council would never
authorize Starfleet to provide Bajor with ships," Kira said.
She was seated at a desk built into one bulkhead, in the
cabin's lone chair.
    "Of course they won't," Sisko agreed. He moved anx-
iously about the compact room like a wild animal newly
caged. "I just don't understand this," he went on. "These
people refuse to negotiate with each other, and yet Zek is
prepared to starve the population of Bajor, and Shakaar is
prepared to wage war with Ferenginar. It would be laugh-
able if the situation weren't so grave."
    "Are you going to pass the minister's request on to the
Federation Council?" Kira asked.
    "As much as I'd like not to," Sisko said, "I don't really see
what choice I have." He stopped near the door and rubbed
his temples with the tips of his fingers. He found that he
suddenly had a headache; he had been struck with quite a
number of them in the past few weeks. He dropped his
hands to his sides and sighed heavily. "I'm afraid this will
not reflect well on Bajor."
 "What?" Kira asked. "What do you mean?"
    Sisko was surprised by the question. How could Kira have
failed to assess the consequences of the first minister's
request?
    "What I mean is that this is the type of behavior that will
be evaluated as Bajor is considered for admission to the
Federation," he said. "And wanting to start a war is hardly
an indication of a healthy and mature society."
    Kira's jaw dropped; what Sisko had said had obviously
had a serious impact on her. She rose to her feet, her hand
gripping the back of the chair tightly. Her face appeared
barren of expression, which Sisko knew from experience to
mean that she was angry. He thought that she was either
struggling to control her emotions or searching for a way to
respond.
    "Bajoran culture has existed for five hundred thousand
years," she finally managed to say. "Far longer than the
culture of Earth." She spoke the words in an oddly neutral
tone, but Sisko suspected that if she had not believed him to
be the Emissary, her defense of her people would have been
far more spirited.
    "You're right," Sisko said. "Your culture is much older
than mine. And in the short history of my people, we've
practiced slavery, internal exile, and genocide. But we
evolved from that."
    "Slavery and genocide? What are you talking about?"
Her voice was no longer neutral. She paused, appearing to
calm herself with an effort. "As much as I disagree with the
first minister's decision to ask the Federation for military
aid, all he's trying to do is afford Bajorans the opportunity
to defend themselves."
    "I understand that," Sisko said. "But they're trying to
defend themselves against a response to their own unjust
actions." Sisko felt a twinge of guilt as he echoed Quark's
characterization of the Bajoran edict.  "What?"
     "Major, the expulsion of all Ferengi from the Bajoran
system because of the actions of one Ferengi--" 
"--the leader of the Ferengi."
    "Again, I understand your point. But punishing innocent
people for the actions of another... I'm sorry, but that's
unjust."
    Kira took a small step backward. Her foot struck the leg
of the chair and she nearly tripped. Instead, she fell back
down onto the seat.
    "I'm sorry... I... I'm not having an easy time with
this," she said. Her hands twisted together nervously in her
lap, and she looked away from Sisko. "The truth is, I'm not
entirely comfortable with the way this situation has pro-
gressed either, but ú.." "But?"
    "It is difficult," she said, looking back up, "to hear you
saying that the Ferengi are right and the Bajorans are
wrong." She seemed both to be accusing him of siding with
the enemy and to be pleading with him to tell her that he
was really on her side.
    Sisko crossed the room to Kira. He peered down at her
for a moment, then gently placed a hand on her shoulder.
    "I think the blockade is wrong," he told her, because he
thought she needed to know that was the case. "But I do
think the edict is wrong too. Those are just my opinions,
though; they needn't be yours."
    "I know," Kira said. "But it troubles me that this is what
thet" She had been about to say "Emissary," Sisko was
sure, but she stopped herself, probably because she was
aware of his discomfort with his supposed place in her
religion. "--that this is what you think," she finished.
    "Nerys," he said, "since the day I took command of Deep
Space Nine, the depth of my appreciation for the Bajoran
people has only increased. I wasn't saying that your society
is immature or unhealthy, but I do think that what they're
doing in this situation is a mistake. What I fear is that,
before the mistake is corrected, people will suffer."
 "You want what's best for Bajor, then," Kira said.
    "Yes, of course I do," he said. "Which is why the Deftant
should get under way."
    "You got permission to ask the Ferengi to let Starfleet
transport humanitarian aid to Bajor?" Kira asked, hopeful.
    "Yes. The Federation Council agreed to let me make the
request in the name of altruism."
    "Somehow," Kira said, "I don't think there's much
chance of altruism persuading the nagus."
    "We'll see," Sisko told her. He knew that she was fight, of
course: the nagus would never allow food and medical
provisions through the blockade. But Sisko had something
else in mind.
    "You're in command of the station, Major," he said.
They left his quarters together, but quickly parted, Kira
headed for DS9, and Sisko for the bridge.

    Defiant flew at full impulse speed. The bantam vessel ran
uncloaked, on course for the Bajoran trade routes and the
Ferengi armada.
"We're approaching the blockade," Dax announced.
"Mr. Worf?." Sisko asked from the command chair.
"Scanning for Ferengi vessels," Worf said. Then, after a
few moments: "I've got one. A Marauder. Range: twenty
million kilometers."
    "Reduce speed to one-quarter," Sisko ordered. "Close to
within one thousand kilometers."
    "Reducing speed," Dax acknowledged. As she worked
her console, the pervasive vibrations of Defiant's sublight
fusion generators moderated, the only noticeable indication
that the ship had slowed.
 "Give us a picture when you can, Mr. Worf," Sisko said.
    The bridge crew was quiet as Defiant maneuvered into
position. Finally, the ship came within viewing range of the
Marauder.
    "I have the Ferengi vessel on screen," Worf said. "Maxi-
mum magnification."
    The image on the main viewer blinked and the D'Kora-
class Marauder appeared, centered on a background of
distant stars. A two-pronged, angular forward seetionmpre-
sumably a control centermwas connected by a squat neck
to the main body of the ship, which fanned out and forward
in a shape approximating an eighth of a sphere, and which
resembled, Sisko thought, the sweeping wings of a large
bird. The ship grew in size on the viewer as Defiant drew
closer.
 "One thousand kilometers," Dax called from the conn.
 "Full stop," Sisko said.
     The resonant hum of the impulse drive faded to silence as
the velocity of the ship fell to zero. "Engines answering full stop."
    "Mr. Worf," Sisko said, peering over to the tactical
station, "hail the Ferengi vessel. Identify us, and let them
know that I wish to speak to a representative of Grand
Nagns Zek. Tell them I have a business proposition for
him."
    "Yes, sir," Worf replied with obvious reluctance. It was
plain to see that the Klingon believed proposing anything to
the Ferengi would be unseemly.
    "How can you be sure there'll be a representative of the
nagus here, sir?" O'Brien asked.
    "Commander Dax is our resident expert on the Ferengi,"
Sisko said in response. Recognizing that his science officer
possessed more practical knowledge about Ferengi society
than any other Starfleet officer on Deep Space Nine, he had
consulted her before embarking on this mission.
    "Zek has somebody working for him in every Ferengi
operation," Dax answered for the captain.
    "We are receiving a response," Worf reported. "Readout
only." He paused, and then said disgustedly, "They want to
know what the 'proposition' is."
    "Tell them that when an official representative of the
nagus steps forward, he'll find out."
 "Yes, sir." Worf relayed the message. There was no reply.
 After a full minute, Sisko asked, "Anything?"
 "Negative."
    "Dax, bring us about," Sisko said. "Take us back the way
we came."
    "Coming about," Dax said. The Marauder slipped from
the main viewer as directional thrusters fired and turned
Defiant.
 "Ahead at one-quarter impulse speed."
    "One-quarter impulse," Dax said. She worked her con-
trols to power up the sublight drive. The beat of the fusion
generators began to pulse once more through the ship.
    "Prepare to go to full impulse," Sisko said, frustrated at
the failed attempt to send a personal message to the nagus.
He would now have tot
    "We are being hailed," Worf said. "They will talk to you,
Captain."
    "They just can't resist hearing an offer, can they?" Dax
commented, smiling.
    "Stop engines," Sisko ordered a second time. "On screen,
Mr. Worf."
    On the main viewer, the empty field of stars vanished,
replaced by the fignre of a lone Ferengi officer. He was
standing in what appeared to be a crew cabin, presumably
his own. The walls in the room behind him were a bright
green; the predominant colors among the room's furnish-
ings were purple and yellow. The garish combination re-
minded Sisko of Quark's wardrobe.
    "I am Bractor," the officer introduced himself, "daiMon
of the Marauder Kreechta, and commander of this wing of
the Ferengi fleet."
    "Captain Benjamin Sisko of the Starship Defiant and
station Deep Space Nine, "Sisko said. "DaiMon Bractor, are
you an official representative of the grand nagus?" 
"I am," said Bractor.
    "Forgive my brashhesS, DaiMon, but I have little time for
diplomacy." This statement was itself diplomatic, Sisko
realized, considering that the Ferengi were not known either
for practicing or appreciating circumspection. "How can I
be sure you're telling me the truth?"
 "I guess you can't," Bractor answered. "You'll just have
to trust me, human." As with Quark--as with so many
Ferengi--the word came out pronounced hyoo-mon.
      "Funny," Sisko said, "I don't recall the word trust being
mentioned in any of the Rules of Acquisition."
 "Actually, the 47th Rule states--"
    "--Nothing I'm interested in hearing right now," Sisko
interrupted. "But I'm sure you'll want to hear what I have
to say. May I transport aboard the Kreechta to meet with
you?"
    "Captain," Worf called before Bractor could respond.
Sisko looked over to the tactical console. Worfglanced up at
the main viewer, then stood up and moved away from his
station and over to the center of the bridge. With his back to
the screen, he addressed Sisko discreetly. "Captain, the
Ferengi are not to be trusted, particularly in light of their
superior numbers out here. I strongly recommend that you
meet with Bractor aboard the Defiant." Prior to his posting
on DS9, Sisko knew, Worf had served for seven years aboard
a Galaxy-class starship, six of those as chief of security;
apparently, such training died hard.
    "Mister Worfm" Sisko began, but Bractor spoke over
him.
    "--Perhaps your officer is right, Captain," he said. Worf
spun quickly to face the viewer. He seemed startled that the
daiMon had heard his whispered words. "I would be willing
to beam over to your ship."
    Of course you would be, Sisko thought. Worf was right:
with all of the other Ferengi vessels that comprised the
blockade patrolling nearby, Bractor would feel well-
protected. But Sisko also suspected that the daiMon wanted
to transport aboard Defiant in the hope that he would have
an opportunity to learn something about the unique state-
of-the-art vessel. It would also allow him to prevent any of
his crew from overhearing any personal side deal he might
be able to negotiate with Sisko.
"We would be happy to have you aboard," Sisko said.
"Your vessel is presently positioned near the Marauder
Bokira," Bractor said, consulting something offscreen. "My
tactical officer will provide the location of the Kreechta, as
well as transporter coordinates. We'll inform you when
we're ready."
 "Very good."
    Bractor jabbed at a control and his image was replaced on
the viewer by the emblem of the Ferengi Alliance. Worf
walked over to his station and touched a control. The
desolate starscape reappeared on the screen.
    "You know, Woff," Dax teased, "the Ferengi aren't afraid
to use those ears of theirs."
 As far as Sisko could tell, Worf was not amused.

    Sisko entered Transporter Room One. A square-
shouldered, sandy-haired officer only recently assigned to
Deep Space Nine stood at the console. Sisko did not recall
his name.
    "Commander Dax reports that we've reached the Kreech-
ta, Captain," the ensign said. "I have the transport co-
ordinates, and the Ferengi signal that they're ready."
 "Very good," Sisko said. "Energize."
    The ensign operated the controls and the high-frequency
purr of the transporter filled the room. Soft white granules
of' light gathered on the platform. First the shape and then
the substance of Bractor materialized. He was clad in the
gray uniform of the Ferengi military; gold circles at the ends
of his sleeves testified to his rank.
"DaiMon," Sisko said, "Welcome to the Deftant."
"Captain Sisko." Bractor brought his wrists together in
front of him in the conventional Ferengi salutation, his
hands apart, his fingers curled. He bowed slightly and
stepped from the transporter platform, peering around in a
blatantly curious manner; other than Quark, who had once
accompanied the DS9 crew on a trade mission to the
Gamma Quadrant, no Ferengi had ever before been aboard
Defiant. "You have a handsome vessel," Bractor said.
    "That's very generous," Sisko said, "considering that
you've only seen the inside of a transporter room, and for
only a few seconds."
    "Yes, well, you'll find that we Ferengi are generous."
Bractor started for the doors. When he saw that Sisko was
not following him, he asked, "Shall we be going, Captain?"
 "Going?" Sisko asked in return. "Going where?"
    "I assume that you have suitable a facility in which we
can meet."
    "Oh, I think we can stay right here." Sisko had been right:
Bractor seemed very interested in seeing more of the ship;
Sisko was equally as interested in not allowing him access to
anything other than this one room. "What I have to say
won't take very long." There was only the slightest lag
before Bractor turned away from the doors and back toward
the captain.
    "Very well," Bractor said, evidently shifting his attention
with ease. "You said that you have a business proposition
for the nagus?"
    "Yes, I did say that." Sisko glanced over at the transporter
operator. "Ensign, would you excuse us for a moment?"
    "Aye-aye, sir." The young officer quickly operated his
console, locking it down, then exited the room. In the brief
time that the doors were open, Bractor eyed the section of
corridor that was visible beyond them.
    "Now then," Sisko began, "I have two requests to make
of Grand Nagus Zek, as well as a proposition for him."
    "First, Captain, perhaps you can tell me why I should
deliver this proposition--and these requests--to the
nagus."
 "Because it will benefit him."
 "And what about me?"
    "What about you?" Sisko asked, smiling. This was a
question he had anticipated. "If you don't return an answer
to me from the nagus within three days, I'll have to assume
that you chose not to deliver my message. If that happens,
I'll have to send it to him over subspace."
    "Why don't you just do that now?" Bractor asked, taking
a step back toward the transporter platform, as though he
was ready to end this meeting and beam back to his ship
right now. His impatience was no doubt a result of his
appraisal that there would be nothing of value for him in
whatever dealings Sisko had with the nagus.
    "My reasons are my own," Sisko said. He was not about
to reveal that part of his message to the nagus would
probably be adjudged by the Federation Council to be a
violation of Resolution 49-535 if they ever learned of it. But
Sisko was unwilling to allow the Bajorans to suffer further
when it might be within his power to prevent it. "When the
nagus receives the message directly from me and learns that
you refused to bring it to him personally--which I will
make sure he does--and when the delay ends up losing him
profit, what do you think your fate will be?"
    Bractor regarded Sisko for a few moments without saying
anything. At first, Sisko was unconcerned, but as the sec-
onds passed, he began to think he might have overplayed his
admittedly weak hand.
 "What's the proposition?" Bractor asked at last.
    "The requests, first," Sisko told him. "As an official
representative of the United Federation of Planets, I am
asking Grand Nagus Zek to allow food and medical provi-
sions to be carried by Starfleet vessels through the Ferengi
blockade to Bajor."
    Bractor's eyes widened. He looked as though Sisko had
just asked the nagus to renounce all of his material posses-
sions. Still, he made no verbal comment.
    "I would also like to request," Sisko continued, "that the
nagus delay the completion of the auction for the Ninth Orb
until after the matters of contention between the Ferengi
and the Bajorans have been resolved."
    Bractor shrugged, seemingly unimpressed, but he moved
on to the next subject.
 "All right," he said. "Now, what's the proposition?"
    "I am offering my personal services as a mediator be-
tween the Alliance and the Bajoran government to resolve
their current set of disputes."
    "That really doesn't sound like much of an offer," Bractor
remarked. He started gazing about the transporter room
again, his focus wandering from the discussion. "The nagus
has indicated that he doesn't want to speak to the Bajorans
either directly or through an intermediary. He's already
turned down several of their attempts to negotiate."
    "He has not turned down my personal services," Sisko
said. "Nor has anybody promised to maximize the nagus's
profits within the context of mediation."
    "Are you promising that?" Bractor wanted to know,
returning his attention to Sisko. The notion of maximum
profit must have been impossible for him to resist.
    "I am." While Sisko was uncertain whether he would be
able to fulfill such a promise, he actually believed that it
might be possible. Zek would never agree to allow humani-
tarian aid through the blockade, but if Sisko could simply
bring the two factions into a dialogue, he thought he could
prompt them toward deescalation. Surely the blockade was
costing the Ferengi, and clearly it was costing the Ba-
jorans--and would yet cost them more if it was permitted
to continue. Sisko was confident that he could persuade the
nagus to lower the blockade, and the first minister to repeal
the edict, if he could just bring the matter of the Ninth Orb
to even temporary resolution.
    "Let me think about that a moment," Bractor said, and
he made a show of considering what Sisko had told him: he
tilted his head back as though in thought, clasped his hands
together behind his back, and began pacing about the room.
For all of that, Sisko figured that the daiMon had already
made the decision to take the message back to the nagus,
and that he was stalling now in the hopes that he might still
discover something of value about Defiant. As evidence of
that, Bractor edged closer and closer to the transporter
console. Sisko let him go; the console had been locked down
by the young ensign.
    Sisko thought now that there was a good chance his plan
would work. As a mediator, he believed he would be able to
reach an agreement on a price that the Bajorans would be
willing to pay for the Orb, but if not, he would effectively side
with the nagus. He would argue that, since Zek had posses-
sion of the Orb, it therefore belonged to him--at least from a
pragmatic standpoint--and that it must be the will of the
Prophets that this had happened. He would also rely on the
fact that only one of the nine Orbs presently resided on
Bajor; the continued absence of the Orb of Wisdom would
therefore not be very disruptive to Bajoran spiritual life. He
would quote from When the Prophets Cried and the ancient
tale of the Third Orb--"the Third Tear"--and if necessary,
he would use his purported position as the Emissary to
convince the Bajorans to relent. The Vedek Assembly would
probably support his view, although Kai Winn would fight
him. Shakaar, though, was a practical man, and despite his
tendency toward action, Sisko thought that the first minister
would eventually see the good sense in settling Bajor's
differences with the nagus, even at the sacrifice of procuring
another Tear of the Prophets at this time.

    You probably should have done all of that in the first place,
Sisko told himself. Of course, he had not anticipated that
either the Bajorans or the Ferengi would proceed on such
severe courses. And there had also been the matter of
Resolution 49-535; there was still the matter of Resolution
49-535. But if something was not done soon, Bajorans
would begin dying, a consequence that Sisko was sure had
not been an intention of the Federation Council when it had
passed the resolution.
    A motion caught Sisko's eye, and he looked over to see
Bractor attempting to access the transporter console. When
nothing happened, the daiMon tried again. Finally, he gave
up and walked back toward the platform.
    "Very well," he said as he passed Sisko. "I will deliver
your message." He climbed up onto the platform.
    Sisko walked around the transporter console and un-
locked it with touches to the appropriate controls. He
worked the console in preparation for beaming Bractor
back to his ship.
    "DaiMon Bractor," Sisko said. The Ferengi had been
studying the platform, and now he looked up. "The nagus
and I have a personal relationship." Sisko and Zek had met
on a couple of occasions; their interaction had been cordial,
defined for Zek, Sisko was sure, by the fact that Sisko
maintained some power with respect to the wormhole.
 Bractor seemed unimpressed.
 "Anything else?" he asked.
    "Actually, there is one more thing," Sisko said. "You look
awfully familiar to me. Have we met before?"
    "No, we haven't," Bractor said. "I'm sure all Ferengi look
alike to you."
    Sisko could not tell whether or not the daiMon was
joking, but he chose to accept the remark in that regard. He
swept his hand across the transporter console, and Bractor
was gone.

    A response came the third day, transmitted directly to the
station: "Bractor instructed to ask you to wait for an
answer."
    Sisko was suspicious. Had the nagus genuinely responded
in this manner, or had Bractor chosen not to deliver the
message? With few options available to him, and wanting to
give this course of action every opportunity to succeed,
Sisko opted to wait.
    Two days later, another response came. This too was
transmitted directly to the station, but it promised some-
thing definite: the captain was told to meet DaiMon Bractor
once more. This time, Sisko traveled alone to the blockade,
in the runabout Rubicon.
    As Sisko approached Kreechta in the small, limited-range
starship, the Marauder filled the forward windows. From
this vantage, the Ferengi vessel appeared more powerfulm
more sinister, even--than it had when viewed from the
bridge of Defiant. Anxious both to complete his business
here and to learn the nagus's response, Sisko contacted
Bractor and made arrangements for him to transport onto
Rubicon.
    "DaiMon Braetor," Sisko greeted the Ferengi when he
stepped from the two-person transporter at the rear of the
runabout's cockpit. "How nice to see you again."
    "I delivered your message," Bractor said without pream-
ble, an annoyed tone in his voice. Sisko suspected that the
Ferengi captain did not appreciate being employed as an
envoy when there had been no profit in it for him. "Thisre"
He stepped from the transporter and held up an isolinear
optical chip. "--is the nagus's reply." The chip, utilized for
data processing and storage, was the Federation counterpart
of the Cardassian isolinear rods in use aboard Deep Space
Nine. It did not surprise Sisko at all to find Federation
technology in Ferengi hands; after all, the Alliance had at
some point usurped phaser technology for use aboard their
Marauders.
    "Thank you, DaiMon," Sisko said, stepping forward and
taking the chip from Bractor. "I--" Sisko had been about to
say I owe you, but then realized that perhaps that was not
such a wise thing to say to a Ferengi. "I w'fil not forget this,"
he said instead.
     "Wait until you hear the nagus's response," Bractor told
him. "You may not wish to thank or remember me."
 "Do you know what's on here?" Sisko asked.
    "No," Bractor said. "It's been encoded to be accessed
only one time, and then it erases itself. But I heard what you
asked of the nagus." Saying nothing more, he turned and
moved back onto the transporter pad. Sisko took the
daiMon's lead and, without saying another word, operated
the transporter controls.
    After Bractor had beamed back over to Kreechta, Sisko
moved to the runabout's primary functions console. There,
he slipped the isolinear optical chip into an input recepta-
cle. With a mixture of apprehension and hope, he activated
playback.
    On a viewer above and to the left of the primary console,
the image of Grand Nagus Zek appeared. It took less than
one minute to completely review the recording, but what
the nagus communicated in that short span of time aston-
ished Sisko.



0

CHAPTER
      16

ACROSS THE ROOM, Xillius Vas stuffed the newly lighted cigar
into his mouth as he studied the monitor. There were
monitors everywhere here, in every wall, from ceiling to
floor, from one side to the other. They were arranged in no
observable pattern, and all of them were active. Some
spewed pictures and sounds, others were alive with words
and figures in an array of different languages. It was a
kaleidoscope of visual and auditory images, an amalgam of
sensory input both more and less than the sum of its
constituents: a combination of information surpassing indi-
vidual facts, and a pollution of knowledge, its meaning
removed by its own noise. And all of it was surrounded by
the noxious blue smoke emitted by the cigar of Xillius Vas.
    Shakaar watched the Yridian. If the natural texture of the
skin of his race had not been wizen, Shakaar was certain
that Vas's would nevertheless be a mass of wrinkles; the
fetid roll of burning tobacco seemed to leave his mouth only
when it was exhausted and ready to be replaced by another.
    It had not been easy for Shakaar to leave Bajor in this
time of need for his people, but it had been his idea to come
here once he had learned what Vas had to offer. He was
anxious, though, to complete his business and return home.
There was nothing illegitimate about the transaction he was
making, but the atmosphere of this dark, smoky room,
ceaselessly saturated as it was by imported and unfamiliar
sights and sounds, lent the circumstances a vulgar air.
    "Vas," Shakaar called from where he was sitting at one of
several plain tables, this one near the room's only door. Vas
was the only other person present at the moment, but
Shakaar could easily visualize all of the tables filled with
Yridian agents, gathering and collating data in an attempt
to satiate their cupidity for marketable information.
    "Wait," Vas said without turning from the monitor he
was inspecting.
    Wait, thought Shakaar. I've been waiting all day. His eyes
burned from the blue haze suffusing the room, the inside of
his nose felt raw from the fetor of the smoke, and he wanted
to blame somebody for his discomfort: the Prophets, the
Ferengi, even his own people. Starfleet, perhaps; if they had
only been willing to accede to his request...
    But no, even in this one moment, finding a target for his
reproach would not have satisfied him. His truest desires
were about being back home on Bajor, not in his office, but
out on a tract of farmland in Dahkur Province, sans his
ministerial responsibilities. Solitude but for a few friends,
open land under an open sky...
    All day, he thought, then dismissed the words in favor of a
difficult truth: I've been waiting all my life.
    It was almost another hour before Xillius Vas pulled
himself away from the monitor. When he did, he shuffled
over to the table by the door and sat down across from
Shakaar.
 "You've finally finished?" Shakaar asked.
    "Patience, my friend," Vas said in his raspy voice. He
spoke, Shakaar thought, with an ingratiating tone that did
not at all match his words. "I had to ascertain whether what
you sought was available, and whether what you offered was
worth the exchange." He paused, evidently wanting to be
prompted for the information.
    "My patience, 'my friend,' is at an end," Shakaar said.
"Tell me what I need to know and let's be done with this."
 "I will tell you this," Vas said. "The value of the informa-
tion you wish to peddle is higher than I had estimated. All
we must do now is determine a delivery schedule."
 "You know my needs are immediate."
    "So you said. There is travel time involved, of course...
the earliest we could arrive at Bajor would be two and a half
days from now."
    "You also know that it will be much easier for me to
provide the information to you after that time," Shakaar
said.
    "Yes, but once we satisfy our portion of the bargain, if
you renege on yours," Vas warned, pointing a gnarled finger
in Shakaar's direction, "you will have a far greater problem
on your hands than the Ferengi blockade." "I understand."
    "If you renege for any reason," Vas continued, as though
Shakaar had said nothing. "If Sisko opposes you--"
    "I understand," Shakaar repeated, loudly and firmly.
"Deep Space Nine is Bajoran property; Captain Sisko will
have no choice but to do as I say."
    "Very well," Vas said. "Then let us execute the transac-
tion."
    Vas turned and retrieved a padd and another small device
from a neighboring table. After both Vas and Shakaar had
reviewed the language of their agreement on the padd, they
each pressed a finger against the input plate of the other
device; from each, a microscopic amount of epidermis was
taken, from which the device then extracted their DNA
code.
    That quickly, Shakaar had committed Bajor to a new
course of action.

    Back in his office, Shakaar found himself inundated by
messages left for him in his absence. He had been away from
Bajor for less than a day and a half, and yet he had been
contacted by nearly a third of the provincial ministers,
several vedeks, Kai Winn, Captain Sisko, and a number of
other people. Shakaar's trip had been clandestinemhe had
wished neither to raise hopes prematurely nor to invite
debate--and so nobody would have considered routing
their communications to the second minister. Shakaar had
informed both his assistant and his deputy about his time
away from Bajor, and he was pleased to see from Sirsy's
report that the second minister had already responded to
many of the people who had contacted the office--although
not to Kai Winn and not to Captain Sisko.
    Shakaar sat down next to the small table in his office into
which a corem panel was set. He reviewed the summary of
the situation on Bajor prepared by the second minister,
then set up an appointment with him for later in the day.
Finally, he operated the controls of the corem panel and
opened a channel to Deep Space Nine. After a moment, the
image of Nerys appeared.
    "Edon," she said. She smiled when she saw who it was,
but her face fell once she had a chance to really look at him.
"What's wrong?" she wanted to know. The concern in her
voice was obviously personal. After his travels, he realized,
he must have appeared haggard.
    "I'm fine, Nerys," he told her. "I'm just not getting much
sleep. How are you?"
    "I'm not sleeping very well these days myself," she said,
something the dark areas beneath her eyes had already told
him. "Otherwise I'm fine. How are things on Bajor?"
 "Deteriorating, but not yet at emergency levels."
    "I think Captain Sisko may have some encouraging
news," she said.
    Kira's smile returned, and in it, Shakaar found an unex-
poeted source of hope. Could Starfleet have reconsidered his
request for military aid? Short of the Ferengi relinquishing
their stranglehold on the Bajoran trade routes and the
nagus's claim to the Ninth Orb, he could not think of a
better turn of events.
    "Good news would be a welcome change," he said. "Is
the captain available?"
    "He is for you," Nerys said. "Just a minute." She worked
her controls and the Starfleet emblem replaced her on the
display. While Shakaar waited, he checked to see when it
was that Sisko had tried to reach him; it had only been a few
hours ago.
    "First minister." Shakaar looked up to see Sisko now on
the screen.
     "Captain," Shakaar said. "I'm sorry I haven't responded
 to your message sooner, but things are very hectic at the
 present time."
  "I understand," Sisko said.
    "Major Kira said that you might have something good to
tell me."
    "I do," Sisko said. "I'm not sure I can explain it, but I
welcome it. I'm sure you will too."
    Perhaps they have reconsidered, Shakaar thought. There
was still time to cancel his pact with Vas.
    "After an appeal from the Federation Council," Sisko
declared, "Grand Nagus Zek has consented to allow Star-
fleet vessels, subject to inspection, to ship humanitarian aid
through the Ferengi blockade. Shipments should begin
arriving on Bajor within ten days."
    Shakaar exhaled slowly and realized he had been holding
his breath without being aware of it. He was surprised and
pleased, of course: this would save the lives of uncounted
Bajorans. And yet he was struck by the hollow feeling that it
would not be enough.
    "Minister?" On the display, Sisko had his head cocked to
one side and was fixing Shakaar with a quizzical look.
    "That is good news, Captain," Shakaar said without
inflection.
    "If you'll pardon my saying so," Sisko said, "you don't
seem quite as happy about this as I expected you to be. As I
am."
    "Yes, I'm very happy about it," Shakaar said. "But this
one measure falls far short of solving all of Bajor's problems
with the Ferengi."
    "That may be true," Sisko agreed, "but it certainly is a
significant step toward accommodation."
    Accommodation. Shakaar wondered how often he had
heard that word in his life, wondered how often the Cardas-
sians had claimed to be seeking accommodation with the
people of Bajor, when all they had ever really done was rape
their world and crush their society. The terms offered by
invaders were always terms of surrender.
    A susurrant sound awoke Shakaar from his thoughts. He
thought at first that it had been his own breathing that had
brought him back to the moment, but as he listened, he
realized that it had begun to rain outside. The first of the
gentle summer storms that would nurture the growing
season in this part of Bajor had arrived.
    "Captain," Shakaar said, "the humanitarian aid is of
enormous importance, and we will welcome it, but Bajor
also requires military supportmsupport beyond the limited
defense that Deep Space Nine offers. We want to resume
importing more than just the necessities of food and
medicine, and also to renew the export of our own manufac-
tured goods. To do that, the Ferengi blockade must be
rendered ineffective; if they will not end it, then we must do
so ourselves."
    "You know that Starfleet cannot provide such support,"
Sisko said. "To do so would be tantamount to promoting a
war effort. But if you and the nagus would agree to sit down
together and talk... perhaps I could function as a media-
tor between the two sidesre"
    "There will be no talks," Shakaar insisted, "until the
Ninth Orb is on its way to Bajor." Thunder resounded in
the distance.
    "I'm very sorry that you feel that way, Minister," Sisko
said. "But there is still time to talk; representatives of the
nagus have informed me that the final round of the auction
will not be held for at least another month." Shakaar erupted.
    "Why should we negotiate for that which we have a right
to?" he yelled, bringing his fist down on the table. "And I'm
not just talking about the Orb, but about the right to control
our own solar system, and the right to travel freely through
open space."
 "Minister--"
    "Last time that Bajorans attempted to bargain for rights
we already possessed by virtue of our own freedom and
self-determination, an occupying army nearly destroyed
US."
    "Minister, you know I sympathize with the long plight
the Cardassian Occupation brought to Bajor," Sisko said.
"But the Ferengi are not the Cardassians."
    "Nor will we give them the opportunity to become
them."
    "Very well," Sisko said, apparently perceiving Shakaar's
resolve. "But my offer to mediate still stands."
     "If there's nothing further, Captain," Shakaar said, "I
have much to do." "No, that's all."
    "Good day, then." Shakaar touched a corem-panel con-
trol and his link to DS9 was severed.

CHAPTER
      17

THE FIRST MENTION of the invaders came from the sub-
space relay.
    "Kira, are you getting the same readings I am?" Dax
asked from her sciences console in Ops.
    Sisko had been about to enter his office, but now he
stopped. He turned and waited to hear what it was that had
provoked Dax's curiosity. He watched as his first officer
examined her own console before she responded.
    "What are you looking at?" Kira asked, evidently seeing
nothing of interest in her display.
    "The communications and sensor relay," Dax answered.
"It's picking up an unusual warp signature."
"Switching over," Kira said, operating her console.
Among its other functions, the relay--positioned just
beyond the mouth of the wormhole in the Gamma Quad-
rant-continuously transmitted the results of its local sen-
sor scans back through the wormhole to Deep Space Nine. ff
an "unusual warp signature" had been detected, then that
might indicate an unknown type of vessel. Sisko walked
down to the lower level and over to Kira's station to look at
the readings himself.
    "I've got it," Kira said as the readout of the relay's output
came up on her display. On a graphical representation of
the region of space about the relay, a speck of light moving
against the stars signified the source of the unusual readings.
An inset in the upper right comer of the display showed the
warp signature of the unidentified vessel, and another in the
lower right showed its configuration, as well as other details
that the sensors had gleaned.
    "What type of ship is that?" Sisko asked, unfamiliar with
the readings. Although he had tried to keep his voice casual,
he was not sure if he had succeeded.
 "Nothing I'm acquainted with," Dax said.
    "Mr. Worf?." Sisko asked. The Klingon was already
checking the readings at another console.
    "It is reminiscent of a Ferengi Marauder," Worf said,
"with its sweeping aft section .... "
 "That's no Ferengi vessel," Sisko said.
 "No," Worf agreed. "The closest design--"
    "Dax, do you see that?" Kira interrupted. "Can these
readings be accurate?"
    Sisko studied Kira's console. The warp signature had
multiplied into two warp signatures... four... eight...
many more. A cluster of lights now advanced across the
display.
    "I count at least thirty-five ships," Dax confirmed. "And
they're on a direct heading for the wormhole."
    "It could be the Dominion," Chief O'Brien suggested at
his station.
    "It could be, but those aren't Jem'Hadar ships," Sisko
said, hoping that the chief's conjecture did not prove to be
prophetic. As heavily armed and fortified as DS9 now was,
and as much of a warrior as Defiant was, they could not by
themselves withstand the onslaught of such a large squad-
ron of Jem'Hadar vessels. And once DS9 fell, both the
wormhole and Bajor would be left virtually undefended.
"Whoever they are, they shouldn't be approaching the
wormhole unannounced and in such numbers. Hail them,
Major."
    "Hailing them," Kira replied, her fingers fluttering rap-
idly across her controls. "There's no response."
    "Keep trying," Sisko said. "Dax, how long till they get
here?"
 "Not long... twenty minutes."
    "Mr. Worf, how close are the nearest Starfleet vessels?"
Sisko asked.
    "The New York is accompanying the first wave of trans-
ports bringing aid to Bajor and will be here in eight days; if
needed, it could leave the convoy and reach the station
within two. The Tian An Men is investigating the Kilandra
Cluster, three days away."
    "Not much help," Sisko commented, more to himself
than to anybody else. "Mr. Worf, crew the Deftant."
    "Aye, sir," Worf said. "We will prepare for battle." Worf
headed for the turbolift.
    "I want you to be prepared for a fight, commander,"
Sisko called after him, "or for flight."
 "Sir," Worf protested, "a Klingon warrior--"
    "Yes, yes, I've heard that before," Sisko cut him off. "But
if we're completely overmatched, Starfleet cannot afford for
the Deftant to be either captured or destroyed. Not with the
threats of the Dominion and the Borg still looming."
    "Yes, sir." Worf entered the lift and ordered it to take him
to Defiant.
 "Captain," Dax said, "what about the Ferengi?"
    "The Ferengi?" Kira echoed, clearly surprised at their
mention.
    "They have at least twenty ships enforcing the blockade,"
Dax explained.
    "Actually, I was considering them myself," Sisko said.
"Major, I want to speak with DaiMon Bractor immedi-
ately." Sisko headed for his office, already trying to deter-
mine what he could possibly say to persuade the Ferengi to
protect a Federation crew, aboard a Bajoran installation,
from attack.

    "Captain Sisko," Bractor intoned, "I do not think you
understand the Ferengi very well." His lips approximated a
smile around teeth that exploded from his mouth at all
angles.
 "I thought you told me that the Ferengi were generous,"
Sisko said, realizing immediately that it had been a useless
thing to say. He stood before the eomm panel in one wall of
his office and saw Bractor's smile grow wider.
    "Yes, well, not to a fault," the daiMon said. "Although
the Ferengi Alliance is presently at peace with the Federa-
tion, there is no treaty between our peoples assuring mutual
protection. And the state of our relations with Bajor..."
Bractor laughed heartily; he seemed genuinely amused by
the situation.
    "I know it must seem preposterous to you, DaiMon,"
Sisko said, "but you also believed that the Federation
request to allow humanitarian aid to Bajor was preposter-
ous, and yet the nagus approved it."
    "I do not pretend to understand all of the actions the
nagus takes," Bractor allowed, his smile disappearing as his
manner quickly became serious. "Or his reasons for those
actions."
    "But there is profit to be had here," Sisko tempted,
hoping that he could logically make the argument he had in
mind. It was not always an easy task to reason in such an
alien context.
 "What profit?" Bractor asked, nibbling at the bait.
    "If the Ferengi protect Bajor or Deep Space Nine," Sisko
contended, "then the Bajorans would be in the Ferengi's
debt. Surely, they would then have to lift the ban on Ferengi
use of the wormhole, which would reestablish your ability
to trade in the Gamma Quadrant and clearly bring a profit.
And the blockade would no longer need to be maintained,
which would save in resources."
    "You actually make a persuasive case, Captain," Bractor
responded, "but I know that the nagus would not grant
approval for Ferengi ships to protect Deep Space Nine and
Bajor."
    "How can you be so sure?" Sisko asked. "You were wrong
about his reaction to my previous requests."
    "I can be sure because my orders are quite definitive with
respect to such a contingency," Bractor said. "Under no
circumstances am I to permit Ferengi ships to defend
anything in Bajoran space, including both Bajor and your
space station."
 How odd that Bractor's orders would be so specific, Sisko
thought. But then, the Ferengi were nothing if not thorough
when it came to pursuing profit. Sisko considered making a
moral appeal, but knew that would be futile.
    "Nevertheless," Sisko tried one last time, "I urge you to
consult with the nagus on this."
    "I'll consider it, Captain," Bractor offered, but it was
evident that he intended to do no such thing. Sisko did not
even think a bribe would have helped. "Bractor out," the
daiMon said, and his image was replaced on the screen with
the emblem of the Ferengi Alliance.
    Sisko reached up and touched a control, and the comm
panel went completely dark. He stood alone in his office for
a moment, staring at the empty screen and contemplating
what other alternatives were available to him. He was still
thinking when Kira called him to Ops.

"Two minutes to the wormhole," Dax announced.
Tension filled Ops. Sisko saw anxiety reflected in the
uneasy movements of his crew. The past few weeks had
been difficult for them, he knew. Not only had their day-to-
day lives been affected by the blockade, but their deep
concern for the people of Bajor had been unceasingly tried.
Indeed, several members of the Bajoran Militia who worked
on Deep Space Nine had returned home to be with their
families, while those who remained aboard were under-
standably worried. "One minute."
    "Weapons status?" Sisko wanted to know. He paced
along the upper level of Ops.
     "Phasers are fully charged," O'Brien reported. "Photon
torpedoes are loaded and ready." "Shields?"
 "Up full," said O'Brien.
 "What about the Deftant?" Sisko asked.
    "She's away," reported Kira. "Ready to attack or re-
treat."
    Attack or retreat, Sisko thought. But there was no retreat
for the station. There was only negotiation or defense; there
was only peace or war.
 "The alien ships are entering the wormhole."
 "Battle stations," Sisko ordered. He stopped walking and
peered up at the main viewer. On it was an empty starscape,
but it was there that the mouth of the wormhole would
open. Sisko stared at the image as he and his crew waited.
For unmeasured seconds, Ops was silent.
    Then: "Reading elevated neutrino levels," Dax said.
"The wormhole is opening."
    On the viewer, a swirling vortex of vibrant blue appeared
as though from nowhere, spinning outward in a radiant
spiral. In the eye of the maelstrom, a maw of white light
unfolded, revealing the beginning of a tunnel of nearly
stellar brightness. Dark objects, too small to identify at this
distance, emerged from the cosmic whirlpool in a long
group.
    And then the entrance to the wormhole collapsed in on
itself, light and color shrinking down to a point. The great
subspace bridge was gone, but it left behind the objects that
had just navigated through it. As the objects drew nearer to
the station, they resolved into ships.
    Sisko eyed the lead vessel on the viewscreen; it was
definitely a design unknown to him. The main body was
cylindrical, with rounded ends. Above this sat a small,
circular annex, with a diameter no larger than that of the
cylinder, possibly a control section. Two warp nacelles
projected from the main body of the ship, parallel to it. But
the most prominent features of the ship were the two huge
structures that obtruded fore and aft from the rounded ends
of the cylinder; they resembled armor plating, square in
shape, but slightly curved, like huge sections cut from the
surface of a great sphere.
 "They're headed in this direction," Kira said.
 "Weapons?" Sisko asked.
    "I'm scanning the ships now," Dax said. "I'm reading
Klingon-style disruptors--"
    "Klingon?" Sisko said with surprise, pulling his gaze
from the viewer and looking over at Dax.
 "--and Starfleet-style photon torpedoes."
    "What?" Sisko could not keep himself from asking. He
glanced around Ops and saw that nobody had any answers.
    "Benjamin," Dax said, looking up from her console,
"their weapons aren't powered up." She checked some-
thing, and then added, "I don't read any deflectors opera-
ting either."
    "So they're not prepared to attack," Sisko concluded. He
looked back up at the viewer and regarded the ships once
more. "Stay alert," he told his crew, but he felt himself relax
a bit. He let his arms down to his sides, unaware until that
moment that he had raised one hand in front of him, tensed
it into a fist, and wrapped his other hand around it.
    "What are those... those shieldlike structures?" K_ira
asked.
     "I think they may be just that," Dax speculated. "Physi-
cal shields for the ship, to augment or replace deflectors."
 "Do they have deflectors?" O'Brien asked.
    "Yes, a deflector grid is embedded in each physical
shield." Dax examined her readouts. "There's also a sensor
array in each. In fact--" Dax worked her controls. "--the
sensors are engineered to Cardassian specifications, and the
deflectors to Romulan specs."
    "Where in the blazes are those ships from?" O'Brien
blurted.
    "It appears that they're from everywhere," Sisko said.
"Are there life signs?"
    "Yes," Dax said, "but I'm having trouble getting anything
definitive; the sensor arrays in those big shields are scram-
bling our scans."
 "Major, have you been continuing hails?"
    "Since our first sensor contact, yes, sir," Kira said.
"They're not responding."
    Who is this, and what do they want? Sisko raised a hand
and rubbed it along the line of his jaw.
 "Captain," Dax said, "the ships are passing the station."
 "Bajor?" Kira said, her voice filled with dread.
     Dax looked up from her console, her expression troubled.
She confirmed Kira's fear with a nod. Sisko did not hesitate.
    "Major, get me the first minister right now. Then I want
to talk to Bractor again. There must be something I can do
to convince him to help."
    Kira contacted Bajor and was put through to Shakaar
immediately. Within seconds of his order, Sisko was look-
ing at the face of the first minister on the main viewer. It
was almost as though Shakaar had been waiting for Sisko to
contact him.
    "First minister, I'm sorry for the urgency," Sisko said
quickly, "but a squadron of thirty-five ships has just passed
through the wormhole and is on a direct course to Bajor.
Their intentions are unknown, the ships are of a type we've
never encountered before."
    "The ships are not unknown to me, Captain," Shakaar
said. "Nor are the intentions of their crews."
    "I don't understand," Sisko said, but he thought he
probably did. He hoped he was wrong.
    "Bajor has purchased these vessels," Shakaar revealed,
"for our defense."
    Sisko dropped his head and shook it back and forth in
disbelief. Whether Bractor wanted to or not, whether the
nagus wanted to or not, the Ferengi Marauders composing
the blockade would be battling this squadron of ships soon
enough.

