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To Nina
for all those nights of pizza and Trek
CHAPTER 1
THE LIGHTS FLICKERED for the sixth time. The turbolift jolted, stopped for a moment, then kept climbing. Commander Benjamin Sisko breathed a quiet sigh of relief. The last place he wanted to get stuck was the turbolift, and with the odd problems that had plagued the station for the last hour, getting stuck was a distinct possibility.
The flickering lights had him bothered, although not quite enough to give up his lunch with Jake; Sisko and his son rarely had enough time together. They had planned the lunch for days, fasting in the morning, so that they could overindulge in all Jake’s favorite foods: spaghetti, Norellian twist bread, chilled Ruthvian salad, and chocolate cake à la Jennifer. They had just gotten to the twist bread when the call came in from Ops. Maybe, if Sisko was lucky, this emergency would only take a few minutes and he would be back in time to eat half the cake himself. He would never admit it aloud, but he had a weakness for chocolate.
The lift stopped at Ops. Sisko stepped out, glancing briefly, as was his custom, at the Cardassian architecture: the almond-shaped portals on the top tier that revealed stars, Bajor, and the docking bays; the multilevel operations area, and the prefect’s office—now his—straight across from the turbolift. He had never thought he would feel comfortable here, but during the last few months Ops
had become the deck of his own personal starship.
This afternoon the deck was nearly empty. But he could feel the tension, almost as if it had been etched on the walls. He sighed. He had a hunch the chocolate cake would have to wait.
Major Kira Nerys stood behind the operations table, her gaze on the viewing screen. Hands clasped behind her back, feet spread in military precision, she looked all business. Lieutenant Dax sat at the science console, her fingers moving rapidly along its surface. Other than that, Ops was empty.
“What’s so important about a Ferengi ship that I had to leave my lunch with Jake?” Sisko asked. He kept his voice low, but neutral. No sense being upset about missing time with his son if there was a true emergency.
“The Ferengi ship seems to be suffering from the same power fluctuations that we are,” Dax said. “They requested a docking bay nearly two hours ago, but have made no movement in our direction.”
“Power fluctuations?” Sisko said. “You mean, we’re having more serious problems than the lights?”
Kira did not look at him. A sign that she probably should have called him earlier, but did not want to disturb him. He wouldn’t mention the lunch again.
“The fluctuations go through all of our systems in a random pattern,” she said. “The computer locator is off-line; I have someone searching for O’Brien. The outages aren’t serious yet, but I’m afraid they will be.”
Sisko walked down the steps toward the operations table. First things first. The outages were important, but Kira already had that under control. The Ferengi ship was the big question. Sisko glanced at the main viewer where the Ferengi ship hung motionless against
the blackness of space. If he didn’t know better, he would have thought that the ship was crippled. “Open a channel,” he said.
Dax moved to do so when the station rocked wildly as if it had been hit by a photon torpedo.
Sisko lost his balance and fell against the operations table, banging his arm and sending shooting pains through his shoulder. Dax slid under the science console, and Kira cried out behind him.
Alarms went off, their blaring cries of warning sending Sisko back to the day his wife had died. For a moment, he lost himself in those flaming corridors, lost himself in the feel of Jennifer’s dead body clasped against his breast. He swallowed the memory, hard, refusing to let it overcome him.
He glanced around. Smoke filled Ops.
The lights went out. Blackness overwhelmed him. The acrid scent of smoke dug into his throat. The backup generators kicked in, but the low-level lights only made the smoke more opaque.
“The Ferengi ship is breaking up.” Lieutenant Dax’s calm, intent voice broke through the pandemonium. She clung to the science console as the station rocked again.
The Ferengi ship was the least of Sisko’s worries. All the screens had jumped to life, reporting problems and outages throughout the station. Warning lights blinked all over the operations table. He pulled himself up to it, trying to loosen the pain in his shoulder, wishing he could see better through the smoke haze. The smell of burnt electrical wiring had him worried. “Tractor beam? Can you hold the Ferengi ship together?”
He had to shout over the wail of the alarms.
“Attempting that,” Dax’s calm voice replied.
Kira had pulled herself to her feet. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her shadowy shape mount the rickety stairs and hurry to the
engineering station. Where the hell was O’Brien?
Sparks hissed from loose connections. Sisko crossed to a free console and did a quick run-through of the station’s life-support systems. 
“A few ships have been knocked off their moorings in docking bays ten and twelve,” Kira said. “Reports of jammed doors. Lights down all over the station. No serious damage to the station, and no casualties.” 
The constant rise and fall of the alarms served as counterpoint to the three officers’ staccato conversation. The smoke had grown thicker. Sisko held back a cough.
“Life support is working,” he said. The system did not register any sustained hit. No telling what caused the entire station to rattle so.
The main lights came back on, flooding the smokefilled room with brightness.
“I’ve got the Ferengi ship,” Dax said, “if the tractor beam holds.”
He scrambled up the short steps to the science console. Dax had returned to her chair, her rounded figure and bright eyes a testimony to the fact that she was no longer the old man he remembered. But just as competent. Maybe even more so.
According to the readouts, the Ferengi ship was the largest Sisko had ever seen. It seemed to have sustained damage at the same time as the station.
“Kira,” Sisko said. “Shut those alarms down and find out where that smoke is coming from.”
“Yes, sir,” she said.
Dax glanced up at him, her wide, calm gaze helping him focus. The Ferengi ship. The docking bays. The lights. “The tractor beam
seems to be holding,” she said. “I’ll bring them into docking bay. . . .”
“Make sure you stay away from ten and twelve,” he said, in case she had missed that bit of information. He twisted to see the main viewer. The Ferengi ship at a glance seemed to be all right, but he knew that only the tractor beam held it together.
Sisko punched the console, moving his attention away from the station’s interior functioning. Nothing anywhere near the station except that Ferengi ship. No ship that could have fired a photon torpedo, no record of a cloaked ship appearing at the moment of the shot. Nothing to show that anything had happened, except the damaged Ferengi ship and those damned alarms.
Slowly, Dax eased the ship toward the station.
The lights blinked again, but stayed on. Then, without warning the tractor beam quit.
“What is going on?” Sisko snapped into the smokefilled air.
“The ship is breaking up,” Dax said.
Sisko reached for the board, but Dax’s hands flew across it, trying everything he could think of just a moment before he could say it. The board did not respond. The tractor beam was simply gone. Thirty seconds stretched into an eternity.
“It’s no good, Benjamin,” Dax said. “I’ve done everything possible to reestablish the beam.”
The alarms seemed to have grown louder, more insistent, demanding that something be done. The Ferengi ship appeared to bounce in space as if it were a sailing ship in a rough sea.
He turned to Kira. She was still at O’Brien’s station, a frown marring her delicate face. “Get a lock on the crew of that ship and be ready to beam them here.”
“Do it quickly,” Dax said. Her voice was very low and cold. “The ship won’t last much longer.”
“Only three on board,” Kira yelled out just as the alarms stopped.
Her voice echoed off the walls, demanding and impertinent. It grated on him almost as much as the alarms had. “Then get them out of there.”
Her fingers danced over O’Brien’s board. On the main view screen the Ferengi ship broke up as if it had been hit by a hammer. Sections of the ship flew in all directions.
Kira was shaking her head. They must have acted too late. Sisko steeled himself.
Then three forms shimmered on the small transporter unit. They were close together and it took a moment for the shapes to separate into two Ferengi and a bald humanoid alien. The center Ferengi was ancient and huddled over. He had huge ears with hair growing out of the centers, and his wizened face looked as if it were about to melt at any moment. The other Ferengi was younger and had ears the size of Sisko’s palm—normal for a Ferengi. The younger Ferengi and the humanoid, an Hupyrian servant with pale skin and an overhanging brow, had a firm grasp on the ancient Ferengi who leaned on a staff with a gold-pressed latinum head.
The Ferengi’s dark, intent eyes looked directly at Sisko and the Ferengi’s mouth turned down into an ugly frown. A shudder of distaste went through Sisko. Zek. Grand Nagus of the Ferengi. The closest the Ferengi had to a ruler.
Sisko sucked in a deep lungful of the smoky Ops air and stood up straight to greet the guests. What was the Nagus doing here? And why? 
“Nagus,” Sisko said, bowing just slightly to show his respect, a respect that he didn’t feel. The Nagus typified all the elements of
the Ferengi, good and bad. “I trust you are well from your ordeal?”
“How dare you attack our ship?” The younger Ferengi—Krax, the Nagus’s son—let go of Zek and stepped off the platform toward Sisko. “We had no weapons and—”
“We did not attack your ship,” Sisko said. He would not get into a fight with the leader of the Ferengi. “We had nothing to gain by doing so.” He swept his arm around Ops. The smoke had thinned a little. “And, as you can see, we suffered from the same problem you did.”
“Really?” Zek said. “You haven’t lost a ship, Commander. A small fortune in gold-pressed latinum was on board.” Zek paused to let his words sink in. “Do we share a problem? Have you lost a fortune in gold-pressed latinum?”
Heat rose in Sisko’s cheeks. He would have to act quickly on this matter. The Nagus could be lying, and he would try to make the Federation responsible for the money.
“We don’t know the extent of damage here yet,” Sisko said. “But whatever hit your ship hit the station.”
“So you may have lost money,” Zek asked as he eased himself down from the platform with the help of the bald humanoid. Sisko didn’t let the relief show on his face. As long as the Nagus thought they had the same problem, he would be less likely to blame Starfleet. “Have you located the culprit?”
Sisko glanced over at Dax and she shook her head. “We don’t know what caused the disturbance yet,” Sisko replied. “But we hope to have some answers soon. Kira, find O’Brien, now.”
“Yes, sir,” she said.
But before she could even turn back to her panel the lights again flickered and the entire station lost power and went dark.
And the alarm sirens started again.
CHAPTER 2
THE LIGHTS FLICKERED as Quark mixed the last of the drinks and picked up his tray. He glanced up. That had better be the last time the lights even pretended to go dim. Quark needed lights. He needed cool air. He needed everything to be perfect.
The Dabo girl swooped by Quark as she headed into the back room carrying a tray of drinks. Her slender nose was wrinkled and her lips turned down in disgust. Quark grinned and followed her, a tray of drinks perched on his small hand. He had given her the more noxious concoctions: a Hot Foaming Beer Dart, which smelled of fermented cat box, for the Meepod; a Klingon Cordial, made of wortweed and steaming pungent gray smoke; and a Falconian Licorice Slimmer, with baked grub worms (disgusting! they should only be served cold) and imported banana slugs, for the Sligiloid. The tray itself sent off an odor so foul that when Quark took the drinks off the replicator, Rom fled the bar with his hand over his mouth.
Quark carried the more common drinks: saki, for the two humans in the corner; Romulan ale for the Romulans near the door; and Bajoran sipping sherry for the terrorist who had talked his way into the game. Quark slipped through the door just as the Dabo girl ran out, her normally pale skin green and her eyes watering. He paused for a moment to survey the room.
It was set up for the largest Seven Card Hold’Em Poker Tournament
Tournament ever held in the sector. Quark was not fond of poker. Dabo was his game. But poker brought the true gamblers, the ones willing to risk everything. 
Ten tables, each with eight chairs, filled the room, their green felt surfaces beautifully crafted to Quark’s exact specifications. He’d been planning this, the quadrant’s largest poker game, for years, well before the Federation’s takeover of the station. The takeover had delayed his plans for a short time, until he learned that humans—even humans who wore a Starfleet uniform—loved games of chance. Some of the best officers in Starfleet were known throughout the quadrant for their skill at poker. Quark had invited all of them. He had spread the word of the game to each ship that had docked at the station. He had hired, at great expense, professional dealers so that the professional gamblers would think the game was on the up-and-up. And it was, for the most part. No one would know that with the house take and his skimming, he was going to make more gold-pressed latinum than ten Ferengi could carry.
The tournament was due to start the next morning and today Quark had invited players to enjoy the room and play pickup games, making sure, of course, that the house took its “fair” share. Three games were going on at the back tables. Quark hurried to the first, where most of his drink orders had come from. He set the saki down in front of Harding, a bald human with a well-chewed, unlit Ferengi cigar hanging from his mouth.
Harding pulled his cards close to his chest and picked up the tiny bottle of rice wine. “Hey!” he said to Quark. “It’s not hot!”
“You didn’t specify hot,” Quark said. “And your friend here”—he set the remaining bottle in front of the other human player—“requested his chilled.”
Harding took the Ferengi cigar from his mouth and leaned
toward his companion. The other man, Klar, was tall for a human and slender, with silver-white hair and cold silver eyes. Harding had spent most of the afternoon talking Quark into letting Klar play. Quark had wanted proof that Klar could play to tournament levels. Klar’s entry fee of one hundred bars of gold-pressed latinum, plus an extra 10 percent, had convinced Quark.
Klar picked up his bottle and pulled the tiny cup off the tray. Without saying a word he poured the rice wine into the cup and drank. 
Harding grimaced. “You will never learn, will you?” he asked, jabbing his unlit cigar in Klar’s direction. “The best tobacco is in Ferengi cigars. You ruin them when you light them, like you did this morning. The best alcohol is Japanese saki—hot saki, so that it goes into your system quicker—”
“I don’t want it to go in quick,” Klar said. His voice was slow and measured, its tone as cold as his eyes. “I want to remain alert. We’re here to play poker, remember?”
“Hard to forget after that little scene this afternoon.” The Romulan woman sitting next to them tapped her long, thin fingers against her chips. Her name was Naralak, and she had come alone. Quark set the Romulan ale in front of her. She ignored it and him.
The other players at the table—the tall, thin Irits with its featureless obsidian face, and the round, orange Grabanster with its thick fur and wet-dog smell—pretended to be studying their cards.
“I am the best player in the quadrant,” she said, her voice mocking as she quoted what Klar had said when he sat down. “ ‘You can’t have a poker tournament without me.’ ” Then she laughed. “We have had many tournaments without you, Mr. Klar. And I will wager, from that last hand, that we will have many more.”
Quark glanced at the chips. Naralak’s pile was twice that of the others on the table.
