Star Trek: Deep Space 9
# 17
Heart Of The Warrior

CHAPTER
        1

STATION LOG, CAPTAIN Benjamin Sisko, Arconina.
    The Valtusian peace conference is scheduled to
begin in two days aboard DS9. The Valtusians
have managed the near impossible through
tireless behind-the-scenes work, persuading not
only representatives of the Cardassian govern-
ment, but Maquis and Federation representatives
to sit down together in the hopes of finally settling
the Maquis problem.
    Complicating logistics will be the loss of three
key station personnel: Major Kira, Lieutenant
Commander Worf, and Security Chief Odo, who
are being dispatched on a high-priority mission
into the Gamma Quadrant one day before the
conference begins...



    Major Kira Nerys leaned forward as far as she
could, gazing out the vast curve of the Promenade's
viewport toward the docking ring. She felt a growing
sense of anticipation as she scanned the ships at-
tached to the space station's outermost section for the
one at Docking Pylon 7. She gazed past a beautiful
new planet-hopper at Docking Pylon 5, past an old
but serviceable Bajoran cargo carrier at Docking
Pylon 6, and then found herself staring at an ancient,
battered-looking transport ship parked just beyond
them.
    The moment she saw it, she thought she'd made a
mistake. That hunk of junk couldn't possibly be their
ship. Quickly she began counting out around the
docking ring, and once again she came to the same
broken-down wreck in Docking Port 7. What was
Quark trying to do, get them all killed? A flash of rage
passed through her, and she struggled to keep her
temper under control. This wasn't anything like the
sleek, fast little starship she'd been led to expect.
    The transport ship had to be at least fifty years old.
Its hull held hundreds if not thousands of pockmarks
from collisions with space debris, and more than a
couple of phaser burns scarred the nacelles, which
hunched over the passenger cabin. One such burn had
been sloppily patched with what looked like scrap
iron. She leaned closer, straining to make out the
details. Not durasteel, she thought, appalled, and not
even regular steel--raw scrap iron.
    I'm going to strangle him, she thought, gripping the
railing as though it were the Ferengi's scrawny little
neck. There's no doubt about it this time. I'm going to
strangle him.
    She felt the hair on the back of her neck bristle with
indignation. She had suspected Quark would try to
pull a fast one, and of course he had. When would
Sisko learn not to deal with him? Trusting a Ferengi to
get a civilian ship for them--it was nothing short of
suicidal.
    She shook her head in disgust and released the
railing. "He can't be serious," she said, turning to
Chief O'Brien beside her. She pointed at the ship.
"Tell me that's not it!"
    O'Brien frowned as he peered at the note in his
hand. "Docking Port 7," he read. "That's her, all
right. Perhaps she's not as bad as she looks."
    "Right." She gave a derisive snort. "It's going to be
ten times worse."
    "We won't know till we look inside," O'Brien went
on. His words sounded forced even to Kira.
    "Come on, then," she said, turning toward the
turbolift. "Let's get it over with so we can start
looking for a real ship."
    She wove her way through the crowds on the
Promenade toward the nearest lift, letting her anger
build to a white-hot fury. The station was packed, and
crowds swelled the Promenade to bursting, but she
noticed that everyone who saw her face or met her
gaze had the good sense to scramble out of her way. I
never was very good at hiding my feelings, she thought.
At least Quark won't mistake my reaction to his ship.
She'd known Quark for quite a few years, and
though he'd always cut comers in his rush to make a
profit, this was the most blatant rip-off she'd ever seen
him try to pull. It bordered on criminal. And he had
nerve to pull it on her--on all the station's command
personnel! Well, he wasn't going to get away with it,
she vowed, quickening her pace. She'd see to that.
    The turbolift doors opened as she approached, and
a pair of Vulcans in dark cloaks strolled out, gazing
around with faintly curious expressions. They had
probably come to monitor the peace conference, she
thought... not that she had much hope for success.