CHAPTER
      18

ROM WAS COLD.
    In the darkness, he reached up and pinched the bottom of
his right earlobe. He felt nothing.
    Cautiously, he rubbed together the fingers of his raised
hand. He heard the noise, but only faintly. Still, that was
good. At least he had not completely lost his hearing yet.
    He hugged his thin blanket tightly about himseft. Then,
putting his hand down for a moment to adjust the way in
which he was lying, he felt the wood of his bunk; it too was
cold. Winter on Bajor. Winter at Crallitep.
    As he raised himself onto his side, trying to find a
position in which he could get to sleep, the bunk creaked. It
was loud enough that he heard it even with his bad ear. Rom
stiflened with fear, his entire body tensing. The barracks
were monitored, even at night, and for a couple of the
jailors, even the slightest infraction of the rules~such as
moving around after lights out--was provocation enough
to punish the prisoners.
    For minutes, Rom remained motionless, alert for the
sound of approaching footfalls outside. Even after he was
sure nobody was coming, he kept still, afraid that if he
moved at all, the bunk would creak again. But soøn, his arm
began to tremble, what little strength he had left exhausted
from the simple effort of propping up his body. As slowly as
he could without collapsing, Rom eased himself back down.
Thankfully, he was able to do so without making any noise.
    Weary though he was, Rom found that he could not fall
back to sleep. The cold had woken him, and it was still cold.
It had been cold for days. He had been cold for days.
    Rom opened his eyes and saw nothing, surrounded as he
was by the ebon texture of his lightless prison. He listened
again for sounds, not beyond the barracks this time, but
within it. He picked out the breathing of five... six...
seven... all eight of his fellow prisoners. Because of the
hearing problem in his one ear, he could not accurately fix
the location of each person in the room, but he knew where
they were.
    The seven other prisoners beside Rom and Quark were all
Ferengi. They had already been brought here to Gallitep by
the time Rom and his brother had been arrested. Five of
them had been captured in their small cargo ship, attempt-
ing to make a run into Bajoran space and through the
wormhole after the deadline. Their story would have been
comic, Rom thought, if not for the dreadful consequences it
had wrought. Their ship had lost its engines far from the
wormhole, and they had floated in space for a day while
laboring to make repairs. They had nearly finished restoring
power to their drive when they had been chanced upon by a
pair of Bajoran transports. Neither their ship nor the
transports had possessed any weapons or defenses to speak
of, but the Bajorans had had working engines and tractor
beams, and that had been all they had needed. The Ferengi
cargo ship had been towed to Bajor and its entire crew
arrested.
    Both of the other two Ferengi had been on Bajor when
they had been discovered and taken into custody. One of
them, Cort, had been conducting business on the planet and
had not been able to leave before the deadline. The other,
Karg, had not even known of the edict--or of Zek's
purchase of the Ninth Orb, or of any other detail in this
entire episode; he had retired several years ago to Bajor,
where he had lived somewhat reclusively in a modest home
in the province of Wyntara Mas, painting still lifes and
landscapes.
    Such an existence, Rom reflected, held great appeal,
though he himself had no aptitude for painting. But he was
very good with little creatures--treni cats and jebrets, in
particular--and at growing plants of various sorts. He had
long hoped that he would someday retire in a fashion
similar to that of Karg. Quark had many times spoken of
purchasing his own moon and withdrawing to it from his
workaday business existence, and he had also frequently
implied that he would want Rom to accompany him; he had
even gone so far as to offer Rom such hypothetical entice-
ments as a room of his own, a garden, and his own private
menagerie of small animals. It was to a vision of such a life
that Rom often retreated these days--and most especially
on those days filled by Colonel Mitra.
    As Rom lay huddled in his bunk, the thought of Mitra
filled him with a distress he had not felt since... well, he
had thought never, but perhaps since the time in his youth
when Breel had so thoroughly humiliated him. Mitra humil-
iated him too, but in an adult manner that struck with a
harshness that cut him far more deeply. There was a
physical component to the pain as well, significant despite
not being directly administercd--Rom had to push away
thoughts of his ears, his feet, that one section of his lower
back--but the healing he would have to do when he got out
of here would require far more than just the skills of Dr.
Bashir.
 If we ever get out of here.
    When they had first been brought to the prison camp,
there had been no doubts about their eventual departure.
They would be held here until they stood trial for having
violated the Bajoran edict. They would be found guilty, of
course, and serve what would probably be a short term in a
jail somewhere on Bajor. Until the trial, they at least had
food and shelterrathe meals were tasteless and the barracks
uncomfortable, but their circumstances were not that bad.
The guards were not friendly--the colonel had ordered
them not to be--but the prisoners had been treated tolera-
bly well. Even Quark's numerous bribery attempts had only
been met with disdain, rather than punishment.
    And then one day, things had changed. The Colonel came
by the barracks to inform the prisoners that they were no
longer being held for trial. For a fleeting, cruelly hopeful
moment, Rein thought that they were being released. In-
stead, the colonel told them about the blockade, and that as
a result, the Ferengi would now be detained as political
prisoners until the differences between Bajor and Ferengi-
nat had been resolved. From that day forward, the situation
had deteriorated rapidly. It was as though the prisoners had
been completely forgotten by the outside world, and left to
the mercy of Gallitep and their keepers.
    The notion that they would not leave this place was
unimaginable to Rein. He clung to the hope that there
would eventually be release or escape, tomorrow, or the day
after, or the day after that. Without that hope, Rom was
sure that he could not have continued: he would just fail to
rouse one day when one of the guards arrived at dawn, and
if it was not Mitra, then Mitra would be there before long,
and he would see Rein hurt, again and again, until Rein was
dead--or worse, until he wished for death.
    Colonel Mitra was like no other Bajoran Rein had ever
met. He was like no other person he had ever met. Rein had
known liars and thieves and cheats; he had them in his own
family, and he understood them. He had also been ac-
quahated with violent people, murderers even, and he had
heard many tales of beings who were altogether evil, and
even though malice for its own sake, with no thought of
profit or strategic gain, was senseless to himtas it was, he
was sure, to most Ferengithe at least could understand
how such people were motivated. But none of ther~ catego-
ries could accurately contain the colonel. Rom did not
understand why or how, but something was missing from
Mitra, some essential quality no man could have lived
without, and yet Mitra somehow did. It was a mystery to
Rein, but not one for which he sought an answer; he prayed
that he never came to understand that which droverand
which failed to drivethis ranking jailer.
    How long had they been here now?. Rein suddenly
wondered in the darkness. At least a month, he was sure,
probably two, but beyond that, he had difficulty knowing.
The days were interminable, the nights without dimension.
He had made an effort to track the time here when they had
first arrived--as any numerically minded Ferengi would--
but at some point since then, even this most ingrained of
habits had become a forgotten detail, one less connection to
his previous life. There would come a time soon, Rom
understood, when his thoughts of that previous life would
cease being memories and become only illusions instead,
sanguine dreams torturous for their inaccessibility.
    Life, once filled with promise, was now beginning to be
marked by its absence. Rom had wanted to ask the dabo girl
Leeta to go out with him, he recalled, trying to envisage
Deep Space Nine and his life there.
    He wanted to watch his son graduate from Starfleet
Academy.
    He wanted to help his brother achieve the business
successes he craved.
 He wanted to see his mother again.
    He wanted to go home. That, he realized now, more than
anything else: he wanted to go home.
 So thinking, Rom drifted into a restless sleep.

    He felt like he was walking on knives. Pain, metallic in its
strength and sharpness and linearity, sliced up his legs from
his soles. He was scared to look down, fearful that he would
see his shins and calves filled with long, vertical cuts, his
skin peeling away and hanging down in strips. His feet were
numb.
 And still he marched.
    There was no choice, really. Sergeant Wyte was running
them today. If Rom did not march, he would be beaten and
then he would have to march anyway; march, or be dragged.
    Rom was positioned toward the head of the line of
prisoners; only Cort walked in front of him. Quark was near
the back of the line, he thought, although he could not be
sure. The prisoners were ordered in a single file and made to
face forward, so that there could be no eye contact between
them, no opportunity for even modest camaraderie, no
chance for one to gain emotional strength from another as
they marched. These were Mitra's orders to the four guards
who, in addition to Mitra, maintained watch over the nine
Ferengi held here, and those rules were rigidly obeyed--in
the cases of three of the guards, Rom believed, for fear of
reprisal; in Wyte's case, because of the sergeant's conviction
that the colonel was a brilliant tactician and leader.
    Looking past Cort, Rom saw the barren land within the
confines of the prison camp lead up to the tall mesh fence
that surrounded it. That fence was electrified, Rom knew:
Quark and Kreln--the pilot of the captured Ferengi cargo
ship--had tested it a couple of weeks ago in preparation for
an attempted escape. Mitra had somehow learned of this,
and he had beaten Kreln for the action, in the middle of the
barracks, in forced view of the other prisoners. To Kreln's
credit, he had claimed to have acted alone, refusing through
the entire assault to name Quark as his accomplice. And
Quark had not stepped forward, which had earned him the
enmity of Kreln and his four shipmates. It was Rom's
opinion that Mitra had known of Quark's involvement in
the escape planning, had guessed that Quark would not
admit it, and then used that knowledge to divide the
prisoners.
    Both before and after the incident, Quark had tried to
plot other escapes, but none had progressed past their
planning. As best they could tell, the camp had no trans-
porter and no communications station, and no shuttles ever
visited here. Gallitep, for all of its primitive features--even
because of them--was a fortress. It was not necessarily that
the perimeter could not be breached from within, but if it
was, there was nowhere to flee. The remoteness of the
prison camp could not have been more effective as a
deterrent to escape than if the camp had been enclosed by
walls of pure neutronium.
    Rom observed that remoteness now as he marched on his
aching legs, his unfeeling feet. The bleak, empty landscape
stretched away in all directions, providing no break for the
winds on this part of Bajor. As winter deepened here, so too
did the winds grow stronger. More and more often these
days, Rom would lose the feeling in his extremities--his
ringers, his toes, his lobes--when they marched. Though
the guards had gloves and, Rom presumed, insulated foot-
wear, the prisoners did not; upon arrival here, each had
been given a plain brown jumpsuit and basic shoes. Both
the clothes and the shoes fit poorly, and neither had ever
been mended, no matter their state of disrepair. Kreln's
jumpsuit, after his many physical encounters with Sergeant
Wyte, hung in virtual tatters about him. Their shoes--
 --Rom tripped.
    One moment, he had been marching mechanically be-
hind Cort, and the next, he found himself sprawling face-
first onto the infertile ground, almost striking the backs of
Cort's legs as he went down. He did not know whether he
had tripped in a hole, or on a stone, or on his own foot; he
had no feeling below his ankles. He had barely been able to
raise his arms to cushion his fall.
    Cautiously, he lifted his head. He saw Cort's feet, which
were now pointed toward him, suddenly back away. A hand
grabbed the back of Rom's neck like a vise. He winced as he
felt himself being lifted.
    "On your feet, you big-eared freak," Wyte snarled. He set
Rom down.
    Rom crumbled to the ground, landing faceup this time.
He had not fallen again intentionally, but he had been
powerless to remain standing. He did not know why; his
body felt sound, though weak and stung by cold--all but his
feet, which he could not feel at all. He tried to raise his head
and look at them, but Wyte's two paws shot down and
grabbed him by the front of his jumpsuit. Gravity tugged
him one way as Wyte tugged him the other. Rom's head
lolled back on his neck.
    There was a moment were Rom's progress upward
stopped. He heard something with his good ear, what
sounded like the frenetic scraping of feet in the dry, stony
dirt. He thought he heard his brother's voice--Leave him
alone--and then he was falling again. The back of his head
struck the ground, and he fell further, into darkness, not the
harsh, uncaring darkness of night at Galtitep, but a velvety
and comforting darkness. Rom welcomed it.

    When Rom awoke, it was night once more. He was in the
barracks, on his bunk, lying on his back. It was evidently
before lights-out, because the low-powered lighting panels
in the ceiling were still on. Rom had wondered for a while
why Colonel Mitra permitted the prisoners this free time
together in the barracks, when they could talk and possibly
regain some emotional vigor from each other. That is, Rom
had wondered until the day Borit--one of Kreln's ship-
mates; Drayan, Tarken, and Lenk were the other three--
had done something wrong and been taken away to spend
two days by himself in a small, dark cell; it was then that
Rom had realized that Mitra provided this time, the only
time the prisoners could interact with each other, so that he
could have something to take away from them.
    In the dimness, Rom saw Quark leaning over him,
looking down at him with what Rom could only character-
ize as brotherly concern. Quark's face was badly bruised:
his left eye was swollen shut, and a long gash slanted across
his cheek to the bridge of his nose.
    "Brother," Rom rasped, his mouth dry. "What hap-
pened?"
 "You passed out," Quark told him quietly.
 "I mean: What happened to you?"
 "Nothing."
 "Was it Sergeant Wyte?"
 Quark shook his head slowly.
    "When you fell, he tried to put you back on your feet, and
you fell again." Quark paused. It seemed difficult for him to
continue. "He was going to beat you," he said finally. "I
couldn't let him."
 "So you tried to stop him, and he beat you instead."
 Quark shrugged.
 "I hate him," he said simply.
    "No," Rom said, prompting a puzzled look on his broth-
er's face. Rom was not denying that Wyte was a hateful
individual; it was obvious, after all, that he envisioned
himself as the prot6g6 of Colonel Mitra. But where Mitra
was an enigma, Wyte was eminently solvable: he was a man
who had tormented small animals as a boy; he was Breel; he
was scared and lonely and reaching for the wrong things to
prove his own worth to himself; he was quotidian in every
aspect of his life but one: his anger at his own undistin-
guished life. Rom did not hate him; he pitied him.
    "I'm tougher than you," Quark said when Rom did not go
on, apparently continuing to explain his actions. "And it's
my fault that we're here."
 "No," Rom said, even though he agreed that it was
Quark's fault that they were here. But Quark had accepted
that responsibility, and Rom had long ago forgiven him for
his mistake; Rom always forgave his brother for the mis-
takes he made.
 "Anyway," Quark said, "I figured--"
    The sound of the door to the barracks opening on its
hinges stopped Quark. His head spun toward the door. Rom
lifted himself up onto his elbows and looked as well. When
he did so, he saw his own feet for the first time since before
he had fallen. His shoes had been removed, but his skin was
not visible; all Rom could see was the gritty, burgundy
mixture of blood and soil. He abruptly discovered that
feeling had partially returned to that part of his body: his
feet now felt as if they were burning, although in a distant,
almost secondhand way.
    Looking past his feet, Rom saw, in one corner of the
room, three of the men from the captured cargo ship talking
among themselves. The other prisoners were lying quietly in
their bunks.
 Sergeant Argan was at the door.
    "What do you want?" Quark said with undisguised
contempt.
 To Rom's surprise, Argan held up a pair of shoes.
    "I have new shoes for prisoner nine," he said, lifting them
even higher. None of the guards were allowed to call any of
the prisoners by their names. Argan closed the door and
walked over to Rom and Quark. He displayed the shoes
again. Unable to prop himself up any longer, Rom eased
himself down onto his back.
 "Is this a trick?" Quark asked.
    "No," Argan said. He stole a backward glance at the door,
then turned and spoke directly to Quark. "I convinced Wyte
that he'd be in big trouble with the colonel if he found out
that he marched prisoner ninere" fixgan stopped and
peered down at Rom. "--if he ever found out that Wyte
marched Rom right through the bottom of his shoes."
    He handed the new shoes to Quark, who took them
cautiously. fixgan bent and picked up what were apparently
Rom's old shoes. They looked black to Rom, although he
knew that they were tan; then he realized that they were
soaked through in his own blood. The soles, Rom saw, were
 almost entirely gone, and only paper thin where they still
 existed.
      "I'm sorry," Argan said, not looking at Rom or Quark,
 but staring at the threadbare shoes.  "This is a trick," Quark said.
    "No," Argan insisted, and Rom found that he believed
him. Argan was not Mitra, and he was not Wyte; Argan and
the other two guards--Prana and Jessel--had never, to
Rom's knowledge, abused any of the prisoners. Of course,
before now, neither had they helped any of them.
  "We know the barracks is monitored," Quark argued.
    "Jessel is monitoring right now; Wyte had to get medical
attention after you attacked him." Argan actually smiled.
"What did you do, brother?" Rom asked, his voice weak.
"He jumped on Wyte's back and wrapped his arms
around his head," Argan recounted, still smiling. He and
Wyte had been the two guards charged with marching the
prisoners around today. "He didn't do much damage before
I pulled him off, but he did manage to poke Wyte in the eye.
We fixed the scratch, but it'll be morning before the swelling
goes down."
    "For me too," Quark said, touching his fingers to the side
of his own injured eye.
    "Look," Argan said, again peering back at the door
nervously. "This--" He reached behind himself and pulled
a small medical kit from the waistband of his pants.
"--should help both of you." He looked down at Ram
again. "Especially you." To Quark, he said, "Don't do too
much cosmetically; your injuries still need to look bad,
otherwise Jessel and I'll be in here beside you." He reached
into his pocket and pulled out a handful of pills. "These are
vitamins; there should be enough for everybody." He gave
them to Quark, then checked the door for a third time. 'TII
get the reedkit when we bring your food later."
    "I wouldn't exactly call bread and water 'food,'" Quark
said.
    "Water sounds pretty good to me right now," Rom said;
his mouth was still very dry.
    "Okay, I'll be back in about an hour." Argan crossed the
barracks quickly, Rom's old shoes gripped in one hand. He
opened the door and was gone into the night.
    "Well," Quark said, "that was interesting." He opened
the medical kit and examined the instruments inside. "Do
you know how to use any of these?" he asked Rom. He held
the open kit down by the surface of the bunk so that Rom
could see it.
    "Not really," Rom said, "but the scanner will probably
have instructions." Quark pulled the medical scanner out of
the kit and turned it on. From what Rom could see, it
resembled Starfleet's standard-issue tricotder, with which
he knew Quark was familiar. Before long, Quark had found
directions for the usage of the medical instruments. After
reading them, he began to work on healing Rom's feet,
although he took obvious pains not to clean the wounds
externally.
    Rom watched for some time as Quark tended to him. He
was moved by his brother's careful attention. He thought
again about the moon Quark hoped someday to purchase,
and about how Quark wanted to bring him along to garden
and keep animals. Rom's mind filled with images of that
dream future. His brother had described those images to
Rom many times before, and right now, Rom found that
what he wanted was to hear those wonderful descriptions
once more.
 "Tell me about the jebrets, Quark," he said.



0

CHAPTER
      19

"You'm~ c, oiso to destroy Bajor."
    "Obviously I don't think so, Captain," Shakaar said. "We
are protecting it, and ultimately, we will save it."
    "Save it from what?" Sisko demanded, his voice raised,
his tone harsh. "From inconvenience? Maybe some eco-
nomic hardship? Starfleet will be bringing food and medi-
cine; there will be no famine, no pandemic health crisis."
    The two stood facing each other at close range in the first
minister's office. Sisko had rushed here upon learning of
Bajor's purchase of the thirty-five starships that had passed
through the wormhole. It was another violation of the
Federation Council's resolution for him to be talking with
Shakaar in this manner, he knew, but that was of little
importance to him right now. What was important was
preventing the destruction of the Bajoran people, and that
meant convincing the first minister to abandon the perilous
course of action he had chosen to take.
    Shakaar backed away from Sisko and moved to the
archway leading to the balcony. He lifted an arm, motioning
outside with his hand.
 "Captain, if you would," he invited. Sisko strode over to
the first minister and faced him once more. "Please,"
Shakaar said, gesturing again through the doorway with his
outstretched hand. After a moment, Sisko walked out onto
the balcony, and Shakaar followed.
    The day was warm, though the skies were overcast. The
air was very still, with a barely perceptible electric taste
about it. Sisko could feel that there was a summer storm
threatening, and still he found the panorama splendid, even
without the beautifying effects of the sun. And the reborn
loveliness of Bajor reinforced his belief that its people must
not take up arms against the Ferengi.
    Although Sisko had seen the devastation that had been
visited here during the Occupation, it was in this way--
overlooking a lush, natural landscape at the edge of a vital,
ancient city--that he most often pictured Bajor. He had
come to find this world and its inhabitants captivating and
inspiring. Like no place else in his life--not even New
Orleans, back on Earth--Sisko felt at home here, among
these people.
    They have to be protected, Sisko thought. And perhaps
right now they most needed to be protected not from an
external menace, but from their own determination and the
bitter memory of their subjugation.
    "It is majestic, isn't it?" Shakaar asked as the two men
peered out across the land.
"It is," Sisko agreed. "It would be a shame to lose it."
"You're absolutely right," Shakaar said. "We cannot lose
this--" He swung his arm out in an arc, encompassing all
that they could see. "wagain. Once before, we came
frighteningly close to losing this--to losing everything--
forever."
    "Minister," Sisko said, turning to face him, "the situation
is different this time. The Ferengi are not attacking Bajor,
they're not seeking to annex your world, nor are they likely
to do so." The first minister continued to look outward,
away from Sisko.
    "Just because they have not invaded does not mean that
they are not an enemy, that they are not fighting us,"
Shakaar said. "Their blockade is an attack. Their unwilling-
ness to let us purchase the Ninth Orb is an attack."
 "The Ferengi have also consented to allow necessities to
be delivered to Bajor," Sisko argued. "They have agreed to
weaken their own blockade. If it is an attack, then it's one
that no longer threatens the lives or the health of your
population."
    "The ways in which we choose to live out our existences
must not be dictated by others," Shakaar insisted. Now,
finally, he turned to face the captain, as though trying to
emphasize the importance of what he was about to say.
"The Cardassians came here with their arms open, promis-
ing friendship and peace, telling us that they wanted to visit
Bajor for its natural beauty and its wonderful people. But
when they wanted more than we were willing to permit
them to have, they claimed our world for themselves and
discarded us. And it is a far shorter journey to travel from a
blockade to an invasion than it is to travel from peace and
friendship to an invasion."
"The Ferengi are not the Cardassians," Sisko said.
"Maybe not," Shakaar granted, "but they are on our
doorstep. I have been chosen to lead our people, and I
therefore have a responsibility to protect them. I cannot risk
letting what happened before happen again." He paused,
his gaze becoming unfocused for a moment. "So many
horrible things were done to my people and our world," he
said, suddenly remote. Slowly, his face twisted into an
expression of repugnance and hatred. "Do you know what
it's like?" he asked, and then he looked at Sisko again. "I
saw it myself. Do you know what it's like to watch your
friends suffer mutilations, to watch them perish right in
front of you?'
    "Perhaps you forget my own history," Sisko said gently.
He was sympathetic, but not blindly so. "I know that you're
a religious man, so I suspect that you're aware of the major
events in the 'Emissary's' life. And so you'll remember
when I tell you that I watched the woman I loved more than
anything else in this universe die." Sisko stopped, seeing
that Shakaar's countenance had softened.
 "I'm sorry," the first minister said. "I..."
    Sisko involuntarily looked away; although he had come to
terms in his own life with his wife's death, he was uncom-
fortable speaking about such a personal matter with some-
one he was not close to. He realized that there was an
important point to be made here, though, and so he
returned his gaze to the first minister and pressed on.
    "To answer your question," he said, "yes, I do know what
it's like to watch a loved one perish right in front of me. I
saw my wife's body blown into nothingness by a morally
bankrupt enemy. It made me sad, and angry, and full of
hate. And in the end, what I learned was: That's no way to
live."
    "No," Shakaar said. "It isn't. And one way for us to avoid
living like that--full of sadness and anger and hatred--is
not to live under somebody else's rule, either directly or
indirectly. We have to learn from our past."
 "But you don't have to live there," Sisko said.
 "We must never forget the Occupation."
    "Of course you mustn't," Sisko concurred. "But as you
said, you should learn from it. Grow from it... grow away
from it. If you let what the Cardassians did in the past
dictate your actions now, then you're really not free of their
influence, are you? In a way, a Cardassian presence will still
be occupying Bajor."
    "We are under siege," Shakaar said evenly. "We cannot
let the Ferengi have these lands." He motioned again to
indicate the region surrounding the city. "What would this
become? No doubt a marketplace of some sort."
    A flurry of motion caught Sisko's eye. He leaned a little to
his right to look past Shakaar and saw that a bird had set
down on the rectangular, waist-high wall surrounding the
balcony. The bird's plumage was predominantly blue, with
patches of white on its breast, and a bright-green crest. The
first minister followed Sisko's gaze, then turned back
around.
 "Captain--"
    "Minister," Sisko responded. "Bajor is not under siege.
At most, you have a political war, maybe a trade war, on
your hands. The Ferengi aren't interested in capturing
Bajor; all they want is access to the wormhole."
    "And all we want is the Orb." Sisko thought that the first
minister, despite the obvious sincerity of his views,
sounded petulant. Behind Shakaar, the bird hopped along
the top of the wall, coming closer to the two men.
 "And so you're going to start a war with the Ferengi,"
 Sisko said, frustrated, "and that's how they'll come to
 occupy Bajor. You can't possibly win this fight; those
 Ferengi Marauders out there--" Sisko pointed up to the
 sky. "--will destroy your new starships." At the motion, the
 bird spread its wings and took to the sky, rustling the air as
 it did so.
  "That remains to be seen," Shakaar said.
    "Even if your ships are the equal of the Marauders,"
Sisko said, "or even more powerful, you're still outgunned.
Maybe not here at the blockade, but the Ferengi have a fleet
which dwarfs your thirty-five-ship squadron. They will
crush you, and then they will take both the wormhole and
Bajor as the plunder of war."
    "We do not intend to start a war," Shakaar said, backing
down at least a little bit, Sisko thought, from his militant
emotions. "We only want to open our trade routes, and our
new vessels will allow us to do that. They were designed as
defensive transports, perfect for running the blockade."
    "As you said, that remains to be seen. What happens if
the Ferengi are able to stop your new ships?" But Sisko
already knew the answer to that.
    "We will do what we have to do to maintain and protect
our sovereignty," Shakaar said.
    If Sisko had been concerned that his position as Emissary
would unduly influence Shakaar, he clearly need not have
been. It was apparent that the first minister--and perhaps
most Bajorans--believed it preferable to battle against
impossible odds rather than to submit to the will of another.
It was a valiant attitude, to be sure, one Sisko even
subscribed to himself, but it required moderation in its
implementation. There would be no moderation now,
though, Sisko saw; the Occupation had changed the Bajor-
ans, driven out their capability for temperance, at least in
matters such as these.
    "I wish you luck, Minister," Sisko said. "More than that,
I wish you peace." He tapped his cornbadge. "Sisko to
Defiant."
    "Captain," Shakaar said. "There is another matter I must
discuss with you."
 "Defiant here," came Worf's voice.
 "Status," Sisko said. He had been ready to transport
aboard, but now he would wait to see what else Shakaar had
to say.
    "No change," Worf reported. "All of the ships remain in
orbit about Bajor."
    "Good," Sisko said, looking questioningly at the first
minister. "Stand by. Sisko out."
    "The transports need their cargoes loaded before they go
anywhere," Shakaar explained.
"I see," said Sisko. "Now, what is this other matter?"
"May we?" Shakaar asked, gesturing toward the doorway.
Sisko nodded, and the first minister walked back inside
the office. As Sisko followed, he experienced a presentiment
of impending catastrophe.
    "Are there more ships coming?" he asked, stopping just
inside.
    "No," Shakaar said. "We purchased what we could with-
out drawing from the treasury. If our breaking the blockade
convinces the nagus to change his mind, we don't expect
that he will give us the Orb; we will still have to purchase it,
and the price will doubtless be high." The first minister
proceeded to the table sitting amid the chairs and the sofa.
There, he leaned down and picked up a Bajoran padd.
    "If you didn't use the resources of the treasury," Sisko
asked, "then how did you buy the ships?"
    "We acquired them from the Yridians," Shakaar re-
vealed.
    "The Yridians?" As far as Sisko was aware, the Yridians
regarded themselves as interstellar dealers of information.
To that end, the only items they ever manufactured were
related to gathering and storing data; they certainly did not
possess the facilities to construct starships.
     "You know of their penchant for trading in informa-
tion?" Shakaar asked, walking back across the office again.
 "Yes?"
    "It was information we promised to provide in exchange
for the transports." Shakaar paused. He seemed uncomfort-
able. "More precisely," he finally went on, reaching out to
hand Sisko the padd, "it was access to information. We
promised to provide a man named Xillius Vas access to all
the data relayed to Deep Space Nine through the worm-
hole."
    Sisko was thunderstruck. He took the padd and examined
it. What appeared to be the beginning of a legal contract
showed on the display.
    "That data is not yours to sell," Sisko said firmly. "It
belongs to Starfleet."
      "I disagree, Captain," Shakaar said. "As do Bajor's legal
authorities. I'm sure those of the Federation will as well."
 "I'm not as sure," Sisko said.
    "The data transmitted to Deep Space Nine belongs to
Starfleet no more than does the space station itself," Sha-
kaar explained. "Further, the data resides in Bajoran space.
We therefore have a manifest right to it. We've merely
extended that right to another party."
    "I'11 have to consult with Starfleet Command," Sisko
said, knowing that Starfleet would never approve such
access.
    "Of course," Shakaar said with equanimity. "I expected
that to be the case. You have five days from now until Mr.
Vas or his representatives arrive to begin monitoring com-
munications from the relay station."
    "And if Starfleet refuses to cooperate?" Sisko asked. He
held up the padd to return it to Shakaar.
    "Please keep it. Review it," Shakaar said. "You'll see that,
since we already have the starships, it is now incumbent
upon us to complete our part of the bargain. If Starfleet
insists on preventing us from doing so, we will have to
abrogate their invitation to operate the station."
 "Threats?" Sisko asked.
    "Not at all, captain," Shakaar said. "We want Starfleet to
stay. But it was necessary for us to acquire some defensive
military power, and we dealt that which we had. Starfleet's
place in the middle of this is unfortunate, but really
coincidental."
    "Not so coincidental as all that," Sisko said. "Without
Starfleet, there would be no sophisticated communications
system on DS9, and no relay in the Gamma Quadrant. You
would not have been able to trade access to this informa-
tion, because the information itself would not have ex-
isted."
 "Nor would it have existed had Bajor not invited Starfleet
to operate DS9," Shakaar said. "Captain, we are only doing
what we have to do in order to protect ourselves."
    "I know you believe that," Sisko said, staring the first
minister in the eye. "I only wish you'd stop to see that there
are preferable alternatives to the path you've chosen." He
tapped his eombadge. "Sisko to Defiant."
 "Defiant. This is Worf."
 "One to beam up, Mr. Worf."
 Sisko dematerialized.



CHAPTER
      2O

As Wop, p UST~D to Admiral Whatley, something tugged at
his awareness. He glanced across the table at Captain
Sisko--they were the only two in the conference room at
the moment--then back to the wall comm panel, where the
admiral was continuing to talk. Sensing that whatever it was
that was troubling him was important, Wolf split his
attention, distractedly following the conversation the two
senior officers were having, and at the same time trying to
locate the source of his vexation.
    Captain Sisko had returned from Bajor and briefed his
senior staff on the situation before contacting Starfleet.
Most of the officers--but for Major Kira, whose opinion
seemed to waver--had agreed that First Minister Shakaar
was making a grave error in leading his world to the brink of
battle against a superior force. Personally, Worf held Sha-
kaar and the Bajoran people in very high esteem. He
respected their willingness to fight for that in which they
believed, as well as their strength of character in protecting
and nourishing those beliefs. By his reckoning, they were a
noble people.
 Still, that was not to say that Worf approved of the first
minister's choice to peddle the data collected on DS9 from
the Gamma Quadrant. It occurred to him now that such an
action was something he would sooner have expected from
the unscrupulous Ferengi. But it was something more than
just the uncharacteristic behavior of Shakaar, Worf knew,
that was concerning him now.
    "This places us in a precarious position," Worf heard
Admiral Whatley intone. "With the Dominion threat, the
uncertainties with the Klingons and the Cardassians, and
the obvious importance and value of the wormhole, Star-
fleet Command--and the Federation Council--wants noth-
ing to jeopardize our presence on Deep Space Nine."
    "I understand that," Sisko responded, "but if the Yri-
dians are given access to our data, there is no question that
they'll sell it. Since some of the data is of strategic import,
that could cause us some very serious security problems."
    Whatley, a lean, slightly older man whom Worf thought
frail-looking, rubbed his chin. He was a good man, but
unimaginative; he could produce a cogent argument given
all the facts in a situation, but his lack of intuition would
not allow him to draw another, less-than-obvious conclu-
sion from those facts. Worf would be very surprised if the
admiral was able to add any new perspectives about what
they were discussing.
    "Mr. Worf," WhatIcy said at last, "what is your anal-
ysis?"
    "I believe," Worf answered, "that both problemsmbeing
forced to leave DS9 by the Bajorans if we refuse to comply
with the terms of their deal with the Yridians, or being
forced to grant the Yridians access to our data--are actu-
ally two sides of the same problem." "Explain that."
    "In either case," Worf said, "Deep Space Nine--not the
Starfleet personnel here, but the actual station--is put at
risk. And if the station is at risk, then so is the wormhole
and so is Bajor."
     "You're telling me that we mustn't select either of our two
alternatives," Whatley said. "Yes, sir," Worf replied.
 "Do you have a third suggestion?"
 "No," Worf said, and thought: Leave me alone. He
needed time to think, not about some hypothetical third
option with regard to Shakaar and the data, but about what
it was that was nagging at him.
    "Captain?" Whatley asked, turning his attention away
from Worf and back to Sisko.
    "I'm not sure what else we can do," Sisko said. The
captain's fingers were drumming quietly on the tabletop,
Worf noticed.
    "If the only other choice is for Starfleet to abandon Deep
Space Nine," WhatIcy decided, "then we'll have to let the
Yridians have the data."
  "Understood," Sisko said, with obvious reluctance.
      "But I want a third alternative before that happens,"
Whatley said. He did not seem pleased.  "Yes, sir."
    "Keep me informed. WhatIcy out." On the corem panel,
the Starfleet emblem replaced the visage of the admiral. The
captain turned in his chair and faced Worf.
    "The admiral's right," Sisko said. "We need another
option; I don't like the idea of our data being on the auction
block."
    "I suppose," Wolf offered, "we could always purchase the
data ourselves." The notion of Starfleet having to buy
something that was already theirs was appalling to Wolf,
but the situation was serious enough, he thought, to warrant
such a repellent measure.
    "I don't think that would do us much good," Sisko said.
"I don't believe that exclusivity is an attribute of Yridian
information sales."
 That was true, Worf realized.
    "In the meantime," Sisko went on, shifting the conversa-
tion, "we have other concerns. The new Bajoran transports
will doubtless be headed out on the trade routes soon. I
want you to take the Defiant to the blockade and seed the
area with long-range sensor buoys. If somebody throws a
rock out there, I want to know about it." "Aye, sir."
    As Worf rose from his chair, he saw Sisko reach for a padd
sitting on the table. The captain activated the device and
began studying its readout. Worf left the conference room
and started down the hall for the turbolift, intending to
proceed directly to Defiant. Before he reached the lift,
though, something Sisko had just said juxtaposed itself with
another fact, unexpectedly illuminating the source of Worf's
disquiet. It was something the captain had mentioned
earlier as well, during the briefing he had given upon his
return from Bajor, but it was only now that Woff saw its
significance. He quickly went back to the conference room.
    "Commander?" Sisko asked when Worf reentered the
room. The padd was still in his hand.
    "Captain, you just said that the starships the Bajorans
acquired were transports," Worf said. "I believe you also
mentioned that during your briefing." Although Worf of-
fered these as statements, his tone invited a response.
    "That's right," Sisko said. "Shakaar called them 'defen-
sive transports,' I assumed because of the added defense
supplied by those huge physical shields fore and aft. Is that
significant?"
    "Perhaps," Worf said. He walked over to the table and sat
down in the chair next to the captain. "The first minister
also said that the Bajorans purchased the starships from the
Yridians." "Yes."
    "But the Yridians do not manufacture vessels of any
kind," Worf said.
    "No, they don't," Sisko concurred. He put the padd down
on the table and leaned forward in his chair, resting his
elbows on his knees. "I'd had the same thought myself," he
said.
    "That would lead us to the conclusion that either the
Yridians purchased the ships themselves from another
source," Wolf reasoned, "or that they merely acted as
intermediaries in the deal with the Bajorans."
    "That makes sense," Sisko said. He stood up and began
pacing the room. His hands were clasped together in front
of him, Woff saw, kneading and working against each other,
almost as if the captain were trying to physically construct
his chain of thought. "It's not likely that they were interme-
diaries," he continued. "The Bajoran payment of informa-
tion is a notably Yridian requisite."
    "So the Yridians took possession of the ships before
selling them to the Bajorans," Woff concluded. "But these
 are not just any ships; they are transports--defensive trans-
 ports--precisely the type of ships the Bajorans would need
 to make an attempt to run the Ferengi blockade."
  "Yes," Sisko said. "Coincidence?"
    "That is what troubles me," Worf said. "Could it possibly
be only a coincidence that a faction who does not normally
manufacture or sell starships would have starships just
when the Bajorans needed them, and that those starships
would be perfectly suited to the Bajorans' needs?"
    "And not their usual needs, either," Sisko added. He
moved over to the outer bulkhead and leaned one hapd
against the wall; with the other, he massaged his forehead.
Finally, he turned back to Worf.
    "You think somebody is manipulating events." It was not
a question, but Worf nodded his assent. "Trying to instigate
a war between the Bajorans and the Ferengi."
    "That, but not just that," Worf said. "They are also trying
to weaken the defenses of the station, either by driving
Starfleet from DS9 or by forcing us to compromise security
by losing control of our data."
"All of which could leave the wormhole undefended."
"The Dominion," Worf said simply. There had long been
both implicit and explicit threats of a Dominion incursion
into the Alpha Quadrant.
    "Maybe," Sisko said. "But the Romulans also covet the
wormhole, and they are very fond of deceptions and manip-
ulations such as these."
    "That is also true of the Obsidian Order." The highly
secretive, covert-operations arm Of the Cardassian Union
had been weakened considerably a year earlier, ambushed
by the Jem'Hadar in the Omarion Nebula, but Worf be-
lieved it was only a matter of time until the organization
emerged stronger than before.
    "You're right," Sisko said, dropping back into his chair.
"Even though the military regime on Cardassia has been
deposed--perhaps because it has been deposed--the Order
could be searching for a new path to power. Control of the
wormhole--even the reoccupation of Bajor--would cer-
tainly be a means to accomplishing that."
 "We must learn where the Bajoran transports came

from," Worf suggested. The captain nodded his agreement
and activated his cornbadge.
 "Sisko to Constable Odo."
 "This is Odo," came the constable's immediate response.
 "Meet me in my office in five minutes."
 "Yes, sir. Out."
    To Worf, Sisko said, "I'm going to have the constable do a
little reconnaissance. Right now, your orders stand: I want
those sensor buoys positioned along the Bajoran trade
routes."
 "Aye, sir."
    Worf spun sharply on his heel and exited the conference
room, not stopping this time until he reached the bridge of
Defiant.



CHAPTER
      21

SHOTS WERE FIRED.
    Sisko was in his quarters when Kira contacted him with
the news. It had been less than a day since the defensive
transports had arrived through the wormhole, since he had
ordered Worf to string the long-range sensors near the
blockade, since he had sent Odo to learn the source of the
new Bajoran ships. So far, there had been no word from
the constable. Events were transpiring rapidly now, Sisko
felt, and yet he was not even sure of the true identity of the
enemy they were actually battling--or should be battling.
Hell, he was not even really sure that there was an enemy.
Regardless, he understood that they had to slow the progres-
sion of circumstances before their effects became irrevo-
cable.
    "Ops to Captain Sisko," Kira's voice intruded into the
early-morning quiet of his quarters. Jake was in his own
bedroom, still asleep. "Sisko here."
    "Captain," Kira said, "the sensor buoys are picking up
weapons fire."

 "Have the crew board the Defiant," Sisko responded
without hesitation. The ship, he knew, was at full readiness,
maintained that way by Worf in anticipation of the incident
now unfolding. "I'll meet you there, Major." He was
already racing from his quarters. "Yes, sir."
    Sisko made it to the bridge of Defiant within three
minutes. Kira had already arrived and was preparing to
crew one of the secondary stations. Dax, Worf, and O'Brien
were already situated at their customary consoles. Dr.
Bashir loitered off to one side and observed the proceed-
ings.
    Thirty seconds after Sisko sat down in the command
chair, docking clamps had been released and Defiant was
pulling away from its berth. At the conn, Dax set a course
for the source of the weapons fire. The thrum of the ship's
engines surrounded them as Defiant came about and accel-
erated to full impulse speed, headed in the direction of the
Bajoran trade routes.
    "Report," Sisko said when the bustle of the swift depar-
ture had subsided. He looked to his first officer.
    "Whatever's happening out there," Kira said, "it's hap-
pening at the very limit of the buoy's scanning range. The
readings are fading in and out, but there's definitely been
phaser activity."
    "That would be a Marauder," Sisko said, thinking aloud.
"With what intensity were the phasers fired?" As far as they
knew, none of the attacks so far launched on cargo ships by
the Ferengi had been of deadly force, only enough to turn
the ships back on their courses. Sisko's concern, though,
was that the Bajoran transports would not retreat.
    "Again, because of the distance from the buoy, it's
difficult to know accurately," Kira said. "But I believere"
Kira operated her console, obviously looking for the answer
to Sisko's question. "mten to twenty percent of normal."
 "Sustained?"
 "Intermittent."
    "Do we know for sure that the Marauder is firing on a
Bajoran ship?" Sisko asked.
    "We have a pretty good idea," Kira said. "There's at least
one of the new ships out there."
     A short time later, Defiant's sensor scans provided defi-
 nite answers.
    "I'm reading two of the new Bajoran transports," Woff
said, not contradicting Kira, Sisko knew, but adding to her
information. "We have passed the buoy and are now within
sensor range ourselves."
    Sisko gazed at the main viewer. The deep jet of infinity
stared back at him, featureless but for the stars. Then, in the
distance, a sharp-edged ray of light flashed in the empty
desert of space--except that it was not just light, Sisko
knew, but phased energy, rectified into a coherent and
potentially destructive beam. Deftant was too far yet for the
combatams to be visible on the viewer.
    "The intensity of the phasers is now at forty percent,"
said Worf.
    As Defiant drew nearer the scene, the three vessels--the
Ferengi Marauder and the two Bajoran transports--finally
began to take form on the viewer. Despite their sizable
physical shields fore and aft, the transports together were
not as large as the Marauder.
    "The Bajoran ships don't seem to be affected by the
phaser hits," O'Brien reported from his operations console.
"They're continuing onward."
"How many people?" Sisko wanted to know.
"Nineteen on one transport... eighteen on the other,"
O'Brien said. After a moment, he added, "TWo hundred
seventy-one on the Marauder."
    Suddenly, a salvo erupted from the Ferengi vessel. The
Marauder surged ahead like an uncoiling snake, multiple
phaser banks discharging their Venom. The transports took
strikes all across their forward shields, but the phaser blasts
seemed to die there. For an instant, the two smaller ships
appeared tethered to the larger one by the beams of light,
like marionettes to a puppeteer.
    "Those were full phasers," Sisko said, not needing confir-
mation, but receiving it anyway from Worf. Sisko wanted to
order Dax to take Defiant in, to protect the Bajoran ships.
But Resolution 49-535 demanded that he remain clear of
the conflict. This was not the Federation's battle, and he
had violated the Councit's decree twice already. More than
that, if he was to help the Bajorans, then the Ferengi would
surely retract their offer to allow humanitarian aid through
the blockade, which would in turn demand that some-
bodyrathe Bajorans, or more likely, Starfleet--would have
to fight to deliver food and medicine to Bajor. The Bajorans
were fighting right now, but if they lost this fight, they would
still survive, their population would not be starved, its
health would not be put in jeopardy.
    "The transports' deflectors are down to sixty and fifty-
seven percent," Worf said. "They are powering their disrup-
tors."
    Sisko felt as though he were watching someone leap to
their death. He had granted Shakaar's assertion that the
new transports might be able to withstand attack by the
Ferengi Marauders, but Sisko had not really believed that
possibility to exist; even if the smaller ships were somehow
more powerful than the larger one, their crews would be too
inexperienced to overcome their more practiced adversary.
    And now the Bajorans were going to open fire On that
adversary.
    Sisko and his crew watched as the two transports broke
from each other, moving to either side of the Marauder. To
Sisko's surprise, the Ferengi ship did not alter its heading.
Then, like drops of colored liquid, electric-blue moments of
directed energy slipped from the transports. From each of
the four corners of their forward shields, the disruptors
flashed toward the Ferengi ship. The eight shots landed all
over the great rounded aft section of the Marauder.
    "The Ferengi deflectors are intact," Worf said. "They
sustained no damage at all."
    "None?" Sisko asked. "How is that possible?" Even as
superior as he believed the Marauder to be, eight simultane-
ous disruptor blasts should have had some effect on it, if
only a minor decrease in deflector power levels.
    "The disruptors the transports are equipped with are of
an outmoded design," O'Brien explained, studying his
readouts. "They're at least two generations behind those in
use now on the Klingon heavies."
    On the viewer, phasers burst forth again, this time from
the aft of the Marauder as it passed between the two
transports. Unlike the previous attack, only one of the
transports was targeted. The energy blasts buffeted its rear
 physical shield, continuing far longer than the previous
 barrages.
  "The transport has lost its deflectors," Worf said.
     "The Ferengi are powering up their plasma weapon,"
 O'Brien reported.
    "Captain," Kira said, spinning in her chair toward Sisko.
Her voice was both urgent and beseeching.
    "Hail the Ferengi," Sisko said loudly and quickly, bound-
hag up out of the command chair.
  "Hailing them," Wolf said, working his instruments.
    "What will a plasma strike do to a ship with no deflec-
tors?" Sisko wanted to know.
  "It won't be good," O'Brien said quietly.
    "What about the physical shields?" Sisko asked, hoping
more than believing. "Will they make any difference?"
    "Against phasers and photon torpedoes, probably,"
O'Brien said. "But plasma energy weapons envelop their
targets .... "The chief considered the possibilities. "At
best, they might survive a first strike, if one of their shields
can manage to take the entire attack, but the shield itself
will definitely be destroyed. They'd never survive a second
hit. But they might not even survive a first hit."
    "Captain," Kira said again, now coming up out of her
seat and taking a step away from her console. "You have to
do something. There are nineteen Bajorans on that ship."
     "Mr. Worf?." Sisko asked, ignoring the major's plea; he
was as aware as she was of the danger to the Bajoran crews.
 "No response to our hails," he answered.
    Sisko looked at the main viewer. The transports had
come back together again, side by side, trying to continue
on their way. The Marauder, he saw, was coming about, in
pursuit. He stepped over to the conn and leaned in next to
Dax.
    "Take us ha," he said. "Interpose us between the Maraud-
er and the transports." He stood up and turned to address
all of his crew. "If the Ferengi fire their plasma weapon, I
want the Defiant to take the blow. It could be a bumpy
ride." Dr. Bashir, silent through all of this, was still very
much aware of all that was happening, Sisko saw; he was
paying close attention to the captain.
 Defiant surged around them, leaping toward the fray.
Major Kira sat back down at her console. She appeared
relieved.
    Sisko was not. What he was about to do was not only a
violation of Resolution 49-353, but likely to cause some
very serious problems, for the Bajorans, for the Ferengi, and
for the Federation. Perhaps even for the entire Alpha
Quadrant, Sisko realized. But he was not going to allow
nineteen peoplemthirty-seven, between the two trans-
ports--to be killed when he could prevent that from
occurring.
    I've already seen too many damn people die in my life
without being able to do anything about it, he thought.
    Sisko saw on the viewer that the Marauder was almost on
top of the transports. He did not know why the Ferengi were
waiting to fire--maybe they would destroy only one of the
ships, in the belief that the other would then return to
Bajormbut it was providing an opportunity for Defiant to
move into position to protect the weaker ships.
 "Moving in," Dax said.
    Ahead, on the viewer, there were now only the transports;
the Marauder was behind and above Defiant. Then, without
warning, one of the transports dove away, out from Deft-
ant% protective cover.
"What are they doing?" Kira asked, clearly horrified.
As though in mute response, the other transport slid off in
the opposite direction of the first. Just before it left the
viewer, its disruptors issued forth once more.
 "Both transports are firing," Worf said.
 "Let me see," Sisko ordered.
    One of the crew--probably Woff, but Sisko did not see
who--operated the appropriate controls and the image on
the viewer changed, revealing an incredible tableau: the
overmatched transports were attacking the Marauder again.
The eight disruptor blasts--four from each transport--
landed this time on the same spot, near the central, aft
section of the Ferengi vessel. The transports fired continu-
ously.
    "They're draining their disruptors," O'Brien said. "Their
reactors are in danger of going supercritical."
    The disruptors ceased, and for a moment, there was
peace. Then a fusillade of photon torpedoes emerged from
 both transports, aimed at the focal point of the disruptor
 blasts on the Marauder.
     Sisko heard Kira say, softly and sadly, "They don't care if
 they die."
     "I'm reading a power surge in the Marauder's plasma
 weapon," O'Brien said.
  "They're going to fire," Worf explained.
    "Dax, get to one of the transports and shadow it," Sisko
said. "We're going to save at least one of those ships." Dax
did not acknowledge verbally, but set to following her
orders. Standing over her, Sisko watched her expertly pilot
the ship. The transports, though, were flying a randomized,
serpentine course, making it virtually impossible for Dax to
maneuver Defiant into position.
    Phasers struck once more from the Marauder, first one
transport, then the other.
    "Deflectors have failed on the second transport," Woff
said.
    On the first transport, blackened metal bloomed beneath
the phaser onslaught.
    "Walk with the Prophets," Kira said quietly, more to
herself, Sisko thought, than to her crewmates. She appar-
ently expected the destruction of the transports at any time.
So did Sisko.
    'Tm reading another power surge in the Marauder,"
O'Brien said.
 Kira dropped her head.
    "The plasma weapon is off-line," Worf announced, sur-
prise in his voice.
    "No," O'Brien countered. "At least, not off-line on pur-
pose. That's the source of the surge."
    "I have it," Worf said, working his console. "It seems to
be--"
    "The weapon is discharging within the ship," O'Brien
said.
    "My god," Sisko said, understanding the horrific implica-
tions for the Ferengi. "Can we beam the crew off?."
 "Negative," Woff reported. "Their deflectors are intact."
    "And they're causing a feedback in the plasma emitter,"
O'Brien added. "There's massive radiation."
 "Hail them," Sisko said. "Offer our assistance."
 "The warp drive just went down," Kira said.
 "No response," Worf said.
 "Keep trying."
    As Sisko watched the main viewer, he saw the Ferengi
vessel die. It had been coasting through space, powered and
directed, and then its speed fell off, its attitude skewed, and
it became immediately clear that there was no longer
anybody at the helm.
    The transports had evidently not been prepared for what
had happened. As the Marauder began to drift, the port side
of the aft section struck one of the smaller ships. But the
transport was moving under its own power, and the Ferengi
vessel canted off its forward physical shield.
    The two transports arced around to their original course.
Somehow, they had run the blockade. Once clear of Bajoran
space, Sisko knew, they would go to warp, headed for a
destination of which he was unaware. "How bad is it?" Sisko asked.
    "Bad," O'Brien said. "The radiation is making it difficult
to get readings... life-support is fluctuating... the warp
core assembly's been destroyed; I'm surprised there wasn't a
core breach."
 "Life signs?"
    "I'm having trouble getting a fix," O'Brien said. "We need
to compensate for the radiation--"
    "I've got it, Chief," Kira said, operating the controls at
her console. "Adjusting for the increased levels of---" Kira
stopped abruptly. Sisko, still standing beside the conn,
swung around to look at her. Her face, he saw, was ashen.
 "Major?" he asked. "How many left alive?"
    Her eyes looked empty to Sisko when she answered:
"None."