“I’m keeping my eye on you,” Klar said. He poured himself another cup of saki. “The kind of luck you’ve been having tonight is rare.”
“Now, now,” Quark said, bobbing just a little, careful not to disturb the remaining drinks on his tray. “These are practice games. They should have no bearing on tomorrow.”
“Trust me,” Naralak said. “The only bearing they’ll have is by showing us early how poorly our opponents play.” She smiled at Klar as she spoke. He did not smile back.
Quark moved away from them to the next table. Pera, the Bajoran, had a large pile of chips in front of him. He had a quirky half smile and a series of small white scars that ran down the side of his face—product of Cardassian torture. Pera claimed that he was never part of any terrorist group but his scars belied it. Quark put the sherry down in front of him and more Romulan ale in front of his companions.
The two Romulan men, Darak and Kinsak, were as well-known for their tempers as for their poker-playing skills. They had already yelled at Quark for allowing Klingons to play. He had told them that anyone could play regardless of race, as long as they had enough credentials and gold-pressed latinum.
At the edge of the table, the Sligiloid sat alone. She was tall and slender, and covered with thin blue scales. Rom had brushed her when taking her name, and her skin had flashed with a brilliant blue light. She had also cussed him out in her native tongue so harshly that Rom had refused to go near her again.
“Nothing for me, Mr. Quark?” asked the human woman sitting just behind Klar. Quark smiled at her. He had had his eye on her
since she arrived. She wore a diaphanous pink gown that revealed more of her voluptuous figure than it concealed. She also carried a tribble, which had caused some stir when she came through the docking bay. Odo had refused to allow her on the station until Dr. Bashir made sure the cooing blond furball was sterile.
“I’m sorry, Miss Jones,” Quark said, hovering over her. If he craned his neck slightly, he got a good view of her cleavage. “You didn’t order anything.”
“Hmm,” she said, leaning back. “The Romulan ale looks good.”
Quark leaned forward. He could see all the way to her navel. “Yes,” he said. “Looks good.”
A hand slapped his back—hard—sending pain all the way to his toes. Quark stood up. A tall, balding human stood behind him, a smile on his uneven features. Berlinghoff Rasmussen. He was known throughout the galaxy for the scams he pulled, starting with the one he tried on the Enterprise crew when he arrived from the past, claiming he was from the future. “I think the lady wanted a beverage,” Rasmussen said.
Quark nodded, once. He didn’t want to tangle with his guests so early in the festivities. “Romulan ale. Anything for you, sir?”
Rasmussen paused, then grinned. “I would like a beer as well, but a human beer. Make that Irish, from the late nineteenth century—a stout—and serve it warm.”
Quark grimaced. He hated drinkers with a palate. “Would you like it from a wooden barrel with a cork, or a tin barrel with a stopper?” 
“Very good!” Rasmussen said. “But not quite right. Storage became an issue in the twentieth century—”
“You getting drinks?” asked a male voice behind Quark. 
He turned to it as quickly as he could. Rasmussen was known to
carry on a conversation past its death. The man sitting at the table with the Romulans was small and dark, with a thick beard and dark hair on his arms and back. Sergei Davidovich. “I would like Anubian vodka. Bring the bottle.”
“Yes, sir,” Quark said. He left the table as quickly as he could. He stood in the center of the room and snapped his fingers. From the main bar, the Dabo girl rolled her eyes at him, but she came to his summons. 
When she was beside him, he whispered the drink orders to her.
“They’re not going to smell, are they?” she asked, glancing at the remaining table.
Quark followed her gaze. The Meepod, a five-armed, soft-skinned creature, had just finished her drink. The Klingons beside her were still sipping theirs. “Not if you hurry,” Quark said.
The Dabo girl scurried out of the room. Quark took a deep breath and headed for the remaining table. He already saw trouble. Two Klingon men—Xator and Grouk—sat with their backs to the first table Quark had stopped at. Directly behind them, with her back turned, was Naralak. Quark twisted his hands together. He knew that he would have to face having Romulans and Klingons play against each other, but he wasn’t looking forward to it. At the last major poker tournament in the quadrant, two Klingons had died at the hands of Romulans.
Still, Quark couldn’t do anything without calling attention to the problem. He would just have to worry about it in silence. Besides, one of his ringers, Baun, sat at the table. His pile of chips was dishearteningly small. Quark sighed. Tomorrow everything would work better. 
Much, much better.
Rom ran into the room, carrying the drink order Quark had given
to the Dabo girl. Quark frowned. He would have to yell at her for making Rom do her job. The Dabo girl caught Quark’s gaze, waved three fingers on her right hand, and closed the door to the back room.
Fine. She couldn’t be any clearer about her unwillingness to do her job.
A handful of other players mingled. Two more Klingons—those trouble-making women from the House of Duras—conversed with a long-haired Freepery. His other ringer, Nam, was trying to corner a human woman near the buffet table. A tentacled Totozoid, who had requested half hour breaks so that it could wet its gills, dripped on the carpet near the door.
“Quite the crowd.”
Quark didn’t have to look up. The voice belonged to Rasmussen. Again. Quark sighed silently. He would have to put up with the man for the next few days. “Yes,” Quark said, “and not everyone is here yet.”
“I’m amazed at the folks who are,” Rasmussen said. “Naralak who is known for her by-the-numbers cheating system. Darak and Kinsak who haven’t been in a room with Naralak since the Great Poker Shootout on Risa two years ago. Pera, known for smuggling anything, as long as it profits Bajor—”
“I’m familiar with all these players,” Quark said.
“Then I’m surprised you invited them,” Rasmussen said. He smiled that goofy half-grin that Quark always wanted to wipe from his face. “I mean, everyone knows that Cynthia Jones can’t abide Grabansters. They eat tribbles, for heaven’s sake. Klingons and Romulans in the same room. Good thing Cardassians aren’t here, what with Pera—”
“Wait until tomorrow,” Quark said. He weaved away from Rasmussen
Rasmussen. Quark knew about the tensions, and he knew things that Rasmussen probably didn’t know—that Harding was wanted for assault on Sift IV, and that Sergei Davidovich beheaded the Irits’ podmate during the final moments of a heated Seven Card High Low game in the Miridious Belt. He merely hoped that the players would forget their differences in the thick of the game.
Rom hurried over to Quark, tray at his side. “The Meepod wants another drink,” Rom whispered loudly. “And that Dabo girl refuses to serve any more.”
Just as Quark turned to Rom, the room went dark. The words Quark was about to say about firing that Dabo girl died in his throat. 
The station rocked and Quark had to grab a chair to keep his balance.
Curses in a dozen different languages flew around the room.
Alarms wailed from the corridors.
Quark tried to stare through the darkness. What was going on? Was the station under attack? He heard no announcements, had seen no preparation. No one had said anything to him. Sisko would hear about this! Sisko and the entire Federation!
The rocking slowed. Quark regained his balance and took a deep breath. Maybe they had just hit something. Maybe it was some internal problem. Maybe it was nothing at all. Just a momentary glitch.
Quark wiped a hand over his brow. The automatic temperature controls must have gone out as well. The room had suddenly grown stifling hot.
The wet-dog smell of the Grabanster became overpowering in the heat. Beneath it, Quark thought he caught a whiff of smoke. Panic rose in his stomach. He pushed the feeling down.
This was the worst thing that could happen. The worst. Rumor would spread across the sector that Quark’s was a low-life dive that couldn’t even host a proper tournament.
“Please, everyone,” Quark shouted above the noise. “Remain in your places. The emergency lights will come on in a moment.” He hoped. He wasn’t even sure the bar had emergency lights.
He reached out and grabbed to his left, hoping Rom had not moved. The flesh his fingers found was ridged and cool. And familiar. He yanked Rom close to his face. “Find O’Brien,” Quark whispered with as much force as he could. “I want to know what is going on. Nothing can be allowed to disrupt the game.”
“But I can’t see any more than you can,” Rom said. His voice almost had a human whine. Rom had picked up too many habits from the Federation do-gooders who filled the station. Before, the Cardassians had been teaching Rom proper, treacherous manners.
“I don’t care if you can see or not,” Quark said. “Just go.” He shoved Rom hard in the direction of the door. He heard Rom crash into a chair and swear. Another voice rose in a curse and something crashed again, before Quark heard the hiss of the door. Good. Rom would find O’Brien and get this place working again.
A drop of sweat rolled in the ridges of Quark’s brow, itching something fierce. “Please just stay calm,” he said, hoping to quiet the protests. “It won’t be long now.”
“It better not be,” a female voice said. Another female squealed and a slap resounded in the darkness.
The alarms sounded like screams outside the door. Beside him, the Grabanster chattered constantly. Quark felt like telling it to shut up, but he had seen the color of its gold-pressed latinum. No sense in angering a customer before a big game.
“You touched my cards,” a deep, accented voice said. Quark
couldn’t tell if the voice was male or female, Ferengi or alien. He hated this blackness. He tried to move toward the voice. He didn’t want any accusations of cheating before the game began.
“Why would I do that?” The responding voice had a flat accent that made Quark think of Earth-raised humans. “I can’t see your cards any more than I can see you.”
The voices were coming from an area behind Quark. Everyone else had quieted. Except for the alarms, honking like a Davesian goose.
“Just keep your hands to yourself,” the first voice said. “Or I—”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Quark said, hoping he had the gender right. The table was in his way. His feet banged into a chair and someone growled. “Please. The lights will be back on in a moment and we will start the hands over again.”
“I said, keep your hands off my cards.”
A chair fell back with a clatter, then something crashed through a table. Quark closed his eyes. His beautiful game. Voices rose, screaming and yelling in a dozen languages. The chattering beside him sounded almost like a rat screaming.
Another chair clattered, then another, and the thud of fists hitting flesh filled the room. Quark grabbed a scaly arm, and the Sligiloid flashed a brilliant blue light that showed the room in a strobelike instant: Twenty-two humans and aliens clustered around the tables. Some beings were standing, but most were sitting. Baun clutched his cards to his chest, his smaller-than-typical ears twitching. Good. He was guarding his cards even in a pickup game.
The Sligiloid slurped. The sound was not friendly. Quark edged away. The smell of sulfur filled the air as the strobe light faded. The thudding sounds continued. The moment of light had not illuminated any fighting.
Quark snaked around the Sligiloid, careful not to touch it again—touching them made them angry—and followed the sound. He tripped on another chair just as the lights came back on.
Quark blinked at the brightness. The bead of sweat caught in his brow ridges fell into his right eye, burning it. He rubbed at it anxiously as he scanned the room.
Near the door, one table had fallen, and all the chairs around it were down. Sergei Davidovich and the Meepod were sprawled on the floor. The Meepod was slugging Davidovich, but he was giving as good as he got, using his long legs as leverage while he butted his head against the Meepod’s belly.
“Stop them,” Quark shouted at the scuffle. The Klingon, Xator, and the Romulan, Kinsak, pulled the fighters apart. Then Xator growled at Kinsak. Kinsak’s eyebrows narrowed and his mouth rose in a sneer. Quark hurried over and placed himself between them all. “Thank you,” he said, pushing the groups away from each other. “Thank you very much.”
Davidovich’s face was bloody and half of his beard had been pulled away. The Meepod had turned green. Quark couldn’t remember her name, only that it was unpronounceable. “I should ban you both from the game,” he said. Putting the idea of cheating in the heads of the other players. It would make his job so much tougher now. They would all be watchful.
The Meepod wiped black ichor from her stomach, clearing the mouth that hid in the folds of flesh around what would be a chest on a Ferengi. She was standing free. Kinsak had let her go to protect himself from Xator. “But he was fixing my hand,” the Meepod said in her deep voice. “I could feel it.”
“How could I do that? We weren’t even at the same table!” Davidovich
Davidovich said. Xator held him like a shield and continued to growl at Kinsak.
“Then you were cheating for someone!” the Meepod said. “I felt your hairy arm on my skin.”
Quark made sure he remained between Davidovich and the Meepod. The Meepod’s black ichor had a rotting flesh smell. Another drop of sweat caught in Quark’s brow ridges. “Stop it,” he said. “I will not have this sort of behavior in my place. Is that understood?”
“Quark!” Baun shouted from the back of the room.
Stupid ringer. Didn’t he know that he shouldn’t call attention to himself? Someone might suspect that Baun worked for Quark.
“I’m busy,” Quark said without turning around.
“Quark!”
The rest of the room had become quiet. Even Xator had stopped growling at Kinsak. The alarms outside had shut down, leaving a ringing in Quark’s ears. The sweat dropped off his brow ridge and landed in his left eye. Now both eyes stung.
“Quark!”
Quark had heard this tone in Baun’s voice before. Those moments when Baun went from wide-eyed innocent to competent cardplayer. Something had happened.
Slowly Quark turned to look. Naralak was slumped in her chair, her squinty eyes forever opened on the world. Her green blood mingled with the lovely green felt on the table in front of her. More blood spattered the wall and the surrounding chairs. Baun stood beside her, his hand on her shoulder. One of Quark’s specialty cutting knives, used only for Ferengi Cold Ilami dishes, stuck out of her chest.
“I thought,” Baun said, “that I could help her, but she had already been gone too long.”
The Klingons gathered around like Sturgan vultures. “She looks much better now,” B’Etor from the House of Duras said.
“Did you touch her?” Quark asked Baun, trying to keep the hope out of his voice. If Baun had touched her, then that would solve two problems: It would get Baun out of the game now that he had called attention to himself and give the players a patsy so the game could continue uninterrupted. Then Quark could get a new ringer, someone who was a bit more discreet.
“Quark,” Baun said with that patronizing tone Quark hated, “there is no sense in touching a body that is so fully and completely dead.”
The remaining Romulans stood at the side of the table opposite the Klingons. The Romulans stared at the dead woman. “If you killed her, Klingon,” Kinsak said, “I will make sure that our government knows of your crime.”
Lursa laughed. “As if you’re on speaking terms with the Romulan government.”
The Irits peered over the table. “This . . . is . . . most . . . un-for-tu-nate,” it said. “Perhaps . . . there  . . . is . . . a . . . kil-ler . . . that . . . has . . . lost . . . its . . . mind. We . . . will . . . all . . . die.”