It had taken her people decades to wrest freedom
from Cardassia. How could the Maquis expect suc-
cess practically overnight? She nodded politely to the
Vulcans and entered the turbolift, with O'Brien right
on her heels.
      "Docking ring," she snapped to the computer. The
doors whisked closed, and they rode out in silence.
  "Perhaps..." O'Brien mused.
    Kira glanced at him and was shocked to find an
intrigued look on his face. She'd never been great at
reading people, but there couldn't be any mistaking
his expression.
    "You're thinking of taking that ship, aren't you?"
she demanded.
    "Uh... well, I'd have to have a closer look first, of
course," he said, shifting a little uncomfortably. A
hint of a blush crept into his cheeks. "It's not what's
outside that counts, after all--"
 "Forget it! Just forget it!" Kira said, waving her
arms for emphasis. Had everyone on the station gone
crazy? "It's not going to happen! There's no way I'm
going off to the Gamma Quadrant in that pile of
junk!"
    The lift door opened before O'Brien could answer,
and Kira whirled and strode out angrily into the
bustle of travelers, cargo handlers, and station person-
nel. DS9 never seenled to sleep anymore, she thought,
and with the peace conference coming up, ships were
arriving at a dizzying rate. Every berth on the docking
ring was occupied, and more sat waiting in queue to
disburse passengers and cargo. Dax and half the Ops
staff were busy juggling schedules to make sure every-
one got aboard the station in a timely manner.
    She paused and glanced up and down the broad
curve of the docking ring. Where was that Ferengi
bastard? With so much going on, he had to be here.
    Kira finally spotted Quark and his brother Rom
standing off to one side talking to a pair of Andorians.
The Andorians kept glancing around nervously; they
seemed to be trying to keep a low profile, Kira
thought. Although they wore long, concealing brown
tunics with simple brass-colored belts, their shocks of
white hair, bright blue skins, and antennae stood out
in sharp contrast to everything around them.
    Close by them, she noticed a pair of Bajoran cargo
handlers in one-piece red uniforms lounging incon-
spicuously, as though on break. I know those two, she
realized, and then managed to place their faces. They
were two of Odo's deputies. They had to be keeping
Quark under surveillance, Kira thought with a touch
of glee... leave it to Odo. Even with all the bustle
going on, the constable still had time to keep tabs on
the station's number one suspect.
    Surveillance or not, she had her own problems with
Quark right now, and she wasn't about to wait for him
to finish his business with the Andorians. She stalked
forward. The Andorians spotted her, muttered some-
thing to Quark, and hastily turned and walked farther
up the docking ring. Probably smugglers, Kira
thought with distaste; Quark would deal with anyone
or anything if it meant profit. Still, she would trust
Odo to keep him in check.
    Her thoughts turned to the ship he was trying to
foist off on them, and again her anger boiled up. I can
handle this, she told herself. I will not strangle him.
Yet.
    "Quark--" she began, drawing to a halt in front of
him.
    "Major Kira!" Quark said, grinning happily. "Your
ship has just arrived, exactly as ordered. And what a
beauty, too--the Galactic Queen, a pleasure cruiser
serving the Orjax Cluster until two weeks ago. Why,
she only has fifty million light-years on her warp
engines--"
    Kira clenched her jaw. I'm not going to strangle
him, she told herself again. She opened her mouth to
give an angry retort, but O'Brien interrupted.
    "And I'll bet," O'Brien said from behind her, "that
she hasn't had a single day of regularly scheduled
maintenance. We looked her over from the observa-
tion deck on the Promenade. We couldn't help but
notice all the damage she's sustained over the years."
    "Decades, rather," Kira muttered. Leave it to a
human to try to play peacemaker, she thought. She
gave O'Brien a displeased glance, but he flashed her a
quick grin.