CHAPTER
      22

THERE WAS SILENCE on the bridge of Defiant.
    Julian watched as Captain Sisko walked sluggishly back
to the command chair and fell into it. Dax turned at her
console and watched the captain too. O'Brien, Worf, Kira--
their eyes also found their commanding officer and did not
leave him. It seemed to Julian that they were all waiting for
something, though no order, no word, could mitigate the
devastating loss of life they had just witnessed.
    Slowly, Julian made his way over to Kira's console. She
looked up at him when he approached. The muscles of her
face were tensed, he saw, lending her a pained aspect.
    "I'd like to see," Julian told her, so quietly that she did
not hear him and he had to repeat himself. Kira moved to
the side to allow Julian to stand next to her at her station.
He leaned in and examined the readouts.
    "How did this happen?" Dax asked at last, apparently of
everybody.
    Orperhaps of nobody, Julian thought. He looked up for a
moment and saw the captain shake his head from side to
side.
     "I thought it was the Bajoran ships that needed protect-
ing," Sisko said. The irony was evidently agonizing for him.
 It was agonizing for everybody, Julian thought.
    "It should have been that way," the chief offered. "Those
transports were not the better of that Marauder."
    "I agree," Worf said. "Their choice to bombard the
section of the Ferengi vessel that housed the plasma weapon
was a wise tactical maneuver, but it should not have
worked."
"But it did, Mr. Worf," Sisko said resignedly. "It did."
"But it shouldn't have," Worf reiterated. He stood up and
moved from his console over to the captain. "Starfleet has
had numerous encounters with this class of Ferengi Ma-
rauder over the years. The machinery of their plasma
weapon is well shielded; even Defiant's quantum torpedoes
should not have been able to accomplish what the outdated
weapons of those transports just did."
    "And yet they did," Sisko replied, his voice rising in
frustration. "How do you explain that?"
    "That's just it, sir," the chief said from his console. "We
can't."
 "So what does that mean?" Sisko demanded.
    "It means," Dax said calmly, "that something is wrong."
She paused, and Julian suspected that she was searching for
a rational theory to expound. Finally, she said, "The
Ferengi ship could have been sabotaged."
"Sabotaged?" Sisko asked. "By who? For what purpose?"
"I don't know," Dax said, "but where are the other
Marauders from the blockade? Wouldn't you expect a ship
in trouble to call for help?"
    "Perhaps they didn't realize they were in trouble until it
was too late," Sisko hypothesized, but it did not sound to
Julian as though he had much confidence in what he was
saying.
 "Perhaps," Dax said.
 "Captain," Julian said.
 "Yes, Doctor?"
    "I'm not convinced that these sensor readings are entirely
accurate," Julian reported. "Major Kira cleaned up the
scans considerably, but with this type of radiation, in such
concentrated amounts, I think it's possible that we might be
missing something."
    "Are you suggesting that there might still be people alive
aboard that ship?" Sisko wanted to know.
    "It's possible," Julian said. "Probably not more than a
handful, though, otherwise we would be getting some indi-
cation of life over there."
    "Do you think anybody could have survived such high
doses of radiation?" the chief asked.
    "As Mr. Worf indicated, some areas of the ship are better
shielded than others," Julian replied. Then, to Sisko, he
said, "If there are survivors, they've probably been critically
injured, but regardless, they probably wouldn't last very
long on that ship, irradiated as it is."
    "What do you recommend, Doctor?" Sisko asked. "Even
if we could get a fix on their life signs, we couldn't beam
them over; their deflectors are still operating."
    "I could take a shuttle over," Julian said. "I couldn't
board the Marauder because of the radiation, but proximate
scans of the ship would tell us for sure whether or not
there's anybody left alive. We could breach the deflectors
and transport survivors into a quarantine field set up on the
shuttle."
    The captain took very little time to consider the issue
before responding.
  "Do it," he said.

Da Vinci slipped from its berth easily and moved out into
space.
    Unlike most of Starfleet's vessels, Defiant did not have a
shuttlebay, nor did it carry a fleet of small, short-range craft.
Defiant had been designed as a battleship, and so, with no
cargo- or passenger-related duties in its future, and no
scientific mission profiles, it had been reasoned that there
would be little or no need for shuttles. Defiant had only two,
each maintained in its own small, fitted dock on the
underside of the vessel.
    This was the first time that Julian had been inside one of
Defiant's shuttles. He noticed immediately that da Vinci
was neither as large nor as sophisticated as Deep Space
Nine's runabouts. Still, it would suffice in letting him per-
form his search and--he hoped--rescue.
    Chief O'Brien was piloting da Vinci. His fingers moved
deftly across the flight controls as he brought the shuttle
away from Defiant and onto a course for the Marauder.
Julian sat beside him, configuring the shnttle's sensors for
the scan of the Ferengi vessel. Through the forward win-
dows of the shuttle, Julian watched the Ferengi vessel slide
into view.
    "So," the chief asked, "what do you think the chances
are?"
    "Of finding anybody alive?" Julian considered this. The
levels of radiation that prevented an exhaustive sensor scan
also made it unlikely that very many had survived aboard
the Marauder. At the same time, the vessel's large size and
its many bulkheads and different degrees of shielding made
it possible that some small number of people had escaped
death. "Maybe five percent," Julian decided. "If we do find
anybody over there, though, they're likely to be suffering
from serious radiation trauma."
 "What a horrible way to go," the chief said.
    "It is one of the more gruesome ways," Julian agreed,
though somewhat distractedly. "Where are the controls for
the emergency transporters?" he asked, having searched a
second time across the console without finding them.
    "Back there," the chief said, cocking his head toward the
rear of the compartment. "On the bulkhead to the aft
section."
    The shuttle, compact though it was, was divided into two
compartments. The rear, Julian discovered when he rose
and examined it, contained the emergency transporter. He
found the controls and set up a quarantine field to prevent
their own exposure to radiation should they transport
aboard any survivors.
    When he was done, Julian returned to his seat. The
Marauder, he saw, had grown larger in the forward win-
dows, dwarfing da Vinci. They were close enough now that
he could make out the alien-looking markings of the Ferengi
language on the hull, arranged in their odd, branching
patterns, flowchart-like.
 "Matching velocities," the chief said. Since the Ferengi
vessel was drifting, Julian knew, it was neCessary to syn-
chronize da Vinci's lateral movement as the shuttle ap-
proached.
    Their plan was to penetrate the deflector shields sur-
rounding the Marauder. They would trace a path along the
exterior structure of the vessel, with Julian scanning for
signs of life. If they located any, they would transport the
survivors into the quarantine field on da VincL then with-
draw from within the Marauder's deflectors and beam the
survivors to Defiant.
    "One hundred meters to the deflectors," the chief an-
nounced. The Marauder filled the windows. Julian could
not see open space past it. "Fifty... twenty-five... ten."
    There was a slight shimmy as the shuttle contacted the
Marauder's deflectors. Julian reached for the controls to
initiate the sensor scan. And then, without warning, da
Vinci was thrown violently, hurtling upward and to port.
Julian came out of his chair, flying across the cabin until he
struck the port bulkhead. His head hit the ceiling, but only a
glancing blow; he absorbed most of the impact with his left
shoulder, which he felt give way. He thought he could hear
his bones fracture, although that must have been impossible
with the many alarms now shrieking their warnings inside
the shuttle. The interior lights blinked several times, then
went out completely, replaced a moment later by the red
hues of the emergency lighting.
    Julian's knee twisted as he collapsed onto the floor--
striking a chair on the way down, he thought. Later, he
would learn that his knee had actually been injured when it
had pounded into the chief's head.
    Before he passed out, Julian's gaze passed across the
forward windows. The Marauder seemed to be moving
away from da Vinci, although his dimming mind told him
that it must really have been the shuttle's own movement
which caused this illusion.
    But how couM the Marauder look so much smaller so
quickly? he wondered idly. It was his last thought before his
mind faded to blackness.

Dax saw it first.
"It's moving," she said.

    On the main viewer, da Vinci was approaching the
Marauder. The massive Ferengi vessel, only a moment
before drifting through space without engine power, had
abruptly stopped its unchecked momentum. It turned
slowly, as though being directed onto a new course.
 "What's happening out there?" Sisko asked.
    "I'm not reading any active drive systems," Worf said.
"Not even thrusters."
    The shuttle, Dax saw, was staying with the larger vessel.
Its relative position beside the Marauder was probably
being maintained automatically, she guessed, to account for
the Marauder's drift. As close as da Vinci was now to the
Ferengi vessel, Julian and the chief would likely not be able
to perceive the new movement because, with respect to the
Marauder, their position would not be changing.
    "Well, something's going on," Sisko said. "Raise the
shuttle."
    Before Worf could even respond to the captain, the
Marauder started away. The shuttle, partially through the
larger ship's deflectors, was pulled along briefly, and then its
mass was too much for the deflectors to bear under the
Marauder's increasing acceleration. Da Vinci sheared off as
the Ferengi vessel adjusted its heading. The shuttle tumbled
away.
     "Dax," Sisko said. He did not have to give the order for
her to set Defiant in pursuit of the errant shuttle.  
"Worf, can you raise them?"
  "There is no response," Worf answered.
    "Da Vinci's inertial dampers are fluctuating," Kira re-
ported, now stationed at the operations console. "Power is
unstable... life-support is in and out ...."
  "I do read two life signs," Worf said.
  "Coming up on them," Dax said.
  "Tractor beam," Sisko ordered.
  "Aye," Worf said, working his controls.
    "Get them slowly, Mr. Worf," Sisko said. "We don't want
to send the chief and the doctor slamming into a bulkhead."
 "Aye."
    On the viewer, a thin beam of light-blue energy lanced out
from Defiant and intersected the toppling shuttle. As Worf
increased the intensity of the beam, its color grew more
intense, and the shuttle slowed its end-over'end motion.
Finally, da Vinci was brought to a complete stop.
 "Transporter Room One," Sisko called.
    "Transporter Room One," came the voice of the young
man stationed there. Ensign Phlugg, Dax thought it was.
    "Beam Chief O'Brien and Dr. Bashir from the shuttle
directly to sickbay," Sisko ordered. "Commander Worf will
provide coordinates."
 "Yes, sir," Phlugg replied.
    Worf operated his tactical console, no doubt transferring
the transporter coordinates. Everybody on the bridge
watched the image of the snared shuttle on the viewer and
waited.
    "Transporter Room to Captain Sisko," came Ensign
Phlugg's voice after a few seconds. "They're aboard."
    "Acknowledged," Sisko said. Then, "Mr. Worf, bring the
shuttle aboard."
    "Aye, sir." On the viewer, the tractor beam began to reel
in da Vinci.
    "Dax," Sisko said, "once we've retrieved the shuttle, I
want to find that Marauder."
    Ten minutes later, da Vinci had been hauled back aboard,
and Defiant started in pursuit of the mysterious Ferengi
vessel.

    When Julian regained consciousness, he was in Defiant's
sickbay, being ministered to by nurse Taren, the newest
member of his medical staff. The nurse was a tall man, with
hair down to his shoulders and with, Julian thought, a surly
countenance and a terrible bedside manner.
    "Oh, you're awake," the nurse said, with what could only
be termed as displeasure.
    "Yes, I am," said Julian, and he propped himself up on
his elbows. He was lying on a medical diagnostic pallet, and
the nurse, standing over him, tried to restrain him with a
hand to his chest. He need not have: Julian quickly found
that he was not going anywhere; the quick movement
ignited a dull ache in his head and a sharper pain in his left
shoulder. He lowered himself back down. "What hap-
pened?" he groaned.
 "What happened," the nurse said, looking down at Julian
with obvious forbearance, "is that you injured yourself in a
shuttle mishap. When you were brought in here, you were
suffering a mild concussion, a fractured clavicle, and a
sprained knee. I have fixed the concussion and the sprain,
but I am still working on repairing your shoulder. If you
think you can lie still long enough, that is."
 "I meant, what happened to the shuttle?"
 "I'm a nurse," the man said, "not an engineer."
 "How's Miles?" Julian asked.
    "If you're referring to the chief engineer, he was a much
better patient than you," the nurse said, "because he only
woke up after I'd finished working on him."
 "You don't have to be so churlish," Julian said.
    The nurse looked at him for a moment, then lifted a
hypospray from a table beside the pallet.
    "When I said you needed to lie still," the nurse said,
holding up the hypospray threateningly, "I meant that you
needed to be quiet as well. Or do you require sedation?"
    Julian considered ordering the nurse out of sickbay, but
then decided against doing so; his shoulder was in pain, and
he really did require medical attention. 
"I'll be quiet," Julian acquiesced.
    "Good," the nurse said. He put the hypospray down,
picked up another instrument, and began to work on
Julian's shoulder.

    Dax executed the search protocols not once, but twice.
Defiant covered a lot of territory, even doubling back on the
path the seemingly disabled Marauder had taken to be sure
that it had not reversed its heading. They found nothing but
the other Ferengi ships that composed the blockade.
    Dax had Worf download the logs of the sensor buoys
strung along the Bajoran trade routes, but wherever the
Marauder had gone had been beyond the range of those
scans.
    Obviously frustrated by the burgeoning mass of unex-
plained events, Captain Sisko ordered Dax to set a course
for Defiant back to Deep Space Nine.



0

CHAPTER
      23

EVEN REPLAYED on the small screen of a padd, Sisko found
the victory of the Bajoran transports over the Ferengi
Marauder larger than life. In the sitting area of his office on
DS9, he sought to discover some explanation for the un-
likely incident. In his hands, the three vessels danced across
the display amid columns of text and numbers: velocities,
deflector intensities, weapons power levels, and the like.
Chief O'Brien had downloaded the pictures and measure-
ments for the captain from Defiant's sensor logs.
    Once Defiant had returned to the station, Sisko had
attempted to contact Bractor aboard Kreechta to inform
him of the battle and its result, hoping both to assess the
potential impact of the Bajoran attack and to ascertain what
might have happened to the now-vanished Marauder. More
than that, really, Sisko was trying to fit together all the
inexplicable pieces of what had recently become a large and
confusing puzzle. After what had just occurred out on the
Bajoran trade routes, he was becoming fully convinced of
Worfs suspicions that some unknown faction was manipu-
lating circumstances.
 On the padd, phaser fire streaked through space. Sisko
had reviewed the recording twice already and had just
begun to play it through a third time when Major Kira's
voice broke the silence in the room.
 "Ops to Captain Sisko."
 "Sisko here," he returned.
    "We're receiving a transmission for you from DaiMon
Bractor," Kira informed him.
    "Thank you, Major," Sisko said, rising and walking
across the office toward the wall-mounted comm panel.
"Put it through." As he passed in front of his desk, he put
the padd down on it.
    On the comm panel, the image of Bractor appeared. The
Ferengi captain spoke loudly, with no introductory civili-
ties.
    "The nagus agrees to let Bajor receive medicine and food,
in spite of our blockade, and this is how he's repaid?"
    "Then you know about the encounter with the trans-
ports?" Sisko asked. He was surprised; neither Defiant's
sensor logs nor those of the buoys had indicated any
transmissions to or from the ill-fated Marauder. Sisko had
assumed that the individual Ferengi ships constituting the
blockade maintained regular contact with each other, and
that Bractor would therefore be aware that one of those
ships was now a casualtywor at least missing--but he did
not understand how Bractor could know specifically about
the battle that had been fought.
    "Of course we know about the Neemis," Bractor said,
apparently identifying the ship that the transports had
defeated.
"But how do you know about it?" Sisko wanted to know.
"What do you mean?" Bractor asked. He seemed genu-
inely bewildered by the question. "I was aware of the attack
as it happened."
    "I see," Sisko said, taking a couple of paces away from the
comm panel as he considered that. Out of the corner of his
eye, he saw movement; when he looked toward his desk, he
saw that the recording of the battle was still playing on the
padd. It was possible, Sisko supposed, that the long-range
sensors of another Ferengi vessel might have detected the
action, but--
    If you knew about it, Slsko asked, then why didn t any
of the ships in the blockade come to the aid of the Neemis?"
    "A D'Kora-class Marauder would not require any assis-
tance to defeat two of those new Bajoran vessels," Bractor
said.
    "Tell me something then," Sisko said, wondering if
perhaps the daiMon had just given something away. "How
do you know about Bajor's new ships?"
    "You told me about them yourself, when you wanted my
help in defending Deep Space Nine against them."
    "Of course," Sisko said, but he was sure that Bractor was
prevaricating in some way. Sisko had talked with him in
generalities about the previously unknown ships as they had
approached the wormhole in the Gamma Quadrant, but he
had not known himself at the time that the ships had been
purchased by the Bajorans. Nor had he had any notion of
the capabilities of those ships. The daiMon must have had
some additional source of information.
    "I would have sent another ship to fight," Bractor contin-
ued, "if I'd known that the Federation was going to become
involved."
 Sisko felt a jolt of emotion pulse through him.
    "Are you making an accusation, daiMon?" Sisko de-
manded, stepping back up to the tompanel.
    "Sensor records show the Deftant entering the field of
battle with the Bajoran vessels," Bractor revealed.
    "What sensor records?" Sisko knew that long-range scans
would not have been capable of recording the details of the
engagement.
    "Those from the Neemis, of course," Bractor answered,
although Sisko did not consider that answer to be a mere
matter of course.
 "You recovered the ship, then?"
    "The handful of survivors did," Bractor replied. "They
brought the Neemis back to the blockade. A scout ship is
taking it under tow back to Ferenginar."
    "We read no life signs after the battle," Sisko said. He
knew that those readings might not have been accurate--
that they obviously had not been accurate--but he wanted
to learn as much as could about what had transpired.

    "Is that why the survivors reported an attempt to board
their ship?" Bractor asked.
    "We were searching for survivors," Sisko said, a little
more defensively than he had intended.
    "I thought you said your scans showed no signs of life
aboard the Neernis," Bractor charged.
    Sisko laughed. The conversation felt as though it had
been scripted. He was being maneuvered, he understood
that, but he was not sure why.
    "I didn't realize that a ship of dead Ferengi was funny,"
Bractor said icily.
    He plays his part well, thought Sisko. He looked across
millions of kilometers of space and tried to appraise the
daiMon. Bractor met his gaze.
    After a moment, Sisko went over to his desk and retrieved
the padd. The end of the battle was nearing on the display,
he saw. He froze the picture and moved back to the comm
panel.
    "Would you like to see the Defiant's sensor logs?" he
asked, holding the padd up for Bractor to see. "We were
unsure of them because of the high levels of radiation; we
couldn't tell whether or not there were survivors, but we
wanted to rescue any if there were."
    "We have our own sensor logs," Bractor told him. "The
radiation levels on the Neemis damaged them, but when the
ship reaches Ferenginar, technicians will attempt to recover
all of their data." "I see."
    "I hope that you do, Captain," Bractor said, menace now
evident in his voice. "Because if a full review of the logs
shows that the Defiant was directly involved in the annihila-
tion of more than two hundred and fifty Ferengi, there will
be grave consequences."
    "I don't like threats, Bractor," Sisko said. "And the logs
will demonstrate that the Defiant did not fire on the
Marauder."
    "I hope that turns out to be the case," Bractor said. "But
we both know that the sensor logs will implicate the
Bajorans in the deaths of the Neernis's crew; they will have
to pay for that." The daiMon gestured to somebody off-
screen, and the communication abruptly ended.
    For a couple of minutes, Sisko stood and Stared at the
Ferengi emblem on the comm panel, his hands clasped
before his face, his fingers steepled together. So much had
happened, he thought; so much was still happening. There
must be something here, some underlying pattern or link
that bound all of these disparate events together. He was
sure of it now, and yet he still could not see it.
     Sisko parted his hands, reached over to the comm panel,
and deactivated it. Then he tapped his comm badge.
 "Sisko to Commander Worf," he said.
 "Worf here."
    "Commander, I want you to find out all you can about
the Ferengi Marauder Neemis."

0

CHAPTER
      24

T}tERE WaS SO Om~ in the hold to see the cargo container
melt.
    The cube, a meter on each side, was covered in the
complex ideogrammatic symbols of the Bajorans: weight,
mass, destination, contents. This particular container, like
several others about it, was apparently headed for Johnson
City on Gamma Hydra IV, carrying a shipment of hand-
made Bajoran Muriniri dolls. The other cargo that had
been loaded into this hold was of a similar nature, all
various arts and crafts produced in several different prov-
inces on Bajor.
    The container of Muriniri dolls had been packed into a
shuttle on the planet's surface and carried into orbit, where
it had then been conveyed onto one of the transports
purchased from the Yridians, which would haul it to its
intended destination. The dolls--the entire shipment, in
fact--would normally have been loaded onto the ship with
the use of a transporter, but since all of the items had been
fashioned by hand, it was consequently necessary that they
be delivered by hand. In general, when people purchased
goods noteworthy because they had been handcrafted, they
wanted them to remain handcrafted, not converted into
energy and then reconstituted by a transporter into its
initial material form; if that were acceptable, then a would-
be buyer could simply create such goods by employing a
replicatot.
    Workers had just finished filling this cargo hold, though
there were a few other holds on the transport yet to be
loaded. When that had been done, the ship's manifest
would be verified against the actual shipment, and if the
container of Muriniri dolls was still here, then it would be
found to be the twin of another stored on board. And if that
happened, then the true identity of the duplicate container
would be revealed.
    The tone of the container's olive-green casing shifted,
slipped through yellow to a shimmering orange that ap-
peared almost metallic. It lost its solid form, liquefying as
though from being heated, flowed with the artificial gravity
of the ship down to the decking, and upward, directed, into
humanoid form.
    Odo did not hesitate, but raced through the hold toward
the doors of the turbolift. He softened the soles of his feet as
he ran, deadening the sound of his footfalls. His movements
were so quiet that they did not even generate echoes.
    The lift connected this hold with each of the others, Odo
presumed, and with the small crew-and-control section
mounted atop the larger cargo section. But it was not the lift
in which Odo was interested; it was the computer station
situated beside it.
    For the moment, though, he ignored the computer. In-
stead, he pressed his hands against the door, his fingers
splayed. Feeling no vibrations, he let his hands go, let them
become the essence of what he was. The tips of his fingers
rippled radiantly, and downward to his wrists, the effect was
the same, that part of his being reverting to its unaltered
form. With his changeling flesh, he listened without hear-
ing, felt without touching, sensed what he could sense on
the other side of the door.
    Odo could tell--from sounds, from vibrations--that the
turbolift was not in motion at the moment. Somewhere
above, there were voices, but their owners were not mov-
ing--at least, not in this direction. Satisfied, he solidified
his hands back to humanoid form and turned his attention
to the computer.
    Fortunately, Odo saw, the station was already operating;

he would therefore not alert anybody to his presence by
having to activate it. He examined the readout and saw
what he quickly ascertained to be the manifest for this hold,
displayed in the Bajoran language. He looked at it in a
cursory fashion, verified that it was what it appeared to be,
and moved on.
    He next checked the transport's schedule, determining
that the ship would be departing Bajor in less than three
hours. Odo did not know exactly what he was searching
for--something, anything, that would indicate the actual
source of this ship, of all the ships the Bajorans had just
purchased--but he knew he would have to search swiftly.
He flew inward momentarily and willed two additional
digits onto each of his hands, something he often did when
his work on a computer or a cornpanel required speed.
He could shapeshift more than seven fingers onto each
hand, of course, or even a third arm and hand, but he
found that it was with this combination that he was most
dexterous.
    This was the second transport that Odo had infiltrated--
well, perhaps infiltrated was the wrong word. After all, he
had not stolen onto this ship; he had been carried aboard.
That he had misrepresented himself--as a container of
Muriniri dolls--was really irrelevant. Captain Sisko might
have had a difficult time justifying Odo's actions, but then
the good captain had neither inquired about nor restricted
Odo's methods when he had assigned him the task of
uncovering the origin of the transports. There was a tacit
agreement between the two, Odo believed, allowing the
constable a great deal of latitude in the performance of his
job. Exploring the computers aboard the transports surely
fell within those bounds.
    Odo worked the controls, his fourteen digits an exemplar
of manual coordination. The constant tapping was the only
sound in the cargo hold; it reminded Odo of rainfall,
something he had not heard recently, but which he had
heard often during his youth at the Bajoran Institute of
 Science. Unexpectedly, he felt a sudden stab of emotion, a
 mixture of reminiscence and loneliness.
    Odo's fingers paused for a moment. Absently, he gazed
around the hold, and then realized he was making sure
that nobody was watching him--not because of his un-
authorized presence here, but because he had been em-
barrassed by his unanticipated feelings. He shook his
head once, exasperated with himself, and returned to his
work.
    Data marched across the computer's readout. Odo looked
at the manifests for the other holds, at the crew roster, at the
depressurization instructions for certain cargoes, at the
deflector specifications. The computer lay open to him. He
had learned almost everything he knew about computer
operations during his service on Deep Space Nine--and
Terok Nor--first from the Cardassians, and later from
Chief O'Brien. Mostly, he had learned--though he could
not conceive of a time when he might admit this aloud--by
observing Quark.
    For the first time in a while, Odo thought of his former
nemesis. After the removal of Quark and Rom from DS9,
Odo had on several occasions made discreet inquiries
regarding their status. He had been startled when he had
learned that they would not be standing trial, but would
instead be held indefinitely as enemies of the state. Odo had
intended to find out where they were jailed, but he had not
yet done so. He errantly considered probing the transport's
computer for information about Quark, but there was no
reason at all to think he would find anything. In fact, Odo
was not even sure if he would know how to render Quark's
name in the Bajoran language.
    Abruptly, Odo's many fingers stopped their frenzied
movements across the console of the computer station.
An idea had developed in his mind. He rapidly evaluated
the path he would have to take through the computer to
reach what he wanted to inspect, then just as rapidly
executed the commands that would take him down that
path.
    And there it was, in among the base entries, a clue that
pointed to somebody other than the Yridians as the source
of the transports. The language in which the computer both
accepted input and produced output was Bajoran, but the
default language setting had been overridden to effectuate
this. The default setting, though, was neither Bajoran nor
Yridian. What it was made no immediate sense to Odo, but
he had hopes that it was the key Sisko had sent him to find.



0

CHAPTER
      25

"THE KAREMMA?"
    Dax's voice was rife with either confusion or disbelief,
Sisko could not tell which. He glanced across the conference
table at his science officer and thought he saw revealed in
her face the qualities that he himself was feeling right nova.
frustration, impotence, even defeat. How many more events
were going to occur for which he and his crew could find no
suitable explanation? As the Bajorans hurtled toward a
major confrontation with the Ferengi, Sisko feared that his
own failure to fully understand everything that was taking
place would prevent him from helping Bajor avoid disaster.
    "The Karemma," Odo repeated with the verbal equiva-
lent of a shrug. What he had learned aboard the transport
apparently did not make sense to him either.
    Sisko looked over to Kira and Worf, their reflections
inverted in front of them in the black surface of the table.
He saw no indication that either officer had formed any
reasonable interpretation of Odo's discovery. It seemed that
every new piece of information, every new incident,
brought with it new mysteries.
 "The notion that the Karemma provided ships to the
Bajorans, or even to the Yridians..." Sisko's voice trailed
off to silence. The conference room seemed to close in on
him, stifling him. He would rather have been somewhere
else, doing something--anything at all--that would actu-
ally have made a difference to the people of Bajor. Here, he
felt confined, his actions removed from events, futile. But
what else was there to do right now?
    "It doesn't fit," Kira said. "As far as we know, the
Katemina have no trade agreements with the Yridians, and
they certainly don't have any with Bajor."
    "Nor do the Karemma manufacture starships," Worf
added.
    "So if we do assume that it was the Karemma who pro-
vided the transports to the Bajorans," Sisko said, exasper-
ated, "then we're left with the same questions as when we
assumed that the Yridians were the source of the ships."
Sisko was also convinced that Shakaar had not lied to him,
and that consequently, the transports must have come from
the Yridians.
    "Maybe we're looking at this backward," Dax suggested.
She leaned forward, resting her forearms flat on the surface
of the table. "Maybe whoever produced the transports
produced them specifically for the Katemina."
    "The economy of the Karemma is dominated by trade,"
Sisko said, considering the idea. "Transports would be a
commodity they would purchase."
    "And that would explain why the default language setting
of the computer was theirs," Kira noted.
    "All right," Sisko said. He stood up and walked along one
side of the table. "But if the ships were built for the
Karemma, then why were they given--or sold, or tradedin
to the Yridians?"
    "Because," Dax said slowly, evidently reasoning aloud,
"the Yridians have a relationship with Bajor, they could let
them know the ships were available, and then get the ships
to them. And the Bajorans obviously have something the
Yridians want."
 "Our data," Odo said.
    Sisko reached the other end of the table and stopped. His
head had begun to pound, an occurrence he was coming to
expect these days.
    Is there something here, he wanted to know, or are we just
looking for light in a black hole?
    "What that doesn't tell us," he said, "is why ships
manufactured for the Karemma were not sold to the Ka-
teroma." He turned toward the table to face his crew. "Can
we conclude, though, that somebody--whoever provided
the ships to the Yridians so that the Yridians could then sell
them to the Bajorans--can we conclude that they are trying
to manipulate the Bajorans into a battle with the Ferengi?"
    "It looks that way, Benjamin," Dax said, and no one
disagreed. "And there could be any number of reasons why:.
to weaken or destroy Bajor, or Deep Space Nine, or even the
Ferengi."
    "If we're to stop this from happening," Sisko said, "we
need to know who is behind it."
    "It is unlikely that any such plot would be masterminded
by the Yridians or the Karemma," Worf declared. "For one
thing, neither have the military capability of occupying
Bajor or defending the wormhole."
"Then obviously it must be somebody else," Sisko said.
He gazed around at his officers and, from their nods, saw
that there was a consensus that some other faction must be
responsible. The problem, he knew, was that the potential
culprits were plentiful--the Founders, the Klingons, the
Cardassians, the Romulans, even the Tholians--but there
was no indication whatsoever that any of these were in any
manner involved in what had been happening.
    Sisko was therefore surprised when, five minutes later, a
possible answer arrived with Chief O'Brien.

    The doors to the conference room parted and O'Brien
entered. He carried a padd in one hand.
    "Chief," Sisko greeted him. He was once again seated at
the head of the table. "How are you feeling after your
tumble through space?"
    "Still a little bit like I've been hit in the head by a
runabout," O'Brien said, but with a smile that belied any
pain he might be feeling. "Of course, it just turned out to be
Julian's knee."
 "How is the doctor?" Sisko asked.
"Oh, he's fine, though I think both of us might have
headaches for a couple of days."
    "Try being the captain," Sisko joked. The chief chuckled,
and Kira and Dax smiled, Sisko saw, but neither Worf nor
Odo changed their dour expressions. "So, you said you'd be
late because you were investigating something."
    "Yes, sir," O'Brien said, his demeanor immediately be-
coming professional. "When I was getting checked out in
the infirmary and talking with Dr. Bashit, he recalled that
he was in the process of activating the sensors aboard the da
Vinci just as we passed through the Marauder's deflectors."
"When the shuttle was thrown off into space," Kira said.
"Right," the chief confirmed. "So I decided to check the
da Vinci~ sensor logs--" As he spoke, O'Brien moved to
the comm panel set into the wall beside the doors. "--and
sure enough, for seventy-one-hundredths of a second before
the Marauder moved away, the sensors were functioning."
He activated the corem panel with a touch, then worked its
controls. Data regarding the Ferengi ship appeared on the
display. Sisko stood from his chair and walked over beside
the chief to get a better view.
    "Are you sure this scan is from the da Vinci, "Sisko asked
after a minute, "and not some jumbled sensor data from the
Defiant?"
    "Positive. After I downloaded the data and saw the
results, I went aboard the shuttle and verified it personally.
That's where I was just now."
    Sisko peered again at the data. For two-thirds of the short
scan, the log showed everything they had read aboard
Deftant: a plasma discharge within the Marauder, a failure
of the warp drive, extreme radiation, and no life signs. But
there was more. For almost the last twenty hundredths of a
second, the log reflected a scan of a starship with most of its
systems in nominal condition; only minute, expected levels
of radiation; and a crew complement of two hundred
seventy-one healthy Ferengi.
    "How can that be?" Dax asked after the chief had
reviewed the data aloud.
    "I can't tell for sure," O'Brien said, "but my best guess is
that the first set of readings--the one indicating a wrecked
ship--is counterfeit."
    "The deflectors," Worf said. He rose from his chair and
walked over to the comm panel. He pointed to the latter
section of the readings, to a measure of the condition of the
deflectors; it was one of the few systems not listed as
operating at peak capacity. "When we were scanning from
the Deftant during the battle, we were surprised that the
phaser strikes on the Marauder did not diminish its deflec-
tor performance. Here, thoughre" He tapped a figure listed
on the comm panel. "rowe see that the deflectors are
operating at ninety-one percent of normal. That supports
the chief's conclusion that this second set of readings is
accurate; our scans did not pick it up, though, because we
were being fed false readings."
  "It makes sense," Dax offered.
    "So the Ferengi wanted us to think the transports had
beaten the Marauder and killed its crew?" Kira asked.
    "And they left so that the da Vinci wouldn't discover the
truth," Sisko said. He gestured at the comm panel. "Except
they waited a fraction of a second too long." 
"But why?" Kira wanted to know.
    "Whatever the reason, it must involve profit," Odo said
cynically.
     "I'm sure it does," Sisko agreed. "And I think the profit
might just be the wormhole, and maybe even Bajor itself."
 "What?" Kira seemed outraged at the possibility.
 "Consider it," Sisko said. He moved over to the table and
 leaned over it, propping himself on his hands. O'Brien and
 Worf came over from the comm panel and stood off to
 either side, watching and listening to him. "The Ferengi
 staged this battlere" He pointed his thumb back over his
 shoulder at the readout. "into make it appear as though the
 Bajorans were instigating the fighting, not them. And they
 have the crew of the Defiant as witnesses to the event."
    "So if they choose to," Dax said, "they can use this
incident as justification to attack Bajor itself."
    "Oh, I think they'll attack," Sisko said, wondering if
perhaps this is what this situation had been leading up to all
along. "This is the one way the Ferengi believed they could
be absolutely sure that the Federation wouldn't defend
Bajor: if the Bajorans themselves were the aggressors."
 "That also might explain why the nagus consented to
allowing humanitarian aid to be sent to Bajor through the
blockade," Odo suggested.
    "So that he and the Ferengi could look like the good
guys," Kira said disgustedly.
    "Well that might explain this, then." The chief took a step
toward the table and held the padd he was carrying out to
Sisko. "This arrived from Starfleet just before I came down
here. It's the report Mr. Worf requested on the Ferengi
Marauder Neemis." Sisko took the short report and quickly
read it.
 "What does it say?" Kira asked.
    "It says that the starship Neemis," Sisko said, looking up
from the padd, "is one of Grand Nagus Zek's personal
honor guard."



CHAPTER
      26

ROM LAY ON the hard surface of his bunk, shivering. He was
always cold now, there was no respite from it. And he no
longer thought that there ever would be.
    Each day, each night, of the past few weeks, the tempera-
ture had continued to descend, and the winds had grown so
strong that they routinely penetrated the poorly con-
structed, badly maintained barracks. Snows had buried the
brittle land, and daylight hours had grown short beneath a
perpetually slate-gray sky--although most days remained
emotionally protracted. But as cruel as the Bajoran winter
had become, it was not the cold that shook Rom so violently
right now; it was fear.
    Hugging himself, he rocked back and forth, trying to get
warm, yes, but also trying somehow to will to his brother
what little strength lingered in his own now-frail body.
Quark had been gone for a while, and as his time away from
the barracks increased, so too did Rom's conviction that he
would never return. Rom attempted to persuade himself
that his brother had been placed in the small cell in which
one or another of the prisoners were occasionally confined,
that he was being punished by separation and isolation for
some real or invented violation of the rules, it no longer
mattered which. He tried to convince himself of that, but he
knew that was not why Wyte had come to take Quark.
    What was it? Rom asked himself. Three hours? Four? Such
measures of time were impossible to reckon anymore; there
were only days and nights, marching and recuperation,
hunger and scraps, pain and numbness. But sometime
today, after the prisoners had come back to the barracks
after trudging around the camp through the snow, Wyte had
appeared and taken Quark. That was bad, being taken by
Wyte, but it was survivable. This time, though, Wyte had
said that he was taking Quark to see Colonel Mitra.
    Through the duration of Rom's internment in Gallitep,
Mitra had never once touched him--had never touched any
of the internees, as far as he knew--but the colonel had
often directed Wyte to do so. It had not happened immedi-
ately upon their arrival here, but only after they had been
designated political prisoners, and only after they had been
enervated by days--weeks? months?--of physical hard-
ship. It had been then that Mitra had begun having his
"sessions" with each of the prisoners. It was, Rom feared,
where Quark was now.
    During these sessions, the colonel's instructions to Wyte
were meticulous, and they bespoke a knowledge of anatomy
and torture that was as remarkable for its magnitude as it
was for its savagery. The pain Mitra bid Wyte to inflict,
layered as it was on top of exhaustion and hunger and
despair, was excruciating. But for all of that, it did not last.
As with almost anything else, Rom discovered, he could
become accustomed to pain--and after a while, nerves
became deadened, desensitized to what otherwise would
have been mounting agony.
    But there was more than mere physical abuse. Colonel
Mitra talked, and when he talked, he was no longer a
separate person, no longer outside of you. When Mitra
talked, he got inside, burrowed his way in, somehow,
ferreted about until he unearthed what you had within
yourself that could wound and be wounded. Reapplied
though they were by another, those reopened wounds
carried the torment of self-infliction. Mitra became a bad
dream recalling all the ills of life, became a shadow play of
personal tragedies once believed outgrown or forgotten.
And there was little salve for such anguish, because even
when the colonel was gone, what he had said, what he had
reminded you of, what he had raised from your depths, was
all still there, still true. Whether Mitra had ever lived or not,
the memory he had raked from you was still an ugly, extant
thing that could eat away who you were. Rom had come to
think of Mitra as a devourer of souls, perhaps filling the
empty place inside himself, though if so, then never for very
long; the colonel's emptiness always reasserted itself. Al-
ways.
    Rom was deeply worried that Quark was there at present,
in the midst of that emptiness.
    Be strong, brother, Rom thought. Be strong. Because with
each session of Mitra's, things got worse. Much worse.
    A gale buffeted the barracks, blustered through thin walls
and open joints. Rom hugged himself again, his arms and
hands encircling his torso. His ribs were easily detectable to
his touch; he had lost weight since he had been here, almost
to the point of emaciation. So had Quark. So had all of the
prisoners. It was remarkable, Rom reflected, that none of
them had yet taken ill; he supposed that their relatively
good health was probably a result of the vitamins regularly
smuggled to them by Argan and Jessel, and the occasional
healing afforded them by the medical kit that the two guards
brought when things had been particularly bad.
    In his time here, the easiest periods for Rom had been
when he had been placed in isolation. Except for his
concern for his brother, he felt almost at peace then. In his
separation from his fellow internees, there was also separa-
tion from Mitra and Wyte. Hunger and cold seemed to have
no real hold on him in the small, dark cell--not emotion-
ally anyway, though they still had their physical effects.
Once, Rom had been confined for three days. When he had
been released and taken back to the barracks, his eyes had
teared for nearly an hour, no longer acclimated to light after
eighty-four hours of darkness. His ears had been ashen from
the cold, and Quark had been distressed that he might lose
his lobes. But the feeling had come back to both within a
day, although the hearing in his right ear had completely
gone.