“We will not die!” Quark said. How stupid. His players don’t need to think about that on top of everything else. “This was just an accident.”
“A very convenient accident,” the Meepod said.
“Well, you didn’t help much,” Quark snapped. “How do I know your fight wasn’t providing cover for someone?”
The Meepod drew herself to her full height, even though the movement was clearly painful. “Meepods never help anyone,” she said.
“I do think we have a problem here,” said Cynthia Jones. Her
tribble hadn’t made a sound. “We can’t play tomorrow with a dead body in the room.”
“Quite right.” Quark swallowed, and made his way around the tables to the dead Romulan. The blood had soaked into the felt—the stain wasn’t that noticeable—but someone would have to scrub the walls. Poor Rom. Quark hoped his brother didn’t have plans for the evening, because those plans would have to be canceled.
“Of course, we will have to notify Odo,” Baun said. “I think—”
“You think too much,” Quark hissed. Then he smiled. “Of course I will notify Chief of Security Odo.” Just much later, he thought.
Quark smiled at those gathered around. “The game will continue tomorrow as scheduled. You have all traveled much too far to let a little problem like this set you back.”
“We’re going to play with a killer on the loose?” Baun asked.
If Quark could have kicked Baun, he would have. “Gamblers never let anything get in the way of a game.” The men at the table nodded. “Of course, you could resign, Baun. I’m sure I could find another to take your place.”
Baun frowned. No one else seemed terribly upset by the turn of events. Kinsak was still focused on Xator, and Darak, the other Romulan, was pointedly staring at his cards. It seemed that Naralak didn’t even have friends among her own kind. What luck. Quark suppressed a smile. He loved professional gamblers.
“Well,” Baun said slowly. “If that’s the way it’s done . . .  “ He slumped into the empty seat. “You will tell Odo, won’t you, Quark?” 
“Of course,” Quark said. In his own good time, though, after the tournament was over. Now all he had to do was to hide the body, and the players would forget the commotion.
He wished Rom was back. His good-for-nothing brother was
never around when Quark needed him. Quark would have to carry the body to the storage room himself. He couldn’t ask Baun. That would prove that Baun worked for him.
Quark frowned. He’d always wanted to touch a Romulan woman, but not like this. He bent over the body and grabbed hold of Naralak’s arms.
“Don’t you think you should wait for . . . ?” Baun asked. 
“He’ll see it soon enough,” Quark snapped. He shoved his shoulder in Naralak’s stomach and lifted her. Her blood was sticky and smelt faintly of copper. He felt it seep into his new sweater—the one he had saved especially for this occasion. Her hands and feet scraped the ground. She was heavy. Ferengi women never got that heavy.
He closed his eyes. He had to remember all the money he would make. That kind of profit made anything possible. Then he opened his eyes and started toward the storage room. Each step elicited a small grunt from the back of his throat.
He was three steps away from the door when it hissed open. He looked up.
Odo was framed in the doorway, his usual frown on his half-formed face.
Suddenly the weight on his shoulders felt twenty times heavier.
“Well, well,” Odo said, sending chills through Quark’s body. “What have we here?”
CHAPTER 3
CHIEF ENGINEER O’BRIEN tugged the shirt of his uniform as he hurried to Ops. A man needed—rest—every now and then. Was it his fault that Keiko had come to their quarters at the same time? He hadn’t seen his wife in almost two days, since their rotations didn’t match, and Molly was off at a friend’s for the afternoon. He had taken off his communications badge and set it on a chair in the bathroom with the rest of his clothes. Not a crime, really. After all, he was supposed to have twenty-four hours off. And of course he hadn’t noticed the flickering lights. No lights had been on in their quarters. Kira had no right to be angry with him. He had been on his own time.
The unpainted girders in the corridor looked strange in the thin light. His ears still rang from the alarms, and Kira’s curt scolding. He was not at her beck and call. He would tell her that if she gave him a hard time in Ops.
He would have enough to deal with, judging by that last power outage.
It had caught him just outside his quarters. In the darkness and in his sleepy state, he had gotten confused for a moment and thought he was in a corridor on the Enterprise. No such luck. The Enterprise at its worst never achieved the level of engineering disaster O’Brien dealt with each day in the Deep Space Nine. And, judging
judging from Kira’s tone, that level of disaster had suddenly grown measurably worse.
Outside the turbolift a Ferengi and a humanoid escorted an ancient Ferengi down the corridor. The Nagus. As if the engineering problems weren’t enough. O’Brien nodded at them, trying to not stare at the fine white hairs growing out of the Nagus’s oversized ears. The Ferengi made him nervous. Their unabashed avarice made him feel as if they ran naked in public. Such blatant emotion grated against his own conservative upbringing.
The turbolift had the dry, almost mothball-like scent that Ferengi seemed to prefer. Mixed with the smell of burnt wiring and a rising heat which could only mean that the environmental controls were down again. O’Brien really didn’t want to get on. But he did. He hoped by the time the lift reached Ops the headache threatening behind his eyes would disappear. 
As he expected, Ops was a mess. A thin haze of smoke filled the room, filtering everything through a gray gauze. Most of the smoke gathered at the top of Ops, near the portals, blocking O’Brien’s favorite view. The burnt electrical smell was stronger here, and some wires still sparked near the transporter unit behind his desk. Everything was dark in Sisko’s office—something that should never happen. Lights blinked on every visible panel.
Sisko manned one station, while Dax huddled over the science console. Sisko glanced up and nodded, not saying a word as O’Brien scrambled to his engineering station.
Kira stood up from behind the station. When she saw O’Brien, her brown eyes narrowed. “We could have used you earlier, mister.” 
Half a dozen more lights lit up on his board as he stood there. He didn’t have time to make excuses or to fight with the major. He stepped in front of her and bent over his console.
Most of the major systems, including all power and life support, were running for the moment. But it was going to take him most of the day to recalibrate some of the smaller systems and processors. Nothing that couldn’t wait until he figured out what had caused all this in the first place. 
“I’ve got what is left of the Ferengi ship,” Dax said, as if she were continuing a conversation. The sound of her low, calm voice made him realize how silent Ops really was. “It’s in a safe orbit away from the station. It will hold there for salvage.”
Ferengi ship? A lot had happened since he went to his quarters. “The Ferengi caused this?” O’Brien asked.
Sisko did not look up. “Whatever bounced us around destroyed their ship. We tried to grab it, but the tractor beam cut out.”
One more problem. But a bit of relief as well. The in-station malfunctions happened because of an outside event. O’Brien had been afraid that with the Cardassian systems and his jury-rigging, some important connector he didn’t even know about had blown.
“You don’t know what happened?” O’Brien asked.
“No,” Kira snapped. She was at another station, paging for more help on the bridge. “But whatever hit us had to be big. A wide area was affected.”
“Any idea how wide?” Maybe if he knew the source, it would help him determine the quickest way to solve the problems.
“We have had reports from as far away as Bajor,” Dax said.
“Any fix as to location? Or source?” O’Brien asked.
Dax shook her head. “At this point I don’t even know what hit us.”
“Well,” O’Brien said, “perhaps the damage will give us a clue. We can eliminate a number of possibilities just by looking at the destruction pattern.”
“Do it,” Sisko said.
“We need to have systems up and running first,” Kira said. O’Brien would never get used to the blunt rudeness of Bajoran women. He had often wondered why Sisko, a Starfleet commander, had not insisted that she use more formal address.
“Well, then, Major,” Sisko said, humor lacing his deep voice. “I guess you’ll have to investigate the damage yourself.”
O’Brien suppressed a smile as he told the computer to trace system malfunctions and separate out the work assignments. If he could pass the easy stuff to some of his support staff, he could worry about the larger problems, like the tractor beam.
He rubbed his forehead. The smoke was making that headache worse, and a tickle grew in the back of his throat. Maybe he would work on the replicators first. He needed coffee.
“Call coming in from the Cardassians,” Kira said.
The hair on the back of O’Brien’s neck tingled. Cardassians. Would they know a way to disable the station without being traced? He punched in three diagnostic programs with that scenario in mind.
“Put them on the main viewscreen,” Sisko said. He stood and walked to the operations table. A Cardassian face O’Brien had never seen before dominated the main viewscreen. The Cardassian’s ridges and lines, wide eyes, and down-turned mouth made O’Brien very, very uneasy.
“I am Commander Benjamin Sisko, Captain.” Sisko’s voice had grown deeper, more authoritative. “I run Deep Space Nine.”
“I am familiar with you, Sisko.” The captain did not introduce himself. “I want to know if your assault on our ships was intentional.”
“I can assure you that we had nothing to do with any attack on
your ships. Check your sensors and you’ll see that the interruption happened in a wide section of space near the wormhole. We were affected as well.”
“We read no significant damage to your station, Commander,” the Cardassian said. “We, on the other hand, have had two ships knocked off-line, and a power core disruption in another. All evidence points to a subspace distortion that came from this system. Explain this.”
“I wish we could,” Sisko said. “We lost lights and power a few moments ago.”
The Cardassian pushed his face closer to the screen. “We have kept our agreement with the Federation, despite incursions by Bajoran terrorists and the increased activity caused by the wormhole. The agreement is no longer binding when you attack our fleet.”
O’Brien gripped the edge of the console. The Cardassians could get ugly when they were angry. Sisko put his hands behind his back and took a deep breath.
“We did not attack your fleet. Something affected us both. We are doing what we can to discover the cause.”
The Cardassian’s smile did not reach his eyes. “Do that, Commander. And I hope your explanation is a good one. But let me warn you. If these attacks continue it will be perceived as an act of war.”
The viewscreen went blank. Sisko frowned. He turned to Dax. “The affected area must have been larger than we suspected.”
His calmness surprised O’Brien. But then, Sisko had never experienced the full wrath of the Cardassians.
O’Brien studied the board in front of him. The diagnostics had shown no evidence of Cardassian attack. In fact, the first diagnostic found no cause at all.
The lights flickered.
O’Brien did not glance up. Maybe if he ignored the lights, the problems would go away. The second diagnostic he ran showed that all the replicators were off-line, as well as the environmental controls in Ops, the Promenade, and most of the docking ring.
“Benjamin,” Dax said, “I am getting a strange subspace surge. I can’t seem to pinpoint it, but . . .” She stopped talking for a moment as her fingers flew over the board in front of her. “The sensors have gone dead.”
“O’Brien?” Sisko said.
The headache had spread in a tight band around his skull. A hundred warning lights flared into being. The diagnostics stopped as the system overloaded. Everything was just going wrong at once—again.
The lights flickered.
Then the station rocked as another wave hit it and the inertial dampers cut out for a moment. In his bed, the wave had felt like an earthquake, but here it felt as if a giant had grabbed the station and shook it in his overlarge hands. O’Brien clung to the engineering console and kept an eye on the sparking connectors near the transporter.
When the rocking stopped, he rerouted power from some backup systems in time to stop another total blackout. A bit more rerouting, and some of the warning lights went out. Except one very important one. The station’s power core containment had been slightly damaged. He did a quick run-through of the core systems, checking every detail until he was satisfied everything was fine.
Ops was stifling hot, and the tickle in his throat had grown worse. He permitted himself a small cough before turning to Dax. “Sensors back up?”
Dax nodded.
“We lost the transporters and half the station’s turbolifts on that
one,” O’Brien said. “And there was slight damage to power core containment. I have that under control.”
Sisko nodded. “Start with the turbolifts and get everything back up as soon as you can. Dax, can you tell how widespread that one was?”
“There is nothing to measure, Benjamin.”
“Another message coming in from the Cardassians,” Kira said. “They don’t sound happy.”
No one was happy. O’Brien least of all. “If the Cardassians got hit again,” O’Brien said, “we’re dealing with something really big.”
And not very discriminating. After the turbolifts, he would work on the replicators. He had a hunch coffee would grow in importance as the hours wore on.
CHAPTER 4
THE FLICKERING LIGHTS reminded Odo, Chief of Station Security, of the last days of the Cardassian reign. While the station rumbled and shook, he sat on his chair, letting it bounce around while he maintained his dignity. Lieutenant George Primmon, Starfleet Security, who was sitting across from him, had gone pale in that delightfully unconscious way humans had of showing fear. Primmon wasn’t as tough as he thought he was. He had actually stifled a cry when the lights went out this last time.
Odo sighed with impatience. In his hand he held a printout of a communiqué from Starfleet. The communiqué had come to Primmon, and Odo had noted, even before the lights went out, that it was incomplete. Now that the lights had returned, he scanned the document. It said nothing of any use.
He waited until the alarm sirens went off before continuing the conversation. He could have spoken over the noise, but no sense straining himself. Besides, he didn’t want to put Primmon at ease.
“So,” Odo said as if the conversation had never stopped. “Who is this L’sthwan?”
Primmon’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. He ran his palms over the legs of his uniform, as if he were trying to put himself back together. “Don’t you want to check with Sisko and see what the problem is?”
“If it concerned me, he would have contacted me,” Odo said. “Obviously the problem is technical, and that falls into Chief O’Brien’s area.” Odo leaned forward and put his elbows on his desk. “You were going to tell me about L’sthwan?”
Primmon shot a nervous glance at the door. Through it Odo could see people in the Promenade, hurrying to get out of the public areas before the station’s lights went down again.
“L’sthwan?” Primmon said, as if he had already forgotten. His Adam’s apple bobbed again. The man was not only officious. He was afraid of the dark. Primmon took a deep breath. “I have never dealt with the man personally. He is a compulsive gambler, and unlike most, he’s excellent at it. He also kills. He started out in the Vukcevich Sector, where gossip attributes fifteen deaths to his hand. He’s also wanted for murder in the Hoffman colonies. Oltion Four has a warrant out for him—seems he murdered an entire family just after supper and the Oltonions want to execute him for it. He was caught red-handed in the Patterson Belt, murdering a companion over a game of cards. Four guards showed up and L’sthwan killed them too—only the last one lived long enough to send a communiqué to the district commander. Unfortunately, no one ever got a complete description of L’sthwan, and he has always managed to achieve a quick escape. Starfleet considers him dangerous.”