    "A few minor cosmetic blemishes..." Quark be-
gan, giving them both a reassuring smile. "A little
paint and you won't even know the difference. Isn't
that right, Rom?"
    "True, brother," Rom said quickly. "A little paint
is all she needs."
    "There you have it," Quark said with a winning
smile.
    "Paint." Kira folded her arms and contented her-
self with leveling a piercing stare at the little Ferengi.
It seemed to work, she noticed with some satisfaction;
Quark shifted uneasily from foot to foot.
 "You won't find a better ship," he said.
    "Come on," O'Brien said, holding out one hand.
"Let's get it over with. I need the technical specs and
the registration papers."
    "Of course." Quark held out his palm and Rom
slapped a datachip into it. Quark passed the chip over
to O'Brien, then turned and led the way toward
Airlock 7, saying, "She's a Delphi-class transport
ship. As you no doubt already noticed, she is built
using the finest Thelorian construction from human
blueprints, with only fifty million light-years on her
warp engines--"
 "It won't do," Kira said flatly. Quark could talk it
up until his tongue fell out, but it didn't change one
simple fact: The ship was a disaster. "For one thing,
we need an airtight hull."
    "Delphi-class?" O'Brien said, nodding. "I thought
so. I worked on a couple of Delphi-class ships during
the Cardassian war."
    Delphi-class? Was that important? Kira glanced
over at him. O'Brien's forehead had wrinkled in
thought again. What was so great about a Delphi-class
ship? It was just another obsolete model, as far as she
knew. Wasn't it?
    "That's right," Quark said smoothly, "a classic,
isn't that so, Rorn?"
    "Right, brother," Rom said, rubbing his hands
together nervously. "They don't make them like that
anymore."
    Kira gave a snort. "I can see why," she said. "It's a
death trap."
    Reaching the proper airlock, Quark punched an
access code into the hand pad, then stood back as the
huge red door rolled to the side like a cog in some vast
clockwork mechanism.
    Instantly a dank, wet, unpleasant odor flowed out
through the airlock. Kira gagged and took a step back.
    "What the hell is that stink?" she demanded, cover-
ing her nose and mouth with one hand. It had to be
coming from inside the ship, she thought. What was
Quark trying to do, poison them on top of everything
else?
    The smell got worse. Gasping, Kira retreated a
couple of meters. It smelled like rotting meat and raw
sewage mixed together, she thought, fighting down
bile. She'd never smelled anything quite so foul.
    Quark, too, was covering his nose. "Rom?" he
demanded. "What's the meaning of this?"
    "Brother, I think they mentioned a small problem
with the ship's air filtration system," Rom said. "I'm
sure I can fix it."
    "No problem, then," Quark said. He turned back to
O'Brien and gave a nervous little laugh. "Rom can fix
it later tonight. Shall we look inside?"
    "Close it up," O'Brien said, frowning and covering
his own mouth and nose. "I'm not going in there with
anything less than an environment suit!"
    Quark punched in the code again and the door
rolled shut. "Rom will get right on it," he promised.
    "This ship is not even remotely acceptable," Kira
said. She continued to fight down nausea. "You'll
have to do better, Quark, if you expect to make a
deal."
    "It's the only thing on the market!" Quark pro-
tested. "You should see what I turned down to get this
beauty for youm"
    "It'll do," O'Brien said. He was nodding to himself
and smiling faintly.
    Kira gaped at him. "What?" she demanded. She
could barely believe what she'd just heard. "How can
you say that! This is a... a..." Words failed her.
She didn't know where to begin.
 "Prize?" Quark suggested. "Bargain?"
    "It's no prize," O'Brien said, "but it just might do.
If the systems check out, that is," he added hastily.
"I'll get back up here with a team in environment
suits to look everything over in half an hour." He
nodded toward the turbolift. "Come on, Major. Let's
talk to the captain about it."
    Kira set her feet. "Are you insane?" she demanded.
She had no intention of accepting the ship. "It's a
disaster waiting to happen!"