    For Rom, though, solitary confinement became grateful
solitude, and it was what he found himself wishing for most
often these days. That was possible because he now doubted
that they would ever leave Gallitep alive. For some reason,
official Bajor must have forgotten about their nine Ferengi
internees, or they were unaware of the deplorable treatment
of them. Quark did not necessarily believe that to be the
case, but Rom was sure of it. He knew many Bajorans--he
had even met First Minister Shakaarmand he knew of their
world and their civilization, and they were not like this, not
like Mitra and Wyte. Something had gone wrong. These
prisoners were not supposed to be here, at least not like this.
This was a mistake. Because they were here, though, under
these conditions, it was reasonable to assume that the
mistake was unknown outside of Gallitep; consequently,
with escape virtually impossible, the only way they would
ever leave here would be if they were permitted to leave by
those who guarded themmot if they awoke one day, not
alive, but in the Divine Treasury, where they would make
their eternal reckoning.
    Rom and Quark had approached Argan and Jessel several
times, soliciting their assistance. Unbeknownst to Quark,
Rom had also approached Prana; Quark had not believed
Prana to be trustworthy, because the only indication that
they had that he was not supportive of Mitra and Wyte was
that he did not abuse the prisoners. But neither did Prana
ever join with Argan and Jessel to help them.
    As it turned out, Rom and Quark learned that the guards
were as much prisoners here as the Ferengi. Ordered here by
the colonel for a six-month tour of duty, they were not
allowed to leave the camp for any reason, at any time. If
they chose to desert, they would have before them as
impossible a task as the internees had of trying to escape.
With no shuttles required to bring in supplies--there were
enough provisions to last at least half a yearmand no
transporters, there was simply no means of leaving the
camp, except on foot, and that would have meant almost
certain death.
    Thus, the only hope Rom and Quark ever had of depart-
ing with their lives from Gallitep was no hope at all: Mitra
would have to let them go. And of all the things Rom knew
in this world and in this life, he was more certain of this
than of anything else: Mitra would never let them go. Rom
did not think that the colonel enjoyed being here; the
situation was different from that. Wyte enjoyed being here,
base creature that he was, but Mitra... Mitra had to be
here; as sure as he had to breathe air and take nourishment,
he had to be here. He seemed neither happy nor sad about
his life here at the camp, nor even really accepting of it; for
the colonel, this was simply the way life was.
    And that meant that this was the way life was--and
would continue to be--for everybody else here at Gallitep.

Rom awoke with a jolt when the door flew open and
crashed back against the wall.
    Quark, he thought immediately, and then realized that it
must be the guards; the prisoners had not yet been g~ven
their sustenancereit was impossible to call what they were
fed a "meal"--tonight. He looked up from his bunk as the
low-powered lighting panels came on overhead. The other
prisoners, he saw, were also peering up at the disturbance.
    In the doorway stood Sergeant Wyte. A wide smile,
though mirthless, nevertholess looked foreign on his face.
Quark was not with him. He was alone.
    "Well, look, everybody's awake," Wyte said, looking
around and laughing heartily, as though he had just said
something exceedingly funny.
    "Where's my brother?" Rom demanded, not feeling ei-
ther brave or scared, but resigned to the fact that there was
as much chance that Wyte would beat him whether he spoke
up or not.
    The sergeant bounded across the room, his long strides
quickly swallowing up the distance between the door and
Rom. Wyte was a large man, not tall, but thick. His head
was squarish, set almost flush atop his shoulders, and
covered with cropped black hair. The horizontal ridges on
the bridge of his Bajoran nose were so full that they were
barely distinguishable.
    Rom watched, unmoving, as Wyte's trunklike body bore
down on him. The powerful sergeant stopped at his bunk,
reached down, and yanked him to his feet. The frayed
blanket slipped to the floor as though gravity had taken only
a passing interest in it.
    "You want your brother?" Wyte asked "I'll take you to see
your brother."
    And Rom suddenly knew, in a flash mixed of intuition
and understanding, that Quark was dead. Rom would be led
to the guard's barracks, or maybe to Mitra's office, and he
would be shown his brother's inert body. Quark's face
would be a mass of bloody injuries, or perhaps it would
have been something subtlerwa misused cardiostimulator
or a properly administered neural paralyzerwand Quark
would simply appear to be asleep, though with the color
drained from his features.
    Rom fell through Wyte's hands like water through a sieve.
His knees struck the wooden flooring with two quick
popping sounds. Wyte reached down right away, grabbed
the front of Rom's jumpsuit, and hauled him upward. Rom
thought he heard a seam begin to give way, and then he was
on his feet once more, his head tilted back and facing up at
the sergeant.
    "If I have to carry you," Wyte screamed at him, "I'll do it
by your neck." Wyte adjusted his hold on Rom, taking him
by the back of his jumpsuit with one hand, and by the
biceps of his left arm with the other. The sergeant jerked
him forward. Rom was almost pulled from his feet, but he
managed to keep his balance.
    As Wyte loped back toward the still-open door, Rom was
forced to vault along beside him. They burst over the
threshold and out into the gusting winds of winter. The
rectangle of dim light from the barracks behind them failed
to penetrate very far into the night, and a dozen paces
across the snow-covered grounds, they plunged into uncom-
promising darkness. If any of Bajor's five moons were
overhead, their reflected glow failed to shine through the
sky, which had been ceaselessly heavy with cloud cover for
weeks now. It was as cold as space.
    Rom looked down in an effort to help him keep his
footing as Wyte alternately pushed and pulled him on their
journey, but he was unable even to see his own feet. He
sensed, from changes in the direction of the wind, the
shapes of other structures in the camp~more prisoners
barracks, housing for the guards, other buildings whose
functions were not apparent to Rom because they were not
currently being used and he had never been inside them.
    Unsure of their direction, Rom glanced up only when the
wind broke in front of them. Near at hand, light gleamed
through a window almost directly ahead. As they drew even
closer, Rom was able to identify details within the field of
illumination.
 It was Mitra's building.
    Although Rom had guessed that this was where he was
being taken, his heart seemed to seize up in his chest. This
was it: Mitra had killed Quark--or had had Wyte do it--
and now he was going to kill Rom. Rom was not necessarily
opposed to that idea, he found; he had been moving steadily
for days, or longer, toward resignation and even acceptance
that this must be the way that this would end. He regretted
only that his beloved Moogie would be so hurt by her sons'
passing.
    At the front of the building, Wyte pushed Rom hard into
the wall beside the door. Rom barely felt it. He wondered
idly if it was because his body was too cold or too tired, or if
maybe his emotions had finally just drained away.
    Wyte reached forward and opened the door, then grabbed
the from of Rom's jumpsuit with both hands. The sergeant
pulled him from the outside wall, and this time, the seams
of the jumpsuit did give way, the torso ripping away from
the arms where they met at the shoulders. With a look of
disgust, Wyte pumped his fists into Rom's chest. Rom went
backward through the doorway, his arms flailing as he tried
to remain upright. His reflexes had staled during his harsh
captivity, though, and he went down hard onto his back.
    "Get up," Wyte yelled at him, entering the building after
him and kicking Rom's foot with his own. When Rom did
not move, Wyte took another step inside and pulled his leg
back sharply, aiming it at Rom's midsection. Rom, unable
to find either the strength or the will to defend himself,
waited for the kick to land. He did not even close his eyes.
    "Stop," came a voice from farther inside the building,
not loudly, but honed enough to slice through the sound of
the wind from outside. To Rom's surprise, Wyte froze in the
very act of bringing his foot forward. "You may put your leg
down, Sergeant." Wyte did. "And close the door." He did
that as well, relegating the gales of the night to a remove.
    Rom tilted his head back slightly, the rear portion of his
bare skull resting on the floor. He peered farther into the
building, down the corridor that led from the entrance hall
in which he was lying. A short distance away, a door stood
open, a shadowy figure framed in the light that was emanat-
ing from the room beyond: Colonel Mitra.
    "Prisoner nine," Mitra said, the scorched rasp of his
voice never raising above the level of normal speech.
"Would you care to join me?"
    Rom did not move. He kept his eyes focused on Mitra
and did nothing else. There was a shuffling next to him, and
he knew that Wyte was arranging himself above Rom so
that he could lift him off the floor. Still, Rom did not move.
    "Wait," the colonel said, holding up a hand, palm out.
The shuffling beside Rom halted. "I believe prisoner nine
can manage by himself, given the choice."
    Rom had not been presented with many choices during
the course of his incarceration, but he had nevertheless
learned that it was wise to make them when provided the
opportunity. Except that, right now, Rom did not want to
enter Mitra's office. About that, though, he knew there was
no choice.
    He pulled himself up, rising shakily to his feet. He was
facing the front door and Sergeant Wyte. Gathering himself,
he turned toward the corridor and the waiting silhouette of
Mitra... except that Mitra was no longer there.
    "Go on," Wyte said in low, angry tones behind him. He
placed his hand on the back of Rom's head and pushed.
    Rom started toward the doorway to Mitra's office, the
only source of light in the corridor. Just before he reached
the door, he braced himself. He closed his eyes and turned
through the doorway into the room.
    There was a moment of near-silence--somewhere in the
room, a clock ticked--during which Rom anticipated some
revelatory sound--words from Mitra, a laugh from Wyte,
something--that never came. Surprised, he opened his
eyes.
 Quark was there, in the center of the room, dead.
    His body was slumped in a heavy wooden chair, his arms
bound to its arms. His head had fallen forward, his chin
resting on his chest. His face looked different than it had
this afternoon, but only in degree; for weeks, Quark's
features had been in a constantly alternating state of injury
and healing. Earlier today, his facial wounds had been on
the mend, purplish green contusions fading, the remnants
of scrapes and cuts only a suggestion of the wounds that had
preceded them. Now, new injuries had been added, and old
ones reopened.
    Rom felt his own face contort with grief. Tears formed in
his eyes.
    "Brother," Rom said, more a breath than a spoken word.
He sensed the presence of Wyte behind him and felt the
sudden, explosive impulse to turn on the vile man, to
launch himself at his throat and shred it with his own teeth.
It had been the sergeant, of course, who had killed Quark;
the colonel would not have deigned to sully himself by
actually doing it himself, though he had no doubt choreo-
graphed the violence. Rom did not know if he any longer
pitied Wyte; he only knew that he hated him.
    "Prisoner nine," Mitra said then, "won't you join us?"
He acted as though he were inviting people into his home
for a drink.
    Rom looked to his right, to where Mitra stood behind a
desk. The chamber was not large, more like an anteroom
than a main office. Behind the desk was the window through
which Rom had seen a light shining out into the night as
they had approached the building. There were two other
doors in the room, both closed at the moment, one in the
wall opposite where Rom stood, and one in the wall to his
left. The walls and floor were of finished wood, the floor
worn bare in places from the tread of many feet across many
years.
    The chair supporting Quark's body was in the center of
the room, facing Mitra's desk. Other than the chair, the
desk, and a second chair for Mitra to sit in, the room had no
furnishings. The ticking clock sat on the desk next to a
metal basin of some sort.

Rom, feeling hollow inside, and aimless, moved farther
into the room, toward his brother.
    "Sergeant," Mitra said, "would you bring another chair
out for prisoner nine?"
    Wyte crossed to the opposite side of the room, brushing
past Rom quickly and almost knocking him from his feet.
He opened the door and went through it. Rom did not peer
into the next room, but in other visits here, he had spied
what he had thought to be storage cabinets for hardcopy
files. After a moment, Wyte emerged with another chair.
    "Right here," Mitra said, holding his hand out to indicate
the spot directly in front of his desk.
    It was only then that Rom noticed the colonel's exposed
arm. Rom lifted his gaze to look at Mitra--really took at
himwfor the first time since he had entered the office. The
colonel was bare to the waist. His silvering hair, fastidiously
maintained since Rom and Quark had arrived at Gallitep,
was disheveled. In his other handwthe one not indicating
where Wyte should place the chairmhe held a white towel,
stained with what appeared to be crimson smudges. And his
angular face looked strained, its muscles tensed, his gray
eyeswin direct counterpoint to the quality of his voicew
wild. Perhaps most surprising of all, a welt had been raised
on his otherwise unblemished skin, high on one cheekbone,
near the corner of one eye.
    Good work, brother, Rom thought. Quark had lost the war
against Mitra, but he had captured at least one small
victory.
    Wyte placed the chair before the colonel's desk, facing it.
Rom, with no alternative and no interest in resisting--what
point was there?--sat down. Quark's body was now behind
him.
    "There. Good," Mitra said. Then, to Wyte, he said,
"Sergeant, I need another uniform tunic." Wyte grunted his
acknowledgment and left the room by the door through
which he and Rom had entered. Mitra sat down behind his
desk. "Do you know why you're here, prisoner nine?"
    Rom considered this for a moment. It was a question he
had asked of the universe at large many times since he and
his brother had been brought here. Finally, Rom shrugged.
 "To die," he said.
 Mitra looked at him, blinked.
    "No," he told Rom. "You are here to assist me in
obtaining what I want."
    "You think I'd ever help you?" Rom asked. "You killed
my brother, and now you think I'll help you?"
    Again, the colonel stared at Rom for a time, before he
said, "You Ferengi are such difficult prisoners. In some
ways, you are like the Bajorans." Rom did not understand
this comment, and his confusion must have shown on his
face, because Mitra continued, explaining it. "The Cardas-
sian occupying force found it virtually impossible to defeat
the Bajorans. Oh, they pillaged the planet, enslaved and
tortured thousands of Bajorans, killed millions, but they
could not force them to stop fighting against the Occupa-
tion. The Bajoran spirit for independence was a motivation
with which the Cardassians could not compete."
    Mitra paused, and seemed only then to realize that he was
still holding the towel in his hand. He looked to his lefttto
Rom's right--and tossed the towel into the comer, where a
tunic--the one the colonel had earlier stripped off, Rom
supposed--was already sitting in a pile. Mitra then moved
the metal bowl from the center of the desk off to one side.
He folded his hands together atop the desk. Rom found his
calmness and control unnerving in view of the mania in his
eyes. He again addressed Rom.
    "So, the Bajorans were inexpugnable--" Rom did not
know what that word meant. "--and so are the Ferengi.
Not because of their desire for autonomy, though, but
because of their thirst for profit. There is almost nothing I
can threaten or offer that can compare with it. Except in
your ease, prisoner nine. In your case, there is a profit I can
offer to you that just might convince you to assist me."
    Rom fought the urge to laugh. Boy, did Mitra have the
wrong Ferengi.
    "First, let me tell you what I want," the colonel went on.
"It is very simple, really: the Ninth Orb of the Prophets."
    Rom did laugh then, a short yip. He had been unable to
stop himself.
    "I didn't realize you were such a spiritual man," Rom
said.

    Mitra's eyes narrowed, their intensity increasing. For an
instant, with Wyte gone, Rom thought that the colonel
himself would actually strike him. Instead, he continued
speaking.
    "I am a spiritual man," he said. "Which is why I believe
that the Ninth Orb of the Prophets should be returned to
Bajor."
"I don't have the Orb," Rom said. "You know that."
There was a noise off to one side, and Rom turned in his
chair to see Wyte reenter the room. He walked over to the
desk and handed a uniform tunic to the colonel, who rose to
take it. Mitra said nothing, but pulled the tunic on over his
head, then straightened his hair with his hands. Wyte
walked around Rom to the other side of the desk, where he
leaned against one corner of it.
    "You're right, prisoner nine," Mitra said, still standing.
"I do know that you don't have the Orb. But that doesn't
mean that you can't get it, or that you can't help me get it."
    The colonel walked out from behind his desk, to Rom's
left. Wyte stood up and backed away to let him pass. Mitra
looked down at Rom.
 "You believe I killed your brother?" he asked.
    Rom turned slightly and tilted his head to the side to peer
up at Mitra. Then he nodded in Wyte's direction, though his
gaze never left the colonel's face. "Or told him to," Rom said.
    "I see." Mitra said. He walked away from the desk, away
from Rom, and Rom had to will himself not to turn,
knowing that any movement not specifically commanded
by the colonel would probably result in an attack by Wyte.
But Mitra must have gestured to the sergeant, because Wyte
came over and spun Rom and his chair around so that he
was facing his brother. The colonel stood behind Quark.
    "I have killed tonight," Mitra said, and it seemed to Rom
as though the wildness in the colonel's eyes had somehow
spread now to his voice. "Yes, let's be clear about that. I
intended to kill, I had reason to kill, and so I killed.
Sergeant Wyte did nothing... nothing but watch and de-
light in the pain, in the actual demise, of another. He is a
misanthrope."
 The last, stray comment startled Rom, and he could not
help glancing over at Wyte. The sergeant appeared surprised
too. He turned his head slowly from Rom toward Mitra, a
look of confusion surfacing on his face. Rom was not sure
whether Wyte did not understand what the colonel had said,
or why it had been said.
    "He is a barbarian and a sycophant," Mitra went on.
"But he has been useful to me."
    Rom said nothing. Although he was facing in his brothels
direction, he found that he could not look at the body. His
gaze held fast above Quark's head, on the face of Colonel
Mitra.
    "I killed," Mitra said again, "but this--" He motioned
with both of his hands down at Quark's body. "mI would
not touch. This is a wretched beingmlike yourself, prisoner
nine~a lowly, vile Ferengi. He--you, your people--do not
deserve their world. We will annex it, bring it into the
Empire."
    The Empire? Rom wondered if he had heard the colonel
correctly. The... Bajoran . . . Empire?
    "The richness of your world's resources should be made
to serve superior beings," Mitra said.
    What was he talking about? Bajor had suffered the
depletion of its natural resources during the Cardassian
Occupation; was the colonel proposing that the Bajorans
should therefore conquer Ferenginar for it what it had offer?
    Mitra looked over at Wyte and nodded, then nodded
clown at Quark's body. Wyte walked over and stood facing
Quark, between where Rom was sitting and where Quark's
body sat slouched. Rom saw the sergeant's upper body
move~his arm drew back and drove forward--and he
heard the sound of flesh against flesh. Rom could not
actually see the blow, could not see around Wyte, but it was
obvious that Quark had been struck in the face.
    Rom came up out of his seat, rage filling him, and
wrapped his arms around Wyte's massive body. The ser-
geant shrugged, bringing his elbows up and out, and Rom
was sent flying backward, stunned, into his chair.
 "Bind him," Rom heard the colonel order.
    Wyte was on him quickly, tugging his arms down and
securing them to the chair. Rom shook his head to clear it.
Before him, movement caught his eye. He focused on it,
desperate for it to be his brother, but the body was unmov-
ing. As Rom looked at Quark, though, he saw that color had
flashed into his face where he had been struck. 
Could that happen if he was dead?
 Quark lifted his head and opened his eyes.
    "Brother," Rom called out in joy. Rom did not see
anything~nothing but Quark, anyway--but Mitra must
have signaled to Wyte, because the brute's bare knuckles
smashed into the side of Rom's head. It hurt, but Rom did
not care. All he could do was stare at his brother--alive/
and cry. He could not remember being this happy in a very
long time, and maybe even never before now. His sobs were
loud in the room.
 "Be quiet," the colonel said.
    To Rom, his voice had about it the quality of cooking
meat. Rom looked up from Quark into Mitra's deep-set
eyes, wondering for the first time not just what was happen-
ing behind those eyes, but what had happened in front of
them.
    "This," the colonel said, indicating Quark with a glance,
"is what I have to offer you in the way of profit."
    "You already said that you know I don't have the Orb,"
Rom said, choosing his words with care. "And I don't have
any idea how to help you get it, but I'll do whatever I can."
He had to save his brother's life.
    "Very wise, prisoner nine," Mitra said. "Perhaps, though,
I can settle for something else from you right now... such
as the name of the guard who has been providing vitamins
to the prisoners."
 Rom said nothing.
    "Your silence does not... profit... you at all," the
colonel said. "As you are already aware, you will be unable
to remain silent once Sergeant Wyte begins his process of
coercing you. This is simple information for which I'm
asking."
    "I..." Rom began, and stopped. "I've been stealing the
vitamins myself."
"I see," Mitra said. "And how do you accomplish this?"
"I... uh... sneak out of the barracks at night, some-
times, when everybody's asleep, and I make my way over to
the... uh... the supply .... "
    "Yes," Mitra said, "the supply." He pausedl then walked
a half-circle around Quark to stand in front of Rom. "I have
been told that Ferengi lack courage, and yet here you are,
prisoner nine, before your captorre" Rom found it inter-
esting that the colonel used the singular form of the word.
"rebound, facing your own death as well as the death of
your dear brother, and you lie to me to protect Sergeants
Argan and Jessel."
    Rom could not prevent the look of surprise he knew had
appeared on his face.
    "Oh, yes, I already knew," Mitra told him. "I just wanted
to see whether you were brave enoughmor foolish enough;
is it just foolishness?into lie to me. I must say, I am
amazed." Then, without changing the beat of his speech, he
said, "Sergeant Wyte."
    Before Rom could prepare himself, Wyte's arm swept
around his neck. He felt his eyes widen as he lost the ability
to breathe. The colonel stepped away then, leaving Quark in
Rom's line of sight. His brother was clearly groggy, unaware
of what was going on around him. Then, as quickly as Wyte
had begun to choke him, he stopped. Rom gasped for
breath, his chest heaving as he swallowed gulps of air. When
his breathing returned to normal and he quieted, he heard
Mitra's voice from somewhere behind him; it sounded as
though he was seated in the chair behind his desk.
    "Now then, prisoner nine," he said, "I understand that
you are attachedmnot just in a literal way, as we all are--
but in a figurative, in an emotional, way, to your right
hand."
    Rom looked at Quark. Mitra had obviously extracted
personal information from him, including this select tidbit
from Rom's youth on Ferenginar. Still, Rom felt nothing
but love and affection and sorrow for his brother. This
admissionsand perhaps others~though it had nothing to
do with Quark specifically, must have been very hard on
him. How many days, how many weeks, had they been here
now? How many hours had Quark suffered through today
before Colonel Mitra had been able to dredge such data
from him?
 A long time ago, memories of the way he had been
manipulated by Breel, of his own impotence in that ancient
situation, had brought Rom great pain. Not even so long
ago, he admitted to himself. But that had been prior to his
internment at Gallitep. Now, the old events and emotions
seemed trivial. In a way, Rom realized, Mitra had failed,
because the colonel's brutal treatment had served to harden
him.
 "Go ahead," Rom said quietly. "Take my hand."
 Silence. Rom waited.
    "I will, I think," Mitra said at last. "I believe I'll have it
shipped to Ferenginar. To Moogie."
    Rom knew that would kill his mother, she so loved her
two boys. Outwardly, though, Rom betrayed nothing.
    "I'm sure she'd like to have reminders of her sons," he
said. "Why don't you take my heart too?" Rom knew that
he was never going to leave Gallitep alive, and doing so had
ceased to be important to him. If he could only find some
way of saving his brother, then he could simply die and be
rid of Mitra and Wyte permanently. But Rom could not
conceive of any method for him to get Quark away from
here. Perhaps his joy for his brother had been misplaced;
perhaps Quark would have been better off if he had already
been dead at this point.
    "Your heart?" the colonel said, as though musing. "Per-
haps. But not yet. And not you, not your hand. I think
perhaps... one of prisoner eight's ears."
    Rom's heart pounded heavily in his chest. Quark's ear.
The ears, the lobes, were everything to a Ferengi: the most
significant parts of their bodies, sense organs, erogenous
zones, used as a metaphor for ages about the strength and
power of Ferengi males. Anything, Rom thought, anything
but the ears.
 "Sergeant," Mitra ordered.
    To Rom's right, Wyte moved, again entering the small file
room. He returned shortly with a Bajoran phaser pistol in
his hand. On the proper setting, Rom knew, it would easily
slice through Quark's skin and cartilage.
    "No," the colonel said. "Not that way." There came the
sound of a chair scraping along the floor as Mitra pushed it
back. He entered Rom's peripheral vision, and Rom saw
him walk into the file room. He reappeared a moment later.
In his hand, he carried a long knife, its blade maybe twenty-
five centimeters in length. It was sleek, Rom saw, but for a
few dull streaks of crimson here and there. Mitra handed
the knife to Wyte, who took it and stuffed the phaser into
the waistband of his uniform. The colonel went back behind
his desk again, and Rom heard him sit down.
    Wyte made his way behind Quark, a villainous smile
decorating his face. With one hand, the sergeant pulled
Quark's head up and back; with the other, he laid the blade
of the knife against the flange of Quark's right ear.
    Rom tensed his body. He was going to do something, he
had to--
    Sudden movement startled him. Quark's head dipped
down and his legs thrust onto the floor, sending his chair
hurtling backward into Wyte's midsection. Wyte backped-
aled uncontrollably, stopping only when he struck the wall.
    At the same time, Quark came down on the rear, right leg
of the chair and was unable to keep his balance. He went
over sideways, landing on his side on the floor, still secured
to the chair.
    Wyte, shaken, started to come forward from the wall.
Rom did not hesitate--he did not know what Mitra was
doing behind him, and he was not going to wait to find out.
He moved quickly, rocking forward onto his feet and
surging ahead across the room. He pounded his head into
Wyte's chest. The burly sergeant sailed backward again.
This time, his head slammed into the wall with a sickening
crack. Rom heard, but did not see, the phaser clatter on the
floor.
    He spun quickly past Wyte's slumping body, sending his
chair crashing into the wall. The old wooden chair burst
apart at its joints. Rom's arms came free, though they were
both still attached to the splinters that remained of the chair
arms. He did not bother with them, but dropped to his
knees and hunted for the phaser. Out of the corner of his
eye, he saw Mitra coming around the desk at him.
    Rom scrambled, moving around on all fours, his eyes
darting everywhere--until he saw it, there, the phaser pistol
just on the other side of Wyte's sprawling form. Rom dove
over the sergeant and grabbed it. He whirled and stood in
one motion, sending himself into the far corner of the room.
 Mitra was maybe three paces away.
    Rom held up the phaser, pointing it at the colonel.
Beyond Mitra, Quark was dazedly moving on the floor.
Wyte was motionless. Mitra looked at Rom, then in turn at
Wyte, at Quark, and finally back at Rom and the phaser.
    Mitra smiled, a dead rictus of a smile that reflected the
insanity in his eyes.
 "Don't come any closer," Rom said.
    "Let's see if you really have any courage," Mitra said. He
stepped forward, as though Rom's words had been an
invitation. "I'm betting that you don't." His voice was not
angry or fearful in tone, but merely conversational. "None
of you Bajorans do." Bajorans?
    "And even if you do, so what? If you kill me, then
somebody will replace me." Rom did not believe that was
true; Mitra was acting on his own here, he was sure. "We
own this planet," Mitra continued. "It is ours. You and your
people are just an inconvenience to us. Although I must say,
we do enjoy having you here at Gallitep." He took another
step toward Rom.
    "Stop or I'll shoot you. I swear I will," Rom said. The
phaser shook in his hand.
    "That phaser is calibrated to kill," Mitra said. "So go
ahead. Shoot, Rom."
    Rom should have known better. Even if the phaser had
been set to kill, so what? Rom was no killer, but he had been
forced into this position; he had to do this in order to save
the lives of his brother and the other prisoners, not to
mention his own life and maybe even those of the other
guards.
 Instead, Rom glanced down at the setting on the phaser.
 Mitra took the final step forward.
Rom raised the phaser higher, closed his eyes, and--
--and Mitra slapped his hands, hard. The phaser arced
into the wall and dropped to the floor. It was the first time
Rom had ever felt the colonel's touch.
    Mitra's hands shot forward and grabbed Rom at the sides
of his rib cage. With no time to react, Rom was lifted from
the floor and thrown across the room into the far wall. He
was unconscious before he hit the floor.

    When Rom came to, the first thing he heard was water
splashing. The second thing was his brother.
    "Are you all right?" Quark asked. His voice sounded
thick, as though he were speaking around a mouthful of
tube grubs.
    "Yes," Rom said, shaking himself awake. He peered
around. He was sitting on the floor of Mitra's office, his
back to the wall, more or less where he had been thrown by
the colonel. Quark was next to him. He tried to move and
discovered that both his hands--which were behind his
back--and his feet were bound. So were Quark's, he saw.
    On the floor in front of Rom, the remnants of the chair he
had destroyed were scattered about. The other chair, the
one to which Quark had been secured, was farther away, on
the other side of the room, on its side, as though it had been
thrown there. Between the broken wood and the whole
chair, Sergeant Wyte lay where he had fallen. Rom saw that
a pool of blood, almost black, had spread beneath his head.
    Colonel Mitra was behind his desk, standing over the
metal basin. He had removed the tunic that Wyte had
brought him; it had been tossed over next to the other one,
which was still in a heap in the corner, Rom noted. In one
hand, the colonel held a brush of some sort. Methodically,
he dipped the brush into the basin, along with something
else Rom could not make out but assumed was soap, and
then he scrubbed away at his skin. Mitra's hands, arms, aM
chest, Rom saw with horror, had been scraped raw; the flesh
was beginning to ooze blood.
    As Mitra cleaned himself--if what he was doing could be
called "cleaning"--Rom realized that the colonel was also
talking to himself in a constant stream, though so low that
Rom, with only one ear functioning, had to struggle to make
out any words at all.
    "... lowly Bajorans... stop... the glory of Cardas-
sia... what do they think?..."
 "He's been like that for an hour," Quark said.
    "What's he doing?" Rom wanted to know, unable to pull
his gaze away from the bizarre sight.
 "I don't know," Quark said, "and I don't care."
 "What about us? What are we going to do?"
     "I'm certainly open to suggestions," Quark said. "But I
think what's going to happen is that he's going to kill us."
 Rom looked over again at the colonel.
    "I don't know," Rom said. "I don't even think he knows
we're here anymore."
    "Oh, I know you're here," Mitra said immediately, his
voice gaining in volume. He did not look up, but simply
continued scrubbing himself. "And when I finish cleaning
your vile putrescence from my body, yes, it will be your
time. You will die slowly and painfully for your ill-
considered attempt to defeat Gul Mitra."
 Gul? Rom thought. That was a Cardassian title.
 "He's insane," Quark told Rom.
    "I am not insane," Mitra said. He put the soap down on
his desk and picked up the phaser, which had apparently
been lying beside the basin. He waved it in the general
direction of Rom and Quark. "You don't know what it's like
to run this place... to have to deal with inferior creatures
like yourself...."
    And neither do you, Rom thought. Not in the way you're
talking about. And then a suspicion came into Rom's mind.
    "You were a prisoner here yourself during the Occupa-
tion, weren't you, Colonel Mitra?"
    Mitra stopped waving the phaser, stopped moving com-
pletely. It was as though he were a character in a suspended
holosuite program. Then, slowly, deliberately, he put the
phaser back down and resumed his scrubbing, though free
this time of any commentary.
 "We have to do something," Rom whispered to Quark.
 "What?" Quark asked. "What do you--"
    The door to the corridor started to open. Rom and Quark
both looked up, startled. Mitra continued to scrub himself.
    Corporal Prana walked into the room, looking ashen and
shaky; his eyes were rimmed in red. Rom saw his gaze travel
first to the dormant form of Sergeant Wyte, then to Mitra,
and lastly to himself and Quark. Rom thought that he
should say something, scream to the guard about what had
been happening, but he felt powerless to speak. And as
Quark had long ago pointed out, they had no idea where
Prana's allegiance actually lay. Besides, the picture before
the corporal's eyes spoke for itself.
    "Corporal Prana," Mitra said, and Prana turned to his
commanding officer. "I'm delighted to see you. We've had a
slight problem here." All the while, the colonel continued to
scrub himself.
    "I see that," Prana said. "What happened to Sergeant
Wyte?"
  "The prisoners killed him," Mitra said.
  "And Jessel and Argan?" Prana asked.
  "They killed them too."
    Rom shuddered as he realized that the other two guards
had been murdered. That must have been what Mitra had
meant when he had spoken of having killed tonight.
    "Oh," Prana said, glancing down again at Rom and
Quark. "What are you doing, sir?" he asked, his eyes still on
the internees.
    "I am purifying myself once more," Mitra said. "And
then I am going to kill the prisoners."
    "Uh-huh," Prana said calmly, now looking back up at the
colonel. After a moment, he walked over to the desk, bent
over, and reached down onto its surface. When he stood up
fully again, Rom saw that he had picked up the phaser.
Another sidearm, Rom noticed, was already fastened to
Prana's uniform at his waist.
    "Well, yes, if you want to kill them now, that's fine,"
Mitra said. "I wanted to do it slowly, but really, I've had
enough of them."
    Prana turned and faced Rom and Quark. He stood there,
looking at the two Ferengi for what seemed to Rom like a
very long time.
 "Fire, Corporal," Mitra finally said. "Fire."
 Prana did.

CHAPTER
      27

THE DOOR CHIME SOUNDED just as Sisko was preparing to
leave his office. He stepped up to the doors and they opened
before him. Odo stood on the other side of the threshold,
hands behind his back, head turned and looking back down
into Ops.
 "Can I help you, Constable?" Sisko asked.
    "Oh," Odo said, evidently startled as he spun around to
see Sisko right there, at the doors. "Were you going some-
where, Captain?"
    "I was thinking about it," Sisko said, "but no." The
simulated night was approaching on Deep Space Nine, and
although he still had work to do, Sisko had indeed been
thinking about getting away from his office for a little
while. He had been considering asking Dax to take a walk
with him so that he could seek her counsel, but that could
wait until after he had seen what Odo wanted. "Come
in."
    Sisko retreated into his office and circled back around his
desk. The constable followed him inside, the doors sliding
closed behind him. As Sisko sat down, he gestured to a chair
on the other side of the desk.
  "Have a seat," he invited Ode.
     "That's all right," the constable said, remaining on his
 feet. "This shouldn't take very long."
  "All right then," Sisko said. "What can I do for you?"
    "Major Kira briefed me about the first minister's reaction
to our findings," Ode began.
    Earlier today, Sisko had contacted Shakaar to discuss
what Chief O'Brien had learned from da Vinci's sensor logs.
Unexpectedly, the first minister had received the informa-
tion regarding the possibility of a staged battle out on the
trade routes as though it were of no importance. His
perspective, he had explained, was that the Ferengi were
already acting contrary to the interests of Bajor, and that he
expected them to continue to do so. It was therefore of no
additional consequence that the Ferengi might have chosen
to contrive an incident that would bring the two worlds to
the flash point. Shakaar had even concluded that the
potential revelation only reinforced his belief that the
present course his people were pursuing to militantly de-
fend themselves was the proper one.
    "Shakaar's reaction was disappointing," Sisko agreed.
"And the Federation Council's wasn't much better." Prior
to speaking with the first minister, Sisko had made a report
of the situation to Starfleet Command, who had relayed it
on to the Council. The opinions of the delegates had
presaged those of Shakaar. "I don't know. Maybe the first
minister and the Council members are right: if the Ferengi
want to force the Bajorans into a fight, and the Bajorans
choose to respond, then... well, I guess it's not the Federa-
tion's business."
    "It doesn't sound like you believe that," Ode com-
mented. His hands were clasped behind his back once more,
in a rigid, militaristic pose familiar to Sisko.
    "That's because I don't believe it," Sisko said. "I feel that
there must be some way for us to stop this before lives are
lost, before..." He did not voice his complete thought.
    "Before Bajor faces another occupying force," Ode fin-
ished.
    "Not an occupying force," Sisko said, and the urge to
leave his office suddenly struck him again. Needing at least
to move around, he stood up from his chair. "Occupation's
not the Ferengi way. But maybe something worse than
that."
 "Worse?"
    "If the Ferengi wage war on the Bajorans, they'll win,"
Sisko said, coming out from behind his desk and pacing
across the room as he spoke. "And if they win, you can bet
that they'll keep the wormhole--and probably enact a
toll--but that they'll sell Bajor and its moons to whoever
offers the most for them."
    "That hadn't occurred to me," Ode said. "They could
hand Bajor back over to the Cardassians."
    "They could hand it over to anybody: the Kilngens, the
Romulans, the Dominion .... "Sisko turned at the far end
of the room and peered back at Ode.
 "What do you propose to do?" Ode asked.
    "I propose nothing," Sisko replied. "If the Bajorans won't
listen, if the Federation won't listen, then I don't know who
will."
 "Perhaps the grand nagus will," Odo suggested.
    "I already attempted to change Zek's mind once," Sisko
reminded him. He walked back toward the desk, his anxiety
pushing him into motion.
    "And you were successful," Odo noted. "It was your
request that impelled him to allow humanitarian aid to be
carried through the blockade."
    "That may have been a ploy, as we discussed," Sisko said.
He stopped beside Odo. "The aid won't even be here for
another week; who knows if the nagus will really allow it all
the way to Bajor."
    "You also persuaded him to delay the final round of the
auction for at least another month."
    "I don't think I did," Sisko said. "I think the final round
was already scheduled for that time." The truth is, he
thought, I haven't changed anybody's mind about anything.
     "Perhaps," Odo admitted. "But actually, it wasn't you
who I was thinking should speak with the nagus."
 "Then who?" Sisko asked.
 "Quark."
    "Quark?" Sisko half-leaned, half-sat on the edge of the
desk. He had not anticipated such a recommendation from
the constable. It had always been Sisko's impression that
Ode had only contempt for Quark. In fact, the constable's
well-known and well-honed sense of justice probably would
have allowed for nothing less, considering the Ferengi's
reputation for circumventing--if not violating--the law.
    "I think Quark would be a useful mediator," Ode ex-
plained.
    "But neither the Bajorans nor the Ferengi are interested
in mediation," Sisko said. "That's a road we've already
traveled."
    "Yes, but not with Quark," Ode countered. "He has a
relationship with the nagus."
    That was true, Sisko knew, although he was not entirely
certain of the nature of that relationship. Still, it was
doubtless stronger--positively or negatively--than Sisko's
own weak ties with Zek. Absently, he plucked the baseball
sitting on his desk from its stand.
    "And Quark has intimate, detailed knowledge of both the
Ferengi and the Bajorans," Ode continued. "He under-
stands their political circumstances, the things that moti-
vate them, the ways in which they think. It's conceivable
that he might succeed in persuading the nagus not just to
reinstate the Bajorans in the bidding for the Orb--"
    "--which is where this entire situation started," Sisko
interjected, reasoning along with Ode.
    "--but to actually sell it to them," Ode finished. "Such
an action might go a long way in defusing the current
tensions."
    "It might," Sisko said, though he was far from convinced.
He rolled the baseball around in his hands. "But I'm not so
sure that the nagus wants these tensions defused."
    "That's certainly possible," Ode concurred. "But that
means that nothing we do will change the course of events.
Does that mean we shouldn't try?" Ode paused as Sisko
digested this. "Maybe the recent actions of the nagus have
only come as a reaction to what the Bajorans have done."
    "You mean cutting the Ferengi off from the wormhole,"
Sisko said.
    "Yes. And if the nagus can be made to relent on his initial
position--excluding the Bajorans from the auction--then
surely the Bajorans will rescind their edict."
 "And you think Quark can help bring this about?" Sisko
asked. He glanced down at the baseball spinning in his
hands; its white leather covering was smooth against his
fingers, the two hundred and sixteen raised red stitches that
held the ball together providing the only friction. 
"I think it's possible," Ode replied.
    "I didn't you know you had so much..." Sisko searched
for another word and could not find one. "... respect?...
for Quark."
    "I don't believe I would choose the word respect," Ode
said. "I recognize Quark's abilities. He's a businessman--a
good businessman, I think, if not a good Ferengi business-
man. Oddly enough, he also abides by at least the letter of
our laws."
    "I'm surprised to hear you say that," Sisko said. He
manipulated the baseball with his right hand--index and
middle fingers on top, thumb below--holding it with differ-
ent grips: four-seam fastball, two-seam fastball, curveball.
    "Yes, well, it doesn't mean that I don't think he acts
criminally sometimes," Ode equivocated. "But he is per-
suasive."
    "Yes, he is that," Sisko said. Then, with no better options
having yet been devised, he told the constable, "I'll consider
it."
    Odo nodded in his stiffly formal manner, and apparently
having made the point he wanted to make, he turned and
left the office. Sisko watched him go, thinking that even if
this was the alternative with the best possibility of avoiding
further hostilities between the Bajorans and the Ferengi,
there would still be significant hurdles to overcome: even if
they could convince Quark to do this--of which there was
no guarantee--Quark was still in jail on Bajor. As least,
Sisko thought he was still in jail on Bajor, the truth was,
with all that had been happening, he had not thought about
Quark in quite some time.

    Sisko walked with Dax along the main concourse of the
Promenade. Almost all of the shops were dark now, he saw.
The Ferengi blockade had been extremely effective in pre-
venting many of the local shopkeepers from receiving the
goods they required for the everyday operations of their
businesses. Other shops, such as Garak's tador shop, had
shut down because of the corresponding reduction in the
consumer traffic on the Promenade.
    "I didn't know the Klingon restaurant had closed," Sisko
noticed as he and Dax strolled past it.
    "A couple of days ago," Dax told him. "The chef had
been making do with replicated substitutes for native Kling-
on foods, but it wasn't the same; you could really taste the
difference with a lot of the fare."
    "Since there's probably no such thing as a Klingon
vegetarian," Sisko joked, "I'U bet you could." Although
replicators were often utilized to reproduce foods, they were
less effective in mimicking those derived from animate
sources.
     "I think when he was forced to close," Dax went on, "the
chef was considering declaring war on the Ferengi himself."
 Sisko laughed.
    "Somehow, I don't doubt that," he said. "You know, I
think the primary reason Klingons can be so aggressive is
that food they eat."
    "Oh, it's tasty. You just never had the stomach for it,"
Dax teased.
    "And I never will," Sisko said. "What was that one dish
Curzon used to love so much?"
 "Rokeg blood pie," Dax said. "Delicious."
 "I tend to avoid dishes that have the word bloodin them."
    "Well, then I guess you won't want to know what the
word rokeg means."
    Sisko laughed again, harder this time. Dax almost never
failed to bolster him when that was what he needed. As they
walked along the Promenade, Sisko explained to his old
friend the responses he had received from both the Bajorans
and the Federation Council regarding the battle possibly
staged by the Ferengi. He also spelled out Constable Odo's
notions about Quark's ability to help.
    "What do you think?" Sisko asked when he had finished
telling her everything.
    "I think Odo's right," Dax said without hesitation.
"Quark knows the players involved, and he can be very
persuasive when he wants to be."
    "Then you agree that using Quark as a mediator might
work?" Sisko said.
"Yes, I agree," she said, "but can you be sure that Quark
will?"
    "I know," Sisko admitted. "What profit is there in it for
him?"
    "It's more than just that," Dax said. "Nobody here did
anything to help him when he was faced with losing his
business and his home for something he didn't even do."
    "I understand that," Sisko said, forcefully enough that he
realized he was feeling defensive. "You're right," he told
Dax. "Maybe we should've helped him. But the Federation
Council wouldn't have allowed it."
    "And it won't allow it now," Dax said. "So how do you
suggest that we get Quark out of Bajoran custody?"
    "I don't suggest that we do anything," Sisko told her.
"I've already violated Resolution 49-535 informally; I'm
not about to do it in a formal context. But I do have
somebody else in mind for the job."



CHAPTER
      28

KIRA ARRIVED earlier than she needed to, and the officer of
the assembly--a small, round, officious manmrequested
that she wait in an adjoining anteroom until it was time for
her to speak. As she sat in one of the half-dozen chairs in the
small room, she found that her hands were disagreeably
moist, and cold to the touch.
    Nerves, she thought, and wondered, What have I got to be
nervous about?
    Although she had never before addressed Bajor's Cham-
ber of Ministers, she had a couple of times spoken to the
�edek Assembly. She had also certainly presented her share
of briefings during her tenure on Deep Space Nine. It was
ridiculous, she told herself, to think that public speaking
would cause her such anxiety.
    Except that, on those other occasions, the words and
ideas she had presented had been her own, and she had
believed in them.
 Does that mean I don't believe in the Emissary?
    That was an uncomfortable notion. Of course, When the
Prophets Cried and the other sacred writings did not pro-
claim the Emissary to be infallible, nor did Kira presume
him to be so. And yet her respect for the Emissarymand for
Captain Sisko, for Benjamin Sisko, the manmwas consider-
able. But what he had asked of her--to petition the Bajoran
government for the release of that blackguard Quark~was
so difficult for her to understand.
    Am I wrong? Perhaps that was the real question she
should be asking herself.
    Captain Sisko had shown up at her quarters last night,
unannounced, and asked if he might speak with her for a
few moments. She had initially been delighted that he had
called upon her--her reverence for the Emissary really
allowed her no other reaction--but she had quickly become
disquieted when the conversation had turned to Quark.
    She had listened calmly as the captain had outlined his
plan, and then she had just as calmly attempted to point out
its flaws to him. Even if she was able to convince the
Bajoran government to release Quark, what assurance did
they have that he would agree to speak with the nagus? After
all, he had refused her request to do as much months ago,
back when the Bajorans had been eliminated from the
auction for the Orb. The captain had argued that they now
had something of value to offer Quark in exchange for his
cooperation: his freedom. That still did not mean that
Quark would be able to accomplish what they would ask of
him, Kira had countered. No, Sisko had conceded, but
maybe he would be successful, in which case this dangerous
situation would be eased, and the Ninth Orb might then
find its way back to Bajor.
    For one of the very few times, Kira had not found the
captain's arguments to be very compelling. She had not said
so outright, but she was sure that he had known; he was a
bright and perceptive man. And of course, he was the
Emissary. And on that basis, Kira had acquiesced. She bad
contacted Shakaar and entreated him to grant her an
emergency audience in the Great Assembly, although she
had not told him why. He had alerted her this morning that
she would be given that audience.
    When Kira had informed the captain, he had been
pleased. Kira's conscience, though, had demanded that she
be honest and forthright with Sisko, and so she had divulged
to him her reluctance to perform this task. Further, she had
revealed that she was averse to seeing Quark released from
jail, and that she was therefore uncertain that she would be
able to lobby the Assembly as well as she otherwise might.
She also thought it unlikely that the Bajoran leaders would
want to set Quark free; although he was currently being held
as a political prisoner, it was also true that he had willfully
violated the edict, for which crime he had not yet been
made to stand trial. Captain Sisko had simply smiled at all
of her qualms, accepting them. This was not an order, he
told her, but a request, and he had faith in her abilities.
    And that was ironic, wasn't it, because that was what this
crisis of confidence was all about: faith. Her faith in the
Emissary and her faith in herself. But where did self-
confidence and self-awareness meet with spirituality?
Where did reason and intellect intersect with belief?.
    Kira was still posing these questions to herself--these
and others--when the officer of the Assembly knocked on
the door and then entered the anteroom.
 "They're ready to hear your petition now," he told her.
    Kira stood and followed the officer toward the Great
Assembly. Her hands were still icy and damp.