“Obviously,” Odo said. “Or they wouldn’t have sent you to protect us.”
“I am not here to protect—” Primmon stopped himself and jutted out his chin, realizing a beat too late that Odo was being sarcastic. “I served many years on starships. Problems like these often lead to bigger things.”
“So instead you moved into a comfortable job and spend your time harassing me.”
“Look, Constable, the Federation wants L’sthwan. He’s dangerous—”
“—even the communiqué says that,” Odo said, the sarcasm making his words sound flat.
“—and Starfleet doesn’t need any problems from you.”
“No,” Odo said. “You need my help. You complain about my efficiency, and you give me nothing to work with. A communiqué. A name. Personality traits that could describe half the customers at Quark’s. If you give me something to work with then maybe I will give you results.”
“We know he’s here.”
“Do you? The communiqué says nothing about that.” 
Primmon shrugged. “The Federation would not have sent me to you without a reason.”
“Of course they would,” Odo said.
Primmon’s face lost its paleness. A bright red flush was working its way up his neck to his chin. Odo loved that flush. It was visible proof that he angered Primmon as much as Primmon angered him. “I’ll get his record sent from the Federation.”
“Good,” Odo said. “By the time it arrives, L’sthwan will have left.”
The flush had made its way to Primmon’s eyebrows. He stood. “I would check Quark’s if I were you. If L’sthwan is on the station, he will be there.”
“Brilliant,” Odo said. “You want me to search for a man I don’t know, who could be using a different name, who is human or humanoid, and a gambler. Do you suggest I arrest half of the clientele?”
“I suggest you interview Quark. Quark may know him.” The flush had reached the roots of Primmon’s hair.
“Indeed,” Odo said. “And Quark will turn one of his paying customers
customers over to me. It astounds me how little you know of the Ferengi mind.”
“Odo.” Primmon’s voice raised a notch.
Odo stood. “I will go to Quark’s because I planned to go there anyway. Have you noticed how few people are in the Promenade?”
Primmon glanced out through the door’s glass. He shrugged. “With all the technical problems, they’re probably staying on their ships or in their quarters. It makes sense to me.”
His tone implied that he would like to be off the station too. Odo nodded. Of course Primmon didn’t notice the real problem. People like Primmon never did. Instead, he wanted Odo to search for a murderous gambler at Quark’s, which was something like searching for a scout ship in the wormhole: one was always easy to find, but not the right one. Odo shoved past Primmon and opened the door for him. Primmon paused in front of him.
Primmon paused in front of him. “Why did you ask me that?”
Odo stared at him, wondering how the man had ever worked in security. “Because the docking rings are nearly full. Most of the ships have arrived in the last twenty-four hours. Crews usually shop in the Promenade. When there are that many ships, the station is crowded. It’s not.”
“You think that’s significant?”
“I’m going to find out,” Odo said. He escorted Primmon out the door, which closed behind them. Primmon headed toward his quarters. Odo turned toward Quark’s.
He had checked the duty rosters on all the ships that had docked and found that most had given their crews shore leave on Bajor. The makeup of the crews seemed odd to him as well. Most of them had little or no experience, while others were known for their smuggling and nefarious dealings. When Primmon had said the word “gambler
gambler,” Odo had been way ahead of him.
But Odo had seen nothing unusual at Quark’s. If anything, the number of players at the Dabo tables had been down the last few nights. Still, an uneasy feeling had grown in Odo’s stomach and that uneasy feeling usually meant Quark was up to something.
As he approached Quark’s, he stopped. No noise. No laughter. No shouts of “Dabo!” True, the problems at the station might have affected the clientele, as Primmon suggested, but it never had before. Everyone played at Quark’s whether there was a problem or not.
Two Bajoran men argued quietly at a table in the center of the bar. The Dabo girl leaned on the Dabo table, holding her stick and moving the pieces herself. She smiled when she saw Odo, then the smile faded when she realized who he was.
The bar smelled faintly of wet dog, and the climate controls were out. The heat was enough to drive anyone away, apparently even Quark who, contrary to his norm, was nowhere to be found. Neither was Rom. Quark never left the bar unattended. Odo scanned the upper tables. Not even Nog showed his young Ferengi face.
“Is your boss here?” Odo asked the Dabo girl.
She glanced at the door leading into the back room, then at the table, her gaze never touching Odo. “No,” she said. “He left me in charge.”
Very strange. Quark wouldn’t trust the profits of his bar to anyone, let alone a non-Ferengi. Which meant that the profits were being made elsewhere. The back room? Quark used it for special games, private playing sessions, and occasional auctions. “You’re in charge,” Odo said.
The Dabo girl nodded.
“In charge of sending clients into that back room?”
Again, that quick glance. She turned the Dabo stick over in her fingers. “No,” she said quietly. “I can use the replicator just as well as anyone else.”
“I bet you can,” Odo said. He pushed past her and strode across the room to the big door that led into the back room. The Dabo girl touched his arm, but he shook her off. The door hissed open, revealing ten tables covered with green felt, about twenty clients—human, alien, and Ferengi—and Quark, his body half hidden under the weight of a Romulan woman. Her hair brushed the floor, her hands and feet dragged on it, and her green blood covered half of Quark’s shirt.
She had to be dead. No living woman, let alone a Romulan, would let Quark touch her like that.
“What have we here?” Odo asked.
Quark peeked from under the Romulan’s armpit, took a deep breath of air and seemed to hold it. “I can explain,” he said.
“I certainly hope so,” Odo replied.
CHAPTER 5
THE STATION’S POWER OUTAGES had taken the environmental controls off-line. Dr. Julian Bashir pushed his shirtsleeves over his elbows. He had created a stasis field over the body of the dead Romulan woman, but once that was broken, he would have only a few minutes to conduct the autopsy. The heat would begin the process of decay even quicker, and that much blood would attract some of the more interesting staph infections onto the body’s surface.
To make matters worse, Odo and Primmon, the Starfleet security officer, were hovering over the body, as if it were a prize to be given to the best detective. Bashir wiped his forehead, then went to the counter and sterilized his hands.
“I don’t want either of you close to that body,” he said. “We’ll have enough troubles as it is.”
Both men backed up. No matter what they thought of Bashir outside of the infirmary, inside he was God. He was about to remove the stasis field when the door hissed open.
“I told you to run the sterilization program in the other room,” he snapped without looking up. New assistants often had to hear instructions twice before completing them.
“Then I didn’t hear you correctly, Doctor.” The answering voice was deep and warm, with a trace of humor. Bashir felt a heat that
had nothing to do with the environmental controls run through his body. 
He whirled. Commander Benjamin Sisko stood at the door, hands clasped behind his back, his normally trim uniform marred with smoke stains on one sleeve. “Commander, I didn’t realize—”
“I know,” Sisko said with a smile. Then he approached the body, and frowned. “Have you found anything?”
“I need to do a blood and urine analysis, and a DNA scan,” Bashir said, “but I can already tell you that the cause of death is exactly what it appears to be: five stab wounds. Three to the stomach, one to the left lung. The fifth wound killed her: it punctured the heart.”
“Then what are you completing the other scans for?” Sisko asked.
“There was a bit of material on the knife that I didn’t recognize,” Bashir said. “I’ll do a poison analysis, as well as a fiber trace. The knife had no prints. It was a Ferengi knife, the kind they use for some of their more grotesque cold dishes.”
Sisko looked at the body. Bashir followed his gaze, trying to see with Sisko’s eyes. The woman was now nude. The stab wounds had discolored her greenish tinted skin, leaving large bruised areas along her torso. Her eyes were still open, haunted, empty. Her black hair was swept back, revealing swooping eyebrows and small, pointed ears. She had had a kind of beauty.
“Who did this?” Sisko asked. When no one responded, he turned his head slightly toward Odo. “Why did someone die on my station?”
Bashir moved to the other side of the body and removed the stasis field. He wanted to be as far from Sisko as possible. Something in Sisko’s voice let Bashir know that the commander would not tolerate any uncertainties.
“It seems our dear friend Quark has decided to hold a poker tournament
tournament,” Odo said, “and has invited every undesirable he can find from inside and outside the Federation.”
“Actually, sir,” Primmon said, “we have a suspect. His name is L’sthwan. Starfleet sent us a communiqué telling us to watch for him. He is a noted gambler and murderer, wanted on Starbase Five for—” 
“If we have a suspect,” Sisko said, “why isn’t he in custody?”
The metallic odor of blood rose from the body so strongly that Bashir had to step back. He programmed the computer to run a scan while he removed blood traces for later examination. Even though he was working, he was listening.
“What Mr. Primmon didn’t tell you, Commander,” Odo said, his voice even flatter than usual, “is that Starfleet’s communiqué is extremely vague. They warn us about L’sthwan, but do not tell us his age, race, or appearance. They don’t even know for sure if he will be on Deep Space Nine. Mr. Primmon has assumed—”
“I don’t want assumptions,” Sisko snapped. “I want answers.”
“Here is what we know so far,” Odo said. “The door to Quark’s back room was closed just before the big power outage. The computer tells us that the door opened and closed once in the darkness and that no one beamed in. I have run a preliminary DNA trace and fiber scan, matching the information against the thirty people in the room, and have found nothing unusual. But I am sure that someone in that room killed her.”
“Wonderful. One chance in thirty of catching a killer.” Sisko stood over the body. He was staring at Bashir’s hands. Bashir tried not to look up. He didn’t want his hands to shake. “I want no ship to leave this station until the murderer is caught. Close down Quark’s poker game and let me know as soon as you have something.”
Bashir finished running the diagnostics. He reinstated the stasis field until he could put the body into cold storage. “Do you really think shutting down the game is such a good idea?” he asked. “After all, the murderer came here to play poker.”
“The doctor has a point,” Odo said. “I would love to shut down Quark’s little game, but I think we have a better chance of catching the killer if the game goes on.”
“Do you have a plan, Odo?” Sisko asked.
“With all due respect, sir.” Primmon imposed his small frame between Sisko and Odo. “If the game continues, the killer might kill again. I think any plan the constable has will be a poor one.”
“The killer will not kill again,” Odo said, “because I will have joined the game.”
Bashir frowned. He crossed his arms in front of his chest. “I didn’t know you gambled.”
“I don’t,” Odo said. “But I am willing to do what I must to catch a killer.”
“Sir.” Primmon leaned against the autopsy table. Bashir tapped his shoulder and moved him away. Primmon grimaced at him. Bashir resisted the urge to grimace back. The man was difficult, but making faces at him would not impress the commander. “I would like to advise against this action.”
“Mr. Primmon,” Sisko said, his voice firm, “we have had this discussion before. Odo is highly qualified to do his job. If he believes that his plan will flush our killer, then I believe it will as well.” Sisko stepped around Primmon so that Primmon was excluded from the conversation. “Odo, will Quark let you into the tournament?”
“I can handle Quark,” Odo said.
Sisko nodded. “I believe you can.”
Bashir moved away from the table. He envied Odo, spending his time at the poker game, even with a killer on the loose. This was the kind of frontier that Bashir had imagined. He had begged Quark to let him into the game, but Quark had repeatedly said no. He believed that Bashir wouldn’t be able to hold his own. But Bashir had always done well in late night games in the Academy Medical School, and knew he would be able to now.
“Dr. Bashir,” Sisko said. “If you find anything unusual in the remaining lab work, notify me immediately.”
The commander’s curt tones snapped Bashir from his reverie. “Yes, sir,” he said.
Sisko glanced at the Romulan woman on the table and then back at Odo. “Find whoever did this.”
Odo nodded. “I will. That you can count on.”
The lights flickered. The stasis field fluctuated and disappeared. Bashir hurried back to the table to reestablish the field.
Sisko glanced up at the overhead light and then back at Odo. “Good,” he said. “At the moment we need something around here we can count on.”
CHAPTER 6
ODO LOVED TO HEAR Quark whimper. 
And Quark had been doing just that for the past fifteen minutes. The temperature in Odo’s office had risen since the last power outage, and the sharp, fermented smell of Ferengi sweat filled the room. Beads of moisture dripped off Quark’s brow ridges onto his nose. Some traveled around the rims of his oversized ears. Quark swatted at the drops as if they were Bajoran liccie bugs.
Odo stood over Quark, hoping to make the Ferengi even more nervous. Quark made mistakes when he was nervous. He kept glancing over his shoulder at the door. The Promenade was still empty and Quark’s place was not visible from Odo’s office.
“If you aren’t going to ask questions, you should let me go,” Quark said. The left side of his clothing was stained with the Romulan’s blood.
“Oh, I plan to ask questions.” Odo paused for maximum effect. He had avoided questioning Quark, hoping the tension would make Quark more talkative. Quark had hovered around Odo in the back room while they waited for Bashir to arrive. Once the doctor took the body away for autopsy, Odo had hurried Quark to his office, commanding him to stay or get charged with murder. Quark had stayed while Odo watched the autopsy and spoke with Commander Sisko.
When Odo arrived, Quark was pacing. Small dusty footprints marred Odo’s normally clean floor. Quark had apparently been pacing the entire time Odo was gone.
“Commander Sisko wants your game closed down,” Odo said. 
“What for?” There was just a hint of panic in Quark’s voice.
“Well,” Odo said slowly, “since it is the scene of a rather interesting murder, I believe he’s afraid that another may occur. So until we catch the killer, I will have to shut down the bar.”
Quark stood. “You can’t do that! I need it open. At least, the back room. By tomorrow morning. I’m sure that will be possible.” 
“Really?” Odo smiled. “What do you need the room for?” 
“Nothing really. Just a few games.”
“Nothing? Then you won’t mind having the bar closed for, say, a week.”
“A week!” Quark stood. “I can’t have that!”
“I am investigating a murder, Quark. You were found holding the body.”
“I didn’t kill anyone.”
“So you say.”
“The room was dark. Anyone could have come in or left.” 
“The computer records say that only Rom used the door. Are you saying Rom killed the woman?”
“Yes! No! I am not saying anything.” Quark slid his chair back, away from Odo.
“Except that you want to have the room available tomorrow morning. For a few games, Quark? Exactly what type of games?”