    "Come on, Major," O'Brien said, still softly but
more intensely. He gave a jerk of his head toward the
lift. "Let's see the captain first, okay?"
    She shrugged in despair. What was going through
O'Brien's mind? Either he had a plan or he really had
gone insane, she decided. If it was a plan, it had better
be a damn good one.
"All right," she said. "We'll talk to the captain."
O'Brien started for the lift, and Kira trailed after
him. How he could even suggest accepting this ship
was beyond her. She puzzled over it. More than once
she'd decided all humans were crazy, but there always
seemed to be a method to their madness. Even so,
O'Brien couldn't possibly accept such a pitiful excuse
for a ship... could he? He hadn't even checked out
the interior systems. Didn't he care about them?
Didn't he at least want an airtight hull?
    "Another pair of satisfied customers," Kira over-
heard Quark saying proudly to Rom.
    That did it. She whirled, leveling another piercing
glare at him. "Don't think this is over, Quark," she
called. "Captain Sisko still has to sign off on the
ship." And ifI have my way, she mentally added, Odo
will lock you up in that stinking hull for the rest of
your life for trying to cheat us. Let the punishment fit
the crime!
    She hurried to join O'Brien in the turbolift. The
second the doors shut, she demanded, "Are you
insane? That ship--"
    "Give me ten minutes at a comm station," he said,
"and I'll let you know."

CHAPTER
        2

"Just ONE SMALL adjustment." Dr. Julian Bashir hid
his nervousness behind a studied expression of calm.
He flipped open the back panel of his new DNA
analyzer, which he'd designed and built with the help
of the station's computer. He bent down and peered
inside at the complex tangle of circuits and relays and
power couplings. What was wrong with it? It should
be working. He'd gone over it a hundred times
already, and every circuit checked out perfectly.
    He glanced up at Captain Sisko. His commanding
officer was frowning with impatience. Sisko's new
beard and shaved head only emphasized that expres-
sion. Bashir swallowed. I'd better finish up in a hurry,
he thought. Sisko was a busy man, juggling the
Valtusian peace conference and a mission into the
Gamma Quadrant, and he didn't have time to waste.
    Behind Sisko, Lieutenant Commander Worf and
Security Chief Odo both looked on with bored,
slightly put-upon expressions. Worf sighed audibly
and shifted from foot to foot. I'm losing them, Bashir
thought.
    Nevertheless, he continued to keep his expression a
careful neutral as he examined the delicate micro-
connections inside the scanner. It should be working,
he thought. Why wasn't it? He simply didn't under-
stand the problem.
  "Doctor..." Sisko began.
    "One second more." His training at Starfleet Acad-
emy hadn't just covered biology and medicine.
Bedside--in this case, tableside--manners were just
as important, he knew. Like they said at Starfleet, as
long as you look like you know what you're doing,
your patients will have faith in you. Of course, he'd
have to make sure that faith wasn't misplaced.
    He sucked in a deep breath. The scanner had to
work. Everything from the schematics to the pro-
gramming parameters had checked out perfectly dur-
ing computer-simulated tests. So why wouldn't it
power up now?
    Then he spotted the problem. It was so simple, he
could have slapped himself. One power coupling had
worked its way loose. He must have failed to lock it
into position when he was assembling it, he realized.
Carefully he reached in with two fingers, fitted it into
the proper position, and pushed gently. He felt the
two pieces lock together with a faint snap.
    That should do it, he thought with a mental sigh of
relief. He hoped.
  "Well?" Sisko prompted.
    Bashir smiled with new confidence as he stood up
again. It would work, he told himself. You didn't
graduate second in your class from Starfleet Academy
without learning a thing or two about machines.
  "Ready," he said.
    He closed the DNA analyzer's back panel. Running
one hand nervously through his short brown hair, he
took a deep breath, then for the second time touched
the activation button. Now work, damn it, he mentally
instructed the machine. He willed it to start with
every fiber of his being.