    When Kira reached the assembly hall, she found that it
was only about half-filled. As she entered at the rear of the
semicircular dais, she gazed out over the rising arcs of seats
emanating outward from where she stood. The doors at the
ends of the three radial aisles leading to the entryways were
all closed. There were enough seats here, she knew, to
accommodate every member of both the Chamber of Min-
istem and the Vedek Assembly. Looking out at the people
watching her, she recognized a number of faces: Vedeks
Pralon and Sorretta, and Minister Hannan, and a few
others.
    As she approached the front of the rostrum, she saw
movement. Seated near the area from which she would
make her address were the first minister and the kai.
Shakaar was rising from his chair to greet her, she saw. The
image of him taking her in his arms flitted momentarily
across her mind, and then was gone; she missed him, but
her duties took precedence right now.

    At the edge of the dais, the first minister held out both of
his hands, palms up, in greeting. Kira placed her own hands
in his, palms down. She felt the pressure of his fingers as he
squeezed gently--/love you, I miss you, do well, the touch
all at once seemed to say to her--and then he leaned in
toward her. For a confusing moment, she thought he was
going to kiss her, but then his face was past hers and he was
speaking quietly into her ear.
    "A lot of the ministers and vedeks felt they couldn't leave
their people right now," Shakaar said to her. "The food
shortage is more acute in some places than in others. But we
do have a quorum."
    "Thank you," she said, a bit awkwardly. He began to
release her hands and turn away, but she did not let go.
When he turned back questioningly, she said, "Really:
thank you." She smiled and dropped his hands.
    Shakaar walked to the front of the dais and introduced
Kira to the assemblage, some of whom knew her, most of
whom at least knew of her. There was, after all, only one
Bajoran liaison to Deep Space Nine, only one Bajoran who
served as executive officer to the Emissary. Shakaar took his
seat beside Winn, and Kira strode forward.
    "Good day," she said, making sure her voice was loud
enough to carry to everybody present. "Thank you, First
Minister. I have come here today to propose a course of
action that I think--" She wanted to say will, Sisko would
have wanted her to say will, but she could not bring herself
to do so. "--that I think might bring an end to our troubles
with the Ferengi. It might also bring the Ninth Orb back to
Bajor."
    A murmur rose in the audience. Kira watched as several
people turned to exchange glances with those seated near
them. She had apparently gotten their attention.
    "There is a man incarcerated on Bajor," Kira continued,
and then feeling the need to elaborate, said, "A Ferengi."
Suddenly, she had the sense that she had just said some-
thing very ugly: There is a man--no, not a man,' a Ferengi--
incarcerated on Bajor. As though Quark were not man, not a
person, but a thing, an inferior thing. She had many
negative opinions about Quark, but she had not intended to
suggest that he was not a person... had she? Unnerved,
she began to move slowly along the front edge of the
rostrum, walking to her left as she resumed.
    "This man's name is Quark," she said. "I know him. He
lived and worked on Deep Space Nine, and when he refused
to leave by the deadline specified in the edict expelling all
Ferengi from Bajoran space, he was arrested and brought to
Bajor by the order of the first minister." She motioned in
Shakaar's direction. "This man--Quark--has a relation-
ship with Grand Nagus Zek, and I have reason to think that,
in exchange for his freedom from jail, Quark would be
willing to try to convince the nagus to allow Bajor to
purchase the Orb."
    The murmurs now rose, graduating into distinct voices
and audible words. Kira glanced back at the first minister
and the kai--Kira had drifted from the center of the
rostrum almost halfway to its left-hand edge--and she saw
that Winn's eyes were downcast, her head shaking slowly
back and forth. It was an unambiguous sign, not only of
dissent, Kira thought, but of disrespect; Winn was entitled
to disagree with Kira's view--or the view she was present-
ing, anyway--but the kai should have been considerate
enough to wait until the appropriate time to express her
own opinions. Shakaar, at least, was motionless, his face
impassive, although when he and Kira made eye contact,
she noticed his eyebrows jump almost imperceptibly; he
was letting her know that it would be difficult for her to sell
what she was proposing to the ministers and the vedeks--
and perhaps even to him.
    "What's your reason?" somebody called out from the
assemblage. Kira stopped where she was and peered
around, attempting to locate the source of the question. As
her gaze passed over one man, he stood and gestured to her.
"You said that you had reason to think this Ferengi would
be willing to help us," he said. "I wanted to know what that
reason is."
    Did I say that? Kira wondered. Did I say I had reason to
think Quark would help us? She must have, but she had
probably just been employing a figure of speech. Regardless,
she realized that the question was a valid one--one she had
asked Sisko, and for which she had not received a very
convincing answer. So how was she going to persuade these
people now?
    "I think that, like all Ferengi, Quark is driven by profit,"
she said, and on the heels of that, thought, All Ferengi?
Rom? Nog? She pushed the questions aside and continued.
"Since Quark can't pursue material gain while he's in jail,
I'm sure he would be motivated enough to do as we ask if we
promise to let him go."
    "That's a reason that he'd want to get out of jail,"
somebody else said, a woman seated close to the dais, "not a
reason to think he'd get the nagus to change his mind."
    "Yes, that's right," Kira said, "but I..." I what? she
thought. I agree with these people.
    Many were now conversing in the audience, no longer
content to keep their thoughts to themselves or their voices
low. Kira turned to Shakaar--for strength, for a look of
support, anything--but he had already perceived that she
was in trouble; he was out of his chair and walking toward
her. As he crossed the dais, he held up a hand, and some of
the talking quieted.
"What is it, Nerys?" Shakaar asked as he reached her.
Kira looked up into his eyes and wanted to tell him,
wanted to confess that she was trying to espouse a position
in which she did not truly believe. But if this was going to be
so difficult, if she was going to be unable to accede to Sisko's
request, then why had she agreed to come down here? Why?
    The answer, she suddenly discovered, was simple: She
had faith.
    "Nothing," she told Shakaar. "I'm all right." With a
gentle touch to his arm, she pushed him back toward his
seat. Kai Winn, Kira saw, was staring at her. Kira turned
away from her and strode back to the middle of the rostrum.
    "The Emissary asked me to come here today," she
announced, and the Great Assembly grew immediately
quiet. This was not something Kira was supposed to reveal;
it was a violation of the Federation Council's resolution--
not for her, since she was not a Federation citizen, but for
Captain Sisko. Was she betraying him? No, she decided; it
would have been a betrayal if she had come here and failed
to make the Emissary's thoughts and feelings understood.
Nobody here was going to contact the Federation Council to
intixm them that Sisko had acted in contravention of their
Resolution 49-535; nobody here would want to see the
captain diseiplinedmor in a worst-case scenario, removed
from the command of D$9--for wanting to help the people
of Bajor.
    Not even Winn, Kira thought. The kai might not be sure
that Sisko was truly the Emissary, but neither was she sure
that he was not.
    "As I said before, I know Quark myself," Kira continued.
"To be honest, I don't trust him. But I do trust the
Emissary, and he believes that Quark may be the key to
easing our tensions with the Ferengi and to retrieving the
Ninth Orb." She paused, wanting everybody to take this in
before she went on. She looked out again at individual faces
and this time saw pensive expressions on many of them.
The word of the Emissary, she knew, was obviously worth
considering. The Assembly might not adopt Sisko's plan,
but they would deliberate about it.
    "Captain Sisko intends to escort Quark to Ferenginar
himself," Kira said. "He will see to it that Quark meets with
Grand Nagus Zek." And that was it. There was nothing else
she could say, no chain of reasoning she could outline, that
would carry more weight than the word of the Emissary and
his planned involvement to help Bajor. And that was
understandable, Kira thought; no living Bajoran had ever
been in the presence of the Prophets, or had communicated
with them, as Benjamin Sisko had. And as Quark had.
    A c~ passed through Kira's body as she recalled the
events surrounding the nagus's purchase of the Ninth Orb.
Immediately after he had bought it, the nagns had jour-
neyed to the wormhole; he had hoped to use the Orb to
contact the aliens withinmwho, according to the Emissary,
did not experience their existence linearly through time.
Zek had wanted to be given a glimpse of the future so that
he could increase his personal fortune. But when he had
come out of the wormhole and visited D$9, he had exhib-
ited a profoundly altered personality, one which valued
benevolence and philanthropy over materialism. Quark had
subsequently taken Zek back into the wormhole, and when
they had emerged, the nagus's original personality had been
restored. Later, Quark had claimed that when he had
returned with Zek to the wormhole--to the Celestial Tem-
ple-he had made contact with the aliens who had con-
structed it and who resided within it, the Prophets. At the
time, Kira had quickly and easily dismissed Quark's ac-
count as apocryphal, but she wondered now what the
repercussions would be if he had been telling the truth. It
was yet another question for which she was going to have to
seek an answer.
    Shakaar was up and standing beside Kira once more, she
saw. He was regarding her stoically, and she wished she
knew what he was thinking. She doubted that his perspec-
tive had been swayed; he seemed confident in the justness of
the position he and Kai Winn shared: there would be no
diplomatic relations with Ferenginar until the Ninth Orb
was on its way back to Bajor. Nevertheless, Kira knew that
he would invite a full discussion of the matter with those
present in the Assembly; if there was a consensus contrary
to his view, then he might be persuaded to act as the captain
had suggested.
    "Are you finished, Nerys?" Shakaar asked. His tone was
neutral, neither supportive nor antagonistic.
    "I don't know that I did a very good job of presenting the
Emissary's position," Kira admitted, "but I don't think
there's anything more I can say."
    "All right," he said. "Will you stay while we debate the
issue, in case there are questions we need to have an-
swered?"
    I have enough questions of my own to answer, Kira
thought, but said, "Of course."
    "Thank you." Shakaar turned to the assemblage. Kira
took a step back as he began to speak, as a sign of respect, so
that the focus of the people would be on him. "Major Kira
has given us an alter--"
    Shakaar clipped his sentence in midword. Kira looked
over at him and saw that he was looking elsewhere. She
followed his gaze to the back of the hall, to the end of the
central aisle. There, the entryway door was just closing;
Sirsy, Shakaar's assistant, was rushing toward the dais.
    "Excuse me," Shakaar told everybody. He proceeded to
one side of the rostrum, where stairs led down to the floor of
the assembly hall. Unbidden, Kira followed.
    "What is it, Sirsy?" he asked when she met them at the
base of the steps.
    "You have an urgent message, Minister," Sirsy said, her
breathing rapid from her exertion. "It's from Grand Nagus
Zek."

CHAPTER
      29

SisKo ~ Major Kira's communication put right through to
his office.
    "Major, I hadn't expected to hear from you quite so
soon," he told his executive officer.
"I wish you weren't heating from me now," Kira replied.
Her tone--solemn, flat--caused him to gaze at her image
on the comm panel more closely. She appeared anxious,
and as though she had been under a great strain. Sisko felt a
sting of regret that he had asked her to undertake a task she
had not felt comfortable performing. But was her anxiety
because she had convinced the Assembly of the workability
of his plan, or because she had failed to do so?
    "Has the Assembly finished hearing you already?" he
asked.
 "We were interrupted," Kira said.
    "Major, are you all tight?" Sisko wanted to know.
"Where are you?"
    "I'm not sure how I'm doing," she said. "I'm in Shakaar's
office. He just received a message directly from the nagus."
Sisko felt his heart leap in his chest. "Shakaar asked me to
contact you; he's already in conference."
  "What is it? What's happened?"
    "I'11 play you the message, Captain," Kira said. "It's
brief."
    Sisko watched as Kira peered offscreen. He saw her upper
arm move as she operated the comm panel in Shakaar's
office. After a moment, Kira's image was replaced with that
of Grand Nagus Zek. The old Ferengi's face almost seemed
to drip from his head, his wrinkled flesh in surrender after
years of battling gravity. And yet there was a gleam in the
grand nagus's eye, Sisko thought, a hint that he was fully
enjoying the business at hand.
    "First Minister Shakaar Eden of Bajor," Zek began.
Numbers spelling out a stardate ran across the bottom of
the screen. "This is Grand Nagus Zek of the Ferengi
Alliance. In light of the recent provocations Bajor has made
to Ferenginar--including the expulsion of Ferengi nationals
from your star system; the closing of your borders and the
Cramma Quadrant wormhole to Ferengi nationals; and the
brutal attack by two Bajoran starships on a Ferengi starship,
causing the loss of all hands, and witnessed by the Starfleet
vessel U.$.$. Deftant--"
 Sisko felt sick at the mention of his ship.
"--I am informing you that as of the current stardate--"
Sisko braced himself, knowing what Zek was going to say
before he said it, and hoping that he would say anything else
atari.
 "--Ferenginar declares war on Bajor."

PART III

The 76th Rule



CHAPTER
      3O

MITRA WAS DEAD.
    Quark considered saying the words aloud, thinking that
perhaps hearing them spoken might lend them more truth.
Instead, he continued to gaze out silently through the
window of the guards' barracks. The bleak, boreal land-
scape looked unforgiving and impossible to survive in--
something else Quark desperately wanted to be true right
now, even though it would likely relegate him to remaining
in Gallitep until the winter had passed. Mitra is dead, he told himself again.
    The truth was, they thought he was dead. Hoped, really,
because the situation was horrible enough without a mad-
man roaming the camp. But truly, they did not know with
certainty.
    Wyte, on the other hand, was definitely no longer among
the living. Quark himself had felt for, and failed to find, a
pulse in the sergeant's body. Quark knew that he should
have experienced some sort of sorrow about the death; all
life, every life, was sacred--priceless--it was widely held,
and he understood that belief and even agreed with it, to
some degree anyway. But Wyte had been a detestable man, a
 cruel savage who had not only tortured Quark and the
 others, but who had enjoyed doing so. His death was no loss
 to the universe. No, right or wrong, Quark was not sorry to
 learn that he was gone.
    At the same time, Rom and Corporal Prana had at-
tempted to save Wyte's miserable life. When Rein had sent
the brawny sergeant careening into the wall in Mitra's office,
Wyte had sustained a serious head injury, and his neck had
been broken. By the time Prana had entered the office and
shot the colonel with his own phaser--which, they would
discover later, had not been set to kill--Wyte had also lost a
great deal of blood. When they examined him, he appeared
to be in a coma.
    Quark had gone with Rein and Prana to obtain help for
the sergeant. Quark had no particular interest in seeing that
Wyte received medical attention, but he elected not to
interfere with such efforts either. Before leaving the office
and the building, Quark did not think to check Mitra's
condition, nor apparently did the other two. Prana's phaser
shot had propelled the colonel over backward, the chair
behind the desk toppling as he had fallen, hard, to the floor.
Mitra had landed with his head canted to one side, and a
massive section of flesh seared on his bare chest. Wisps of
smoke had actually drifted up from the body. There seemed
to be no question that he was dead.
    When Quark returned with Rom and Prana to the office
after the two had procured a medical kit, both of the bodies
were in the same places, in the same positions, in which
they had been left. The room was redolent with the scent of
charred skin, and Quark was careful to breathe only
through his mouth. Rom and Prana began doing whatever
they could for Wyte--which proved to be very little. Even if
either of them had been trained in medicine, Quark
thought, even if Dr. Bashir were here to minister to the
sergeant, the nature and extensiveness of Wyte's injuries
probably would have rendered it impossible to save him.
    As Rein and Prana tended to Wyte, the corporal re-
counted how he had come to Mitra's office when he had.
Neither Quark nor Rein interrupted as Prana revealed
another grisly chapter in the history of Gallitep. He had
been on sentry duty during the night, he told them--the
colonel required that a watch be maintained on the perime-
ter at all times--and Jessel had been late to relieve him.
Because Prana was fighting the flu, Jessel had agreed to take
over for him a couple of hours earlier than scheduled. When
Jessel did not show up at the appointed time, Prana had felt
tired enough to risk Mitra's wrath by leaving his post; the
corporal had gone back to the guards' barracks seeking his
replacement.
    When he arrived there, he said, he found the place dark--
which was to be expected, as Jessel, Argan, and Wyte would
have gone to sleep by then; Jessel had probably just failed to
awaken at the proper time for his sentry assignment. Inside
the barracks, there was a strange iron odor, but wanting
desperately to sleep himself, Prana ignored it. He made his
way over to Jessel's bunk, quietly and in the dark, so that he
would not rouse either of the other two guards. Once there,
he bent and shook the sergeant, gently at first, and then with
more vigor when Jessel did not stir. When Prana at last
pulled his hand back, he found it tacky and moist. Fear took
hold of him then and he turned on the overhead lighting
panels.
    The first thing he saw, he told Quark and Rom, was his
hand, coated red. Jessel was lying faceup in his bunk, the
picture of sleep, but his bedclothes were mantled in blood.
Prana glanced over at Argan in his bed and viewed a similar
sight.
    Prana told Quark and Rom that he doubled over and
vomited on the floor then, feeling as though he had been
struck in the stomach. His head immediately began pound-
ing, he said. He felt his heart flutter, and for a time, he could
not catch his breath.
    The corporal paused for a moment in his story, and
Quark thought that he might retch again as he relived his
horror. Prana's eyes were still bloodshot, Quark saw, his
complexion still terribly pale. After taking a couple of deep
breaths, though, he was able to resume his tale.
    Once his stomach stopped heaving, Prana continued, he
stumbled to the bathroom and cleaned himself up, splash-
ing water on his face and leaning heavily on the sink for
several minutes. When he was able, he went back into the
main room and inspected Jessel's and Argan's bodies; their
throats had been sliced open, but not, it appeared, until
after they had experienced various other torments. Their
postures were obviously unnatural with respect to their
injuries; the corpses had clearly been arranged in the bunks,
purposefully made to look serene.
    Prana did not bother to check the prisoners' barracks; he
told Quark and Rom that it never even occurred to him that
any of the Ferengi might have been responsible for what had
happened to Jessel and Argan. He knew right away that
either Mitra or Wyte--and more than likely both--had
committed the atrocities. Wyte's conspicuous absence from
the scene of the carnage was just one indication of what had
occurred. And while Wyte was capable of such brutality, the
placement of the bodies on the bunks clearly pointed to
Mitra's involvement.
    And that had made sense, Prana told them, because he
and Jessel and Argan had for weeks been attempting to
devise some means for escaping the terror that Gallitep had
once again become. Ever since word had arrived--via
shuttle, in the last outside communication that had come to
the camp--that the prisoners would not stand trial and
were to be held indefinitely, Colonel Mitra had descended
steadily into madness. Jessel had believed that the colonel
himself had been interned at Gallitep during the Occupa-
tion-or if not here, then at one of the other camps--and
that his complete control over his own set of prisoners, in
this setting, had sent him over the edge. Whatever the
reasons, the colonel's orders could only have been to detain
the Ferengi, not to mistreat---let alone torture--them.
Trapped here themselves, the guards--but for Wyte, of
course--had conspired to desert Gallitep and bring back
help. Clearly, Mitra must somehow have learned of their
plotting.
    Prana recalled that, as he had stood in the guards'
barracks--transformed as they were into a tomb--he had
wondered why he had been spared. But then, he was still
supposed to be on sentry duty for another few hours, he had
realized; obviously, Wyte or Mitra would be coming for him
soon enough.
 And so, almost in a trance, Prana had forced himself to go
to Mitra's office, where he had shot the colonel with the
colonel's own phaser.
    As Quark had listened to Prana relate his story, Rom and
the corporal had continued to work over the inert form of
Sergeant Wyte. When they had done everything they could,
Quark--who was not really sure that Rom and Prana had
accomplished anything--demanded that they shackle the
sergeant's arms and legs, in the unlikoly event that he
underwent a miraculous recovery. Neither Rom nor Prana
thought such a measure was necessary, but it took very little
arguing for Quark to convince them to accede to his
demand. They used the same security binding that Wyte
had used on Quark and Rom.
 By this time, dawn had been breaking.
    The three men had tramped quietly over to the prisoners'
barracks. As they mutely approached the building, Quark
realized that he expected to find seven more corpses, and he
suspected that Rom and Prana did too. Instead, they
discovered the other Ferengi internees alive--weak, cold,
and hungry, as they had been almost since the day they had
arrived here, but still alive. Quark, Rom, and Prana ap-
prised them of what had happened; nobody seemed sur-
prised.
    The first thing they did was to break out food from the
supply; none of the prisoners had eaten anything at all for
nearly an entire day. Prana opened one of the other guards'
barracksmthey were better insulated than those to which
the internees had been assignedmand then he took Cort
and Karg to give him a hand with the food. When they
returned, Quark and most of the prisoners began to eat
heartily, but then soon quit; they had all been sustained on
starvation diets for too long, their stomachs unaccustomed
to other than minuscule amounts of food. Quark and Kreln
actually got ill. Quark noticed that Rom ate far less than all
of the other Ferengi, though, and Prana, doubtless still
queasy from all he had witnessed that day, had nothing at
all.
    At no time, as far as Quark knew, did anybody discuss the
sudden shift in the relationship between Corporal Prana
and the nine internees. There seemed to be no need. And
whatever bad feelings had existed among the Ferengi them-
selves--notably between Quark and the five men who had
crewed the captured cargo vessel--evaporated as though
they had never existed, also without anything being said.
What had transpired in the camp during the previous day
bound the survivors of Mitra's insanity together, Quark
figured, in a way that words could not.
    After eating, Prana got new jumpsuits and shoes for all
the Ferengi, and then it was decided that all of the intern-
ees--but for Quark and Rom, who were exhausted--would
search the camp for a means by which to escape from
Gallitep. Prana, too, would stay behind in the barracks,
needing to rest after his interminable night. The primary
objective of the search would be to locate any kind of
communications equipment. Prana knew of no such ma-
t6riel, but that did not necessarily mean that it did not exist.
There was some discussion about who they would contact if
such equipment was found, but Rom prompted them to
leave the problem for later.
    When Quark fell exhausted into a bunk in the barracks,
he thought his sleep would be fitful, considering everything
that had taken place within the past fourteen hours or so.
He expected a vibrant dream filled with meaning, some-
thing he often experienced when his life was in flux. He
discovered otherwise. He rested soundly for six hours and
would have continued, had he not been awakened by Borit.
It was actually several of the Ferengi that were raising the
alarm, but it was Borit's voice Quark first heard.
    Their search for communications gear had covered sever-
al different buildings. Understandably, though, nobody had
wanted to enter either the first guards' barracks or Mitra's
building. But after hours of futility, it became apparent that
the most likely place they would find anything would be
where the colonel had lived and worked.
    Borit told everybody that he had entered the building
cautiously with two of his shipmates, Drayan and Lenk. The
three scoured the entire place, but for Mitra's offce and the
two rooms that connected to it. They found nothing that
would be of use to them. Finally, frustration overcame their
apprehension and they made their way to the office.
 Borit had been the first one inside. Gazing around, he saw
the colonel's desk, the two overturned chairs--the one
behind the desk and the one across the room--the rem-
nants of the chair Rom had shattered against the wall, and
the body of Sergeant Wyte. But according to Borit's descrip-
tion, there were two significant differences between the
scene they surveyed and the one that Quark, Rom, and
Prana had left.
    First, a knife--doubtless the one that Wyte had been
going to use to slice off Quark's ear--had been driven deep
into the sergeant's chest and through his heart.
    Second--and it had been this that had caused the Ferengi
search party to sound the alert--Mitra had vanished.
    Prana quickly checked the phaser with which he had shot
the colonel, and which he had brought with him that
morning from the office. He was surprised to find that it had
not been set specifically to kill, but the discharge from the
weapon, fired at such close range, should have been power-
fill enough to cause death, or minimally, an incapacitating
trauma. Of course, they had all learned that Colonel Mitra
was an exception to many rules.
    All of that had happened two days ago. Quark peered out
across the winter wastes and knew that everybody claimed
to be certain that Mitra was dead, wherever he was, but the
doubt that lingered in the back of Quark's mind was
distressing. Still, a thorough exploration of the camp--and
especially of Mitra's building--led by Corporal Prana, had
turned up no trace of the missing colonel. If he had left the
grounds of Gallitep, he would not last long out on the snow-
covered tundra; there was nothing to eat out there, and no
means of enduring the arctic weather. Coupled with what
should have been mortal wounds inflicted on the colonel,
Ferengi odds-making left little room for doubt--and yet,
Quark was still troubled.
    The reinspection of Mitra's building and offce--during
which Quark had insisted on checking Wyte's inanimate
body himself--had revealed no clues of where the colonel
might have gone. They had not found his tracks in the snow
around the building--or anywhere in the camp--but the
grounds had been traveled so extensively since the last
snowfall that it might have been possible for Mitra to have
walked in existing tracks. And after a few hours, any fresh
tracks he might have left would have quickly been covered
by the constant winds, which rendered even their own foot
trails transitory.
    Now, sure that the colonel was dead, but bowing to the
fear that he had inspired in them, the ten men agreed to
travel through the camp in groups of no less than five. And
when they slept, two men would stand guard. Corporal
Prana had gathered up and distributed all five of the phasers
that he knew were in the camp; they had so far uncovered
no other useful weapons.
    And so they would continue to hunt for a way out of this
place--in vain, at least for now, Quark believed. As he
stared out at the vast, empty lands around Gallitep, he
knew that the dark winter would hold them here as long as it
lasted--and right now, that was fine with him, because the
brutality of the season that would keep them here would
also see an end to Mitra, if the colonel had somehow
managed to survive even this long.
    Which was not to say that Quark wanted to stay here; the
moment it was possible for them to leave, he would lead the
way. Rom had the notion that he might be able to fashion a
crude communicator from one of the medical scanners, but
Quark was not counting on that to save them. When
springtime came--and they had enough food to last the
several months until then--it would be possible to walk out
of here. Prana put the nearest settlement at about six
hundred and fifty kilometers; it would be difficult, but it was
possible. Until then, Quark thought, there was really noth-
ing else they could do but shiver and survive.

CHAPTER
      31

SISKO ABANDONED ALL PRETENSE. He showed up at the office
of the first minister and insisted upon waiting until Shakaar
returned from a meeting with the defense minister and the
ranking leaders of the Bajoran Militia. Sisko was--and
would be--violating Resolution 49-535 again, he knew, this
time in a much more visible fashion, at least if he was
successful. He was far more concerned with another matter,
though: saving the people of Bajor from fighting a war they
could not possibly win. And he had to act quickly, because
he was certain that he would shortly be receiving new
orders--orders he probably would not agree with--from
Star fleet Command.
    The problem is, Sisko thought, I'm not sure what I can do
to prevent this war. The one idea he had developed--that
had, in fact, been suggested to him--was at best specula-
tive. But the more he had considered it, the more attractive
it had become to him, and the more he had become
convinced that it could work. Now, if he was only able to
convince the first minister of that.
    Shakaar arrived back in his office within the hour, accom-
panied by a woman and a man who wore uniforms of the
Bajoran Militiamadvisors, Sisko guessed, perhaps helping
the first minister formulate a military strategy against the
Ferengi. The manners of the two officers were very serious,
although they seemed less sure of themselves when they
were introduced to the Emissary; Sisko had encountered
such behavior many times before.
    "Please forgive my unscheduled visit," Sisko said after
the civilities had been completed. Shakaar, flanked by the
two officers, faced Sisko just inside the doorway.
    "Not at all, Captain," the first minister returned. "It's
always good to see you. As you can imagine, though, we're
extremely busy right now." Shakaar looked at each of the
officers--both generals, Sisko saw from the rank pips on
their collars--to include them in his statement. "So unless
you're here to offer your assistance--which would be most
welcomemI'm afraid I'll have to ask if we can meet at some
future time."
    "It just so happens," Sisko told him, "that I am here to
help."
    Shakaar's eyebrows flashed upward momentarily; he had
evidently not expected such a response. He again glanced at
each of the generals in turn; it appeared to Sisko to be more
an action born of reflex than any kind of meaningful
exchange.
    "Really?" Shakaar said. He walked past Sisko and deeper
into the office. Halfway across the room, he stopped and
turned. "I must say, I thought the Federation was intent on
keeping its distance from our troubles with the Ferengi."
    "They are," Sisko said. "We are. But there is a course of
action to be taken that I truly believe can bring this
situation to a peaceful resolution."
    "Indeed," Shakaar said, sounding intrigued. "We would
be interested in such a solution, of coursemanything to save
Bajoran lives."
    "I'm glad to hear you say that, Minister," Sisko said,
pacing over to him, "because what I propose is really very
simple: You want the Ninth Orb, and I will see that it is
brought to Bajor. In exchange, you must rescind the edict
barring the Ferengi from your system and the wormhole."
    "You'll see that the Orb is brought to Bajor?" Shakaar
repeated, his tone reflecting skepticism. "If that were to
occur, then yes, I would be perfectly willing to make the
concession you mentioned. But forgive me, Captain, if I
can't see how you'll be able to make this happen."
    "I can do it, but I'll need some assistance," Sisko said.
"You have a man in custody named--"
    "--Quark," Shakaar finished. Whatever expectation or
hope the first minister might have had was gone from his
voice now.  "Yes."
    "Major Kira already suggested this course &action in the
Great Assembly." Shakaar moved over to the sitting area,
apparently ready to dismiss Sisko. He gestured to the
militia officers, and they walked over and sat down. Shakaar
also took a seat.
    "She did?" Sisko asked, following the first minister and
ignoring his move to end the conversation. For the moment,
he also sought to maintain the illusion that he knew nothing
of Kira's plea to the leaders of her world. "How was she
received?"
    "It was difficult to tell," Shakaar answered, looking up at
Sisko. "To be honest, I think that some of the governors and
some of the vedeks would have supported her plan--this
plan. I'm not sure that there would have been enough
support for it, though, to set it in motion."
    "And what about you, Shakaar?" Sisko wanted to know,
employing the use of the minister's name to emphasize his
earnestness. "Where do you stand?"
    "Please understand," Shakaar said, clearly reacting to
Sisko's stern demeanor. "I do not wish to lead my people
into a war. But at the same time, I cannot allow any faction
to dictate any aspect of Bajoran life. You know this; we've
been through this."
    "The stakes have never been quite this high, though,"
Sisko said loudly--he was almost yelling at the first
minister--but he chose not to moderate his voice level.
"This isn't just a blockade anymore, and it's not even just
an occupation; the Ferengi are going to send their fleet here.
They'll destroy every starship you have, and then they'll
conquer your world and dismantle all that your people have
rebuilt."
 "Captain--"
    "And how will your people feel," Sisko continued, talking
over the first minister, "when the Ferengi defeat them and
take not just their world, but the wormhole--the Celestial
Temple--as well?"
    "The Vedek Assembly has already considered that,"
Shakaar said. "We will collapse the entrance to the Celestial
Temple before we will allow it to fall into the hands of the
Ferengi."
    "The Yridians won't be too happy when they discover
they won't be able to monitor communications from the
Gamma Quadrant after all." Xillius Vas was supposed to
arrive at Deep Space Nine tomorrow.
 "That is now the least of my concerns."
 "You sound very sure of yourself," Sisko said.
    "I am sure of the course we are taking," Shakaar said.
"Bajor must remain free."
    "You'd better be sure," Sisko told him, his voice crisp and
cool, "because you're going to have to live with the conse-
quences of these actions for the rest of your life."
    Understanding that he would make no progress here, that
there was no point in saying anything more, Sisko pivoted
on his heel and marched out of the office. And all he could
think was that he hoped Shakaar lived long enough to regret
what he was doing.

    "According to the readings from the long-range sensor
buoys," Dax reported from her station in Ops, "the Ma-
rauders are retreating." There was a note of bewilderment
in her tone.
    "Not retreating," Sisko said, standing on the lower level
and listening as his crew issued their reports. "Regrouping."
    "They'll wait for more of their forces to arrive before they
launch any offensives," Kira explained. Sisko thought his
first officer looked not only anxious, but ill.
"What about the Bajoran ships?" Chief O'Brien asked.
"The two transports that defeated... well, that seemed
to defeat... the Marauder have returned to Bajor," Kira
said. "Along with the thirty-five new ships, various other,
smaller cargo ships are congregating in orbit."
    "Cargo ships?" O'Brien blurted. "What good are they
going to be against Ferengi Marauders?"
Sisko watched as Kira bowed her head and dosed her
eyes. She had no answer for the chiefi
    "We've got an incoming message," Dax announced. She
worked her console and then said, grimly, "Benjamin, it's
Starfleet Command. Admiral WhatIcy."
    "In my office," Sisko ordered, starting up the stairs to the
upper level. He wanted instead to have Dax tell the admiral
that he was not available right now, that yes, the captain of
course realizes that this must be an important message, but
he really cannot speak to you at the present time. That was
what he wanted to do, and knew that he could not.
    Sisko headed up the steps to his office and through the
doors, which parted at his approach. As the doors closed
behind him, he asked himself--not for the first time--what
more he could have done. He felt that he had been unable to
see the big picture in all that had been happening, and in the
wake of that failure, that none of his blind efforts to resolve
the situation had achieved anything of significance. The
most important thing he had donemgetting the nagus to
allow Starfleet to deliver humanitarian aid to Bajor--had
still done nothing to prevent a war from erupting. And the
first shipments of that aid had been scheduled to arrive in
four days; obviously, that would never happen now.
    Sisko sat down at his desk and activated the tabletop
comm panel. Admiral WhatIcy regarded him from his own
desk light-years away. He looked extremely tired. That was
understandable; once Sisko had informed Command of the
Ferengi declaration of war on Bajor, they would have
informed the Federation president and the Federation
Council. After that, the efforts to determine how to proceed
would have been ceaseless and intense.
    "Ben," WhatIcy greeted him. He even sounded tired,
Sisko thought, and perhaps dejected as well; Admiral What-
ley had been a keen supporter of the campaign to admit
Bajor into the Federation. Now, like never before, the
possibility of that happening in the near term was about to
fade.
    "This isn't good news, is it, Admiral?" Sisko asked. He
felt so disappointed himself; in the back of his mind, he had
harbored the faint hope that the Federation would choose to
side with Bajor against Ferenginar. Of course, Sisko had not
really wanted that to occur either, he had no desire to see
the Federation itself at war.
    "I'm afraid it's not," Whatley agreed. "I have the unfor-
tunate task of ordering you to evacuate all Starfleet person-
nel from Deep Space Nine within the next fourteen hours."
    "That's not a lot of time," Sisko found himself saying,
automatically attempting to stall, in the hope that--
    --That what? Sisko asked himself. That the Prophets will
suddenly decide to emerge from the wormhole and perform a
miracle?
    "Don't tell me that, Ben," WhatIcy said. "We both know
it's not true; you just don't want to leave the station."
    "You're right," Sisko admitted, "but it's more than just
having to leave DS9. I don't want to desert the people of
Bajor precisely when they need us the most."
    "I know. Believe me, I know. Nobody has championed
the cause of Bajor entering the Federation more than I
have." The admiral seemed to lose himself in his own
thoughts for a moment, gazing briefly into the middle
distance, and then he apparently realized with whom he was
speaking: Sisko himself was the point man for Bajoran
admittance to the Federation. "If only this were happening
next year, or the year after," Whatley yearned aloud. "But I
guess I don't have to remind you of our responsibilities to
the Federation Council."
    "No, you don't," Sisko said, a little too sharply. On the
corem panel, the admiral stared back at him, brow furrow-
ing. Sisko raised his hands in contrition. "I'm sorry, Admir-
al, but I live with these people, I work with them. Despite
the way they fought the Cardassians, they are not warriors.
This shouldn't be happening."
    "I feel the same way," Whatley said. "But it is happening
and we have to accept that this is not our fight."
    "Is the Council committed to this retreat?" Sisko wanted
to know.
    "It is, and Starfleet Command concurs. We can't fight a
war for Bajor."
    "But if we were to remain on the station..." Sisko
suggested.
    "Remain on a Bajoran space station?" Whatley asked
rhetorically. "Then we would be siding with Bajor, as well
as putting our own people in harm's way. And if the Ferengi
are victorious, and Starfleet is still a presence on DS9, well,
the repercussions would be very serious."
    "And the wormhole?" Sisko asked. With the threat of a
Dominion invasion from the Gamma Quadrant a real
possibility, it was critical to maintain a strong military
presence at the mouth of the wormhole in the Alpha
Quadrant.
    "If the Ferengi defeat the Bajorans, then we will have to
negotiate with the Alliance about defending the wormhole,"
Whatley said. "It would be in their own best interests--in-
cluding their business intereststto see that the wormhole
is protected."
    "Evidently, the Council and Starfleet have considered
everything," Sisko relented.
    "We have," WhatIcy said. "The ships carrying humani-
tarian aid to Bajor have been ordered to return to the
Federation. The New York, which was accompanying the
convoy, is proceeding directly to DS9; it should be there
within three hours. All Starfleet personnel currently as-
signed to the station will be evacuated to the New York and
transported to Starbase Icarus. The Defiant is to report
there with your command crew as well, by stardater"
    The admiral specified a stardate, but Sisko did not hear
him; he was watching Whatley's image on the comm panel,
was seeing his lips move, but the words no longer pene-
trated past Sisko's own thoughts.
    The Defiant... all Starfleet personnel... Starbase
Icarus... by a certain stardate. They're assuring that I'm
left with no latitude to operate, he thought. They made their
decisions, and now they want them implemented.
    "Admiral," Sisko started, his tone beseeching. "I'd
like~"
     "Ben," Whatley interrupted. His tone was not without
compassion, Sisko thought. "It's over." "Admiral--"
    "WhatIcy out." The image on the corem panel disap-
peared. Sisko thumbed off the device.
    How could I have failed? he asked himself. Failed so
thoroughly? And then, in a way of thinking that was foreign
to him, at least on a conscious level, he thought, I am the
Emissary. I'm supposed to save the people of Bajor, not
abandon them to the fates of war.
    Sisko rose from his chair without knowing exactly where
he was going to go or what he was going to do. He stood
motionless, the tips of his fingers brushing the top of his
desk. In a few minutes, he knew, he would have to replay the
communication with Whatley to find out the stardate the
admiral had mentioned, as well as anything else he might
have missed. And then he would have to give the order to
evacuate Deep Space Nine.
 But not just yet, he decided.
    Sisko turned and moved around his chair, right up to the
window behind his desk. From the vantage of his office,
which sat atop the hub of the space station, he gazed
outward, and downward, past the great, outer ring of DS9.
Also visible from here, to the left and right, were two of the
station's three docking pylons, looking like the giant, bare
ribs of some long-dead metallic beast.
    Beyond the station were the stars, profound in their
innumerableness and constancy--or so they seemed. Sisko
had discovered some time ago that they no longer held the
same fascination for him as when he had been a boy--or
even when he had been at the Academy, or aboard Okinawa
or Saratoga. Jennifer had died out there, amid the stars. The
universe was a place of wonder, he thought, but it could also
be a cold and uninviting place.
    Unlike there, he thought, peering at a bluish white mote
that hung in the darkness. He stared at that bright spot of
light, slightly larger than most of the other spots of light, not
because it was actually larger, but because it was so much
closer to where Sisko was standing; it was Bajor. Somehow,
without his being aware of it at first, Sisko had grown to love
that world and its people. He knew that he would one day
live there.
    At least, he had known that. Had known that, one day, he
would have a house there and still be within the confines of
the Federation. Home had once been New Orleans and then
San Francisco on Earth, and then Bradbury Township on
Mars, and eventually, home had simply become Jennifer.
After that, after he had lost her, there had been no refuge for
a long time. He had carried a hollowness around inside of
him, not a crippling thing--though nearly so--just a thing
that existed, something that had happened, through which
he had to live, from which he had to grow. But now, even
though he had not quite yet made it there, home was Bajor.
And he thought once again, How couM I have failed?



CHAPTER
      32

IT WAS CORT who turned out to be an engineering genius, not
Rom.
    It was late aRemoon, and the brief appearance that the
hibernal Bajoran sun made each day had already passed.
The sun had not been visible when it had tracked through
the sky in a short are just above the horizon; only a dull
brightening of the murky cloud {:over had betrayed its rising
at all. Now, as the night readied to devour the fleeting day,
the lands surrounding Gallitep had taken on a strange
quality: the clouds above had grown indistinguishable from
the snow below, the horizon had become invisible, and
solid objects no longer generated shadows: whiteout.
    In the guards' barracks that Corporal Prana had
opened--and which had subsequently become the prison-
ers' home--Quark lay on one of the bunks, his head
propped up on one of his hands. He was observing from a
distance Rom's attempts to modify one of the medical
scanners so that it could be used, at the very least, to
broadcast a distress signal. On a small table next to the one
at which Rom was working, Borit and Karg were playing a
card game of some sort.