Quark shifted in his chair. A bead of sweat fell from his chin onto his shirt. “Card games,” he said. “Nothing more than a few simple card games. Actually, poker.”
“Don’t withhold information from me, Quark,” Odo said. He
leaned toward Quark. “You are holding a poker tournament and you expect to make a great deal of money doing so.”
“But how did you . . . ?” Quark let the question drop. 
“You can’t hide things from me in this station.” It had been a fairly simple deduction. He had never seen so many formal looking tables in Quark’s back room. That, plus the information Odo had received on the visitors landing at the station, combined with the news of L’sthwan, made Quark’s plan very clear.
The handful of players Odo had spoken to after the murder had confirmed it: Quark was planning one of the biggest poker tournaments the quadrant had ever seen.
But Quark hadn’t counted on L’sthwan. Identifying him among all the players might take some effort.
“The tournament will be quite entertaining,” Quark said. “You should drop by and watch some of the action.”
“Assuming,” Odo said, “that I allow the card tournament to go on.”
“No! You couldn’t. I’ve been planning this for years. Some of the best players in the sector are here.”
“There is the little matter,” Odo said, “of the murder.” 
“I’m sure,” Quark said, “that with your great detective skills you will soon have the guilty party in custody.”
“I may already have the guilty party in custody.”
“I did not kill her!”
“No,” Odo said. “You merely moved her body.”
Quark looked down. “I was bringing her to you.”
“You were going to hide her until the tournament was over.”
“It wouldn’t have made any difference!”
Some days Odo wished that Quark had vanished with the Cardassians. If that had happened Odo’s job would have been a lot easier
easier, if less interesting. “Of course not,” Odo said, letting the sarcasm control his tone. “It would only give the murderer time to escape.”
“He may already have done that.”
“So you said.” Odo leaned on his desk and crossed his arms in front of his chest. “If you are as innocent as you claim, that means the murderer was in the room when the lights went out.”
“People were using the door.”
“Rom used the door, at your insistence. I got that much of the story from the handful of people I spoke with. I do not believe that someone would wait for accidental darkness, then slip into a room he had never seen before to murder a specific person. No, the murderer was there.”
Quark frowned. “What’s your point?”
“My point is this,” Odo said slowly. His skin tingled. He would enjoy Quark’s response to this suggestion. “When the tournament starts tomorrow morning, I need to have a seat at one of the tables.”
“You can’t play poker! You won’t understand a thing.” Quark stood, as if that settled the matter.
“You have been encouraging me for a long time to learn to gamble,” Odo said, walking to Quark’s side and looking down on him.
Quark’s body trembled. The sweat dripped off his ears. “You need one hundred bars of gold-pressed latinum to enter.”
“No, I don’t,” Odo said. He graced Quark with a rare half-smile. “You need to make money off this game, and as host, you can’t play yourself. The house take would never satisfy a Ferengi. Am I right, Quark?” 
“I will make a good profit on this game,” Quark said. 
“Yes.” Odo blocked Quark’s path to the door. The sharp fermented scent of Ferengi sweat had grown stronger. “You will make a
profit by putting your own players in the game. I suspect they will not always play by the rules.”
“Everyone has to play by the rules.”
Odo tilted his head. “Don’t lie to me, Quark. I can shut your tournament down in an instant.”
Quark’s chin jutted out. “If I let you play, will you keep the bar open?”
“Yes,” Odo said. He resisted the urge to rub his hands together. Quark was finally beginning to understand.
“I only have room for eighty players,” Quark said, “and there was already someone waiting to take the dead woman’s place.”
“Get rid of one of your players,” Odo said. “I will take his place.”
“You can’t be a ringer if you can’t play cards.”
“You want to make a profit,” Odo said, “and I want to catch a murderer. It seems to me, Quark, you had better teach me how to play poker.”
“By tomorrow morning?”
“Unless you want to postpone your game.”
Quark gritted his teeth. “You’d better be a quick learner, Constable, because if you aren’t, those other players will eat you alive.”
“I believe that’s your problem,” Odo said.
CHAPTER 7
JAKE SISKO tried to look relaxed as he walked through the Promenade. But the emptiness of the Promenade bothered him. So did Nog’s insistence that everything would be all right.
The last time Nog had told Jake that, Jake’s father had grounded him for a week. Jake didn’t want that to happen again.
And it would if his father caught him. His father had clear rules: when there were problems in the station, Jake was supposed to return to their quarters. The flickering lights, the awful earthquakelike shaking, and the blackouts meant trouble.
Jake had tried to stay in his quarters. He had contacted Nog and asked him to come over for some cake. But Nog didn’t like cake—at least, not chocolate cake. He always complained that it didn’t crunch and that it had been dead far too long to taste good. Instead, Nog had suggested that Jake meet him in the Promenade.
Jake had said no. But when his father notified him that the problems would keep him away for hours, Jake got bored. He contacted Nog and asked what was happening in the Promenade. Nog wouldn’t say, but he had promised that it would be great. This time Jake paused only for a moment. All he could do in his quarters would be to pace while he worried if his dad was all right.
Being busy was better.
Nog moved with a typical Ferengi scuttle that somehow seemed
faster than regular human pace. Jake had to hurry after him. He was afraid the lights would go out again and the smoke in the corridor made him uneasy.
“Nog,” he said, “I think maybe we should go to my quarters. I have an old-fashioned chess set that my father brought from Earth.” 
“Flat board?” Nog asked.
Jake nodded. He had been wanting to try it since he had first seen it.
“No challenge in it. And besides, you won’t bet.”
“You don’t bet on chess.”
“My father does,” Nog said.
Jake sighed. Nog’s father bet on everything. Nog didn’t seem to understand games played without wagers. “Where are we going?”
“Just wait. You’ll love it.”
Nog had said that about sautéed grub beetles too. Jake couldn’t eat food that still moved. Still, he followed Nog toward Quark’s. They took the stairs leading to the second level of the Promenade. Their boots rang against the metal. The sound sent a shiver down Jake’s back. Usually the Promenade was so noisy that he couldn’t hear himself think, let alone walk.
When they reached the top Nog led him to the solid glass wall that looked down into Quark’s. No one sat in the bar. The Dabo girl leaned over her table looking bored.
“No one’s in there,” Jake said. “I think we should go to my quarters.”
But Nog wasn’t paying attention. He was using a small laser driver to take off a panel on the wall. Quietly, he set the panel on the floor, then looked around. Jake looked too. They were alone.
Nog crawled into the hole. “Come on,” he said, his voice echoing.
Jake’s heart pounded in his throat. His father had better be busy
in Ops. Jake could get grounded for more than a week for this. His dad had given him strict instructions to stay out of the service areas of the station. They were just too dangerous. But it seemed that standing out in the hall arguing with Nog would cause more problems. So he ducked inside.
The service walkway was hot and lit with tiny lights on each side of the flooring. Probably emergency lighting. If everything shut off now, he and Nog would be in deep trouble.
Nog reached around him and refastened the panel.
“This better be worth it,” Jake said.
Nog raised a finger to his lips. “It is,” he whispered. 
A bead of sweat ran down Jake’s face. The service walkway they crouched on extended toward Quark’s. When it reached the bar, it became a catwalk, supported by cables. It did look interesting. “Where does this go?”
“Holosuites on both sides,” Nog said, pointing. “Follow me.”
Jake stared at the wall where the suites were. He really didn’t want to see what happened in those suites. His dad had explained the facts of life to him years ago, but what his dad described and what happened in the holosuites didn’t sound like the same thing at all. Just the thought of some of the stuff he had heard made his stomach twist.
Bent over in almost an apelike crouch, Nog led the way down the service walkway between huge cables, blank walls, and support beams. Jake followed, his damp palms sliding on the metal. Something pierced his thumb, and he stifled a cry. Nog looked up at him with a frown and put a finger to his lips again. Jake paused, wiped his hands on his pants, and continued his descent.
Suddenly Nog turned to the right and followed an even thinner
path over what looked to be the ceiling of a room. Jake could hear talking and laughing from below.
“ . . . really matter,” a male voice said. “Just gets rid of some of the competition.”
“Well,” a woman replied. “I’m not sure I want to play with the kind of riffraff who believe in killing the opponent.”
“Never played poker, have you, lady?”
The voices made Jake freeze. They had a harsh sound that he didn’t like. Nog stopped and pointed.
At first Jake couldn’t figure out what it was he was supposed to see. Ceiling tiles, support joists, and the backs of light fixtures stuck through the tiles. He inched closer. The voices became a blur.
“I saw my dad and Quark in here last week,” Nog whispered. “They were laughing about how much this would make them when the tournament started.”
Tournament? Poker? Quark was up to something, and Nog knew about it. Jake examined the area Nog was pointing to. Attached to the back of a normal, small light fixture was a sophisticated sensor system. “What’s it for?”
Nog punched his shoulder. “Look, there are a bunch of them. One over every table.”
“Why?”
Nog looked at him as if he were an idiot, so Jake studied the sensors spaced throughout the ceiling. From what he could remember from the unit Chief O’Brien did at school, these sensors would be able to not only record visual data and sound, but all medical data of any person they were pointed at.
Laughter resounded below. Jake jerked back, startled. Nog put a hand on his shoulder.
“There’s going to be a big card tournament,” Nog whispered.
“Come here.” He led Jake over to a small hole in the ceiling where a tile had slipped slightly, letting a sliver of light into the darker service area. “Look through there.”
Jake did as he was told. Below, the room was brightly lit. The table had a green felt surface, piled with chips and cards. From his vantage point, he could make out the legs of one man sitting in a chair. In the man’s hand were cards.
“Your dad’s cheating?” Jake asked, turning back to Nog. “He can see every hand of cards.”
Nog laughed quietly. “Yeah, isn’t it great? With those sensors he can see every detail in the place and judge someone’s emotional state. I just wish I knew where it was being broadcast to. Wouldn’t you just love to watch the monitors?”
Jake just crouched there looking at his friend. No, he thought, actually, he wouldn’t.
CHAPTER 8
“MAKE THIS FAST,QUARK,” Odo said. “I have a murder investigation to conduct.”
Quark took a kerchief out of the pocket of his sweater and wiped his brow. The environmental controls were still out, and Odo’s office was hotter than ever. They couldn’t leave the door open because Quark didn’t want anyone to know what they were doing.
With a sweep of his arm, he pushed aside everything on Odo’s desk. Odo moved quickly to catch files before they fell to the floor. Odo’s deep frown made Quark feel a little better, anyway. Although nothing could make him feel good. The murder had only added to the complications. Quark had another worry he hadn’t even discussed with anyone.
The Grand Nagus.
If the tournament succeeded, the Nagus might want to buy the bar. He had hinted as much the last time he visited Deep Space Nine. If the tournament did not go well, Quark would be embarrassed in front of the Nagus. 
And then there was the matter of the entrance fee. All of the Nagus’s money was supposedly destroyed with his ship. He asked Quark to front him the entrance fee. Quark could hardly say no.
He didn’t want to think about what would happen if the Nagus lost. The Nagus never paid his gambling debts.
“I hope you had a purpose in clearing my desk,” Odo said.
Quark reached into his other pocket and pulled out a regular deck of cards. He slapped it on the desk’s surface. “Sit down. I’m going to teach you to be the best player in the quadrant.”
“I don’t want to be the best,” Odo said. “And I have already learned how to play.”
Quark leaned forward, hand still cupping the deck. “Every single player here is the best in the quadrant. The only way you’ll survive long enough to play more than one round is by being one of the best yourself. Now, I’m going to start with the basics.”
Odo sighed, sat down, and leaned forward. “Not too basic. I have already looked up poker in the computer. It’s quite simple.”
“Simple?” Quark sat down. The heat made it hard to breathe. “You have never gambled and you think poker is simple?”
“It seems quite logical to me.”
“Don’t you understand, Odo? These are the best poker players in the known universe. We can’t put you up against them.”
“We will, or I will shut the game down,” Odo said. His half-finished features looked calm.
Quark wanted to strangle him. Odo could be calm, of course. His life wasn’t on the line. The Grand Nagus wasn’t threatening his profit. No, all he had to do was be a ringer and he wasn’t going to be very good at that.
“I understand the rules,” Odo said.
“No, you don’t,” Quark replied. “Do you know what a bluff is?”
“When a player pretends he has a better hand than he does.” Odo leaned back. “I don’t know if I can do that.”
“It’s the essence of poker! You have to bluff! Everyone bluffs!” Quark knew he was shouting, but he couldn’t stop.
“I prefer to be direct,” Odo said.
Quark buried his face in his hands. Odo would get caught and Quark would be the laughingstock of the gambling world. He would never hold another tournament again. All that money . . .
“Quark, I have an investigation so I need to cut—” 
Quark brought his head up. No use fighting it.
These were the cards he was dealt. He took a deep breath. “Poker has several variations. We are going to play Seven Card Hold’Em.”
Odo held up his hand to stop Quark. “I learned the game from the computer. There is no need to waste my time and—”
“We are going to waste your time,” Quark said, barely controlling his temper, “if we are wasting my money with this stupid idea. Now let me continue.”
Odo nodded and Quark went on. “Seven Card Hold’Em means that seven cards are dealt and the best five cards win. That’s the basis of the game. Nothing more. You understand that?”
Odo shrugged. “It sounds like all the other seven card poker games I read about.”
“It’s not,” Quark said. “This one requires a lot more skill. And remember, poker is skill.”
“It’s all chance. You can’t control the cards you’re dealt. Unless your dealers will make sure that—”
“That’s childish cheating!” This heat was impossible. Quark stood up and began pacing. “Poker is a game of skill. The skill comes in the bluff. Anyone can win with a bad hand if that person bluffs well and never has to show his cards. Do you understand?”
“I understand that bluffing is very important to you.” Odo folded his hands on the desk. “Now, would you please finish?”
Quark shuffled the deck and sighed. “I’m sure it won’t make a difference.”
“Excuse me?” Odo said.
Quark ignored him and dealt two cards to Odo and himself. “The dealer will give you two cards facedown like this. Don’t show them to anyone else, no matter what. After you get those two cards there is a round of betting.”
Odo picked up his cards.
“Betting is the essence of poker.”