    A low hum spread through the medical bay. Bashir
slowly let out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been
holding. It had powered up, he thought triumphantly.
It was working. The power coupling hadn't been quite
in place, that was all. It had been his own fault, not
the machine's... simple human error.
    "That fixed it," he said. "Sorry about the delay.
Commander, if you wouldn't mind?"
    Worf stepped forward. "What exactly do you want
me to do?" the tall Klingon asked, his voice a low
growl. He sounded a little nervous, Bashir thought.
Klingons were just like human patients in that
respect. They all had to be coddled and encouraged
when it came to visiting sickbay. Sometimes he
thought every intelligent life-form in the galaxy had
an inborn distrust of the medical profession.
 "Simply place your hand on top," he said. He
pushed the gray box toward Worf, giving him a
reassuring smile. Best tableside manner and all that.
"The scanner will do the rest."
    Worf hesitated a second, glancing first at Captain
Sisko, then at Odo. Slowly, tentatively, he reached
out.
    "You won't feel a thing," Bashir said encouragingly.
At this rate it was going to take all afternoon.
    "I am not afraid of pain," Worf said sharply. He
slapped his hand down hard on top of the DNA
scanner. The slap made a sharp crack loud enough to
make a few of the nurses on the other side of the room
jump.
    Bashir winced a bit. Luckily the DNA scanner
didn't seem to have been injured; it continued to hum
along smoothly.
  "Sorry," Worf said a little more meekly.
    "No harm done," Bashir said. "I didn't mean to
imply that you were afraid of pain," he added. One
difference between Klingon and human patients, he
realized, was that most human patients couldn't
break you in half if you got them angry. "I simply
meant that the process is painless."
    The display panel on the side of the DNA scanner
flashed twice. "Reading," it said, its computer voice
faint and tinny. "Subject DNA passed. Subject is
Klingon."
    Worf withdrew his hand. Slowly he flexed his fin-
gers, staring at them as though he thought they might
have been changed. No chance of that, though, Bashir
thought. It had removed a single skin cell with a
microlaser.
    "Very impressive, Doctor," Sisko said. "Now let's
try a human."
    "Shall I?" Bashir asked, starting to pull up his right
sleeve.
  "No. I'd like to try it myself."
    Sisko placed his own hand on the scanner. After a
second's analysis, the computer announced, "Subject
DNA passed. Subject is human."
    Sisko nodded. "Now it's your turn, Doctor," he
said, stepping back and folding his arms.
    Bashir stepped forward. The captain undoubtedly
wanted to confirm that none of the command staff
had been replaced by changelings, and he was happy
to oblige. Bashir g DNA Scanner to the rescue, he
thought. When he published a paper on the device, he
was certain it would rapidly become the de facto
standard in testing for changeling infiltration. A work
of near genius, if I do say so myself he thought with
satisfaction.
    He put his own hand on the scanner, and after a
second it announced that he, too, was human. Of
course.
    That just left Odo. Bashir glanced at the station's
changeling security officer. This, he thought, would be
the real test.
 "Your turn, Constable," Sisko said.
    Without a moment's hesitation, Odo stepped for-
ward and put his hand on top of the box just as the
others had done.
 "Reading," the device said.
    Bashir leaned forward expectantly. Anyone could
detect DNA in carbon-based life-forms. But detecting
a changeling...
    "Subject has no DNA," his DNA analyzer an-
nounced. "Subject is not a carbon-based life-form."
    "Quite true," Odo said. "But what if they try to
sneak aboard by impersonating a life-form that
doesn't use DNA? Wouldn't that fool your device'?"
    "Some variant of DNA appears to be a universal
constant in all carbon-based life-forms," Bashir said.