    The deck of cards had belonged to Sergeant Jessel, and it
had been Prana's idea to retrieve it from the first guards'
barracks. The corporal had refused to reenter the building
himself, though; the bodies of Argan and Jessel remained as
he had found them, laid out in the blood-soaked sheets and
blankets of their bunks. That, too, had been Prana's idea,
not to disturb the bodies of any of the dead guards--includ-
hag that of Sergeant Wytemso that they could eventually be
examined by the appropriate authorities. Prana had turned
off the heat in those buildings so that the corpses would be
preserved by the cold.
    As Quark watched Rom work on the other side of the
room, with Borit and Karg also in his sight, he wondered
idly where the fifth member of their group was. He peered
around and located Cort at the very back of the barracks,
over in the far corner. Quark could not see what he was
doing.
    The other five prisoners--Quark considered Corporal
Prana to be as much a prisoner now as any of the Ferengi--
were out in the camp somewhere, tenaciously pursuing
something, anything, that would help to get them away from
here. The continued searching of the camp had so far
resulted in nothing but frustration, and it was that frustra-
tion, Quark knew, that was driving Rom to seek his own
solution. Quark viewed his brother's endeavors with a
mixture of amusement and anger. Rom's solemn efforts
with makeshift tools that were hardly suited to delicate
electronics work were frequently very funny; more than
once, a tool or a part had been projected halfway across the
width of the room. But with each failure, Quark and Rom
and everybody else marooned here came no closer to
escaping this terrible place.
    And then Cort stepped away from his shadowy corner of
the barracks and walked over to where Quark was resting.
Cradled in both of Cort's hands were the remnants of a
dismantled medical scanner, along with some additional
materials Quark could not identify.
 "I've been successful," Cort announced.
    Quark saw Rom stop working and glance over at Cort.
Borit and Karg also looked over, Karg's hand freezing in
place as he either discarded or drew a card.
    "Successful at what?" Quark asked, although he had
already surmised what it was that Cort was claiming.
Nevertheless, he found himself immediately skeptical, re-
luctant to believe Cort's assertion for fear of being disap-
pointed. Quark had experienced more than enough of that
during these many weeks here--they all had, he supposed.
    "I've managed to modify the scanner to send a homing
signal," Cort replied. Now Rom put down the tool with
which he had been working, rose, and started across the
room. Borit and Karg followed along after him.
    "A homing signal?" Quark asked, sitting up and dropping
his feet over the side of his bunk to the floor. "To send to
who?"
 "Not to who," Cort said. "To what. My ship."
    Rom, Borit, and Karg gathered around, forming a loose
semicircle about Cort. Quark noticed that, while Borit's
hands were empty, Karg's were not: he was still carrying his
cards.
    "What ship?" Quark asked at the same time as Borit.
Quark stood up now, looking over at his brother as he got to
his feet. Rom was staring at the gallimaufry of components
that Cort was holding in his hands.
    "The shuttle that brought me to Bajor for business," Cort
said.
    "You expect your shuttle to still be in orbit after so long?"
Borit asked incredulously. Judging from his tone, he appar-
ently thought this assumption to be the height of lunacy.
    Although he said nothing for the moment, Quark agreed
with Borit. There would be no leaving Gallitep yet, he
realized. He sank back down onto the edge of his bunk,
fighting to maintain control of his emotions.
    "My shuttle's not in orbit," Cort said. "It's on the surface
of Bajor."
    "What is all of that?" Rom asked suddenly, pointing to
Cort's handiwork and evidently ignoring the rest of the
conversation. "It doesn't look like it's just a scanner."
    "It's not," Cort said. "I also used parts from one of the
phasers."
    "Oh," Rom said. "That was a good idea." Rom moved
forward, to get a better view of the jury-rigged homing
device, Quark presumed. Cort turned away from him,
though, interposing his body between Rom and his work.
    Quark found Cort's movement odd; it was not as though
he had the need to protect some proprietary technology...
or was it? Perhaps Cort had crafted his homing instrument
in some new fashion that would allow him to market it once
they left here. It seemed unlikely, Quark thought, but he
had no other explanation for Cort's behavior.
     "Can I see what you've done?" Rom persisted. "Maybe
we could adapt it to also send out a general distress call."
 "No," Cort said simply.
 "No?" Quark echoed.
 "This will work," Cort insisted.
    "Listen," Borit said loudly, and Quark could see that he
was getting angry. "It doesn't matter whether your shuttle's
in orbit, on the surface, or under the ocean; there's a good
chance it's not where you left it." He landed a hand heavily
on Cort's shoulder. "You don't think they just forgot about
your property once they brought you here, do you?"
    "Don't you want to get out of here as soon as possible?"
Quark implored Cort.
    "Of course," he responded, still keeping his device away
from Rom's prying gaze, "but not so that we can be put in
some other Bajoran prison camp."
    "He's right," Karg said quietly. "If we send out a distress
signal and somebody receives it, they'll call in the Bajoran
Militia. And when they come get us, no matter what's
happened here, they're not just going to let us go."
    "Even another prison would be better than staying here,"
Borit contended, but his voice was not quite as loud as it
had previously been. The possibility of being consigned to
another prison had evidently rendered him less sure of his
argument.
    "If this doesn't work," Cort asserted, "if my shuttle
doesn't arrive here by tomorrow, then whoever wants to can
take thisre" He lifted his hands higher for a second,
indicating his improvised creation. "mand modify it how-
ever they want to."
    "That seems fair," Rom said, and shrugged. It was the
same nonchalant shrug Quark had been witnessing for
decades, but that he had not seen once, he now recalled, in
the entire time that he and his brother had been interned on
Bajor.
    "Your shuttle is automated?" Borit asked. It appeared to
Quark that he was attempting to convince himself that
Cort's plan was sound, and that it might actually lead to
their salvation.
    "It has some automated systems," Cort answered, "in-
cluding flight control, navigation, and retrieval." He paused
briefly, and then added, "It should be able to travel here
without raising any suspicions."
    "You're a smuggler," Quark blurted, looking up at Cort
and exclaiming the words as they occurred to him. Cort
returned his look and said nothing, and Quark immediately
regretted having spoken his thought aloud. Still, he was
inwardly pleased with the implications of his realization; he
was far more confident in the abilities ofa contrabandist to
accomplish what was being suggested than in the abilities of
just about anybody else.
 "I'm a businessman," Cort said at last.
    "Of course. I didn't mean... it's... I..." Quark sput-
tered a few more words without completing a sentence, and
then he simply closed his mouth. Later, when Quark
discovered what Cort actually did for a living, he would
remember this moment, and how well Cort had played it.
    A short silence followed. Quark was not sure what
everybody else was thinking, but he discovered that he was
genuinely beginning to believe that Cort's shuttle might
arrive here within a day and provide a means of fleeing from
this horrible place.
    "Well," Quark said finally, "should we go find the others
and let them know we're about to spend our last night in
Gallitep?"

    Quark heard it first, though only by a matter of seconds.
There were quite a few good ears in the barracks, despite the
effects of the cold on each of the Ferengi's hearing. Rom and
Drayan had suffered the greatest consequences of the winter
weather, they had each lost the use of one of their ears, and
nobody possessed enough expertise with the medical kits to
be able to help them.

    The sound that roused Quark--and very quickly, the
others--at first resembled a sustained gust of wind. Such
winds were hardly uncommon here, and they had often
woken Quark during the course of his internment. This
time, though, the bay of the wind was accompanied by a
low-frequency thrum. To Quark, with his eight years in the
Ferengi merchant service, the sound was immediately rec-
oguizable: the drive of a shuttle.
    Quark threw back the covers and lunged from his bunk.
As he scrabbled to locate his shoes, he heard others begin-
ning to move about in the darkened barracks as well. He
found his shoes and put them on, then quickly moved to the
wall and switched on the overhead lighting panels. All of the
Ferengi were awake, including Rom and Drayan, and most
were already getting to their feet. Only Prana was still
asleep, and as Quark started toward him, the Bajoran rolled
over and blinked his eyes blearily open.
    "It's the shuttle," Quark said. The corporal rose up on
one elbow and gazed around at the commotion, then looked
blankly up at Quark. For a long, onerous moment, Quark
feared that this was not going to go as easily as he had
hoped, that they were going to have to face some very
serious trouble after all.
    Yesterday, when Prana had learned about Cort's shuttle
and its alleged impending arrival, his reaction had been, at
least to Quark, unexpected. He told everybody that they
could not do this, that they could not simply board a shuttle
and leave Bajor; they were prisonersacriminals, he said--
and they were still in his charge. He believed that, yes, they
would all eventually leave Gallitep, but either by being
recovered by the Bajoran Militia, or by finding their way to
the nearest settlement once spring came. But Prana stated
flatly that he had not anticipated this, which was to his way
of thinking an escape, and despite the horrors that the
Ferengi had endured here, he was still an officer in Bajor's
military, with a responsibility not to allow the internees to
break from their captivity.
    There was vociferous opposition to the corporal's views,
expressed loudest of all by Kreln and Borit. Prana was beset
from just about all sides. But Quark--and Rom--said
little; although Quark desperately wished to leave here by
whatever means possible, it remained fresh in Ms mind that
Prana had saved his and Rom's lives.
    Emotions, already tested by recent events, raged. Prana
argued with Kreln and Borit and began to defend how he
felt. Then, suddenly, he quieted. He needed time to think,
he claimed, and without waiting for anybody's reaction, he
grabbed his coat and fled the barracks. It was the first time
Quark knew of that somebody had been alone somewhere
in the camp since Colonel Mitra had ended Sergeant Wyte's
life and then gone missing himself.
    With thoughts of Mitra coming to mind, a sense of dread
developed within Quark, along with a growing certainty
that the colonel was not dead. Quark quickly became
convinced that Corporal Prana would never come back to
the barracks, but would instead be stalked and dispatched
by the phantom Mitra. When the corporal ultimately did
return safely a couple of hours later, Quark saw from the
looks of obvious relief on some of the others' faces that he
had not been alone in his fears.
    Everybody was also relieved, it turned out, because Prana
proceeded to apologize for his earlier outburst. He ex-
plained that the time here had been very dit~cult for him--
something that Quark believed required no explanation--
and that he had reacted without thinking. But now that he
had considered the situation at length, he would willingly
support whatever method they could devise for leaving
Gallitep, even if that meant leaving Bajor as well.
    Now, as Quark peered down at the empty expression on
Prana's face, he worried that the corporal had changed his
mind again, that he had reverted to the position that his
primary role was still that of jailer. But after the corporal
blinked a few times and saw everybody moving about, he
grinned up at Quark.
    "The shuttle," Prana said, with recognition, and he began
to climb out of his bunk and put on his shoes.
    Quark was relieved. He was also excited in a way that he
had not been for a long time. He turned from Prana, ran to
the door, and threw it wide. He padded out into the snow--
several more centimeters had fallen during the night, and it
was still coming downwand tilted his head back and
looked skyward. At first, he saw nothing but the snowflakes
falling into the thrust of light pouring through the barracks
doorway, but then he tuned in to the hum of the shuttle's
engines. There, barely discernible, but there, coming to a
halt perhaps fifty meters up, directly above the barracks,
was the ship. Quark rushed back inside.
 "It's here," he told everybody. "Right above us."
    They all seemed to move at once, speeding toward the
door. As they pounded past Quark and out into the night,
he looked for Cort, but he did not see him go past. He
glanced around and spotted him in the corner, the homing
device held in his cupped hands.
    "Cort, your shuttle's here," Quark called to him, thinking
that Cort must have been sleepy and that he did not realize
what was happening. "Is it going to land?"
    Cort looked up then, opening his mouth as if to respond
to Quark, but then a familiar whine filled the barracks. As
Quark watched, the streaking light of a transporter beam
enveloped Cort. In a moment, he was gone.
    Quark felt panic clutch at him. He heard the beating of
his own heart in his ears. His throat constricted, making it
impossible to swallow.
    What happened? Quark's mind screamed. Had they done
something to Cort, or said something--perhaps Quark's
inadvertent remark about his being a smugglerwthat had
driven him to abandon them all here and make an escape
only for himself?.
    Quark raced back through the open doorway. The others
were all there, gathered together with their necks craned
upward. Quark peered upward too, expecting to see the
shuttle moving away, or to see nothing at all. Instead, the
shuttle was just where it had been when he had first seen it
moments ago. As he watched--as they all watched--it
began to descend.
    The group backed up as one as the shuttle neared the
ground and finally alighted. The ship, Quark was surprised
to see, was of Bajoran design; it was obvious now why Cort
had thought that the shuttle could travel across Bajor
without eliciting undue attention. Quark wondered if it was
stolen, then dismissed the question as unimportant; at this
point, the shuttle could have been hijacked from the Kling-
ons and sought by the entire Imperial Fleet and it would
have made no difference at all to him.
    The main hatch opened. Cort appeared, and gazed out at
the assemblage.
 "Now boarding," he said with a broad smile.

    The shuttle climbed through the atmosphere of Bajor,
and relief rushed over Quark like a flood across desolate
plains. But even as Gallitep receded below, he knew the
memories of what had happened there would not be as
accommodating. Without intending to, he touched a hand
to his face; since there had been only so much that they had
been able to accomplish with the medical kits, there were
bruises and cuts on his face--all over his body, in fact--
that were still in the process of healing.
    Cort's shuttle was fairly small, about the size of the
forward compartment of a runabout. It was configured to
hold a pair of operators and twice as many passengers, with
two seats situated at the forward control panels and four
behind. With ten people inside right now, the ride was
cramped, though nobody had yet complained. Rom and
Karg had been relegated to sitting on the floor--Rom was
focused on something in his hands that Quark could not
see--while Prana and Drayan had ended up perched on the
one-person tramporter pad at the rear of the cabin. Cort
captained the ship, and Kreln--the pilot of the cargo vessel
that had been captured by the Bajorans after the deadline
had passed--sat next to him and assisted.
    "Power the boosters," Cort told Kreln. "We'll need them
to climb into orbit."
    "Powering up," Kreln responded, and Quark watched
him work the controls. "Nominal," he reported a moment
later.
    The shuttle was ascending at a steep, though manageable,
angle. They had already cleared the cloud layer of Bajor,
and the panoply of stars beckoned through the single
window in the bow. At this altitude, Bajor's gravitational
pull had diminished sufficiently that it was superseded by
the artificial-gravity system of the shuttle.

    As they continued upward, Corporal Prana asked to be
transported down to his home, or at least to his home city.
Prior to yesterday, Quark thought, the Ferengi might have
permitted him to do so. After Prana's initial disapproval of
the prisoners' plan to leave Bajor, though--and despite his
later recanting that viewait seemed to Quark that the
corporal no longer had everybody's trust. Nobody said as
much, but it became obvious to Quark when the consensus
was reached that Prana should stay with the Ferengi until
they were completely out of the Bajoran system. It must
have been obvious to Prana as well, Quark thought. Never-
theless, the corporal accepted the collective decision with-
out argument, perhaps understanding the source of the
judgment.
    "We're thirty seconds away from the apex of our suborbi-
tal course," Kreln announced, intent on the readouts
marching across his console.
    "Acknowledged," Cort said conversationally. He oper-
ated his panel, paused, and then tapped another control.
"Firing boosters," he said.
    There was a jolt from below as the shuttle's thrusters
engaged. The noise level within the cabin swelled signifi-
cantly. The inertial dampers must not have been function-
ing at maximum levels, because Quark sensed the increase
in their acceleration. A deep, bass vibration also shook the
shuttle.
    Quark gazed around the cabin. Everybody seemed to him
to be relatively comfortable, with the exception of Karg,
whose hands were twisting and writhing about each other.
Quark guessed that the reclusive painter did not travel
much, and so he was probably not accustomed to the sense
of speed and the steep angle of takeoff from a planetary
surface.
    After a short burn, the thrusters cut out. The shuttle
steadied in its course, and the cabin quieted.
    "Orbit achieved," Kreln said into the silence. "We
have--" He stopped abruptly. "What the... ?"
    Quark peered over at Kreln and saw him staring through
the forward window. Quark followed his gaze and saw a
small Bajoran freighter. He was confused; it was hardly
unexpected to find a native ship in orbit. But then another
movement captured his attention, and he saw that there was
another ship beyond the freighter... and there was a third
ship... and a fourth.
    "How many do you read?" Cort asked, far calmer than
Quark now felt.
    "Nine in proximity," Kreln answered, "and more further
out." His voice did not sound nearly as calm.
    Quark and Borit both rose and moved to stand directly in
back of Cort and Kreln. Quark heard movement behind
him, and he turned to find that Tarken and Lenk had come
forward too.
 "What are they all doing here?" Borit asked.
 "Don't worry," Cort said. "They're not here for us."
 "How can you be certain?" Quark wanted to know.
 "They're preparing for war," Cort said simply.
 "War?" Quark barked. "With who?"
    "You didn't think the Alliance would just allow the
Bajorans to jail Ferengi citizens, did you?" Cort asked.
    Quark considered this and concluded that the Alliance
wouM allow such a thing. Why not? he thought. Why would
the nagus care?
    "Or let them ban them from using the wormhole?" Colt
added.
    That made more sense. The value of trade with the
Gamma Quadrant might have been worth a fight.
    Behind Quark, some of the others were asking questions,
wanting to know what Cort knew and how he knew it. It
was obvious to Quark, though, that Cort knew nothing for
sure, but was simply making guesses about the situation.
    "We need to come about," Cort told Kreln, ignoring the
questions and concentrating instead on what he was doing.
"Set a beating of one-six-seven mark thirteen."
    "This is a small craft," Kreln responded. "I can probably
evade--"
    "No," Cort said, looking up. "No evasive maneuvers.
We're in a Bajoran shuttle; we'll be fine if we don't draw
attention to ourselves."
 "We're nine Ferengi in a Bajoran shuttle," Borit noted.
    "We're nine Ferengi and one Bajoran," Prana said from
the rear of the cabin.

    "Either way, it won't be good for any of us if they scan
us," Quark said.
    "They have no reason to scan us," Cort maintained,
"unless we give them one. Now I need that course change
plotted."
    Kreln looked a moment longer at Cort, then complied
with the order.
    "Course plotted and laid in," Kreln said. It had quickly
become clear who was in charge.
 "Just tell me this shuttle isn't stolen," Quark said.
    "No," Cort said, "it isn't." Then: "Coming about, and
throttling up to maximum."
    As the ship changed course, Quark saw more and more
vessels amassed about Bajor, mostly small freighters, a few
passenger shuttles, and--
    Quark did a double take, but by the time he looked the
second time, the ship he thought he had seen was gone from
view. Had it been one of those new transports meant to be
sold to the Yridians? Quark suddenly felt ill; if the deal had
not actually been completed, or if something had gone
wrong in his absence--
    Am I ruined? he thought. Quark squeezed between Tarken
and Lenk and fell back into his seat. It was bad enough that
his bar had been stolen from him, that he had been made to
endure all that time in Gallitep, that he had been beaten,
frozen, and virtually starved, but to lose his liquid as-
sets...
    "How long will it take us to get out of Bajoran space?"
Tarken asked. Cort named a figure. The words drifted to
Quark as though from a long distance; he was reeling from
the possibility that while he had been interned on Bajor, he
had become impoverished.
    "It'll take longer than that to leave the system," Kreln
said in response to Cort's estimate. "Unless this crate can
go twice as fast as this."
 "It can't," Cort said, "but we have a shortcut."
 "A shortcut?" Lenk asked.
 "The wormhole," Cort said.
    "But that'll take us past Deep Space Nine," Borit com-
plained.
 "Starfleet has no reason to stop us," Cort said. "And even
if they did, it would be against the resolution the Federation
Council passed; they're not going to get involved in a
Ferengi-Bajoran dispute."
    "Even if their scans show Ferengi on a Bajoran shuttle?"
Lenk asked.
    "It won't matter," Quark said automatically. "When we
violated the Bajoran edict, Starfleet didn't arrest Rein and
me, and when the Bajorans did arrest us, Starfleet didn't
stop them."
  "Where are we going?" Befit wanted to know.
    Oddly enough, Quark realized, they had not discussed
what their destination would be once they had left Bajor--
though perhaps it was not so odd after all, Quark corrected
himself; they had all been so thoroughly focused on escap-
ing from Gallitep that it really had not mattered where they
would go. Until Befit asked, Quark had never even consid-
ered the issue himself.
    "There's a base on the other side of the wormbole in the
Gamma Quadrant," Cort revealed. "My friends have a ship
there... a starship, not a shuttle. I'm sure we can arrange
to take everybody wherever they need to go." 
"What about me?" Prana asked.
    "We'll find a way to get you back to Bajor," Cort replied,
"if that's what you want."
 "It is," Prana said quietly.
    Evidently satisfied with Cort's plan, everybody grew
silent. Borit, Tarken, and Lenk returned to their seats. Rein,
Quark noticed, was still huddled over something unseen on
the floor', he was going to ask his brother what he was doing,
but he found that he did not have the strength; the contem-
plation of his possible financial ruin had left him spent.
    Quark looked forward and saw through the bow window
that their course appeared clear of any vessels. Somewhere
up ahead, he knew, lay the wormhole. That was just as well,
he thought. If all of his resources had been depleted, then
the best thing for him to do might be to start all over again
in another quadrant, ninety-thousand light-years from
where peoptemwhere his creditorsmknew him. Perhaps
Cort could use another smuggler in his operation.

    So much for ever owning my own moon, Quark thought
wistfully.

    An explosion rocked the shuttle. Inertial dampers failed.
Everybody was thrown about the cabinweverybody but
Cort, Quark saw, who was strapped into his pilot's seat.
With little room to move, bodies piled into bodies.
    "What happened?" somebody yelled. Quark could not
tell who it was. The cabin was alive with sound. A conduit
had given way somewhere beneath the floor, and a gas of
some sort--a coolant, Quark thoughtmwas venting with a
deafening hiss into the passenger compartment. The shuttle
shook violently.
    "There's a crack in one of the drive shells," Cort bellowed
above the noise. "We hit a mine."
    "We're losing deuterium," Kreln reported after he had
climbed back into the navigator's seat.
    "What?" Karg screamed right next to Quark. He was
obviously scared. So was Quark.
    The shuttle bucked, and the mass of bodies surged
forward. Quark heard Borit yell something unintelligible.
Quark scrambled to his feetsstepping on somebody's arm
or leg as he did soreand looked wildly around for Rom. The
din was tremendous.
    Suddenly, the overhead lighting panels failed. They were
replaced a second later by the emergency lights, and an eerie
red glow bathed the cabin. An instant after that, the backup
also failed, and they were left in almost complete darkness;
the only meager illumination came from the control panels.
    And then there was a flash of light, and Quark thought
that the shuttle was coming apart.
 "Brother," he shouted into the darkness.
 And then they were gone.



CHAPTER
      33

"CnPTAn~, sensors just detected an explosion in nearby
space."
    No, Sisko thought, instantly imagining that the first shot
of the war had been fired. He felt the now-familiar emotions
of anger and frustration rise within him, amplified by his
impotence to do anything about the source of those feelings.
    "An explosion of what, Mr. Worf?" Sisko asked. He sat in
the command chair in the center of Defiant's bridge, not
long after the evacuation of Starfleet personnel from Deep
Space Nine. New York had departed the station an hour ago
with most of the crew. Major Kira had been left in charge of
D$9, and at least on an interim basis, she had chosen Odo to
serve as her executive officer.
    "I am getting indications of infernite," Worf said, study-
ing the readouts at the tactical station. "There seem to be at
least trace amounts of cabrodine as well."
    Infernite and cabrodine, Sisko knew, were chemical ex-
plosives, common enough. What they were not were phasers
or photon torpedoes, plasma weapons or disruptors. What-
ever had happened out there, it had not been one ship firing
on another.
 "So what blew up?" Sisko asked.
    "There's a trail of deuterium leading away from the
explosion," Chief O'Brien reported from the operations
console. "I think there may be a ship in trouble out there."
    "There is," Worf confirmed, working his controls. "By
configuration, it is a small Bajoran passenger shuttle."
    "Are there any Ferengi ships about?" Sisko asked, want-
ing to be absolutely certain that his assumption that the war
had not yet begun was correct. If Defiant was going to take
any action at all here, he needed to know that he would not
be involving Starfleet in the Bajoran-Ferengi hostilities.
    "Negative," Wolf said. "There are no other ships in the
vicinity."
    "The explosion appears to have occurred within one of
the shuttle's drive shells," O'Brien observed.
    "Hail them," Sisko ordered. "See if they require our
assistance."
    "Aye, sir." Sisko watched as Worf worked his console,
once, twice, three times. "There is no response; they are not
receiving us."
"Set a course for them," Sisko said. "Full impulse."
"Aye, sir." At the conn, Dax complied with the order.
"We may not be permitted to get involved in a war,"
Sisko said, thinking aloud, "but we can at least render aid to
a ship in distress."
    "Actually, I'm not sure how much distress they're in,"
O'Brien remarked. "They may be shaken up a bit, but they
don't appear to be in any danger of a hull breach or another
explosion. Of course, it may take them some time to get
anywhere."
    "An emergency on a ship that isn't life-threatening for the
crew," Sisko mused, managing a quick smile; good news
had been infrequent of late. "How refreshing." He saw Dax
turn partially toward him with a grin on her face.
    "Captain, we are receiving a distress call," Worf said. "It
is being broadcast on a Starfleet emergency channel."
    "Maybe they've seen us or scanned us," Sisko hypothe-
sized. "Put it on screen."
    "There is no visual or aural component to the communi-
eation," Worf explained. "The transmission ia rondered
completely in text."
    "That's strange," Sisko noticed. "Maybe their Chambers
coil is out."
"Their coil emissions are normal," O'Brien declared.
"They claim to be in danger of a hull breach," Worf said,
sounding suspicious. "They are requesting that their ship be
evacuated."
  "Chief?" Sisko asked.
    "Their structural integrity is sound," O'Brien said. "I
think they're overreacting."
    "It's understandable that they'd be shaken up a bit," Dax
said. "An explosion in a small ship like that has got to be
pretty frightening."
    "It also looks like their inertial dampers are off-line,"
O'Brien said, relenting a bit, Sisko thought, from his
allegation of "overreacting." "They may be shaken literally
as well as figuratively."
    "Are they reporting any casualties?" Sisko wanted to
know.
 "No," said Worf.
 "We're entering visual range," Dax announced.
 "Let's see it," Sisko said.
    Worf worked to bring the image up on the main viewer.
The starscape shifted and the shuttle appeared in the center
of the screen. The small craft wobbled and vibrated as it
floated through space, apparently unpowered. Sisko saw
that the running lights were off, and he thought that he
could make out the dark line of a fissure crawling horizon-
tally along one of the engine shells.
 "How are their life signs?" Sisko asked.
    "The deuterium stream is making it difficult for the
sensors to pick out individual life-forms," Worf said. "But
the readings we are getting suggest that there are approxi-
mately eight to twelve people on board."
"Eight to twelve?" Dax repeated. "That's got to be cozy."
Not cozy, Sisko thought. Tremulous and panic-stricken,
maybe, but not cozy. The people on that shuttle, he guessed,
were probably fleeing before the battle for their world
began.
    "Can we get a transporter lock on them?" Sisko asked,
calling on the chiefs years of experience as a transporter
operator.

    "Not automatically," O'Brien answered, "but we should
be able to perform a wide-band retrieval for all humanoid
life."
    "Do it," Sisko told O'Brien. "Inform Transporter Room
One of the procedure and have the shuttle passengers
beamed over."
    "Aye, sir." O'Brien set about contacting the operator in
the transporter room.
    "Dax, once the Bajoraus are aboard, I want you to take us
back to Deep Space Nine," Sisko said. "After Dr. Bashir
administers treatment to whoever needs it, we'll transport
them to the station and resume our course to Starbase
Icarus."
 "Aye, sir."
     "Mr. Worf, engage the tractor beam; we'll tow the shuttle
back to the station for our guests." "Yes, sir."
    And that was all that needed to be done right now. For a
few moments, nobody spoke, and the only sounds on the
bridge were those of the ship responding to the commands
of Sisko's crew.
    And then: "Transporter Room One to Captain Sisko,"
came the voice of the young ensign over the intercom
system; Sisko still could not recall his name, although he did
recognize his voice.
    "Sisko here. What is it, Ensign? Have you got the crew of
the shutfie'?"
    "Oh, we've got them all right," the ensign said. "Sir, I
think you'd better get down here."

    There were nine Ferengi, one Bajoran, and innumerable
questions, both being asked of Sisko and forming in his own
mind. But all of those questions would have to be set aside
for now; without warning, the opportunity Sisko had been
seeking from the Bajoran government had somehow been
delivered into his hands, and he was not going to allow any
time to pass before he attempted to capitalize on it. Never
before had he been so happy to see Quark.
    "I want you to assign quarters and escorts to them," Sisko
told Lieutenant Robinson, the senior security officer pres-
ent. He looked past her at the group they had beamed
aboard from the troubled shuttle. They all appeared to be in
some distress, presumably because of the accident aboard
their craft: they stood huddled together in one corner of the
transporter room, whispering to each other, their eyes
darting about nervously. Their ride must have been rough
once the inertial dampers had failed, Sisko decided, because
he saw bruises and cuts on every face--although the lone
Bajoran among them seemed to have escaped with the
fewest injuries, with only a single small cut over his left eye.
    "When they're all settled," Sisko continued telling the
lieutenant, "accompany each of them, one by one, to
sickbay, so that Dr. Bashir can treat them."
    "Aye, Captain." Robinson directed both her team--a
pair of male ensigns--and the group of shuttle passengers,
explaining what they would be doing. The security officers
began to lead the ragged Ferengi--and the one Bajoran--
away.
    "Quark," Sisko called as the transporter-room door
opened before the assemblage. The former barkeeper
stopped and stepped away from the group; his brother did
the same. "I'd like you to stay here for a moment; I want to
talk to you." Lieutenant Robinson brought her officers and
their charges to a halt.
    "I really have nothing to say to you... Captain." Out of
Quark's mouth, Sisko's rank sounded like an insult. Quark
turned his back and rejoined the group--all of them were
watching him--and Rom followed.
    "I see," Sisko said, bringing his hands together behind his
back. He would to have to tread carefully here if there was
going to be any chance of eliciting Quark's assistance. "Let
me ask again then: Would you please stay here so that you
and I can talk?"
    Quark froze. The word please seemed to have some effect
on him, though Sisko could not be sure that it was the effect
at which he had been aiming. He saw Quark glance over at
Rom.
    "Go to sickbay," Quark told his brother. "You really need
to have your face worked on."
    "Yours isn't looking so good either, brother," Rom re-
turned.
"This face.'?" Quark asked rhetorically. "Nothing could
destroy the beauty in this face." Then, in gentler tones, and
more seriously, he said, "Go ahead, Rom. I'll be there
shortly."
    It was a moment of tenderness Sisko had never expected
to witness. In his experience, Quark's relationship with his
brother had been characterized by Quark's continual yelling
and his inveterate use of the epithet you idiot.
    Rom gazed over at Sisko with an expression the captain
could not read--was it a warning? an entreaty?--then
returned to the rest of the shuttle passengers. Robinson and
her security team ushered the group away, and the door slid
shut.
    "Ensign," Sisko said, addressing the transporter operator,
wishing again that he could recall his name. "Would you
excuse us?" Sisko remembered his meeting here with Dai-
Mon Bractor, and it occurred to him that the transporter
room aboard Defiant was beginning to feel more like a
conference room.
    "Yes, sir," the ensign replied. He secured his console and
left the room. Quark watched him go, then turned and
regarded Sisko.
"I want political asylum for my brother and me," he said.
"Just the two of you?" Sisko asked sarcastically. "What
about the rest of your friends?" He spoke as though granting
political sanctuary were the simplest task in the universe to
perform, thereby implying how problematic it could actu-
ally be.
    "They can do whatever they want to do, ask for asylum if
they want to, I don't care," Quark said, and it was clear
from the way he delivered his words that he really did not
care. "I'm just asking for Rom and me."
    Sisko saw an opening here, but he would still have to be
circumspect in his approach. He paced along one wall, away
from Quark, as he responded.
    "We've spoken before about the Federation Council's
resolution with respect to the current troubles between the
Bajorans and the Ferengi," Sisko said. "The resolution is
still in effect, and I know you understand it." He circled
around behind the transporter console and faced Quark
across the room.
 "Of course I understand it," Quark snapped. "These cuts
and bruises--" He pointed a finger up at his face. "--were
given to me by that resolution."
    "I'm not sure what that's supposed to mean," Sisko said,
a little more dismissive than he had intended. He hesitated
and took a moment to look more closely at Quark. He saw
that, while one or two of the wounds on his face appeared
fresh, others were in various stages of healing; that would
indicate that they could not have been caused by the
incident aboard the shuttle. And Sisko noticed something
else as well: Quark's features were drawnreno, not just
drawn; they were gaunt. He was wearing a loose-fitting
jumpsuit--his jailhouse garb, Sisko assumedmthat hid his
body, but even so, he seemed to have lost weight during the
time he had been away from Deep Space Nine. Even through
the clothing, Sisko could see a boniness to Quark's shoul-
ders that had not been there before, and the Ferengi's
forearms, visible where they emerged from the sleeves of
the jumpsuit, appeared painfully thin. Quark had lost a lot
of weight, Sisko saw now, maybe even to the point of
emaciation.
    This couldn't have happened on Bajor, Sisko thought. This
was not how the Bajorans treated their prisoners~or
anybody, for that matter, not even the most violent of
convicted criminals. As Sisko peered across the room,
Quark looked away; more than that, he shrank back, as
though uncomfortable with the captain's scrutiny.
    "Do you want to tell me what happened to you?" Sisko
asked, striving to temper his attitude.
    "Never mind," Quark said, waving away the matter of his
injuries. "I'm just saying that I don't care about the resolu-
tion. My brother and I are political refugees, we've been
jailed for no other reason than because we're Ferengi, and
we demand that the Federation provide us protection and
immunity from extradition to Bajor."
    "You 'demand'?" Sisko repeated. "You break out of jail,
abduct a Bajoran national, and steal a Bajoran shuttle~"
Quark suddenly raised a hand to his forehead, as though he
had just realized something. "--and you have the audacity
to make demands?" That fast, Sisko observed, he had
reverted to the adversarial pattern typical of his relation-
ship with Quark.

    "Are you interested in facts, Captain?" Quark dropped
his hand and started across the room toward Sisko. "Or are
you going to hide behind Federation sanctimony and blame
me one more time for things I didn't do?" He stopped in
front of the transporter console and glared up and over it at
Sisko.
    "What things didn't you do?" Sisko started out from
behind the console, and Quark flinched and backed away
quickly, almost as though he expected Sisko to strike him.
 "Quark--?" Sisko started to ask.
    "I didn't kidnap that Bajoran, for one thing," Quark said,
ignoring what had just happened.
"Well, that would certainly be easy enough to verify."
"Go ahead and verify it," Quark insisted. "His name is
Prana, he's a corporal in the Bajoran Militia, and he came
with us willingly. And I don't think the shuttle was stolen
either. At least, I was told it wasn't." 
"But you did escape from prison."
    Quark laughed. Not just a chuckle, but a hearty, full-
throated guffaw; the sound, though, was far from jovial.
Quark moved away from the captain and around the room
in a meandering fashion, his head thrown back and his
mouth open wide in a manner approaching hysteria. He
climbed onto the transporter platform and dropped down
to a sitting position, knees up and leaning his back against
the wall.
    Sisko watched Quark, and mixed in with the laughter, he
thought he saw tears; the Ferengi was breaking down right
in front of him. Sisko did not understand even remotely
why Quark was behaving this way, except... he had seen
this type of behavior before, hadn't he? Several times, in
fact. It had not always been manifested in just this way, but
it was nevertheless recognizable: post-traumatic stress. But
what trauma had Quark undergone? The injuries to his face,
the loss of weight... and again Sisko thought: This could
not have happened on Bajor.
    "Do you want to know where I escaped from?" Quark
asked from his sitting position on the transporter platform;
he did not look up. Sisko said nothing. "Gallitep."
    "What?" Sisko gasped, unable to withhold his reaction.
What Quark was saying was unthinkable: the Gallitep
forced-labor camp was for all of Bajor a powerful symbol of
the pure evil embodied in the Cardassian Occupation. Sisko
knew that the camp had not been destroyed, but had been
preserved--after a bitter and difficult social debate--as a
tribute to the many Bajorans who had lived through the
camps, and to the many who had not; it also served as a
reminder that such horrors must never be permitted to
happen again. For the Bajorans to have reopened the camp,
even as a place of simple incarceration--
    And then Sisko recalled the injuries--and the remnants
of injuries--on the faces of all the Ferengi they had beamed
aboard.
 No, he told himself. This could not have been.
    "You heard me," Quark said. "They sent us to the place
they hate more than any other." Now he looked up. "So
much for the deep spirituality of the Bajoran people."
    Sisko was stunned. He walked over to the platform and
looked again at Quark. His face was covered with cuts and
greenish purple contusions. To his dismay, Sisko now saw a
long, thin scar traveling across one cheek to the bridge of
Quark's nose. This was impossible.
    "I can't believe it," Sisko said. Quark must have heard the
anguish in his voice, though, because he did not seem to
think that Sisko was questioning his story. "That there
would not have been a public outcry when you were taken
there--" Sisko stopped then, realizing that, imprisoned in
Gallitep or in some other facility, there was no imaginable
reason that Quark should have been hurt--and perhaps
even starved--the way he had been. And then a terrible
question occurred to Sisko: Why didn't I know about this?
The answer, he found, was even more terrible: he had not
thought about Quark much after he had been taken from
the station--not until his help had been needed. Sisko bent
at the knees and sat down on the transporter platform,
across from Quark.
 "All right," Sisko said. "Asylum."
    "Wonderful," Quark responded. He seemed exhausted.
Slowly, he got to his feet and dismounted the platform. As
he headed for the door, Sisko called after him.
 "Quark."
    For the second time, Quark stopped and turned before he
reached the door.
 "I need your help."
    "You want my help?" Quark said, his voice rising in
obvious anger, maybe even in incredulity. "You mean like
the way you helped me when I came to you... I don't even
know how long ago it was, because I've been beaten just
about every day since then."
 Beaten? Sisko reeled at the thought.
    "I'm genuinely sorry about that." It was not enough,
Sisko knew, but it was how he truly felt. When this was all
over--if it ever was--he pledged to himself that he would
learn exactly what had happened to Quark and the others,
and he would see those responsible brought to justice.
    "You know," Quark began, his voice still loud, "you
don't like me, Captain, and Kira doesn't like me, and
O'Brien and Bashir and Worf, and none of you even really
know me. To you, I'm just a short and greedy Ferengi, or on
a good day, when you want my services, I'm a Ferengi
bartender. Or I was, anyway. Just because we don't have all
the same values doesn't mean that you're right and I'm
wrong, or that I'm not a good person. But forget about right
and wrong, good and bad; I'm never just Quark to you, just
a person. I'm always a member of a people that you never
really tried to understand; I'm always a Ferengi."
    "And aren't we all just 'hyoo-mons' to you?" Sisko asked,
mimicking Quark's derogatory pronunciation of the word
humans. He understood why Quark had not included Dax
in his litany of the people he thought did not like him--she
was perhaps the most tolerant person Sisko had ever
known--but he was curious at the omission of Odo, whose
name he would have expected to head the list.
    "Maybe you wouldn't be 'hyoo-mons' if you didn't look
down on me from a distance."
    "Maybe," Sisko said, rising from the platform. "This is
not the first time you've mentioned these types of issues to
me."
 "No," Quark agreed.
    "And it's not the first time I've listened, either. You may
be right--" Sisko corrected himself. "You are right, at least
 about some of the things you've said with respect to me; I
 can't speak for anybody else."  "So what does that mean?"
    "It means... I don't know what it means," Sisko admit-
ted. "Perhaps I can take you to a baseball game in a
holosuite sometime."
    "Ugh. How can you watch those holoprograms?" Quark
asked. "They are so boring."
      Sisko welcomed the light chatter, and he supposed that
Quark did too; it served to lessen the friction between them.
 "Well, something else then. Maybe."
    "Yeah. Maybe you'll invite me to a dinner where I don't
have to serve."
    There was a lull, and it seemed as though the conversa-
tion had ended. But it could not end, Sisko knew. Not yet.
    "Quark, you and your brother have asylum. I'll grant it to
all the Ferengi. I'm not interested in pursuing threats to get
your assistance." Sisko knew that threats were often effec-
tive with Quark, but he felt it would not be right to employ
such tactics, particularly after what had apparently hap-
pened at--Sisko still found it hard to believe--Gallitep. "I
think you were wronged, and I was wrong not to speak up
about it."
    Quark's eyes narrowed in what Sisko took to be an
appraising look, but the Ferengi said nothing.
    "I think I can offer you a better deal than asylum, though.
A profitable deal."
 Now Quark's eyes widened.
 "I'm listening," he said.
    "This isn't for me," Sisko said soberly. "It's for the
people of Bajor--" Quark began to react, but Sisko held
him back by raising both his hands, palms out. "--and the
people of Ferenginar." In truth, Sisko had previously only
thought of the need to resolve this conflict, to avoid this
war, in terms of the consequences that would be spared the
Bajorans, and he felt ashamed now as he realized that. He
hoped that his narrow focus had been because he had
always believed that the Ferengi would win a war with the
Bajorans, but even if that was true, the Ferengi would still
surely suffer casualties, and one conviction that Sisko held
absolutely, applied here, was that the life of a Bajoran was
no more or less valuable than the life of a Ferengi.
 "What is it you want?" Quark asked.
    "It's the same thing it's been all along," Sisko said. "The
Orb of the Prophets."
    Quark seemed to deflate. This was something he clearly
did not want to do.
 "Hasn't the nagus sold that thing yet?"
    "Apparently not." Which was, Sisko thought, odd.
"Quark, the stakes are much higher now: the nagus has
declared war on Bajor."
     "I know," Quark said, and he appeared to lose himself in
thought for a moment. "You do?"
    "Oh, uh, I saw all the ships around Bajor, and I just
figured it out." Quark paused, and then said, "Listen, why
should I care if the Alliance goes to war with Bajor?"
    "Let's think this through," Sisko said. "If you don't help
and there is a war, then either Ferenginar will win or Bajor
will win."
"I'd put a bet down on the Alliance," Quark commentedø
"Let's say the Alliance is victorious. Then the Ferengi will
take over Deep Space Nine. Do you believe that the nagus
will give the bar back to you, or do you think he'd claim it as
a war prize and have one of his associates run it for him?"
From the expression on Quark's face, Sisko knew that he
had correctly surmised the consequences of a Ferengi vic-
tory. "And if the unlikely happens and Bajor wins the war,
they'll never return your bar to you."
    "You have a point," Quark allowed. "But if I agree to
help, there's no guarantee that I'll be able to change the
nagus's mind."
    "If you can't, then I promise that you and Rom will still
have asylum," Sisko said. "But if you can persuade the
nagus not just to reinstate the Bajorans in the auction, but
to sell the Ninth Orb to them, then Shakaar has already told
me that he will rescind the edict barring Ferengi from
Bajoran space. Starfleet will be able to maintain a presence
on the station, and I personally guarantee--as the
Emissary--that your bar will be given back to you, and you
and Rom will be granted amnesty for whatever crimes the
Bajorans believe you to have committed."
  "Do you even know where the nagus is right now?"
  "Intelligence reports put him on Ferenginar."
    "I need time to think about this," Quark said, beginning
to pace slowly around the room. Considering a business
proposition, Quark almost looked like his former, vital selfi
 "There's no time. The Ferengi fleet will be here soon."
 "I have your word?" Quark asked.
    "You have my word," Sisko promised. He was not
entirely sure how he would be able to fulfill that promise,
but he would do everything he possibly could to make it
happen.
 "What about the resolution?"
    "The Council's resolution is a wonderful guideline,"
Sisko answered carefully. "But it's not appropriate to follow
any decision blindly." He paused, and then added, "Isn't
there a Rule of Acquisition to cover this?"
    "There's a Rule of Acquisition to cover everything,"
Quark said, "but that doesn't mean one's always got to be
applied." And Quark smiled.