“I thought bluffing was,” Odo said.
“If you didn’t bet, you would have no reason to bluff.” Quark sat down. He should have been checking on his surveillance system. He should have been mingling with his guests. He should not have been teaching this unfinished, serious-minded security officer how to play a game. 
“I don’t think I like this game,” Odo said. “It seems far too easy.”
“You don’t have to like it. You just have to play it.” 
Odo sighed. “All right. Please finish.”
Quark refrained, but just barely, from tossing the entire deck at Odo. After a few more deep breaths, he dealt three cards faceup. A queen of hearts, a six of spades, and a deuce of spades. Nice. With the king and five of spades in his hand, he had a nice flush going. Too bad he wasn’t really playing. “After the betting has stopped,” he said, “the dealer will put the next three cards in the center of the table, faceup. That is called the Flop.”
“Why?” Odo asked again, staring at the cards Quark had placed faceup between them.
“Because it creates flop sweat,” Quark lied. He wiped his face again. “Don’t ask what flop sweat is.”
“I’m not sure I want to know.” Odo turned a card upside down in his hand. He moved his hand close to the three cards in front of him.
“Don’t do that!” Quark said. “You don’t want anyone to see in your hand.”
“You mean they’ll look?”
“Let me explain this to you again.” Quark set his cards and the deck down. “Poker is a game of skill for liars and cheats. It is a great way to make a lot of money on the strength of a single lie. Most tournaments are set up so that no one cheats. But there is no rule against peeking into another player’s hand. Nor is there a rule against getting a player to blurt out his hand. If someone suspects that you are a novice, they’ll tell you all sorts of lies. If you have any questions, you ask me. Is that clear?”
“Very clear,” Odo said. “In fact, clearer than it has ever been. I can handle cheats and liars.” He pulled his cards closer to his chest, but not before Quark saw the three and four of spades. If only he had that knowledge in a real game. If only Odo were a true player who would bet on a possible straight flush, the best hand there was.
Quark shook his head. It would be a long night. “Another round of betting goes on after the Flop,” he said, letting his exhaustion and disappointment creep into his voice. “Then the dealer places a fourth card faceup on the table.” Quark did so. It was the five of spades.
Oh, perfect hand. Quark had just dealt to Odo the inside card of a straight flush. With the knowledge he had and that hand he would have destroyed anyone in a regular game. But this wasn’t a regular game. And Odo had the hand.
“Then there is a final round of betting,” Quark said. “And finally the dealer places the fifth and last card on the table and there is one more round of betting.”
Quark turned up the final card. The queen of diamonds. What an interesting group of cards. It would have made for great play in the tournament.
Odo nodded, studying the two cards in his hand and the five on the table. Quark was certain that Odo had no idea what he was looking at.
“You make the best hand you can using the two cards in your hand and any three cards on the table. When the betting is done with the last round, you have what is called the Showdown.”
“The Showdown?”
“An accurate term,” Quark said. “The person who made the last raise in the bet must place his cards faceup on the table to show his hand. If another player thinks he has a better hand, he must then show it also. The best hand takes all the bets.”
Odo nodded, still staring at the cards. “I think I understand. It is a very simple game.”
Quark half snorted, then said, “I’m sure you do understand.”
Odo glanced up at him with a slight smile. “I understand it’s your money I’m playing with.”
That thought almost sent Quark into tears, but he choked them back. He stood to leave, but then another thought occurred to him. “That security uniform of yours might make some of my guests a little nervous,” Quark said to Odo. “Could you wear some other clothes?” Quark realized he had never seen Odo in anything but his brown Bajoran garb. “Do you own any other clothes?”
“Don’t be stupid,” Odo said, and leaned forward as his brown uniform turned a molten red, then reformed into a blue and orange civilian jumpsuit. “I don’t own any clothes.”
CHAPTER 9
THE LIGHTS FLICKERED AGAIN.
“Hang on,” Sisko said and reached for the edge of the communications board in front of him. All of Ops shook, but the officers stayed at their stations. They had become used to the rumblings.
Sisko wiped his face with the back of his hand. He didn’t know what it was about Cardassian engineering that meant that places grew stifling hot when the environmental controls went down.
O’Brien crouched over the engineering station, his hands shaking. About four A.M. he had grabbed a moment and fixed the replicators. Now he was on what must have been his tenth cup of coffee—the old-fashioned kind. With caffeine. Without looking up O’Brien said, “We lost a few of the lifts that time and power is out in two of the docking bays. A light one compared to the last few.”
A light one. They were all getting used to this. Sisko remembered a friend who had spent a decade in Tokyo once saying that people who lived in earthquake country never relied on the ground. He was beginning to understand that. “Dax, what have you got?”
Dax hadn’t moved from the science station all night. Even though her posture remained erect, the shadows under her eyes made them look black and blue. She had been coming off a shift when this started. “It’s the same, Benjamin. I’m not getting anything except those subspace fluctuations. They run across a number of bands, but
randomly. I can’t pinpoint any direct cause.”
“Neither can I,” said Carter, the slender woman who had arrived at two A.M. to take Dax’s place. The relief crew had shown up, but the original crew had not left.
All of his officers were showing the strain of the odd events. Sisko moved to the station beside communications. He had punched the same diagnostic every hour hoping for a change. Still no external evidence of damage. No external cause. It was as if the station were experiencing its own earthquake—as if something from inside were causing the rumblings and the power fluctuations.
But that didn’t feel right to him, especially since the Cardassians had experienced the same phenomenon. Those subspace fluctuations were a clue. Something that the crew couldn’t see, something that their sensors could barely detect, was harming the station. Sisko wanted it to end.
Now.
“Commander,” O’Brien said, “the breakdowns seem to have different sources. This time the lifts were shut down by power surges that tripped safety systems. But the power in the docking bays went out without any indication of a surge. Under normal circumstances I would say that the two are not even related occurrences.”
“But actually they are,” Sisko said. The puzzle was getting more confounding.
O’Brien glared at his board. “Finding the connection is the problem.” O’Brien stifled a long yawn, took another sip of his coffee, and went back to his work.
Sisko went to the replicator and ordered a coffee for himself. Then he changed the order to a double cappuccino. Caffeine that tasted good. Fatigue dripped off him with the sweat. He changed the order again to an iced cappuccino.
“Commander,” Kira said. She had taken his place at the communications board. The more tired Kira got, the more she worked like a whirlwind. After long shifts, Sisko had seen her collapse in the turbolift. As a commander, he valued that energy. But he also worried that one day Kira would push too hard. “I have a message from the Bajoran planetary defense.”
“On screen,” he said. He took the glass out of the replicator and sipped, letting the chill contrast with the ache of his overheated body. Bajoran planetary defense. Without hearing the message, he knew he would be facing another problem.
Kira was peering at him. She had seen his hesitation. “Sir, maybe I should take this one.”
“On screen, Major Kira.” He would deal with any problem. He had seen Kira’s attempts at diplomacy.
“Sir, they’re not happy—”
He tilted his head and smiled just a little at her. “Major, I have dealt with angry Bajorans before.”
Kira’s lips pursed. O’Brien stifled a laugh and Dax grinned. They were all getting punchy. Normally the crew would not have reacted to that statement. Normally, Sisko wouldn’t have said it.
He set his cappuccino down on the cup holder beside the nearest work station and walked to the front of the operations table. “On screen, Major.”
“Yes, sir,” she said.
The screen flickered for a moment, then the head and shoulders of a Bajoran woman appeared. She was about Sisko’s age, but the weight of her duties had turned the hair near her temples silver. Her eyes and mouth were heavily lined, making her look as if she had shouldered a heavy burden for a long time. Behind her was a window that overlooked the fountains of Bajor and a wall covered with
medals. “Commander Benjamin Sisko?”
“Yes,” he said, uncertain to whom he was speaking.
“Captain Litna, Head of Bajoran Planetary Defense. Bajor asked the Federation to provide protection from the Cardassians. You are in charge of providing that protection. You are failing.”
Sisko felt the exhaustion run through him. He was no diplomat, and it became harder to be one when he was tired. “The treaty with the Cardassians—”
“The treaty with the Cardassians, whatever it was, obviously is no longer, Commander.” Litna’s lined face moved closer to the screen. “We have been under attack since last night.”
“So have we,” Sisko said. “But the Cardassians—” 
“Good,” Litna said. “Since we are suffering the same fate, I trust you will do something about it.”
She pushed a button and her face winked off the screen. Sisko almost asked Kira to hail Litna again, but then stopped. If he solved the problem for the station, he would solve it for the Bajorans. Then he would contact Captain Litna and talk with her. Only then.
He hoped that would be soon.
“Great diplomacy, Commander,” Kira said. Her hands were clasped behind her back and she stalked him like a cat about to pounce on its prey. “Litna is only the greatest fighter Bajor has ever seen. If we do not take action, she will take matters into her own hands.”
Sisko picked up his iced cappuccino and took three long gulps. The bitterness of the coffee reminded him that he had not ordered sugar, but no matter. The coolness soothed his throat. Maybe Kira was right. Maybe he should soothe the captain’s feelings. “Contact her again, Major,” Sisko said. “Tell her the Cardassians are not at fault. And tell her that we are working on the problem.”
“I could have done that in the first place,” Kira said. Sisko leveled a gaze at her and she had the grace to flush. “Sir.”
She returned to her place at the communications station. Sisko bent over the operations table. Too many lights blinked, revealing the outages all over the station.
“Excuse me, Benjamin,” Dax said. “The fact that Bajor is involved brings a whole new dimension to this situation. We haven’t eliminated any possibilities. For all we know the Cardassians may well be involved.”
Sisko stood and rubbed his back. The odd stress had turned into aches all over his body. “They contacted us, Dax, about their ships. I think that something else is going on.”
O’Brien snorted. “Or maybe that was a ruse. I wouldn’t put it past them.” The hatred in his voice was obvious.
Sisko turned and glared at him, but O’Brien never looked up from what he was working on.
“Commander,” Kira said, “Captain Litna is not responding to my signal.”
“Bajoran women,” O’Brien muttered.
Sisko ignored him. “When you do reach her, reassure her that we are doing everything we can to determine what is going on. Try to calm her about the Cardassians so that she doesn’t do anything rash.”
“Yes, sir.” Kira’s hands flew across the communications board.
“Brace yourselves,” Dax said suddenly.
Sisko grabbed the edge of the operations table as the lights flickered. He waited for the accompanying bumps, but none came.
“Power down in the heating systems,” Carter said.
“Communication knocked out,” Kira said.
“A small one again,” Dax said. “No other damage.”
“Except . . . ” O’Brien’s pause sounded ominous.
Sisko let go of the operations table with reluctance. The heat in the room seemed to have gone up, although he knew it couldn’t have. He looked up. O’Brien was frowning at the engineering console. “Except, Mr. O’Brien?”
“Well, sir,” O’Brien said, “I’ve been monitoring the power core since I got up here. This last reduced our power level by two percent. Power was already down five percent when I got here.”
“What are you telling me, Chief?” Sisko asked.
O’Brien looked up and Sisko saw that all trace of exhaustion had gone from his face. Something else had replaced it. Despair? Frustration? Sisko couldn’t tell. “I’m saying, sir, that these fluctuations are affecting the power core. I need to run a few more diagnostics, but based on the evidence, each time the lights flicker, the structural integrity of the core is weakening.”
Sisko glanced at the operations table. There was no warning light blinking on the power core, but a small red number indicated that core output was down almost 10 percent. If it went too low, key systems would quit. “How long before we lose life support?”
“I don’t know if it will go that far, sir,” O’Brien said. “It’s just something we have to watch. Actually I’m more concerned that a big hit could knock out the power core containment fields.”
Sisko nodded. He didn’t have to be told what that meant. If the containment field went down, there would be little left of the station except some hard radiation. “Watch it close, Mr. O’Brien. Keep me posted on any changes.” He walked up the steps to the science console. Dax’s posture was slipping. He could feel the exhaustion radiate from her. “Dax, you had warning this time. Have you got something?”
“Not really,” she said. She gripped the science station with one
hand. Her knuckles were white. How many hours had she been on duty? Thirty-six? Forty? “I noticed the subspace fluctuations that we’ve seen before. In the past, though, they have come after the event. This time, they came before. In fact, there doesn’t seem to be any real pattern to them at all.” 
“Computer, what’s causing the subspace fluctuation?” 
“There are over twenty subspace fluctuations currently noted,” the computer said. “No cause available.”
“I tried that already, Benjamin,” Dax said. “Computers can’t solve everything.” The calmness had left her tone. She had actually snapped at him, in a quiet, Dax-sort of way.
“I am aware of that,” he said, keeping his voice level. He needed his crew as sharp as possible. “You look tired, Dax. How many shifts have you worked in a row?”
“Three,” she said. “I think.”
“Ensign Carter, will you relieve Lieutenant Dax? Dax, show Carter those subspace fluctuations.”
Dax sat up straighter, as if the threat of being relieved of duty gave her extra energy. “Benjamin, I think I should stay.”
“I think you should go, Dax. Rest, and eat. We all will have to take breaks if this continues. Report back in an hour to relieve one of us.”
Dax shook her head. “Benjamin—”
He held up a hand to stop her. He knew what she was going to say. She had the most experience with odd phenomena. If they were going to solve the problem scientifically, then chances were she would find the answer. Right now, that argument wasn’t good enough.
Sisko smiled at her. “Old man,” he said. “You might get some insight if you sleep. Having you rest will benefit all of us. Now go.”
She sighed, and as the air left her body, it wilted. Her face was ashen, the brown patches on her skin standing out in sharp relief. “Yes, sir.”
Carter made her way to the science station. Sisko walked over to the engineering station. O’Brien looked tired too, but he hadn’t worked as long as Dax.
“Chief,” Sisko said, “make sure the power core containment is as solid as you can get it, then focus on the environmental controls. Get those back up as quickly as possible. Kira, you work on the communications until O’Brien is free. And Kira?”
She stopped and looked up at him.
“As soon as you get communications back on-line, get in touch with Starfleet. Explain our situation. Ask if they have any information as to what is going on.”