CHAPTER
      34

QUARK CONSIDERED keeping the scar.
 "You're joking, aren't you?" Bashir asked him.
     "I don't know," Quark said as he sat down on the edge of a
diagnostic bed. "I think maybe it makes me look more..."
 "Beaten up?" Bashir offered.
    "I was going to say 'more dangerous.' Don't you think
certain people might be more inclined to do business with
me if I looked this way?" There had been no mirrors at
Gallitep, and so Quark had not had an opportunity to see
the extent of his facial injuries until he had arrived in
Defiant~ sickbay. Even after having had several days in
which to heal, his wounds had still looked awful. Dr. Bashir
had now repaired all of the damage to his body and face,
with the exception of the sear that climbed across his cheek
and over to the top of his nose.
    "What I think," Bashir said, "is that people might be
even more inclined than ever to run and hide when they see
you."
    "That's very funny, Doctor," Quark said. "Not as funny
as mistaking a preganglionic fiber for a postganglionic
nerve, but still very funny." Quark was alluding to the one
error that Bashir had made on his Staffieet Medical final
exam, an error that had consequently prevented him from
being valedictorian of his graduating class. Although this
had happened several years ago, Quark was aware that it
was something that still rankled the doctor, he certainly
complained about it enough.
    Bashir put a hand on Quark's head and tilted it uncom-
fortably backward, then raised a medical device to his face;
Quark could just see its handle in his peripheral vision. He
heard a hum then, and felt heat on his cheek, and an odd,
knitting sensation, as though the cells of his skin were
somehow weaving themselves together. After a short time,
the doctor turned off the device and examined Quark's face.
"Uh-oh," he said.
    "Uh-oh?" Quark asked frantically. He jumped from the
diagnostic bed and raced over to a mirror. When he
examined his reflection, though, all he saw was his own face,
restored to its uninjured form.
 "Uh-oh," Bashir said, "now you look just like you used
tO.~
     "You really are extremely witty, Doctor," Quark told
him. "As witty as a salutatorian can be, anyway."
 Bashir smiled and seemed to give in.
    "I'm done with him," he told Lieutenant Robinson, who
was standing off to one side; she had been assigned to
"escort" Quark through the ship. "Please take him away,
would you?"
    "Certainly, sir," Robinson replied. The security officer
walked over to Quark. "Captain Sisko wanted me to accom-
pany you to your assigned quarters," she said.
    "And what lovely quarters they are," Quark said deri-
sively. He had traveled once before on Defiant, on a trade
mission to the Gamma Quadrant, and so he was familiar
with the ship's austere accommodations. "Four walls, a
floor, a ceiling, and two bunks; what more could I want?" As
he spoke, he heard the doors to the sickbay open behind
him, and then a swirling, liquid sound, almost inaudible,
that he could not mistake. He turned to face Ode.
    For a moment, the two men regarded each other silently.
The last time Quark had seen Ode was when the constable
had helped the Bajorans take him and his brother into
custody on Deep Space Nine. Quark had understandably felt
great animosity toward Odo then, but he discovered now
that he had no facility for recalling that emotion.
    "You're lucky you weren't assigned to ride on the outside
of the ship," the constable said at last, and his reversion to
their familiar banter seemed to Quark almost like an
apology. In Odo's hands, Quark saw what appeared to be a
bundle of clothing.
    "Constable," Quark said, "I thought you would be on the
station." When Sisko had brought Quark down to sickbay
from the transporter room, he had explained the current
state of affairs among the Bajorans, the Ferengi, and Star-
fleet. Because of the declaration of war issued by the nagns,
Starfleet had elected to evacuate all of their personnel from
the station. Odo was not a member of Starfleet, though, and
Quark had simply assumed that he had remained on DS9.
    "I was there," Odo said, "but somebody's got to look
after you on the way to Ferenginar."
    Odo must have come aboard, Quark realized, when
Defiant had briefly returned to the station to disembark
Corporal Prana and release the shuttle from the tractor
beam. The rest of the Ferengi, as far as Quark knew, would
be staying on the ship until after Quark's attempt to
persuade the nagus to change his mind about selling the Orb
to the Bajorans.
    "I guess I can assume that Kira isn't here," Quark
observed, "since my lobes are still attached to my head."
    "Major Kira is still on the station, yes," Ode confirmed.
Then, holding out the bundle he was carrying, he said,
"Here. Captain Sisko wanted me to replicate something for
you to wear."
    Quark was still in one of the ill-fitting jumpsuits from the
prison camp. He took the clothing from Ode, separated out
the undergarments and shoes, and held up the largest piece
of apparel by the shoulders, letting gravity unfold it. It was
another jumpsuit, this one Starfleet issue, Quark was sure,
but not identifiably so. The one plain advantage that it had
over what he was presently wearing was that it appeared to
be his size.
    "Don't you have anything better? It's not as stylish as
what I normally wear," Quark noted.
     "As a matter of fact, we don't," replied the constable
 curtly.
  "Well, then I suppose it'll do for now."
  "How magnanimous of you," Odo intoned.
    "Doctor," Quark called just as Bashir was leaving the
room, heading for his office, which adjoined the sickbay.
"May I use your offce to change my clothes?"
    "Oh, by all means," Bashit said. "Anything to hasten
your departure." He turned to Odo and the two shared a
glance Quark recognized as emblematic of their traditional
attitude toward him: smug superiority.
    Quark went into the doctor's office and began removing
the uncomfortable, oversized jumpsuit. As he did so, he
started to feel disoriented. Only a few hours ago, he had
been in the most infamous prison camp on Bajor, ma-
rooned, and with indeterminate prospects of rescue or
escape. And just days before that, he had been on the verge
of being executed--deliberately and coldly murdered, real-
ly-and that had been preceded by weeks and weeks of
physical and mental abuse. Now, he was on a Federation
starship on his way to Ferenginar, where he would attempt
to change the mind of the grand nagus himself. The
sequence of events was dizzying. Life is an ever-changing
jewel, he thought wryly.
    Quark stepped out of the Bajoran jumpsuit and began
pulling on the new undergarments. He still could not
believe that he had agreed to Sisko's request. The captain
was quite a negotiator, Quark had to admit; his dealings had
been surprisingly impressive. Quark had never thought
hyoo-mons capable of such shrewdness. Perhaps that was an
example of Quark's own biases; perhaps it was time he
examined his views about hyoo-monsmhumans, he forced
himself to thinkmand others. Such a reevaluation would be
especially important if there was any possibility that a
human might someday outmaneuver him in a business deal.
    Quark finished pulling on the Starfleet jumpsuit--it fit
him very well, he was delighted to see--and the shoes, and
then returned to the main room of the sickbay. Dr. Bashit
was leaning against a wall, looking annoyed as he appar-
ently waited to get into his office. Across the room, Odo was
stalking back and forth, also waiting. Lieutenant Robinson
was no longer present.
    "It's about time," Bashir said when he saw Quark. Then,
when he noticed that Quark was empty-handed, he said,
"Where are the clothes you were wearing?"
    "I left them on the floor in there," Quark said, pointing
back into the doctor's offce. "I figured you'd know where to
dispose of them."
    "Of course," Bashir said dryly, rolling his eyes. He
quickly left the room.
    "What happened to Lieutenant Robinson?" Quark asked
Odo.
    "I relieved her," the constable said. "According to Cap-
tain Sisko, you're my responsibility now."
    "Well, then," Quark said brightly, "shall we go?" He
walked through the doors and out into the corridor, where
he intentionally turned in the wrong direction. He did this
automatically, out of a long-standing habit of leading Odo
to believe that he was always trying to get away with
something. In that manner, with Odo continually prevent-
ing him from breaking one rule or another, Quark thought
that the constable would be less likely to believe that he was
actually able to get away with doing something wrong. It
was a theory, anyway.
 "This way, Quark," Odo said.
    "Certainly," Quark said, and he reversed his course in the
corridor.
"You seem to be in a good mood," the constable noticed.
Quark was about to disagree--an automatic reaction for
him with Odo--when he realized that the constable was
right: he was in a good mood.
    Sure, and why not? Quark thought. He had escaped being
imprisoned on Bajor, and he was now in a position where
he would receive either asylum or amnesty. There was also a
chancewa very small chance, but still a chance--that he
would be able to get his bar back, and he was also pretty
sure now that his liquid assets were still intact.
    Quark had inferred that last bit of information from what
he had learned from Sisko. Quark had asked about the
transport he thought he had seen in orbit about Bajor, and
the captain had told him that it was one of a squadron of
starships that the Bajorans had purchased. That in itself
indicated that the deal Quark had orchestrated months ago
had not somehow soured in his absence. When Quark had
asked the origin of the ships, Sisko had said that he believed
that they had initially come from the Karemma, further
evidence that the ship Quark had seen was not one of the
ones involved in the deal he had brokered. All of which
meant that Quark's accounts were probably just as he had
left them before being arrested and taken to Bajor.
     "You're right," Quark told Ode. "I am in a good mood. I
must be happy to see you." "Right."
    They had come to the doors of a turbolift, which opened
at their approach. They entered the lift, and Ode specified
the deck to which they were going. The lift ascended.
    "So," Ode said, with a practiced air of nonchalance that
Quark easily recognized, "do you know what you're going
to say to the nagus when we get to Ferenginar?"
    Quark looked up at Ode. The question, unexpected as it
was, brought Quark to a conclusion he had not previously
reached.
    "This was your idea, wasn't it?" Quark asked. "You must
have been the one to suggest my involvement in this
mission." This mission, Quark knew from what Sisko had
told him, had not spontaneously developed when he and his
fellow internees had been plucked from the dying Bajoran
shuttle. The captain had said that he had been attempting to
engineer Quark's release from prison before the nagus had
declared war, before Starfleet had been forced to evacuate
Deep Space Nine. Sisko claimed that he had come to believe
that Quark was the best hope of defusing the situation
between the Bajorans and the Ferengi. That had seemed
odd to Quark, and he understood now that such an impor-
tant political gambitmusing Quark to negotiate peace with
the nagus--would not have originated with Sisko or any of
the Starfleet personnel; none of them had ever taken him
seriously. But Ode...
    "What difference does it make to you whose idea it was?"
Ode asked.
 The turbolift doors opened, and Quark and Ode walked
out into another corridor on another deck. The constable's
question, Quark thought, was a good one. Why should he
care about who had first considered seeking his assistance?
Well, actually, the first person had been Kira, but she had
been asking him to do something--a favor, really--specifi-
cally for her and her people. What was being asked of Quark
now was for him to avert a war and perhaps save the
quadrant.
    "It was you," Quark told Ode. "I know it was you. But
why?"
    "What do you mean, 'why'? How many reasons cotfid
there be?"
    "I can think of several," Quark said. Ode stopped before
a door, apparently the cabin to which Quark had been
assigned. Another security officer, one whom Quark recog-
nized from DS9, was standing beside the door. "Did you
suggest that I shotfid be the one to talk with the nagus
because you thought I'd be successful, or because you
wanted to see me fail, maybe even get into trouble with the
Ferengl Commerce Authority?"
    "That's the problem with always making deals, Quark,"
Ode said, sighing. "Always trying to take from people as
much as you can, and giving as little as possible in re-
turn... you can be certain of your enemies' identities, but
do you know who your friends are?"
    Quark found Odo's question cryptic. What did he mean?
Surely he was not claiming to be Quark's friend... was he?
    Before Quark could pursue the issue, the single-paneled
door opened. Beyond was the small, stark cabin Quark had
expected. Rein stood just inside the doorway; he had
obviously been the one to open the door. Quark and Ode
both looked at him.
    "Brother," Rein said with some urgency, "I need to talk
to you." Rom's face was still bruised; he clearly had not
been to sickbay yet. He was wearing the same Starfleet
jumpsuit that Quark had on, though.
    Quark glanced back up at Ode and considered continuing
the conversation they had been having. There was no point,
he decided. Quark knew Ode well enough to know that the
constable would never simply spell out the meanings of
what he had said.
    Quark started through the doorway, and Rom stepped
aside to let him pass. The door slid shut behind him.
  "Brother, I need to tell you something," Rom reiterated.
    "Why haven't you been to see Dr. Bashir yet?" Quark
wanted to know. He sat down on the lower bunk.
    "I'm going to go see him in a little while," Rom said. "I
just needed to talk to you alone first."
      "I really think you should go now," Quark said. "Your
face looks even worse than it usually does."  
"I think we were set up."
  "Set up?" Quark rose from the bunk. "When? By who?"
  "By Cort."
    This was one of the last names Quark had expected to
hear. Prana, he had thought, or perhaps Shakaar or Sisko,
even Zek. But Cort?
    "Are you out of your mind?" Quark said. "Cort saved us,
you idiot."
    "I know it doesn't make sense," Rom said. "It seems like
he saved us; I'm just not sure how."
    "What are you talking about? He made that homing
device and brought his shuttle to... to the camp." Even
though he had spoken the name of the camp aloud to Sisko,
Quark discovered that he no longer wished it to pass his
lips.
    "That's just it," Rom said. "He didn't make a homing
device."
 "What do you mean?"
    "When we got in the shuttle, I found the device he
supposedly put together; it was in a dosed compartment
near the back of the cabin."
    "He must have put it there when he transported aboard,"
Quark said, recalling how he had seen Rom huddled over
something on the floor of the shuttle. "What do you mean
'supposedly put together'?"
 "I mean, that was no homing device."
 "What was it then?"
    "It wasn't anything," Rom said. "It was just a mass of
parts from a medical scanner and a phaser. They had been
connected together, but they didn't make anything that
functioned."
 "But then how did he call the shuttle?"
"I don't know," Rom said, shrugging his usual shrug.
"Maybe he had another homing device, a real one."
    "Then why would he pretend to build one? And why
wouldn't he have called his shuttle to save usmor at least
save himself--much sooner than he did?"
    "There's another thing, brother," Rom said. "Don't you
think it's a pretty big coincidence that right after we escaped
from Bajor--" Quark quickly wondered whether Rom
also had an aversion to using the name of the prison camp.
"--we were picked up by the Defiant."
    Events had transpired so quickly--the flight from Bajor,
avoiding the many ships massed in orbit, the explosion
aboard the shuttle, and the subsequent rescue by the crew of
Defiant--that Quark had not really had time to consider
everything that had happened. Now that he did, though, he
agreed with his brother: there had been several unlikely
coincidences. And he also remembered that Cort had
seemed to know more than he should have about the
situation between Ferenginar and Bajor.
    "Are you suggesting that Cort is working with somebody
from the station, somebody on the Defiant?" It seemed
preposterous, a Ferengi working with a trusted Starfleet
officer. Then again, Rom had been working for Chief
O'Brien before they had been taken to Bajor. Of course,
Rom was not a typical Ferengi male. Perhaps Cort was not
either.
    "I don't know," Rom said. "Maybe somebody from the
station."
    Who, though? Sisko? Quark considered the possibility,
but it did not make sense. If Cort had voluntarily stayed in
the camp on Bajor--endured imprisonment by Colonel
Mitra and Sergeant Wyte--when he had the capability of
calling his shuttle and escaping at any time, then Quark was
sure that he would have to have been paid extremely well,
and Sisko--any Starfleet o~cer--would not have been able
to do that.
    There was somebody who obviously could pay well,
though, somebody who was embroiled in the midst of the
entire Ferengi-Bajoran situation Grand Nagus Zek. But why
would he have wanted to keep the internees in the prison
camp for so long? And why would he want them to escape
now, and why be picked up by the crew of Defiant? And
where was the profit for Zek? No, it made no sense for it to
be the nagus.
    The questions Quark was asking himself had to be asked
of whoever it was who had set them up, if indeed they had
been set up at all. And all of those questions had one
component in common, a single question Quark was sud-
denly sure lay at the heart of the matter: Why?

CHAPTER
      35

D~t~rr n~EW AT maximum warp.
    On the bridge's main viewer, a tactical display showed the
Ferengi armada: scores and scores of ships, arrayed in
matrix-like formation, a vast legion of firepower, maneuver-
ability, and defense. Sisko scanned the identifiers on the
graphic plot and saw that the advancing fleet was comprised
not just of the Marauder heavies, but of many different
types of smaller ships as well. It was a force, Sisko decided,
that would tax even Starfleet in battle. The meager Bajoran
squadrons, even augmented as they were with their new
defensive transports, could not hope to withstand the
formidable assault the Ferengi were mounting.
    "Can you punch us through undetected? Sisko asked
Dax.
    "I think so," Dax answered from the conn. "Their
grouping is moderately tight, but we should be able to sneak
through."
    Defiant was traveling cloaked, but passing through an
array of so many ships traveling at faster-than-light veloci-
ties, it would be a simple matter for Defiant's own warp field
to have an observable proximate effect on that of another
ship, and the last thing that Sisko wanted was to be
observed. They could circumnavigate the armada, of
course, but that would necessarily add time to their journey,
and right now, the Ferengi fleet was closer to Bajor than
Defiant was to Ferenginar.
  "How large are the interstices?" Sisko asked.
    "Not very," Dax replied, examining the readouts both on
the main viewer and on her console. "The rows and
columns of ships in each layer of the formation are stag-
gered, so we won't be able to take a straight path through
them. I'm not sure why, but their ships are only traveling at
warp factor five; that should make things at least a little
easier."
    "Perhaps that's the maximum speed of some of the
smaller vessels," Sisko guessed.
    "Or they may be conserving power for their attack on
Bajor," Worf suggested, ever the warrior.
    "We're closing rapidly on them, Captain," O'Brien re-
ported. "We'll be committed to a pass-through in thirty
seconds."
    "Dax?" Sisko asked. The commander's attention, Sisko
saw, was focused on her console, her fingers dancing across
her controls in an experienced ballet, her eyes searching the
numbers for the answer her captain wanted.
     "We can do it," Dax announced, "but we'll have to
reduce our speed to warp four-point-five." "Do it," Sisko ordered.
 "Aye," Dax acknowledged, already working her controls.
 "Twenty seconds," said O'Brien.
    "Mr. Worf, let's see the starscape, superimposed with
icons showing the actual positions of the ships," Sisko said.
    "Yes, sir." The tactical display on the main viewer was
replaced with the image of what lay ahead of Defiant. Near
the four corners of the screen, small, red symbols overlaid
the scene. These represented where the closest Ferengi ships
actually were, their locations gleaned from sensor readings.
Such information could not be determined from visual
observation, since the Ferengi ships were traveling toward
Defiant at velocities faster than light; by the time the light
from those ships reached Defiant, the ships themselves
would have moved on trillions of kilometers.

 "Ten seconds."
    As Defiant neared the Ferengi ships, the icons represent-
ing them on the main viewer grew in size and moved
outward toward the edges of the screen. As voices quieted,
the sounds of the bridge grew less varied: the ever-present
pulse of the warp engines pervaded the still atmosphere,
with the rapid-fire quavers of the flight-control console
providing punctuation. All eyes but Dax's, Sisko knew,
would be on the viewer; she would be studying her instru-
mentation.
 "Here we go," Dax said, almost under her breath.
    On the screen, the field of stars whirled clockwise as Dax
brought Defiant around on its beam, spinning to port. The
red symbols representing Ferengi ships shot out of view,
replaced by others nearer the center of the screen. Defiant
dipped downward, and rolled now to starboard, the stars
seeming to veer in the opposite directions. The new symbols
moved on the screen, grew, vanished, and were replaced by
others.
 "Steady," Dax said.
    Sisko understood that she was speaking to herself as she
worked to bring the ship on its serpentine course through
the armada. He glanced at Dax and saw her concentration,
saw the calm but intense manner of her dexterous move-
ments. There was nobody he would have rather had at the
helm; he trusted completely in her abilities.
    Sisko looked back up at the viewer and saw the stars
sliding to port, and then downward. Despite the inertial
dampers, which insured that the physical effects of the
ship's motion were not felt by the crew, the frenzied,
shifting trajectories of Defiant were reflected by the images
on the screen, and they were unnerving. Sisko peered down
at the deck for a moment to prevent himself from becoming
disoriented, then looked back up.
 A Ferengi Marauder was directly ahead.
    The huge ship dominated the viewer; it must have been
only hundreds of meters away. There was no way, no time,
to avoid it. Sisko had no chance even to think in words; his
heart seemed to stop in his chest as he involuntarily braced
for the impact. In an instant, the Marauder had grown to fill
the screen.
    And then it was gone, replaced by an empty starscape. No
icons even adorned the viewer.
    "We're through," Dax said, and exhaled mightily. "And
they never knew we were there."
    The image of the Marauder had been just that: an image,
the light that had left that ship some seconds ago, and had
only now reached Defiant. Sisko had known that, but his
reaction had been visceral, not intellectual.
    "Good work, old man," Sisko said. Dax turned in her seat
and smiled.
    "Yes, sir," she said, clearly pleased with her own piloting
skills. Sisko returned her smile, and she spun back to her
console.
    "Bring us back up to maximum warp," Sisko told her.
"And head us toward Ferenginar."

    The doors parted, and Sisko looked over to see Quark
entering the bridge. Odo was beside him. Sisko had called
Quark here from his quarters because Defiant was nearing
Ferenginar.
 "Quark," Sisko said. "Are you ready?"
    "Does it matter?" Quark asked. He spoke quietly and in a
monotone, with little energy.
    "Yes," Sisko told him earnestly, locking eyes with him.
"It matters a great deal." Quark looked away.
    "I'm ready, I'm ready," he said, seeming to dismiss the
seriousness of the circumstances.
    Sisko considered saying something, maybe even taking
Quark off the bridge to speak with him privately, but he
doubted that he could tell Quark anything that would
genuinely help matters. If Quark was unhappy with respect
to what he was about to do, then he probably resented Sisko
for having manipulated him into this situation in the first
place. Further discussion would likely only exacerbate
whatever ill feelings Quark already harbored.
    "We are approaching Ferengiuar," Dax said from the
conn.
    "Slow to impulse," Sisko ordered. "Enter into a standard
orbit." Sisko had already ordered the ship uncloaked as it
had neared the planet.
 "Aye," Dax acknowledged.
    "Captain, I am picking up readings of two Marauders
already in orbit," Worf reported.
    "I guess the nagus didn't want to leave the homeworld
unprotected," Odo commented.
    "Actually, you'll find that there's a third ship in orbit on
the other side of the planet," Quark revealed. He walked to
the center of the bridge and stood beside where Sisko was
seated in the command chair. "They always patrol around
Ferenginar."
    "Always?" Sisko asked. It seemed unusual to him, and a
waste of mat6riel, for three state-of-the-art starships to be
relegated exclusively to routine planetary patrol duty. "That
seems extreme."
    "Well, they're here for a specific purpose," Quark ex-
plained. "They maintain a perimeter just in case somebody
the Alliance has done business with isn't satisfied after a
deal's been closed."
    "Wait a minute," Dax said, spinning around in her chair
to face Quark and Sisko. "So these heavily armed Marauder
starships comprise the Ferengi's customer-service depart-
ment?"
 "What's a customer-service department?" Quark replied.
    Dax snickered at that, her eyebrows rising on her fore-
head.
 "How do we get to the nagus?" Sisko asked.
    "First," Quark said, pointing at the main viewer, where
one Marauder was visible against the backdrop of Ferengi-
nat, "you'll have to get past them. There'll be some legal
requirements they'll want you to stipulate to. It could take
some time; it was meant to be an involved process."
    Sisko's own eyebrows rose now in undisguised frustra-
tion; there was no time for all of this. He looked to Dax for
guidance. She just shrugged and turned back to her console.
    "Establish a macro-orbit above that of the Ferengi ships,"
Sisko said. "Mr. Worf, open hailing frequencies. Let's do
what we have to do."
 "Hailing frequencies are open."
    "This is Captain Benjamin Sisko of the Federation star-
ship Defiant. We have aboard a Ferengi citizen who requests
an immediate audience with the grand nagus."
    At once, the picture of the Marauder and the planet on
the main viewer was replaced with that of a lone Ferengi.
    "This is DaiMon Letek of the Marauder Preekon," the
man said. He was wiry and never still, Sisko observed. He
moved all over the screen, his arms in constant, frenetic
motion. "Captain Sisko, what is the name of the Ferengi
citizen you're carrying aboard your vessel?"
    "My name is Quark," Quark said before Sisko could
answer.
    "Will it be possible for Quark to meet with the nagus?"
Sisko asked.
    "One moment," Letek said, and his image was replaced
on the screen with the symbol of the Ferengi Alliance.
    "What's going on?" Sisko asked Quark, leaning over
toward him on the arm of his chair.
    "I don't know," Quark said. "This isn't typically the way
this procedure goes."
 "No?" Sisko said. "I wonder--"
 Letek reappeared on the viewer.
     "Captain Sisko, will your vessel remain in orbit while
Quark is on the surface of Ferenginar?" "Yes."
    "Do you then agree to release the Ferengi Alliance from
all claims of liability to your vessel and its crew arising from
your stay within Ferengi space?"
     "Standard language," Quark noted for Sisko, sotto voce.
"If you don't agree, we'll be escorted out of the system."
 "Yes," Sisko told Letek.
    "Quark, you have a house on Ferenginar?" Letek wanted
to know.
 "Yes," Quark answered. "My mother lives there."
    "And all of your required insurance policies and riders
are current?"
 "Yes," Quark said.
 "And all of your premiums have been paid?"
    "Yes, through the end of the year," Quark responded. "As
required."
    "One moment," Letek said again, and again the symbol
of the Alliance appeared in his place.
    "Did you see his bottom row of teeth?" Quark asked,
apparently of no one in particular. "They looked horrible."
    "I don't know about his teeth, but did Letek look familiar
to anyone?" Dax asked, apparently of everybody on the
bridge. Sisko peered around and saw O'Brien, Worf, and
Odo shaking their heads. Quark shrugged.
    "Evidently not," Sisko told Dax. "Did he look familiar to
you?"
     "I thought so," she said, "but I guess not." She returned
her attention to her console. Sisko looked back at Quark.
 "What's going on?" he asked.
    "I'm not sure," Quark said. "These are standard ques-
tions, but the process is usually drawn out and far more
detailed."
    "Do you think that they're going to allow you to meet
with the nagus?" Sisko asked, but Quark did not have an
opportunity to respond; Letek reappeared on the viewer.
    "Captain Sisko, if you'll lower your deflectors, we will
transport Quark to Grand Nagus Zek's estate."
    Sisko was surprised at the ease and the alacrity with
which they had reached this juncture. He glanced over at
Quark and saw what he took to be an expression not just of
surprise but of astonishment.
    "Captain, I do not recommend lowering the shields,"
Worf said. "Two of the Marauders are within weapons
range, and the Ferengi are not to be trusted."
    "How else is Quark supposed to get down to the surface,
Commander?" Sisko asked, annoyed at the almost-
paranoid concerns of the former security otficer. "Sir, a shuttlecraft--"
    "--Would take too much time," Sisko said, his interrup-
tion and harsh tone meant to end the discussion. Then,
turning to face Quark, he asked him again, "Are you
ready?" For an instant, it looked to Sisko as if Quark might
respond as he earlier had, asking whether it mattered, but
then he seemed to think better of it.
 "Yes," Quark said at last. "I'm ready."
    "DaiMon Letek," Sisko said, "we appreciate your coop-
eration and your celerity." Then: "Mr. Worf, lower the
deflectors."
    "The deflectors are down," Worf replied after operating
the appropriate controls.
 On the viewer, Letek peered off to the side and appeared
to gesture with one hand, though it was difficult for Sisko to
tell because of the daiMon's incessant movement. Sisko
looked once more at Quark.
  "Good luck," he told him. "And thank you."
    Quark opened his mouth, but before he could say any-
thing, the sound of the Ferengi transporter began, and
Quark was bathed in the light of the transporter effect. After
a moment, he was gone.
    "We'll inform you when the nagus is done with Quark,"
Letek said.
 "Thank you," Sisko said.
    Letek's image disappeared from the screen. The Alliance
symbol showed briefly, and then it was replaced by the view
from Defiant of the Preekon orbiting Ferenginar.
 "Deflectors are back up," Worf said.
    The bridge grew silent. The seriousness of the situation
permeated Sisko's thoughts, and probably everybody else's
as well, he supposed. The fate of Bajor and Ferenginar, even
the futures of the officers aboard Defiant, were now contin-
gent upon the outcome of Quark's meeting with Zek.
    And so, unable to do anything else, Sisko and his crew
setfled in to wait.

CHAPTER
      36

QUARK MATERIALIZED in the personal transporter room of
the grand nagus. Or at least, in one of his personal
transporter rooms. Quark had no idea how many such
facilities Zek had, but from what he knew to be the
tremendous size of his palace, there might well have been
more than one.
    There were two men in the room when Quark material-
ized. One was operating the transporter console, and the
other was standing off to the side. It was the second one who
approached Quark.
    "Welcome to the home of Grand Nagus Zek, Quark," the
man said, and then added a variation of the customary
Ferengi greeting. "His house is his house." He brought his
hands together at the wrists and bowed slightly.
    "As are its contents," Quark responded in the traditional
way. He stepped down from the transporter platform, and
out of habit, he reached for a slip of gold-pressed latinum
to pay for his entry. He quickly realized, though, that he
was not wearing his own clothing; not only did he not have
any latinum, he did not even have any pockets in which to
keep it.
    "Please," the man said, seeing Quark fumbling. He held
out a small banking device. The man was smooth; Quark
had not seen from where the man had produced the device.
Grateful for the privilege of not having to pay in currency,
Quark reach out and touched his thumb to the sensor plate;
the slip of latinum would automatically be transferred from
Quark's accounts into those of Zek.
    "My name is Corian," the man said. "I am one of the
grand nagus's personal assistants." As if by magic, the
banking device had vanished from Corlan's hands. Quark
assumed that he had secreted it away somewhere on his
person, but he had done so imperceptibly.
    Quickly, Corlan took Quark through the routine of waiv-
ing his rights to make claims of liability against Zek while
he was in the nagus's home. Quark had done this so many
times before in his lifewnot in Zek's palace, of course, he
had never been in Zek's palace, but elsewhere--that he was
able to examine his surroundings while providing Corlan
with the appropriate responses.
    The room Quark was in was small, but aside from the
technological appurtenances--the transporter console and
the four-person platform--it was elegantly appointed. The
floor was of polished stone, with an intricate, interlocking
pattern inlaid into it; as Quark looked at it more closely, he
realized that the design was a repetition of Zek's name
spelled out in the beautiful, branching style so unique to the
written Ferengi language. Each of the walls to Quark's right
and left were covered entirely by a hanging tapestry; one
depicted the writing of the Rules of Acquisition by the very
first nagus, Gint, while the other was a listing of the rules
themselves. In the wall opposite Quark, behind the trans-
porter operator, a large picture window looked out onto a
fabulous Ferenginar landscapemfabulous not least of all
because it sat beneath a cloudless sky and a golden sun.
Quark was dazzled.
    "So," Corian said when he had finished divesting Quark
of most of his personal rights, "the grand nagns has left
orders to bring you to the Chamber of the Sun."
    The Chamber of the Sun? Quark thought, and then
concluded that could not have been right. Corian must have
said, "The Chamber of the Sum"; that made more sense.

"The nagus will meet you there," Corlan continued. "The
Chamber of the Sun is one of his favorite rooms."
    Quark heard the repeated designation and he glanced
again at the window behind the transporter console. For
anyone on Ferenginar to denote anything of the sun was
preposterous; the planet was widely known for its perpetual
and uniformly ugly climate. In both hemispheres, on every
continent, and in every sea, there was usually no respite
throughout the year from one form or another of poor
weather:. dark skies, rain, snow, tornadoes, hurricanes, tidal
waves, any number of meteorological afflictions. For the
nagus to have a Chamber of the Sun, for him even to have a
large window like the one here in the transporter room, was
the height, Quark thought, of bravado. Of course, there
would be those few days--such as today, apparentlyre
when the sky would clear and Zek would be able to
luxuriate in it like no one else in the world.
    Corlan led Quark out of the transporter room through a
beautiful set of double doors which opened outward at their
approach. The doors were a lustrous pearl-gray color, with a
texture that appeared soft to the eye, suggesting platinum,
Quark thought, or perhaps rodinium. They curved up from
the sides and met in a point at their apexes.
    Outside the doors, they stepped into an extremely tall,
enormously long hall. Doors such as the ones through which
they had just passed lined both sides of the hall, and they
were interspersed with series of long, thin tapestries hanging
down to the floor from near the arched ceiling. On the floor
itself, a plush, gold rug ran the length of the hall.
    Corian turned to their left, starting toward the far end of
the hall, and Quark followed. When they had both stepped
onto the rug, though, Corlan stopped walking. Quark did so
as well.
    "Since we have to go almost to the end," Corian ex-
plained, gesturing in the direction they were headed, "let's
not walk." For an additional few seconds, nothing hap-
pened, and then the rug began to move. No, not the rug,
Quark saw when he looked down, but a moving walkway of
some sort beneath it. The rug was evidently a holographic
image. As Quark watched, his feet seemed to swim through
the projected golden weave.

    As they traveled down the hall, Quark Peered at the
tapestries. They depicted renowned moments in Ferengi
history: the opening of the Sacred Marketplace, the found-
!ng of the First Bank of Ferenginar, the discovery oflatinum
m Terekol Chasm, the accessions of the grand naguses--in-
cluding Zek himselfi Quark found the display inspiring.
    Approximately two-thirds of the way down the corridor,
Corian began walking forward. Quark followed, and the
walkway beneath them stopped moving. Corian left the rug
and proceeded to a set of doors on the right side of the hall.
Again, the doors parted at their approach, this time swing-
ing inward.
    "Grand Nagus Zek will be with you shortly," Corian told
Quark, motioning him inside.
    Quark moved forward into a chamber far larger than the
transporter room. The doors automatically closed behind
him. The chamber was as tall as the hall was, and it was at
least big enough, Quark estimated, to comfortably contain
Defiant within it. It was as elegant and impressive as
anything he had seen to this point, and more so. The floor
was a latticework of different light-hued woods, regal furni-
ture was placed purposefully about, and artwork adorned
the walls. The most impressive feature of the room, though,
was the far wall, which was composed entirely of a transpar-
ent material. Outside this magnificent window, as with the
one in the transporter room, lay a beautiful landscape
beneath a rare, clear Ferengi day. The brilliant rays of the
sun shone in great, angled beams into the chamber.
    It2 no wonder the nagus wanted to meet in here, Quark
thought. This place is amazing. It was such a dramatic
display of personal wealth that Quark was... well, envi-
ous. The place could rightly have been called The Chamber
of the Sum, as it was manifest testimony to the mammoth,
unerring financial instincts of the holder of the Ferengi
Alliance's highest office.
    Quark strode across the length of the chamber to the great
window. He had so rarely seen such lovely weather on his
homeworld that he was anxious to take in the view now. As
he got very near the window, though, something did not
seem quite right to him. He brought his face right up to the
transparent surface. He could not tell, but he thought that it
might be--
    "It's a holographic projection," said a scratchy, high-
pitched voice from behind him.
    He turned and faced Grand Nagus Zek. Quark had been
so overwhelmed by the sight of the great window and the
radiant sunshine streaking through it that he had not heard
the nagus enter the chamber.
    "But on nice days, this--" Zek took one ancient, twisted
hand from the haft of his walking stick and waved it in an
arc to take in the whole wall. "--actually can be made
transparent."
    "The weather is bad?" Quark asked, finding himself
unaccountably disappointed.
    "It's pradooshing out right now," Zek said. There were
one hundred seventy-eight different words for rain in the
Ferengi language; pradooshing referred to long, slim drops
falling constantly at a slight angle.
    Almost as an afterthought, Zek slid his hands from the
knob of his cane and down its twisted shaft; he pushed the
cane forward, offering the knob that had been fashioned in
his own image from gold-pressed latinum. Quark dropped
to one knee and kissed the top of the cane.
    "Come," Zek said as Quark rose to his feet. "This way."
The nagus shuffled his ancient body along one side of the
room until he reached a large, ornamented chair, much like
a throne. Zek sat down in it and motioned for Quark to sit
across from him, on a bench that sat away from the wall and
faced the thronelike chair.
    As Quark sat down, he made an effort to moderate the
overpowering feelings of reverence and wonder he was
feeling being both in the presence of the grand nagus and in
this spectacular showplace. As he did so, he recalled his
errant speculation that Zek might have played some role in
his incarceration--or at least in the escape engineered by
Cort. Such thoughts seemed ludicrous now, even in the face
of Quark's suspicions about having been so quickly and
easily granted an audience with the nagus; Zek's great
wealth and his obviously brilliant business talents seemed
wholly incompatible with anything he might hope to gain
from Quark.
    "So," the nagus said, "why have you come to see me? Are
you going to offer me a great deal on vote-belly futures?"
Zek laughed, a knowing sort of cackle.  "No," Quark said, "I--"
    --I what? I think that the greatest businessman in the
quadrant--probably in the galaxy--made a mistake? In his
cabin aboard Deftant, Quark had determined and then
rehearsed what it was he would say to the nagus. He had
gone over it so many times, repeated it to himself with such
increasing conviction, that he had actually come to believe
that he might be able to convince Zek of the truth of his
position, and even persuade him to act as Sisko wanted.
Now, such thoughts seemed like nothing more than chi-
meras.
  "Yes?" Zek coaxed.
    "I--" Quark started again, and stopped. But there was no
point in not forging ahead through his prepared argument,
was there? He was here, sitting before the grand nagus, and
there was no prospect of some other rational line of
reasoning that he could present occurring to him right now.
"I wanted to talk to you about a decision you made."
Quark's voice was timorous.
    "I see," Zek said, regarding Quark in a manner with
which Quark was not very comfortable. "You think that I
made a bad decision. Perhaps you think I made a mistake."
    "No, Nagus," Quark said quickly, even though that was
precisely what he had been trying to say. "No, I... I--"
    Zek laughed heartily. To Quark, he sounded insane.
Quark fancied that he could feel himself withering where he
sat.
    "Don't you know that I make mistakes all the time?" the
nagus said at last. It was perhaps the last thing that Quark
had expected to hear. He just stared at the nagus. "Well, not
all the time. But I do make them. I did not acquire all of
this--" Zek's hands parted and lifted slightly, indicating,
Quark thought, their surroundings, the chamber, the palace,
and the surrounding estate. "--because I don't make mis-
takes; I acquired it because I recognize my mistakes and
capitalize on them."
 Quark felt his mouth drop open as he peered at the nagus.
This was not how he had anticipated that this meeting
would go.
    "So tell me, Quark," Zek urged, "what mistake did I
make?"
    "Well," Quark began slowly, still reluctant to say that the
grand nagus had erred--especially since he did not neces-
sarily believe that himself. "I think that you should sell the
Orb of the Prophets you own to the Bajorans."
    "And I have obviously chosen not to," Zek said. "So that
must be the error you believe me to have made. Now, tell
me why it was an error."
    "Because selling the Orb to the Bajorans would bring you
more profit than not selling it to them."
    "But I can sell the Orb to somebody else," the nagus said,
"and still make a sizable profit, maybe not as much, but still
a large profit."
    "Yes, but it's at the cost of trade with the Gamma
Quadrant," Quark argued, "since the Bajorans will no
longer allow the Ferengi access to the wormhole." He felt
more at ease now that he was discussing actual matters of
business
    "For which reason," the nagus said, "I have declared war
on Bajor. There is no question that we will defeat them--"
    "But at what cost?" Quark reiterated. "Even winning a
war, ships and lives will be lost."
    "Of course, but then the wormhole will be ours, and it is
certainly the largest source of profit that's been seen in a
long time."
    Quark had expected the nagus to make this argument. It
was a good one, he thought, but there was a critical
component to having control of the wormhole beside profit.
    "Whoever owns the wormhole," Quark said, "has to
defend the wormhole. Because of its obvious strategic
importance, every faction in the Alpha Quadrant wants it:
the Klingons, the Romulans, the Cardassians, the Tho-
lians."
"The Federation defends the wormhole now," Zek noted.
"They can do that because they're not interested in
making a profit, and they've convinced the Bajorans to
allow free access to the wormhole. They also maintain
treaties and alliances with many governments that we do
not. If we took over, those other powers would be more
likely to try to take the wormhole from us than they are to
take it from the Federation now."
    "That would be particularly true if the Alliance charged
for the privilege of using the wormhole," Zek said, appar-
ently agreeing with Quark on this point.
    "And there's also the threat posed from the Gamma
Quadrant by the Dominion."
    "An incursion by the Dominion would be costly," the
nagus said. He seemed to be genuinely considering what
Quark was saying. It was more remarkable, Quark thought,
than the stunning opulence of Zek's home.
    The nagus sat for a while without saying anything further.
His eyes closed after a time, and Quark wondered whether
the old man had perhaps fallen asleep. Quark waited, and
began to squirm on the bench as he did so. The longer the
silence lasted, the more certain he became that the next
time Zek spoke, it would be to censure Quark for his
impertinence in second-guessing the business dealings of
the grand nagus of the Ferengi Alliance. Quark even wor-
ried that he might be fined for his actions.
    "Quark," Zek said at last. His eyes were still closed, and
so Quark, not expecting the nagus to speak at that moment,
was startled. "You have fine business instincts."
    "Th--thank you," Quark stammered, surprised. Zek
opened his eyes and looked at him.
    "And since that is the case, I have to ask myself, what's in
this for you?"
    Briefly, Quark debated the merits of telling the truth. No
useful deceptions came to mind, but it probably did not
matter; he suspected that any liemeven any mild prevarica-
tionmhe told would be immediately unmasked as such by
the nagus. Of course, Quark thought, a good liar was most
effective when he occasionally mixed the truth in among his
canards.
    "I'm a fugitive from the Bajorans right now, and I've lost
my bar," Quark said. "For talking to you about these
matters, Captain Sisko has promised me political asylum if
I want it. If you change your mind and sell the Orb to the

Bajorans, he promised me amnesty and the possibility of
getting my bar back."
    "So it is Captain Sisko who is driving this talk?" the
nagus asked. Quark thought initially that it must have been
a rhetorical question, primarily because the answer was so
obvious~Quark had been brought here, after all, in a
Starfleet vessel commanded by Siskombut when Zek said
nothing more, he decided that he should say something.
    "Yes," he told the nagus, "although the business reason-
ing is mine." Quark thought about saying something more,
and then did. "There's also the seventy-sixth Rule of
Acquisition: Every once in a while, declare peace."
    "All right," Zek said. "I'll provide you with a response
shortly."
    It sounded to Quark as though he was being dismissed,
and he thought that the nagus would rise from his chair and
leave the chamber. And that would be fine with Quark; at
least there was a possibility that the nagus would change his
mind, which was, frankly, far more than he had ever
anticipated.
    Suddenly, Quark noticed movement within his peripher-
al vision, and at the same time, he heard a footstep. He
whirled his head around to see that Corian had returned. It
disturbed Quark that he had not heard his approach.
    "This way, Quark," Corian said. "I'll escort you back to
the transporter room."
    "Oh," Quark said. He was not just being dismissed, but
being asked--or toldrote leave. Quark rose and moved to
join Corlan.
 "Quark," the nagus called querulously.
    Quark quickly turned back to the nagus and saw that he
was sitting forward in his chair and extending the tip of his
walking stick outward. Quark paced over, dipped down
onto one knee, and kissed the handle. "Go," Zek told him.
    Quark followed Corian out of the Chamber of the Sun
and back to the transporter room. Within minutes of
meeting with the grand nagus, Quark found himself back
aboard Defiant, with no more idea of what his future held
than when he had left the ship.



CHAPTER
       37

"THIS IS MY FINAL OFFER, Captain," Zek insisted. "If it is not
immediately accepted, then the war with Bajor will pro-
ceed."
      "I understand, Nagus," Sisko said. "I'll get you that
answer--that agreement--right away."  Zek ended the transmission.
    "Mr. Worf, open a channel to First Minister Shakaar on
Bajor," Sisko ordered, rising out of the command chair and
bounding over to the tactical station. He felt energized.
There was a chance now, a good chance, that the war could
be averted; he was sure that Shakaar would consent to the
terms of the grand nagus's new proposal.
    "Captain, I cannot raise Bajor," Worf reported. "It
appears that someone is jamming transmissions either near
or within the system."
    Of course, thought Sisko. There was a war about to be
fought--or already being fought, if the Ferengi armada had
arrived at Bajor--and both sides would be attempting to
block the other's communications.
    "Try to raise the station," Sisko said. "They may be far
enough away from Bajor itself that we can still contact
them." His thinking was that he could convey the nagus's
offer to Kira, and that she could take a runabout to Bajor
and deliver it directly to the first minister. As soon as
Shakaar accepted Zek's terms, the war would be over.
    At his console, Worf worked to get to Deep Space Nine
through the interference. Sisko watched him go through the
same motions several times, then try something else. Fi-
nally, he looked up in frustration. "It's no use," he said.
 There was only one alternative then.
    "Dax, set a course for Bajor," Sisko said. "Maximum
possible speed." Then, addressing O'Brien, he said, "Chief,
I want you to get down to engineering and monitor the
engines yourself. We need the best possible performance
from the Defiant."
    "That means no cloak," O'Brien said, already on the
move from the operations console toward the bridge exit.
The power demands of the cloaking device were extreme.
    "That's all right. We won't need it," Sisko said. "We
won't have to avoid the Ferengi armada this time."
 Dax looked up then from the flight-control console.
 "Not until we reach Bajor, anyway," she said.

    Sisko acknowledged Odo and the other security guard,
then reached up and touched the door chime. He expected
to hear somebody call to tell him to come in, but instead,
the door slid open. Rom stood just inside, Sisko saw, and
behind him, the cabin was dark. Rom stepped out into the
corridor and the door closed. Sisko's first thought was that
Quark must be up to something, and that Rom must be
trying to prevent Sisko from seeing what that was.
 "Quark's asleep," Rom said.
    It was the truth, Sisko realized as he peered down at Rom,
who looked extremely tired himself. After all that Quark
had done and all that he had been through--the meeting
with Zek, the explosion aboard the shuttle, the flight from
Bajor, and his experiences at Gallitep--he must have been
exhausted. Sisko felt abashed at having such instant distrust
for Quark so soon after he had perhaps assisted in averting a
Ferengi-Bajoran war. Yes, Quark's own self-interests had
been at stake too, doubtless providing additional motiva-
 tion, but he had nevertheless done what Sisko had requested
 of him; it would be, at best, ungrateful for Sisko not to
 recognize that. In fact, that was why he had come down here
 from the bridge: to inform Quark of the nagus's offer, and to
 thank him for his role in making it happen.
     Instead, Sisko settled for telling Rom that his brother
 might have helped to bring about peace between Ferenginar
 and Bajor, and that he had just wanted to personally express
 his appreciation to Quark. Rom, in his humble manner,
 thanked Sisko and said that he would pass the message on to
 his brother when he awoke.
  "You seem tired too," Sisko observed.
    "I am," Rom said, "but I've been having a little trouble
sleeping."
  "Why is that?"
    "Oh, I don't know," Rom said. "You know... what
happened in... well, down on Bajor, I suppose."
    "Actually, I don't know," Sisko said. "Not entirely.
Quark only told me that you were interned at Gallitep--"
Rom reacted physically to the name of the prison camp,
cringing noticeably. "--and that you were treated very
badly. He didn't provide many details."
    "Well," Rom said, and he did not really seem to know
what to say. "It was pretty bad."
    "Do you want to talk about it?" Sisko asked. "I want to
make sure others never go through what you went through."
    Rom looked up to his right and then to his left, at Odo
and the other security guard. Sisko immediately recognized
Rom's reticence to talk in front of too many people.
    "Come on," Sisko said. "We'll go to my quarters, where
we can speak privately."
    Rom did not say anything, but he followed Sisko to his
cabin. There, quietly and visibly anguished, Rom told Sisko
about Gallitep, and Sergeant Wyte, and Colonel Mitra, and
the very worst days of his life.