Kira gave him a look that chilled him. She liked to solve things on her own. But if the problems extended from Cardassian space to Bajor, then something big was going on.
He had to find out what it was.
CHAPTER 10
GARAK MOVED the silk lingerie closer to the front door. The lingerie wasn’t very valuable, but it did attract the eye. He didn’t want his most expensive clothing on display while he was out of the shop. If he had his druthers, he would have put all the clothing in the back and covered the windows. But he didn’t have the time or the storage space.
He took the green and gold loose weave cloaks, perfumed with a salty, rainlike scent, and moved them to the back. He had already placed the Tharethian evening gowns into the dressing rooms, and his specialty, the long-waisted, seventh-century-cut Cardassian suit (which could fit any humanoid body form with just a bit of tinkering—and look good on all) behind his desk.
Then he scanned the shop. The paintings added a bit of color, as did the red dressing room curtains. The mirrors reflected the dullest of his creations, left out only so that the passersby would know that a clothier remained on Deep Space Nine.
He smiled. For the next day at least, he would not be a clothier. He would be a gambler. He hadn’t played since his comrades left the station. Ferengi and humans rarely played poker with the kind of cutthroat perfection he preferred. He had watched a back room game at Quark’s once and decided that it wasn’t worth his time. But he had overheard Quark listing some of the luminaries who would
attend this tournament and he wanted to test his skill against theirs. He was considered the best Cardassian poker player in the region but had rarely played against others with reputations as good as his. 
For months he had thought of this game, going over plays in his mind. He even rented a holosuite (disgusting place) and replaced Quark’s program with his own: a series of games against the best poker players in the last two centuries. He had done very well, but somehow playing against three-dimensional imagery lacked the excitement of the real thing.
He grabbed his special CLOSED sign and was about to paste it to the doors when they slid open. Two Klingon women swung in, their long hair flowing down their backs. He had always admired Klingon dress: the strength of armor with the diamond cut between the breasts to suggest femininity. Someday he would do a line of Klingon clothing.
Although he knew these two would never buy. B’Etor and Lursa, renegade Klingons from the House of Duras. They had tried to take over the Klingon High Council a few years back and failed. Since then they had been trying to raise enough money to build a new army. So far nothing had worked. 
Obviously, they hadn’t realized his part in defeating their last attempt.
“Ladies,” he said, bowing slightly at the waist. “I am afraid I am closed today.”
Lursa grabbed a silk teddy and crumpled it before tossing it to the ground. “We are not interested in such trifles.”
“Really?” Garak said. “I know of no other reason to visit a clothier.”
“Do not mock us, Cardassian,” B’Etor said.
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Garak bowed again. “How may I help you?”
Lursa stalked toward his desk, her slit skirts revealing her muscular legs. He cringed as she pushed aside the rack holding three Cardassian suits. Then she leaned on his desk. He followed, B’Etor behind him. 
Perhaps they did know that he had betrayed them to the Federation the last time they were on Deep Space Nine. He had cost them a small fortune in gold-pressed latinum. Women like this carried a grudge.
“We understand,” B’Etor said, “that you are playing in the poker tournament.”
Garak nodded, not pleased that he had to practice his poker face so early. His day would have gone better if these Klingons had not arrived.
“Your shop must be quite profitable for you to afford the hundred bars of gold-pressed latinum entry,” Lursa said.
“I am a clothier, madam,” Garak said, allowing his voice to rise just a bit in protest. “Not a simple garment seller.”
B’Etor laughed, a hard, cackling sound. “Small people are so easy to offend.”
“We have a proposition for you,” Lursa said.
“A business proposition,” B’Etor added.
“I’m always interested in business.” Garak clasped his hands. He would wait them out. Odd that they would come to him after the last deal. But then he was their only contact on the station. Either that or they were going to make him pay for betraying them.
“We thought you might be interested in business.” Without the slightest hint of movement a deck of cards appeared in Lursa’s hands. She shuffled them twice and then placed them on his desk.
“Smooth,” he said. He started to reach for the deck but B’Etor stopped him. Her arm, brushing against his, was cold. For a moment he thought she was going to grab him. Instead she reached forward and cut the cards, then nodded for Lursa to deal.
“This deck,” B’Etor said, “assumes six players. We will have decks for five and seven players if the table allows.”
Garak’s throat was dry. The shop was cool compared to the rest of the station, but with the environmental controls out of order, the air had become stale.
Lursa dealt six hands, two cards each, facedown on the counter. She poked her finger at the hand two to the left of the dealer. “This hand will be the best in the six-player deck. In a five-player deck, the best hand will be the one immediately to the dealer’s right. The best hand, in a seven-player deck, will be the one three from the dealer on the right.”
Garak nodded when Lursa looked at him. He said nothing, not sure yet what they expected of him.
“All the other hands,” B’Etor said, “will be strong to keep the bets high. But we will know the winning hand.”
Lursa dealt the three flop cards and then the remaining two up cards. Garak reached across and turned up the winning hand. When the women said nothing, he smiled, knowing something was expected of him. “This is all a very old trick. Even if you think Quark will let you get away with somehow switching decks on the dealer, you’ll need me because he won’t let both of you play at the same table. Right?”
“The dealers are not your concern,” Lursa said.
“We control three of the ten,” B’Etor added. “But we do need the help at the table.”
Garak watched them. He still didn’t know why they had come to
him. “I assume I’m the only one you have talked to?”
B’Etor glanced over at Lursa, which answered his question. They had already contacted a number of players and were looking for another. The more players, the better the chance of having one sitting in the right position. This kind of stunt could wipe out three or four innocent players at a table, if done correctly.
Garak picked up a few of the other two card hands and studied them. All of them were good hands. All of them would be worth betting a stake on. But none of them were as good as the winning hand. “What’s in it for me?”
“If you use one of these decks and then go all the way, we get twenty percent of the total.”
Finally, he was beginning to understand. “Let me see. Eighty players at 100 bars of gold-pressed latinum entry fee. That’s 8,000 bars total. Take out Quark’s five percent and that leaves 7,600 bars. Twenty percent of that is 1,520 bars. Not bad, even after expenses.”
Lursa nodded.
“Well?” B’Etor demanded.
“A generous offer.” Garak pretended to consider it. “But I think I will decline.”
Both women stepped back. “You Cardassian dog!” Lursa said. “The deal is generous. You win a huge hand and—”
“If I am sitting in the right place,” Garak said, “I could win over 5,000 bars of gold-pressed latinum in that one hand, and any other day I would be glad to participate. But when it comes to poker, ladies, I am a gambler, not a cheat. I play by skill and I have a reputation to maintain. If anyone saw us together, they would suspect something, and I cannot afford the suspicion.”
“You live under suspicion, you ignorant fool,” B’Etor said.
“Of being a Cardassian spy.” Garak smiled. “I rather like that. It gives me an air of mystery.”
“This is unbelievable,” Lursa said. “Only an idiot would say no to such a foolproof plan.”
Garak rocked on the balls of his feet. “No plan is foolproof, ladies. I am familiar with this trick. Others may be as well.”
“Do you plan to turn us in?” B’Etor asked.
“To whom? Quark? He’s a Ferengi. He has probably figured out a way to cheat all on his own. No, I will not turn you in. Nor will I be your victim. In exchange for my silence I would like your word that you will warn me when I am at a table where one of your decks is in play.” He gathered the cards on his desk.
Lursa scooped the cards from his grasp, and they disappeared in a quick slight of hand that impressed Garak.
Both women stalked for the door.
“I need your word,” Garak said.
Lursa stopped and turned to Garak. “You are as stupid as a Romulan peasant.”
Garak only smiled. “Your word.”
“You will be alerted,” B’Etor said.
Garak bowed slightly to the two women. “Good luck to you, ladies.”
The automatic doors slid open, and the women walked out of them without looking back. Garak picked up his CLOSED sign and hung it carefully. He couldn’t tell them the most important thing. They wouldn’t understand. People who gambled for money were fools. Garak would pay his gold-pressed latinum—and lose all one hundred bars if he had to—to play against those of his own caliber.
The game itself was all that mattered.
CHAPTER 11
BASHIER LEANED AGAINST the wall by the door to Quark’s back room and watched the activity. He wore a black tuxedo with tails. The coat fit snugly across his chest and the pants added length to his legs. He had bought the tuxedo during his last year at the Academy, when several students had planned a gambling trip to Risa. The trip had never happened and Bashir had longed for an opportunity to wear proper, elegant gambling attire. 
He finally had the chance. All he needed was a beautiful woman on his arm and the image he wanted to present—the suave, romantic rake—would be complete.
Only no one was looking at him. The conversation was at a low roar, making individuals hard to hear. Quark was having a quick last word with his dealers, gesturing and pointing with more nervous energy than usual. The Meepod, still bruised from her encounter the night before, limped into the room. She smelled faintly of rotted flesh, a problem with injured Meepods. He did not envy the person who sat next to her.
Nor did he envy the person who was going to sit near the Grabanster. The round, furry, orange male stood just inside the door, giving the entire area an odor of wet dog.
But the group Bashir found himself watching the most were the Romulans. He had met Darak and Kinsak briefly the night before,
and had been struck at their cool response to Naralak’s death. This morning they actually laughed twice, although they kept their distance from the Klingons. 
A Vulcan walked by, head bowed as if in deep meditation. Bashir did a double take. Yes, definitely a Vulcan. How odd. He had met few Vulcans during his service, but he had studied them and their anatomy quite heavily at the Academy. Vulcans did not belong in a gaming hall.
“There you are, you delicious man!” The voice was warm, throaty, and female. Bashir turned in its direction, then wished he hadn’t. 
Cynthia Jones stood beside him, her pink gown made of a material so thin it revealed everything. Her perfume carried the thick scent of roses. The scent would have been lovely, if she hadn’t marinated in it. She ran her finger along his sleeve. “You disappeared on me last night,” she said.
He blushed. He had had no intention of seeing her. She had made overt passes since he met her and her tribble in the docking bay. The tribble was clutched in her left hand, like a purse. It cooed at him. “I—I had medical business.”
She wrinkled her nose. “The murder. How ugly. I don’t suppose there was anything you could do?”
Bashir shook his head. “She was dead long before I saw her. But I did have to tend the Meepod, and Sergei Davidovich—at separate times.”
Cynthia laughed. “They always fight. It’s a tradition. They hate each other. It goes back to a simple Five Card Stud game played for credits on a supply ship. The story goes that the Meepod called and Davidovich refused to show his cards.” She frowned. “Or did Sergei call and the Meepod refuse—? I forget. It doesn’t really matter. The
grudge was silly, as most of those grudges are.” She tucked her arm in his. “I trust you bear no grudges.”
He raised his eyebrows, looking around the room for a way out of the conversation. Only Garak, the Cardassian, noticed. He smiled and nodded. Bashir nodded back. They had become friends of sorts since Bashir had helped Garak stop a Bajoran terrorist from dealing with two infamous Klingon women. Those women had gone into the back hall earlier.
Tensions and countertensions and so few of them had to do with the game.
“No,” Bashir said, “no grudges. Yet.”
Cynthia laughed again and pressed closer to him. “Shall we go in?”
Relief washed through Bashir. Finally, escape! “I’m afraid I can’t,” he said. “Quark won’t let me in the game.”
She put a perfectly manicured finger on his lips. The rose perfume shot up his nostrils, and he had to hold back a sneeze. “I thought you said no one held grudges against you.”
“Actually, Quark doesn’t believe I’m qualified to play.” 
Cynthia sighed and took her finger away. “Silly man,” she said. “Quark doesn’t know an experienced player from a novice. All he knows is the color of gold-pressed latinum.”
Bashir smiled and slid his arm out of her grasp. “I guess I will have to speak to him,” he said. He put his hand on the small of her back and pushed her into the room. “Get your seat. I’ll see what I can do.” 
She gave him a flirtatious glance over her shoulder, then floated into the room. Or at least, it looked as if she floated. The gown almost hid her tiny feet.
Bashir let out the sneeze he had been holding. The odor of dead
roses clung to him. Now he would have to get his tuxedo cleaned.
The Grand Nagus of the Ferengi cackled from his chair in the center of the room. Speaking of tensions. If Bashir had to hear that laugh on a continual basis he would go crazy.
A tall, thin creature with an obsidian face and no visible eyes walked past. Bashir stared at it, trying to compare it to things he had read about in his alien anatomy seminar. But he could think of nothing. He would have to call it up on the computer when he got back to his office. 
Quark climbed on one of the chairs and clapped his hands to get everyone’s attention. Bashir eased into the room. Quark had refused to give him a chair weeks ago, but that wouldn’t stop Bashir from watching—at least until Quark kicked him out.
After the noise had died down, Quark smiled. “The First Annual Deep Space Nine Poker Tournament has begun.”
Applause and whistles filled the room. Bashir laughed. Even with the problems on the station and the murder, the atmosphere this morning was light.
“My brother Rom will double-check your name against a list of people who have paid their entrance fee. No pay, no play. I’m sure we all will abide by that rule—that way the winner will receive great profit!”
The cheers doubled. Toward the back of the room something chirruped. The Grand Nagus’s laugh covered every sound in the room. 
Then the lights flickered. The cheering stopped as if someone had stuffed a rag in each player’s mouth. Bashir leaned against the wall, feeling that shiver in his back again. When the lights went out the night before, someone had died.
Besides the other problems at the station, by now everyone knew
that the Ferengi ship had been destroyed. Bashir had heard conversation in the Promenade Replimat that suggested that the station was under attack. It certainly was malfunctioning. He had had to shave in his office this morning because the hot water was out in his quarters. He still hadn’t had his cup of tea and it seemed that the environmental controls were down. The heat in this back room was noticeable now: when the tournament got underway, the heat would probably become unbearable.
The lights flickered a second time, but did not go out. 
Quark waved his hands. Obviously, the power fluctuations made him nervous as well. “You will find your initial seating assignments posted on the wall. Your chips will be given to you at your chair after my brother checks your name against the list. Please count your chips in front of the dealer to make sure the amounts are correct.”
“Wouldn’t want you cheatin’ us on chips, now would we, Quark?” asked a bald man in the back, forming the words around his well-chewed cigar.