Defiant slowed to impulse as it neared the field of battle.
"Communications are still being jammed," Worf re-
ported. Sisko watched as the Klingon virtually assaulted the
tactical console. "The sensors are overloading... there's just
too much out there... but... the Ferengi have reached
Bajor... there are massive amounts of weapons fire...
I'll have to narrow scans to get any readings at all."
    But Worf need not have said anything, the sensors need
not have provided any information whatsoever; it was all
there, magnified, on the main viewer: the Ferengi armada
swarming the planet, the overwhelmed Bajoran forces di-
viding and attacking where they could, varicolored light
streaking through the night as ships sent their destructive
power hurtling toward each other.
    "Damn," Sisko said before he even knew he had opened
his mouth. He was up out of the command chair, stalking
anxiously about the bridge. "Get us there, Dax. Bring us in
over the capital city."
 "Aye."
 "Shall we cloak?" Wolf asked.
    "No," Sisko said. "Nobody's going to fire on a Federation
starship."
    "If somebody believes the Defiant is taking sides," Dax
noted as she flew them toward the fighting, "they just might
open fire on us."
    Sisko considered this. It was a valid point; Defiant would
be swooping quickly into the middle of things, but--
    "No," he decided. "We'd have to uncloak anyway for
transport, and it would be far more provocative if we
suddenly appeared in the heat of battle."
    There was a tense pause as Defiant approached Bajor.
Sisko felt so anxious that he would have gotten behind the
ship and pushed if it would have helped; anything to reach
Bajor, to reach Shakaar, to end this as soon as possible.
    "We'll be there in about two minutes, Benjamin," Dax
reported, seeming to read his thoughts.
    "Sisko to Transporter Room One," Sisko said. The com-
munications monitor on the bridge automatically opened a
channel.
    "Transporter Room One," the young ensign stationed
there responded. "Ensign Phlugg."
    Phlugg, Sisko thought; that was the ensign's name that he
had not been able to remember.
    "Ensign, we're within two minutes of Bajor," Sisko said.
"Are you ready?"
 "Yes, sir."
  "Keep this channel open."
    Sisko's plan was simple. With ship-to-surface communi-
cations still impossible, he would have to deliver the nagus's
offer to Shakaar in person. Dax would bring Defiant within
transporter range of Bajor, Worf would lower the deflectors,
and Ensign Phlugg would beam Sisko directly from the
bridge down to the first minister's office in the capital city.
Shakaar would probably not be there, of course, but since
communications would likely still be possible on the surface
of Bajor, via ground relays, Sisko would bring a portable,
high-powered communicator with him--he wore the small,
boxlike device attached to his uniform at his waist right
now--with which he should be able to contact the first
minister wherever he was on the planet.  "One minute," Dax said.
    On the viewer, several ships swept into and out of view,
weapons blazing. Dax steered Defiant through the melee,
down toward Bajor. She counted out the seconds at thirty
and twenty and ten, and then by ones down toward zero.
 "Energize," Sisko ordered as Dax reached one.
    The whine of the transporter rose in Sisko's ears, and soft,
white light spilled across his vision. After a span of time
that could not arbitrarily be defined, his sight cleared. He
was still on the Bridge of Defiant.
      "Sisko to Phlugg," he said immediately. "I'm still here.
What happened?" "Captainre"
    Suddenly, Defiant was rocked--by a phaser blast or a
disruptor bolt, it was difficult to know which. The ship
shook violently and Sisko was pitched to the floor, the
inertial dampers unable to compensate for motion of the
ship induced by an outside source. He pulled himself to his
feet and headed for the tactical station.
 "Damage report," he said.
 "Minimal."
 "Was that intentional?" Sisko wanted to know.
    "I do not know," Worf said, clearly struggling to get
whatever information he could from the sensor readouts.
"It was a phaser shot from one of the small Bajoran
freighters, so I suspect it was accidental."
    That followed, Sisko thought. Few Bajorans would have
fired purposely on the Emissary's ship.
    "Transporter Room One to the bridge," came Ensign
Phlugg's voice. "There's some sort of interference within
the atmosphere of the planet inhibiting transport."
 "Acknowledged," Sisko said. "Worf?."
    "Narrowing the scope of our scans," Worf said, operating
his console. "There appear to be several shuttles ringing the
planet within the atmosphere. They are creating a deflector-
like network of interference all across Bajor."
    "Can we get below it?" Dax asked. Though it was not
what the ship had been designed to do, Defiant could enter
the Bajoran atmosphere. Depending on how close to the
surface of the planet the interference grid was, they could
dive below it in order to use the transporter.
    "Negative," Worf said. "The network is also being gener-
ated from ground stations."
    "Can we punch a hole in it?" Sisko asked, already
realizing that they would not be able to act quickly in this
regard without possibly endangering the lives of Bajorans
either in the shuttles or at the ground stations.
    "Eventually," Worf confirmed, "but any safe solution
would take time."
    "We don't have time," Sisko said. He started for the
doors. "Worf, you have the bridge," he said, transferring
command. "I'm taking da Vinci."
"Captain, I shouldre" Worf began, but Sisko cut him off.
"Take Defiant out of danger and monitor communica-
tions from the surface. I'll get a message to you as soon as I
can."
    "Benjamin," Dax said, in an imploring tone that made
Sisko think that she would try to stop him from taking the
shuttle, or try to convince him to allow her to pilot the
virtually defenseless craft down to Bajor. Instead, she
simply said, "Good luck."
    And then Sisko was through the doors, on his way to
leaving the most powerful vessel in Starfleet, which was now
useless to him.
     Da Vinci eased from the safety of its dock aboard Defiant
 and into a maelstrom. There were ships everywhere, in
 continuous motion, and an incessant barrage of weaponry
 streaking through space--a light show that might have been
 beautiful had it not been carrying along with it the potential
 of destruction and death.
    To Sisko, the combat above--and for--Bajor seemed
fiercer now, eyed through the forward windows of the
shuttle, rather than on the main viewer on the bridge of
Defiant. The dangers it evinced were more immediate and
more uncaring in a very personal way;, Sisko felt like a
random element here, an insignificant observer whose life
could not even be counted as a casualty for either side if that
life was lost. And with all of the firepower massed about
Bajor, he knew that the shuttle could easily become an
unintended target.
    Sisko sat at the main console ofda Vinci and performed a
close-range sensor scan aft of the shuttle; Defiant, as he had
ordered, had already moved away. He opened a channel to
the ship, but he was unable to make contact. Expecting the
same result, he nevertheless attempted to raise the first
minister on Bajor; that transmission was also jammed.
    Sisko hove da Vinci around to starboard. The great arc of
Bajor's horizon curved upward before him, and two of the
planer's moons hung suspended above it. A third moon was
just visible beyond the planet, off to the right, as though just
peeking at the raging conflict--or perhaps trying to hide
from it. In the foreground, a freighter sped from the blue-
and-white backdrop of Bajor, upward and away to port.
Farther off, ships too far away to recognize teemed about
each other like mosquitoes in a Louisiana bayou.
    The sudden memory of Sisko's onetime home brought
with it a surge of melancholy. The emotion was at first
disconcerting because he had not thought of New Orleans as
home in a very long time. He then realized, though, that the
pensive sadness he was experiencing was not for the place of
his birth, but for the place he now thought of as home--the
place that now floated below him like the grail of an
itinerant voyager of the spaceways.
    Sisko dipped the bow ofda Vinci down. Because Dax had
brought Defiant in directly above the capital, Sisko calcu-
lated a spiral descent, with the city as the center point of the
corkscrew path that the shuttle would describe. He entered
the course into the navigational computer, verified it, and
executed da Vinci's entrance into the maneuver.
    The shuttle breached the top of Bajor's atmosphere
smoothly, but as it flew downward and the air density
increased, Sisko became aware of a slight tremble develop-
ing. The inertial dampers of the small craft struggled
against the movements caused by the intensifying friction
as da Vinci descended. Sisko began to notice the cant of the
shuttle toward starboard as it wheeled downward, the force
of Bajor's gravitational pull growing stronger than the
artificial gravity within the cabin. He moved his right foot
out away from himself and braced it against the floor so that
he would not slide from his chair.
    When Sisko was thrown into the port bulkhead, his first,
instinctive reaction was that the shuttle had struck some-
thing. That was certainly possible, considering the large
number of ships flying around, he thought an instant later,
but it was also more likely that something had struck the
shuttle. He crawled back into his seat, bracing himself once
more with an outstretched leg. Da Vinci was no longer
merely trembling, but shaking strongly, making it difficult
to consult the readouts. Sisko dropped his hands to the
console and gripped it tightly in an effort to steady his gaze.
He was able to see enough details clearly to know that the
shuttle had been hit by a powerful phaser blast. The damage
was bad, but not that bad: the deuterium flow regulator
within one of the two drive shells had been fused open, but
he could land with just one engine functioning. He shut
down the disabled drive, removing the threat of an over-
lead. Sisko felt an immediate drop in the forward compo-
nent of the shuttle's velocity, and a corresponding increase
in the downward component.
    It was unclear from the readings who had fired on da
Vinci, but Sisko hoped that it had been the Ferengi; travel-
ing down to the planet, he would become less of a target to
those ships in orbit. More than likely, though, it had been
the Bajorans, shooting from the surface at a small ship
attempting to penetrate their defenses. At this altitude, the
forces on the ground would not be able to visually identify
da Vinci as a Starfleet vessel, and Sisko could not mask the
shuttle as being one of the Bajorans' because he did not
know by what means they had chosen to distinguish their
ships--a laser beacon tuned to a special frequency, or a
specific movement in flight, or the like. If it had been the
Bajorans that had shot at the shuttle, though, Sisko was
likely to be facing a difficult approach to the surface.
    Sisko pulled da Vinci's nose up slightly, slowing its
downward speed. He tried again to open communica-
tions-with Shakaar or anybody else on Bajor--and was
again unsuccessful.
    A brilliant shaft of light screamed past the windows, only
narrowly missing the shuttle, and Sisko knew what was
going to happen: da Vinci was going to be shot down. As
quickly as he could, he plotted a new course. He knew that
no matter what evasive action he took, it would be only luck
that would allow the relatively slow-moving shuttle to avoid
the phaser blasts before it could land. Still, he did not want
the debris of the shuttle's wreckage to rain down on the
capital and its inhabitants. Sisko entered the new course
along with automatic landing instructions, and then imple-
mented them. Da Vinci moved off on a tangent from its
previous winding route. If he could just clear the outskirts
of the city and bring the shuttle over the surrounding areas,
there would be nothing but undeveloped wilderness below
him.
    Sisko checked his altitude, then got up from his chair and
staggered through the shuddering cabin to the bulkhead
located amidship, beyond which sat the aft compartment
and the emergency transporter. He worked the transporter
controls mounted on the wall, entering coordinates for the
first minister's office. Then he went back to the front of the
shuttle.
    Leaning against the main console and peering through the
windows, he saw through a break in the clouds that he was
still over the capital, but its outermost border was rapidly
approaching. Sisko waited for seconds that seemed to
elongate painfully. The bosky reach stretching out away
from the city grew closer by degrees, and finally, he was
there.
 Sisko raced back through the cabinmstumbling once,
almost losing his footing--and into the aft compartment.
He stepped onto the emergency transporter.
    "Computer, energize transporter," he yelled, and only
now did he consciously realize how loud it was within the
shuttle. The phaser strike that had fused the deuterium
regulator must also have compromised the noise-suppres-
sion plating. Whatever the cause of the thunderous sound,
Sisko could not hear the transporter as it engaged, but the
hazy, white light of the effect filled his sight. After an
indefinable interval, it cleared.
 Sisko was still on the shuttle.
    He was not low enough, he realized. The interference the
Bajorans were running to prohibit transport to the planet
was closer to the surface than da Vinci was.
    Sisko moved quickly, leaping from the aft compartment
and back to the transporter controls. If Defiant had not
moved out of range, he could beam back to the ship--
    That was when the next phaser blast hammered into
da Vinci. The bow of the shuttle pitched violently down-
ward. Sisko was thrown the length of the forward cabin
and against the windows. He had an impression of color and
movementmgreen, blue, white, ground, sky, clouds--and
then he was hurtling in another direction as a third phas-
er shot landed.
    The shuttle rolled to port and continued rolling, the bow
angled steeply down. Sisko landed again and again, on the
floor, the wall, the ceiling, the floor, his head tucked beneath
the encircling grasp of his arms. Da Vinci's descent was no
longer powered by its drive, he knew, but by gravity.
    Perceiving time now as an enemy, Sisko pulled an arm
away from his head and reached out for something, any-
thing, that he could grab on to in order to stop being thrown
about the cabin. His fingers found brief purchase some-
where and were jerked away. He grabbed again, missed, and
then found the side of a console. He held it fast, reached out
with his other hand, and got a second hold.
    Sisko looked up. He was lying on a wall of the shuttle,
facing aft; ahead of him was the threshold between the
forward and aft compartments. He did not hesitate, did not
brace himself or gather his energy, he just moved, pulling
himself along the edge of the console, hand over hand, the
shuttle spinning madly and him with it. His gaze held fast
on the bulkhead as he pulled himself along, one hand, then
another, until at last he sent his fingers into the aft compart-
ment and around the edge of the bulkhead. With prodigious
effort, he pulled himself bodily through the opening and out
of the forward cabin. The rush of air around the shuttle was
heavy now. He crawled onto the emergency transporter and
screamed.
 "Computer, energize transporter."
    Again, Sisko could not hear sound of the transporter, but
satiny, white motes danced before his eyes. Through the
motes, for an instant, he could make out the windows at the
other end of the shuttle, and past the windows, there was
only ground.
 Da Vinci slammed into Bajor.

    Sisko materialized on the floor in Shakaar's office. His
breathing came in great gasps. He tried to rise, still aware of
why he was here, but the violent movement of the shuttle
had disoriented him and he collapsed back onto the floor.
    When finally his breathing had calmed and his head had
stopped spinning, he rose. He was alone. He had to locate
Shakaar.
    The shuttle and its communication system were gone, but
there was the high-powered communicator that he had
earlier affixed to the waist of his uniform. He reached for
the device.
 It was gone.
     For a few seconds, panic gripped Sisko. He felt like letting
himself fall back down onto the floor. Stop it, he told himself. Think.
    And he did. As quickly as he could, Sisko made his way to
the first minister's comm panel and activated it. He opened
a general channel, broadcasting to anyone who was out
there.
    "First Minister Shakaar, this ism" Sisko briefly consid-
ered saying "the Emissary," but did not. "--Captain Sisko.
I must speak with you immediately. I'm in your office on
Bajor."
 He waited. There was no response.
 "First Minister Shakaar," he repeated, his voice filled
with the urgency of his task. "This is Captain Sisko. I have
to speak with you right away. I'm in--"
    This time, Sisko heard the whine of the transporter before
it took him.
    He materialized on a platform in an operations center.
People where in constant motion here, ironically reminis-
cent of the ships waging war far above them.
    A woman dressed in the uniform of the Bajoran Militiat
all the people here wore such uniforms, Sisko sawtstepped
up to the platform to greet him. She seemed to know him,
and he realized that he had met her in Shakaar's office the
last time he had been on Bajor. He did not remember her
name.
    "Captain Sisko," she said. "Are you all right?" She
glanced up to the side of his head.
    Sisko automatically raised a hand to his head, touched it,
and examined his fingers; they were covered with blood.
    "I'm fine," he said, not really caring right now whether he
was or not. "I need to talk to Shakaar."
 "The first minister is waiting for you in--"
    Sisko was striding across the room in the direction the
woman had looked even before she had finished speaking.
He passed through a doorway and found the first minister
studying a console with two other militia officers.
 "Shakaar," Sisko said.
    "Captain," Shakaar said, and then repeated it with con-
cern when he looked up at Sisko and saw his injuries. "What
happened?"
     "It doesn't matter," Sisko said. "I have an offer from
Grand Nagus Zek to end the fighting." "Tell me."
    "Zek is willing to do away with the auction completely if
you'll rescind your edict and meet his price for the Orb:
Bajor's last bid, plus the thirty-five new transports you
acquired from the Yridians."
    Shakaar regarded Sisko for what seemed like a very long
time, and then he looked away. When too much time had
passed, Sisko opened his mouth to say something--or yell
somethingsbut it was then that the first minister turned
back to him and gave him an answer.
 "Bajor accepts the terms."


CODA

The 34th Rule



CHAPTER
      38

Two THINGS BOTHERED Qunmc. Well, many more things than
that bothered him, but as he sat working at the comm panel
in his quarters, there were two things in particular that he
could not get out of his mind.
    One of those things was Cort; there were just too many
suspicious events surrounding the businessman--or smug-
gler, or whatever he was. The more Quark considered
Rom's conviction that Cort had somehow set them up, the
more he became inclined to believe it as well. Rom was an
idiot for the most part, that was true, but not when it came
to engineering matters; inexplicably, Rom knew and under-
stood such things. And so when he maintained that the
homing device Cort claimed to have constructed had not
really been a homing device--had in fact been useless--
Quark figured that he was probably correct. The questions
now, as when Rom had first mentioned this aboard Defiant,
were: Why would Cort lie about such a thing, and if he had,
then how had he managed to contact the shuttle in which
they had subsequently fled?
    Quark glanced down at the status monitor on the screen
and saw that his latest series of queries was still pending. It
 had been like that since his return a week ago to Deep Space
 Nine, his tedious searches for information about Cort
 consuming great chunks of time. Well, actually, Quark had
 only begun trying to learn about Cort in the last three days.
 He had spent his first two days back on the station split
 between sickbay and his quarters, between Dr. BashiFs final
 ministrations and his own efforts to push away all
 thoughts--including those of Cort--even remotely related
 to his time at Gallitep. And during the next couple of days,
 after the Bajorans had exonerated him of all charges and
 returned his bar to him, he had focused upon reopening his
 business.
    Gallitep had stayed with him, though, not even allowing
him to sleep through a single night. His clays were long and
sometimes difficult because of his continual fatigue; he was
exhausted now, even though it was before midnight. Quark
understood that he would have to deal with the nonphysical
wounds he had endured, and one way to do that, he had
finally decided, was to try to determine why things had
happened the way they had. Unfortunately, his quest for
information about Cort had so far proven fruitless.
    Out of frustration, Quark stabbed at a control with one
finger. The comm panel squeaked electronically at him,
digitally chastising him for trying to interrupt his own
instructions. Quark barked back at the machine--
"Bah!"--then got up and walked across his quarters to the
replicator.
    "Archerian slug wine," Quark ordered. A delicate, thin-
stemmed glass materialized on the replicator pad, filled
with a yellowish brown liquid. He took it and sipped; not as
good as the real thing from Archer IV, of course, not as
thick or as pulpy, but considering what he had been
drinking--and not drinking--during the past few months,
it would do.
    Quark thought again about the homing device Cort had
pretended to fabricate, and again he asked himself why. The
answer that seemed most likely to be true was that Cort had
done it in order to hide the fact that he already possessed
such a device and had failed to use it for the length of their
captivity--that is, while all of the prisoners were starved
and beaten, and while four other people lost their lives.
That would also explain how Cort had contacted his shuttle,
but it raised another question as well: Why would Cort be
willing to remain imprisoned under such horrific conditions
when he need not have done so? Quark knew of only one
rational motivation: Profit. Huge profit. But who could have
provided Cort with that profit, and again: Why?
    The more Quark learned, it seemed, the more new
questions arose. Except that he really was not learning
anything, was he? No, he was simply reviewing those things
he already knew and then interpreting them in one fashion
or another.
    The comm panel beepeal. Quark gazed across the room
and saw a small lattice of Ferengi text at the top of the
display. He drank once more from the glass ofwine--a gulp
this time, instead of a sip--and then put it back down on
the replicator pad. He strode over to read the contents of
the comm panel, expecting to be disappointed. Quark had
pored over a substantial number of Ferengi documents in
the past three days--medical records, ship schedules, law-
enforcement reports, personnel files, whatever he could
locate--and yet he had found Cort's name listed nowhere.
That in itself was suspicious; there was far less information
available about Cort than there should have been.
    Which was ironic, Quark thought, since Cort himself had
known more than he should have. Most notably, as they had
made their escape from Bajor, Cort had told everybody that
Ferenginar and Bajor were preparing for war. He had then
implied that he had inferred this, but from the way he had
spoken--confidently and without hesitation--it seemed to
Quark that he had known. But having been imprisoned for
so long, there was no way that he should have been able to
know such a thing. And when Colt was then explicitly
questioned about how he knew what he did, he simply
ignored those questions and remained intent on piloting the
shuttle.
    Piloting it toward Defiant, Quark thought. Rom was
probably right about that too, that it had been Cort's doing.
Quark agreed now that it was an unbelievable coincidence
that the shuttle had suffered engine problems so close to the
Federation starship, and just as the starship was departing
the Bajoran system.

    Reaching the corem panel, Quark eyed the brief message
displayed there: SEARCH SUBJECT NOT FOUND. He was not
surprised. He leaned over the controls and tapped in a
command; a list of news-service directories he had earlier
compiled blossomed on the screen. Quark quickly pro-
gramreed a new search algorithm and set it executing.
    "Computer," he said, moving away from the corem
panel. "When the search is complete, don't notify me
audibly."
"Oral notification canceled," the computer confirmed.
Quark headed for his bedroom. It was late, he was weary,
and this search would take some time. He would check the
results in the morning.

    Colonel Mitra slipped silently into the room, negotiating
the raised threshold of the doorway as though he had been
here a thousand times before. Of course, the space station
had been designed and built by Cardassians, and Mitra was
very conversant with Cardassians and their ways of life.
 And their ways of death.
    Mitra smiled as the door slid shut behind him. He waited
a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dimness. The only
source of illumination in the room was a comm-panel
screen, which bathed the surroundings in a faint, eerie glow.
    When he could see well enough, Mitra peered about until
he spotted the only other door. It stood open, and it would,
he knew, lead into the bedroom. Quickly, he started across
the room, as quiet as the void. As he passed by the comm
panel, he stopped and examined the display; a data search
was in progress, he saw. Most of the screen was dark, in fact,
and in it, he spied the waxen image of his face. For long
seconds, he studied his reflection. It could no longer be said
that his features were strong or hard or chiseled; his eyes
were still cold--perhaps they had survived the raw days and
nights of the Gallitep winter because of their coldness--but
his face was otherwise a lifeless, twisted thing. His skin was
more than ashen; it was translucent. Blue veins were visible
just below the surface, and the surface itself was no longer
smooth: gouges in his sunken cheeks marked the places
where flesh had died and fallen away, and where his nose
had been, a dark, craggy pit now sat.
    Mitra stared at himself in the dark display. He watched as
his hand reached beneath his tunic and withdrew a long
knife. And once more, he smiled, a misshapen rictus of
soullessness. It was time.
    In three strides, he was at the bedroom door. He stepped
boldly through it, no longer caring to be quiet. No, now he
wanted to be heard, wanted to be seen. He wanted to be
feared.
    This room was even darker than the main room, but
Mitra's eyes had acclimated now, and he could see the small
figure with the large head lying in the bed. Quark was
asleep, on his back, a dry, rasping sort of snore issuing from
his open mouth.
    The colonel reached for the manual controls mounted on
the wall beside the door. The overhead lighting panels
gradually came on, brightening the room noticeably, but
not blindingly. Quark did not stir.
    Mitra walked to the bed and looked down at his prey. It
had cost the colonel a torturous effort to hunt this far, but
already he knew it had been worth it. It was a rule of nature
that only the strong should survive; the weak must perish.
    Mitra adjusted his grip on the knife. Using what re-
mained of his hands--the cold had killed the tips of his
fingers, the dead tissue falling away to expose the bone
beneath--he planted the haft deeply into one of his palms,
his wasted digits curling tightly around it. He bent down
and eased the blade below the wide, circular expanse of
Quark's left ear, and brought it up gently so that the sleek
metal rested against the alien's flesh. He put his other arm
out straight and down, his palm hovering just above
Quark's chest.
    "Prisoner eight," Mitra said. Although he spoke in a
normal tone, his voice seemed loud in the stillness of the
night.
    Quark's eyes began to flutter open, but then flew wide as
he saw somebody above him. He began to rise, but Mitra
shoved down hard with his palm, pinning the alien to the
mattress and making him a true prisoner once more.
    Quark screamed, a shrill, piercing shriek that filled his
quarters, but did not penetrate the walls.
Mitra let his weight down onto his arm, and the scream-
ing stopped. Quark struggled to say something; but the only
word that passed his lips was "Colonel."  "Address me as GUl."
    "Gul Mitra," Quark said, an obvious, desperate attempt
at pacification.
    "Commander of Gallitep," Mitra said, as though an-
nouncing his accomplishments. "The Butcher of Gallitep."
He jerked his arm backward, dragging the edge of the knife
up and through the cartilage of Quark's ear. The Ferengi
howled, his flesh parting easily, blood splattering from the
wound onto the sheets. Mitra took his hand from Quark's
chest, grabbed his ear, and pulled as the blade sliced
through Quark's anatomy. Finally, he held up his trophy for
his prey to see.
    Quark screamed and screamed, bolting up in bed, his
hands rushing to the gaping hole in the side of his head.
Instead, what he felt was the mass of his ear, whole and
uninjured. One hand automatically went to his other ear,
and found it also in good condition.
    Only a dream, Quark thought. His heart felt as though it
might leap from his chest at any time, and his breathing
came in great, gasping gulps. Mitra is dead, he told himself.
It was only a dream. Like all the others he had been having
since he had returned to Deep Space Nine, and like all those
he knew he would be having for some time to come.
    Quark threw back the bedclothes--he brushed his hands
across the sheet by his pillows, feeling vainly for blood in
the darkened room--and got up. Knowing that sleep had
deserted him for the night, he went back to the main room
and his search for sense in an irrational universe.

    As Quark worked at the comm panel, he idly reached up
and rubbed his earlobe. It was wonderful, he thought, to be
out of the awful cold. The feeling in his ears had fully
returned while he had been on Defiant, during its trip from
Ferenginar back to Bajor. Rom's hearing had been another
matter; it had taken almost the entire week since Defiant
had come back to DS9 for Dr. Bashir to restore his aural
capacity fully, but he had at last been able to do so. Rom, of
course, had been overjoyed. When Quark had last seen his
brother, Rom had been reveling in his revived hearing by
listening tom
    There it was. The results of Quark's latest search had
come back positive: one match for the name Cort in the
database he had been accessing, a repository for ot~cial
informational releases within the Ferengi Alliance. Quark
quickly operated the comm panel and called up the speci-
fied document. It turned out to be a three-year-old an-
nouncement of new appointees in several areas of the
Ferengi government. Cort was listed toward the end of
perhaps two dozen names. There was also a picture of all of
the appointees, which Quark enhanced in order to confirm
that this was the same person; it was.
    As Quark perused the article, he recalled how, back on
Bajor, he had guessed that Cort was a smuggler. More
significantly, he recalled Cort's annoyed reaction, which
had seemed to indicate that, yes, he was a smuggler, but that
it was not something he wanted known.
    Oh, he was good, Quark thought. Very good. According to
the announcement, Cort's duty with the Ferengi govern-
ment was as a personal assistant to the grand nagus.
    And that brought Quark foursquare to the other thing
that had been troubling him: Zek himself. If Cort had been
paid a large sum to do the things that Quark now suspected
him to have done, then the nagus was an obvious potential
source for such a payment. What was not obvious was why
Zek would have wanted Cort to do those things.
    Quark operated the comm panel and brought up notes he
had prepared yesterday. In his search for answers, he had
reviewed again and again his conversation with the nagus
on Ferenginar, with the eventual result being these notes: a
transcription, as best as he could remember, of what had
been said. From those efforts, something improper had
emerged, something Quark thought he should have recog-
nized when it had happened. During his attempt to change
the nagus's mind, Quark had asserted that selling the Ninth
Orb to the Bajorans would ultimately be more profitable
than selling it some other buyer. Zek had replied that selling
the Orb to somebody other than the Bajorans would bring
him a large profit, maybe not as much, but still a large profit.
 Maybe not as much.
    That phrase suggested that the nagus had known--even
forgetting about sustaining Ferengi access to the wormhole
and trade with the Gamma Quadrant--that he could profit
most by selling the Orb to the Bajorans. So why hadn't he
done so in the first place?
    Perhaps that was the problem, it now occurred to Quark.
Maybe the nagus had blundered in his handling of the
auction for the Orb--maybe he had not thought that the
Bajorans would close the wormhole to the Ferengi, or
maybe he had simply expelled them from the auction
mistakenly. Then, to avoid public concern about his
abilities--which could have threatened his position--he
had contrived this means to make the sale to the Bajorans.
    When Quark thought through this scenario, though, it
seemed preposterous. Zek pays Cort to get arrested and
then remain interned on Bajor until a specific timemeither
predetermined or somehow signaled to Colt in the prison
camp. At that specific time, Cort calls his shuttle and helps
the prisoners escape. He then steers them almost directly to
Deftant, where he fakes an accident, both to cover his
actions and to gain Sisko's attention.
    And then what? Quark asked himself. Could the nagus
have known that Sisko would bring Quark to Ferenginar?
Was Zek's intention to pretend that Quark had changed his
mind about selling the Orb to the Bajorans? It was too
convoluted a scheme just for the purpose of allowing the
nagus to save face, Quark thought. He concluded that it
could not have been what had actually transpired.
    Quark looked back at the corem panel. He would have to
seek additional clues if he was ever going to be able to solve
these nagging inconsistencies that plagued him. But he
could not do that right now. He was tired of all this, and he
suddenly had the uneasy feeling that he might not be ready
for the answers that he would find. Because after everything
was taken into consideration, there were two things Quark
was sure of: When all of this had started, the nagus had
failed to sell the Orb to the Bajorans, and when it had
ended, he had sold the Orb to the Bajorans. And what that
indicated to Quark was that Grand Nagus Zek was losing
his touch. It was unthinkable, it was profane, and it was not
what Quark wanted to believe about the man after whom he
had patterned his own business life.
 Disgusted and sad, Quark switched off the eomm panel.
    No, he thought. I don't really want to know what hap-
pened.



CHAPTER
      39

SlSKO THUMBED OFF the comm panel, his subspace confer-
ence with Admiral Whatley and several other flag officers
from Starfleet Command finally over. Today had been easy,
reporting the contents of the letter he had just received from
First Minister Shakaar. Earlier in the week, Sisko had been
dressed down for disobeying direct orders and violating the
Federation Council's resolution, and then lauded for those
same actions. In the end, the balance had tipped in his
favor, this was why he had been stationed at Deep Space
Nine in the first place.
    Sisko picked up a padd from his desk and read through
the first minister's letter a second time. He was satisfieda
more than that, he was pleased--with its content. Shakaar
had elected to do all the right things, and he had done those
things quickly.
    Although the edict barring Ferengi from Bajoran space
had been rescinded immediately upon the delivery of the
Ninth Orb to Bajor, the farst minister had asked that the
nine prisoners who had escaped their internment be re-
turned to his world for an inquiry into their treatment in
prison and their illegal flight. The Ferengi had refused to go
back to Bajor, though, and Shakaar had agreed, at Sisko's
request, to allow them to stay on Deep Space Nine until the
inquiry had concluded.
    According to Shakaar's letter, that inquiry was still con-
tinuing--it had only been a week since the Bajorans had
agreed to the nagus's terms--but only with respect to the
mistakes that the Bajorans had made. After just two days of
investigation, largely thanks to the testimony of Corporal
Prana, the nine Ferengi had been provided full pardons for
any crimes they were alleged to have committed during the
time stretching from the deadline specified in the edict to
the final agreement between Bajor and Ferenginar; that
included both violating the edict and breaking from jail.
Additionally, all property seized in support of the edict had
been immediately returned: the cargo ship in which Kreln,
Borit, Drayan, Tarken, and Lenk had been captured; Karg's
home in the province of Wyntara Mas; Cort's shuttle, which
had turned out not to be stolen; and Quark's bar. Each of
the Ferengi--including Cort, who had proceeded to have
his shuttle repaired--had quickly departed the station after
that. Each of the Ferengi had departed, that is, but for
Quark and Rom.
    Shakaar also wrote that the Bajorans were still trying to
determine how Colonel Mitra had managed to reopen and
resupply Gallitep. While the colonel had been charged with
the responsibility of interning the Ferengi, they were to have
been isolated in another, more hospitable facility. The three
members of Mitra's squad who were still alive--Lieutenant
Carlien, Sergeant Onial, and Corporal Prana--had all been
interrogated, but it was clear that they had also been victims
of Mitra's insanity. Regardless of how and why the inci-
dents at Gallitep had occurred, though, the first minister
promised that official public apologies would be made to
each of the Ferengi, and that counselors would be made
available to them so that they could have assistance dealing
with the traumas they had undergone.
    Finally, the letter confirmed a rumor Sisko had consid-
ered too good to be true: the death toll during the war had
been zero. More an attempt at a war than an actual war, the
fighting had lasted less than two hours. Still, in that time, a
large number of people could have been killed. And one of
them, Sisko reflected, thinking of his near-fatal shuttle trip
down to Bajor, could easily have been him.
    Sisko completed reading the letter for the second time,
and then started to study the document Shakaar had given
to him before the war had started. As he did so, the door
signal chimed.
    "Come in." The doors parted and Quark entered the
office. He approached Sisko's desk.
  "You asked to see me, Captain?" Quark said.
    "Yes, I did. Please have a seat." Sisko outlined for Quark
everything contained in the first minister's letterwevery-
thing but the report that Colonel Mitra's body had not yet
been located, and Quark conspicuously did not ask about
that. In particular, Sisko wanted Quark to know about the
counselors the Bajorans would be providing. Quark, per-
haps predictably, affirmed that he would decline such
services, but allowed that they would probably be good for
Rom.
    "Well, that's it," Sisko said when he had finished. He
rose, somewhat formally; he had not had much opportunity
to speak with Quark in the past week, and he wanted now to
convey his appreciation in an appropriate manner. "Thank
you for what you did," Sisko said. Quark got up from his
seat and faced Sisko across the desk. "I know that you
didn't want to talk to the nagus, and that you had your own
reasons for doing so, but it was nevertheless very important.
And the fact that you were able to change Zek's mind...
well, you probably saved tens of thousands of lives, maybe
more."
    "Yes, well, I don't how to respond to that," Quark said,
rather flatly, Sisko thought. "You're welcome, I guess."
Quark turned and headed for the doors, which opened
before him.
    "Quark," Sisko called after him. Quark stopped and
turned around. "Is everything all right?"
    Quark hesitated for a moment, and Sisko was struck by
an impression of Quark that he had never had before, one of
uncertainty and even sadness. He thought that Quark was
going to leave without saying anything more, but instead,
Quark stepped back into the office. The doors closed behind
him.
    "I don't think I didre" Quark stopped and began again.
"I think... I think that the nagus might be losing his
abilities as a financial tactician."
    "Really?" Sisko said. He had come to a similar opinion--
how could the Ferengi ultimately have benefited from a war
with Bajor, and how could they have maintained control of
the wormhole?rebut he was surprised both that Quark felt
the same way, and that he was willing to admit it. "What are
your reasons?"
    "Because the Bajorans' bid in the auction for the Orb was
a high one," Quark revealed. "Perhaps the highest of all the
bids."
    "How do you know that?" Sisko leaned forward, his
palms flat on his desk.
    "I inferred it from something the nagus said when I spoke
with him on Fereng'mar?'
    "But then why would the nagus have denied the Bajorans
a chance to bid in the final round of the auction?" Sisko
asked. "Even I know enough about business to know that
you accept the highest bid. Isn't that the entire reason for
having an auction?"
    "As I said, I think that the nagus may be losing his
business skills."
    "I think that's an understatement," Sisko said. "Ejecting
the Bajorans from the auction didn't just mean a smaller
profit for him. It forced the Bajorans to cut the Ferengi off
from the wormhole, which resulted in the Ferengi blockade,
and in the eventual arming of Bajor by the Yridians. The
nagus's poor business practices could have resultedre"
    "Hold it," Quark interrupted. He took a step closer to
Sisko, hands raised and index fingers extended, as if he were
trying to point to something Sisko had said. "I thought you
told me that the Bajorans got those new starships from the
Karemma."
    "No," Sisko said, trying to recall exactly what he had
related to Quark about the defensive transports that Bajor
had acquired. "I think you asked about the origin of those
ships, which is what I told you. We believe that they were
first owned by the Karemma." Sisko explained why they
believed this, telling him they had learned that the default
settings of the ships' computers were defined in the language
of the Karemma. "Anyway, the starships were actually sold
to the Bajorans by the Yridians. And now they belong to the
Ferengi." Sisko enumerated Zek's terms for the sale of the
Orb.
    Quark stepped up to the desk and fell into one of the
chairs sitting before it. In rapid succession, he appeared
stunned, and then ill, and finally as though he had experi-
enced a revelation.
  "What is it?" Sisko wanted to know.
    "Captain," Quark said, "Iwas the one who negotiated the
sale of those starships to the Yridians. Do you remember
that great deal that I made a few months ago?" Sisko shook
his head. "That was the deal."
    "You arranged the transaction between the Karemma and
the Yridians?"
    "No," Quark said. "I sold those starships to the Yridians
from the Ferengi."
  "What?" Sisko sat down too.
    "When I saw one of those ships when we were escaping
from Bajor, I thought it was a Ferengi ship, and that
somehow the deal had soured while I was in jail. But then
you told me it was a Bajoran ship, and that they had gotten
it from the Karemma, so I realized that it wasn't one of the
ships in my deal." Quark paused, putting it all together. "It
all makes sense now," Quark said. "It was all for greater
profits."
 "Whose profits?" But Sisko knew: Zek's.
    Together, he and Quark traced their way through the
maze of the nagus's great scheme. Zek had intentionally
expelled the Bajorans from the auction, expecting that they
would react by closing the wormhole to the Ferengi. That
action had given the nagus sufficient cause to blockade
Bajor.
    "It's so easy to see now that the blockade was a ruse,"
Sisko told Quark. "I couldn't figure out why the nagus
would execute a blockade, and then allow food and medi-
cine through it." Quark had been imprisoned when that had
happened, and so he had not known about it. "It was
because the nagus had no real interest in hurting the
Bajoran people."
    "No," Quark agreed. "He wouldn't have wanted to hurt
them. If he had, then the Bajorans might never have allowed
the Ferengi to use the wormhole ever again, even if the Orb
was eventually given to Bajor."
    "It would be difficult for the Bajorans to forgive what they
would have viewed as murder." Sisko then explained to
Quark how Shakaar had purchased the thirty-five starships
from the Yridians. The nagus had doubtless made sure
when he sold the ships to the Yridians that they knew the
Bajorans would shortly be looking to arm themselves, and
he would have played upon the Yridians' thirst for salable
information by suggesting this means of gaining access to
DS9's Gamma Quadrant data. Sisko then told Quark about
the staged encounter between the Bajoran ships and the
Marauder, and how Zek had used that as cause to declare
War.
    "What I don't understand is how could the nagus be sure
that I would bring you to Bajor?" Sisko said. "After all, you
were in prison."
    "I'm sure that if you hadn't brought me to Bajor, or
hadn't appeared there yourself, then the nagus would have
implemented some contingency plan," Quark said. "Some-
how, he would have made that final offer to the Bajorans."
    "But why did the nagus do all of this?" Sisko asked.
"What could have been worth all of these machinations?"
    "Thirty-five brand-new starships," Quark said. "Well,
thirty-five slightly used starships. The nagus sold those same
ships to the Yridians for a huge profit--I know, !~mu~ I
received a percentage of it for brokering the deal--and now
he's going to sell those same thirty-five starships to the
Kateroma."
    "That's who they were built for in the first place," Sisko
said, realizing now that Dax had been right, that the
computer defaults aboard the ships had been configured,
not by the Karemma, but for them. Sisko felt his jaw drop.
"It's genius," Quark said.
    "So all of this, everything, was simply so the nagus could
make greater profits?"
    "And the Yridians now have an information pipeline
into Deep Space Nine and the Gamma Quadrant," Quark
noted. "With his ties to the Yridians, I'm sure the nagus
will also be able to take advantage of that arrangement.
The thirty-fourth Rule of Acquisition really applies here:
War is good for business." Quark shook his head back in
forth, in admiration, Sisko thought. "It's astounding...
the complexities... every detail so perfectly timed and
worked out... and the nagus ended up with everything he
wanted."
    "Maybe not everything," Sisko said. He reached across
the desk and handed Quark a padd. On it was a copy of the
document Sisko had been reading. "What's this?"
    "It's the contract between the Yridians and the Bajorans
permitting the Yridians access to the data from our com-
munications relay in the Gamma Quadrant," Sisko ex-
plained. "The Yridians have been on the station for a week
now, monitoring the relay. I want to find some way of
allowing the Bajorans to fulfill the letter of this contract
without our having to compromise our data." Sisko
paused, and then said, "I thought you might be able to
help."
    "Let me take a look," Quark said. He spent a short time
reading the document. After he had done so, Sisko watched
him go back over it, apparently searching for something
specific.
    "Simplicity itself, Captain," Quark said at last. "This
contract states that the Bajorans must allow the Yridians to
monitor all transmissions from the Gamma Quadrant relay
to the station, but it does not demand that the Yridians
understand those transmissions."
     Sisko understood immediately what Quark was suggest-
ing: "Encryption." "Exactly."
    "You're quite a businessman, Quark," Sisko said. To his
surprise, Quark beamed at the compliment.
    "Thank you," he said. "It's not a Rule of Acquisition, but
it is a business tactic to act the fool; we're not all as dumb as
you think we are."
    "I'm beginning to realize that," Sisko returned. "Thank
you, Quark. For everything."
    Quark rose, the meeting dearly at an end. He started for
the doors, and for the second time, Sisko called after him.
    "Quark," he said. Quark turned back to face him once
more. "I'm glad you're back."
 Quark tipped his head in acknowledgment, and left.



0

CHAPTER
      4O

THE BOLIAN PLACED HIS THUMB on Quark's banking device,
completing the transaction.
    "I'm sure you'll be very satisfied with it," Quark said. "As
Betazoid gift boxes go, this really is one of the finest you'll
ever see."
"It better be," the Bolian said. "And it better work."
"Of course it'll work," Quark assured him. "Just program
it the way I explained." Betazoid gift boxes were fashioned
with a humanoid face on their surface, which in the
presence of the gift's recipient would briefly animate and
deliver a message.
    The Bolian took his hand away from the banking device
and picked the gift box up from the bar. He examined his
purchase once more, and then, to Quark's horror, he
suddenly furrowed his brow.
    "What's wrong?" Quark asked, even though he did not
really want to know.
    "This face," the Bolian said. "It looks a little bit like
you."
    "What?" Quark was puzzled, because he knew the face
was not his; this was a genuine gift box from Betazed, not
some counterfeit he had fabricated himself. "The thing
doesn't even have any ears."
    "You're right," the Bolian said. "Never mind. I must be
seeing things." He left the bar with the box.
    Quark walked back down to the other end of the bar,
where he had left a small knot of listeners in the middle of
his telling them the tale of how he had helped to end the
Ferengi-Bajoran war. Since he had reopened the bar, many
people had wanted to know what had happened to him, and
how it was that he had returned to Deep Space Nine. In
particular, Morn never seemed to tire of asking him ques-
tions abut his experiences.
    "So, where was I?" Quark said to his audience, which had
actually grown, he saw, since he had left a few minutes ago
to complete the transaction with the Bolian.
"You were telling us about the nagus's palace," Broc said.
Quark thought about telling Broc to get back to work, but
then decided against doing so. He was a Ferengi, and so he
would probably appreciate the subtleties of Quark's de-
scriptions more than most of the other people here.
    As Quark recounted his arrival at Zek's estate, and his
subsequent conversation with the nagus--which he edited
in order not to reveal Zek's plan, which might have lessened
Quark's efforts in some people's eyes--he privately mar-
veled at the shrewdness and cunning of the nagus. He
thought back months ago to when he had believed Zek to be
losing his business faculties, only to discover that the nagus
had uncovered a flaw in the Bolian Credit Exchange and
enacted a bold and brilliant plan; how could Quark have
underestimated him again? Actually, Quark realized that
the answer was simple: Zek was brilliant.
    Quark had not told Sisko about Cort--about his being
employed by the nagus, and about how he had made sure
that Quark had been delivered into Sisko's hands at just the
right time--because Quark had come to understand that he
was himself the final payoff in Zek's grand design. The
nagus wanted Sisko to believe that Quark had been able to
manipulate the Ferengi leader and thereby help defuse a
dangerous situation. Sisko might then view Quark in a
different light; perhaps Quark might even be able to capture
the captain's ear at some point in the future, a circumstance
which would doubtless have proven useful to the nagus.
And even though Sisko now knew of the nagus's great plan,
the captain was still grateful to Quark for what he had done.
 Zek, Quark thought, is a master.
    As Quark finished telling his story, he noticed Major Kira
enter the bar. He had not seen her since he had been back
on the station, and he was pretty sure that he did not want
to see her now. Unfortunately, she headed directly toward
him.
 "Quark," she said as she reached the bar.
 "Major," Quark said. "What can I do for you?"
 "You can listen," she said, though without animosity.
    "I'm all ears." To Quark's astonishment, Kira smiled, not
exactly a warm smile, but one of good humor, he thought.
    "I just wanted to tell you that I'm sorry." Quark blinked.
He did not know what to say. "I heard about what hap-
pened to you on Bajor."
    Quark wondered exactly what she had learned, since he
and Rom had been circumspect in speaking about their
experiences in the prison camp. She had probably only
heard a general account of poor conditions and the like,
because the Bajorans would not be quick to spell out
publicly all of the ugly details. It was possible, though, that
Shakaar might have told her more.
    "And I also heard about you talking with the nagus to get
him to sell us the Orb," Kira continued. "I wanted to say
that I was wrong about you in this case, and I wanted to
thank you for what you did."
    "You're welcome, Major," Quark said, and he could not
keep himself from smiling.
    "I still don't understand you, or the Ferengi way of life,"
she went on, "but I guess that's not really a reason to hate
you."
    "No," Quark agreed. "If it's any consolation, I don't
understand you either."
    "Of course, that's also not a good reason to like you," she
said, but she smiled again as she spoke. Quark smiled back.
Kira seemed uncomfortable. She apparently had nothing
more to say, because she turned on her heel and strode out
of the bar. But the crowd huddled around the serving area,
Quark thought, was duly impressed.

    Later that night, when he was closing the bar, Quark
smiled again when he thought back to the major's visit and
to her apology. He had no illusions that he and Kira were
now the best of friendsmor even the worst of friends--but
he recognized that she had at least been big enough to say
what she had said in the bar and in front of other people. If
nothing else, perhaps it was a starting point for better
understanding between the two of them.
    Quark finished locking up, and after he had counted and
secured the day's receipts, he went to his old familiar place
behind the bar and switched on the comm panel there.
Easily, as though he had been doing this every night for the
past few months, he accessed the financial exchanges and
began studying the markets. There was a deal out there
waiting for him, he knew. He just had to find it.
    The nagus had inspired him. One day, Quark knew, he
would own his own moon.
    It took patience and experience, he thought, but if you
looked in the right places, with the right perspective, it was
just possible that the universe actually made sense.