Bashir smiled to himself. It was just as he’d imagined: rough-and-ready players, as willing to fight as they were to gamble.
Quark sighed. “I am having you count the chips to make sure the game is aboveboard and fair. We want you to have a good time at this tournament.”
“Not to mention you want your five percent,” said the silver-haired man at the next table. He did not smile as he spoke.
“Well,” Quark said, with a huge, insincere grin, “we do need to make a profit, you know.”
“There isn’t any point in playing if you can’t make a profit.”
Bashir turned his head sharply. He recognized that dry, sarcastic voice. Odo. He stood at the door to the left of Bashir and, surprisingly
surprisingly, was out of uniform. When Odo saw Bashir looking at him, he nodded.
Quark saw him too and frowned. “We will be starting shortly, so please get ready. And may the best player win.”
Quark climbed off his chair as the noise level in the room rose and most everyone moved to the lists posted on the wall. Quark elbowed his way to the entrance. Rom had just stashed the last of the gold-pressed latinum bars in a side room where, Bashir was certain, they would not stay very long.
“Rom!” Quark hissed.
Rom looked up. “It’s all there, Quark.”
Bashir doubted that too, but the accurate money count was Quark’s problem. He moved closer so that he could hear their conversation. 
“Any sign of Riker yet?” Quark asked.
Bashir started. Will Riker? First Officer of the starship Enterprise? He hadn’t heard that a starship was in the area. 
“He’s not coming,” Rom said. “He sent a message last night, but with all the troubles they’re having in Ops, it just got relayed now.”
“Not coming!” Quark grabbed Rom’s ear. “Are you sure?” 
Rom pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket. “I made a copy for you to look at. I thought you wouldn’t believe me.”
The smell of dry paper and mothballs overwhelmed Bashir. He turned to find the Grand Nagus standing beside him. The Nagus was quite fascinating. Bashir would have loved a chance to investigate the Nagus’s oversized ears.
“Did you say someone isn’t coming?” the Nagus demanded in his nasal voice.
Quark snatched the paper from Rom and scanned it. “Commander Riker from the Federation starship Enterprise was supposed
to be a player. He sends his regrets. Something about saving a planet or some such.” Quark flapped the paper in the air and then handed it roughly back to Rom.
“A pity,” the Nagus said, smiling. “He is known to be one of the best players. We will miss his skill.”
The Nagus shuffled out of the room. Quark didn’t even seem to notice that his leader had left. Bashir watched as word spread through the room that Riker was not coming. Several players were visibly relieved. Apparently Riker was a good games man.
Not that it surprised Bashir. He had met Riker twice and had found him to be the kind of man who belonged on the frontier. Rugged, handsome, competent, Riker had a way with the ladies, and an adventure-filled Starfleet career. Of course a man like that would be an expert at poker.
“We can’t be one player short,” Quark said to Rom.
“You could play,” Rom said.
“Idiot!” Quark grabbed Rom’s ear and shook him. “I’m the host. I can’t play.”
Bashir ran a hand down his tuxedo to make himself look presentable. Suddenly Quark was not the Ferengi owner of a decrepit bar. He was the ticket for Bashir’s entrance in the big game.
“Maybe I could—” Rom started.
“No!” Quark twisted Rom’s ear. Rom crumpled to his knees. “You will not play. Nog will not play. The Dabo girl will not play. Now be quiet and let me think!”
Of course, Bashir was rusty. He had been planning an extensive gambling trip in Risa on his vacation ever since Quark had turned him down. But he hadn’t really played much since he had come to the station.
Quark let go of Rom’s ear and paced. “We can’t just pull someone off the Promenade—”
“There’s no need to,” Bashir said. He moved in front of Quark, and Quark nearly bumped into him. “I would like to play.”
“You?!?” Quark looked at Rom and both Ferengi giggled, a sound that rivaled the Grand Nagus’s laugh. “You’re a doctor, not a gambler! You can’t even hold your Evarian beer!”
“But I can play poker.”
“’But I can play poker,’” Quark said, imitating Bashir’s inflections. “Anyone can play poker. My nephew can play poker. He just can’t play very well.”
“I’m sure I could beat your nephew,” Bashir said. “And I’m willing to wager I could beat most anyone in that room.”
“I’m sure you can . . . ” Quark said, “ . . . beat my nephew, that is.”
“With a stick!” Rom added.
Then they laughed again, doubling over and slapping their knees. Bashir backed up to stay out of their way. He waited until the laughing eased a bit.
“I am a highly ranked poker player,” he said.
“Highly ranked at losing!” Rom said. He cackled so hard that he started to cough. Quark patted him on the back and laughed with him. 
“I have the entry fee,” Bashir said.
The laughter disappeared from Quark’s face as if it had never been there. Quark stood up and approached Bashir. Even though Quark only reached Bashir’s chest, Quark suddenly seemed taller and stronger. “You have a hundred bars of gold-pressed latinum? How did a Federation doctor get so rich?” 
“It’s not an unheard of amount of money, Quark.”
“It is when it only pays for an hour’s worth of poker.”
“I plan to play for longer than an hour,” Bashir said. 
“You didn’t answer me, Doctor. Where did you get that kind of money?”
“Do you always quiz your players on where they came about their entry fee?”
“Most of them don’t work for the Federation.”
“But you were willing to let Will Riker in.”
“Riker is a well-known poker player. It’s obvious where he got the money.”
Bashir crossed his arms in front of his chest. He was not about to tell Quark the truth: no one on the station knew of Bashir’s small inheritance, which he had hoarded since his school days. “I got my money in the same place as Commander Riker.”
Quark grinned. “And where’s that?”
“I won it,” Bashir said. “Playing poker.”
Quark jerked back and looked him right in the eye. Bashir did not blink. He would bluff. He was good at bluffing. Quark squinted, as if that made Bashir’s duplicity clear.
“I have the entry fee in my office,” Bashir said.
Quark’s eyes widened. Then he sighed. “Get it. You take Riker’s chair. But be back immediately. I won’t hold the game very long for you.”
“You won’t have to hold it at all,” Bashir said. “This will only take a moment.” He started to hurry out of Quark’s before he remembered his manners. “And, Quark. Thank you. This will be a great deal of fun.”
“Oh, yeah,” Quark said. “I can tell. It’s already a barrel of laughs.”
CHAPTER 12
JAKE CAUGHT HIS BREATH and leaned against an exposed metal wall in the Promenade. Nog tugged on his sleeve, but Jake shook his head. He needed a moment to think.
He had returned home after midnight the night before, dirty, his clothing covered with oils and stains he couldn’t identify. He and Nog had had a bad moment climbing out of the service tunnel when they thought one of Odo’s guards was going to catch them, but they had managed to elude him. When Jake had arrived at his quarters he had been willing to tell all to his father, but his father hadn’t been there.
His father was still working in Ops on the engineering problems and had left a message that Jake should contact him if he had any questions.
Jake had no questions. Except to wonder why his father was never there like other boys’ fathers were.
“You coming or not?” Nog asked.
“Yeah.” Jake’s stomach growled. He wished he had had more for breakfast than that glass of orange juice he had grabbed just before he left.
He opened his eyes. Two Klingon women walked past him, their skirts flying. A Hupyrian servant hurried after them. Two Ferengi
walked by, talking excitedly. All of them seemed to ignore the faint odor of smoke still in the air.
“Tell me again what we’re doing, Nog,” Jake said.
“You’re following me,” Nog said.
He ran up the steps to the second level of the Promenade, his feet ringing on the metal. Jake followed. Nog pulled a side door that led into the upper level at Quark’s and both of them ducked inside.
From a hidden space behind the doorway Nog picked up a device that looked like an old-fashioned tricorder. Only it wasn’t. It had Ferengi heads imprinted on the back and multicolored buttons that beeped if Nog touched one wrong.
They went back out into the corridor and Nog stopped in front of the service access port they had crawled through the night before. 
“I’ve already seen this,” Jake whispered. This was getting old. What did he care if Quark was cheating? His father would have cared, but his father was too busy to notice. Besides, it wasn’t as important as keeping the station running.
Nothing was.
Nog shoved the device in the pocket of his sweater and started to work on the panel leading into the service portal.
“I’m not going back in there,” Jake said. “We almost got caught yesterday.”
Nog just kept working. “You’re not going in. I just need you to stand guard.”
“For what?”
Nog handed the device to Jake. “I’m going to get a reading on those sensors over the room.”
“Why?” Jake asked. The device was warm. It fit his hand. Most human-made equipment was too big for his hands, even after his last growth spurt.
Nog laughed. “So we can track the signals. It has to be a type of signal that wouldn’t interfere with the rest of the operation of the station. So it should be easy to track to its source.”
Interfere with the operation of the station? Jake frowned. “What are you talking about?”
“This device.” Nog took it from Jake’s hand. “It scans the signals the sensors are giving out. Someone has to monitor the sensors that are in that ceiling. They have to be in a separate room.”
“You mean those sensors are sending signals all over the station?”
Nog pulled off the hatch and crawled in. “I would wager. And that’s what I’m going to find out.” He looked at Jake. “Don’t just stand there. Close the hatch behind me, but not tight. I’ll knock when I get back and you open it when no one is in sight. If there’s a problem, lean against it until the problem leaves. Got it?”
“What if we get caught?”
“You’re in charge of making sure we don’t.”
Nog disappeared down the service tunnel. Jake looked around and closed the hatch, leaving it open just a crack. Then he walked over to the railing and looked down.
The Klingon women were leaving Garak’s clothing store. They looked angry. Klingons always looked angry. No, fierce. They always looked fierce.
A blond human woman, wearing a very thin gown and carrying a fuzzy creature—a tribble?—was walking into Quark’s. Jake ran to the stairs to see if he could get a better look, but the woman was lost in the gathering crowd. The faint scent of roses mingled with the smoke.
He glanced at the portal. No Nog.
Jake hurried back to his post. If Quark was sending signals across the station, using a Ferengi device, could it interrupt regular operations
operations? Maybe he could solve the mystery of the station blackouts and stop the cheating all at once.
And maybe lose a friend.
He sighed. He would have to talk to Nog about it.
Keiko O’Brien walked by, her steps precise and familiar. Jake pushed against the wall. He didn’t want her to see him. He glanced at his watch. He had thought, with all the problems, that school would be canceled, but no one had told him that. Obviously he was wrong. The teacher was on her way to class now.
A Vulcan walked around her and disappeared into Quark’s. Jake waited until Mrs. O’Brien was out of view before peering over the railing into the bar. It looked empty, yet a lot of beings had disappeared into it just since he started watching.
How many people had Quark invited? How important was this thing, anyway?
Important enough that Quark spent hard-earned money on all the equipment in that ceiling.
The lights flickered. Jake shot a glance at the portal. He would hate to get caught in there if the lights went out. He hoped Nog was okay.
The lights stayed on, and Jake let out his breath in relief.
Odo came out of his office, stopped and talked to two of his assistants before heading into Quark’s. If anything was wrong, Odo would find it. Maybe then Jake would be off the hook.
He started pacing in front of the hatch. What was taking Nog so long? They had school. They would get caught. Cheers and applause rose from Quark’s—very faint cheers and applause. Something was happening. Come on, Nog.
The lights flickered again and Jake braced himself, but nothing happened. The odd shaking that rocked the station hadn’t happened
for a while. Jake didn’t want it to happen again. He stared at the lights overhead, willing them to stay on.
They did.
And Nog wasn’t back yet. Jake couldn’t leave Nog there. But he didn’t want to go in after him. Who knew what happened inside the service hatch when the lights flickered? What if something blew? What if those sensors sent out some weird signal that hurt Nog?
Just when Jake was about to pull open the hatch and go in himself, he heard three faint knocks. He looked both ways. He was alone on the second level. He pulled the hatch open and Nog rolled out, landing on his feet, and grinning.
“What took you so long?” Jake said.
Nog put a finger in front of his mouth. “The sensors are up and working. Really well too.”
“How could you tell?”
Nog patted his pocket. The device stuck out of it. “My uncle must be making a lot of money. That room is packed.” Nog pulled the device out of his pocket. Its screen glowed red. “Follow me.”
“Where?”
Nog laughed. “I don’t know, but we’ll find out.”
He held the device out in front of him as he walked. toward the Promenade railing.
“Someone’s going to see that,” Jake said.
“Who cares?” Nog said. “They won’t know what I’m doing.” 
Butterflies rose in Jake’s stomach. Someone would know. Nog led them down the stairs. He clutched the device closer to his chest.
Jake followed, close at Nog’s side. “Where’d you get that thing, anyway?”
“It’s my dad’s,” Nog said. “He uses it sometimes when he’s trying
to find out what my uncle is doing.”
“Wouldn’t he want it now?”
“Nope. He’s in on this one.”
A scruffy group of humans with shaved heads and wearing hand-torn clothing hurried into Quark’s. Nog walked away from the bar, ignoring the people he passed. The device started beeping. He shut it off and put it in his pocket.
“Here,” he said.
“What?” Jake asked. He looked around. They were standing beside a wall in the Promenade. He didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. “Nog, is this a joke? Because if it is, I don’t like it. Mrs. O’Brien went by and we’re going to be late for school—”
“Sometimes you’re no fun at all.” Nog frowned. “Besides, it’s right here.”
He put his hand on a door with the Cardassian symbol for supplies on it. Across that Quark had put a sticker that said Quark’s in four different languages.
“Those sensors are sending signals here?” Jake asked. 
Nog nodded and grinned, obviously glad he had recaptured Jake’s interest. “There are screens inside that show all the tables in my uncle’s back room. The monitors can see all the cards. They must have another system set up to let my uncle’s players know who has got what in their hand.” 
“That’s not fair.”
“I know. Isn’t it great? They’re going to make a lot of money.”
Jake sighed. Technology. And all those Ferengi sensors sending signals around. No wonder things were going wrong. “Before we go to school, let’s stop in Ops and tell my dad. He’ll want to know—”
“About cheating in Quark’s? Come on, your dad doesn’t want to be bothered. He’s got enough to worry about. Besides, I don’t want
to tell anyone.” Nog stopped talking as two members of the crew walked by, d