"The Federation has only encountered a handful of
silicon-based life-forms, like the Hortas, and none of
them are likely to be on the station during these peace
negotiations. Valtusians, Cardassians, Bajorans, all
the races making up the Maquis, and in fact every
carbon-based race that belongs to the Federation has a
DNA signature on file with Starfleet Medical." He
patted the top of the DNA analyzer proudly. "If
changelings have replaced one or more of them, we'll
know it, believe me."
    "And since we're pulling this test as a surprise, they
won't have any chance to prepare any sort of counter-
measure," Sisko said.
    "I doubt that's possible--" Bashir began, but Odo
interrupted.
    "Don't underestimate my people," he said. "Re-
member what they did on Earth."
    Bashir nodded, then swallowed. They had indeed
infiltrated Starfleet Command and the Federation
headquarters, even going so far as blowing up a
conference with the Romulans. Starfleet had lost
many key personnel. The changelings were crafty and
resourceful. In time, they might indeed find some way
around his device... but hopefully not before he
smoked out any spies aboard DS9.
The captain's badge chirped. "Sisko here," he said.
"Benjamin," Lieutenant Jadzia Dax's voice said,
"the Valtusian ambassadors have arrived. I'm routing
them to Docking Pylon Three. I thought you might
want to welcome them aboard."
    "Thank you, Dax," he said. "I'm on my way." He
glanced at Bashir and said, "Doctor, I believe it's time
to field test your DNA scanner."
    "Right," Bashir said with a grin. This was what
he'd been waiting for, after all.
    "And, Constable," Sisko went on, "I think you
should join us as well. And you too, Mr. Worf, if
you're willing."
  "Certainly," Odo said.
 "Agreed," Worf said.
    Bashir picked up his DNA analyzer and tucked it
under his arm. He'd never met a Valtusian before,
though of course he knew their reputation as a race of
tinkerers and philosophers. Few of them left Valtusia,
preferring to live in their own communal villages,
pondering the universe, writing poetry, tinkering with
intricate clockwork mechanisms, and devoting them-
selves to the mysteries of their kind. This should
prove most interesting, he thought.

CHAPTER
        3

As SOON AS Kira and O'Brien were out of sight, Quark
rubbed his hands together with satisfaction. They
were going to buy his ship. He had that tingling
sensation in his lobes that meant a deal was going
perfectly. He smiled, thinking of the latinum to come.
First the ship, then the peace conference. He could
look forward to record profits this month. He chuck-
led. Yes, things were certainly going well.
 "I don't understand--" Rom began.
    "That's why I'm in charge," Quark replied smugly.
"Remember the one hundred and third Rule of Ac-
quisition."
    "'Fill a desperate need with your most expensive
product, then mark it up five hundred percent?'"
Rom's brow furrowed. "I still don't understand,
brother."
    Quark sighed. His brother might be a mechanical
genius, but he still needed someone to hold his hand
during complicated business deals. "You may recall

some pilgrims from Aryanus Six who ended up
stranded here six months ago," he began. "They
came--"
    "In a Delphi-class starship!" Rom finished. Quark
saw the realization in his brother's eyes. "It's still
there, on the seventh Bajoran moon!"
    "If I remembered that fact, I knew Chief O'Brien
would, too," Quark said smugly. "The pilgrims' ship
doesn't have working warp engines, but the passenger
compartment should be fine. It shouldn't take
O'Brien and his men long to assemble one working
ship out of the two. Because it's such a perfect match,
I quadrupled my original asking price for the Galactic
Queen." He patted the airlock affectionately. "A
small fortune, Rom, and it's all mine!"
      "Brilliant," Rom breathed. "But I believe you're
forgetting something." "What?"
    "My cut, brother! In exchange for my technical
help, you promised--"
    "A fortune less five percent is still a fortune,"
Quark said, waving one hand dismissively. Rom nev-
er seemed to grasp such fundamentals of business.
"Come on, let's get back to the bar before the Dabo
girls rob me blind."

    In Ops, Major Kira leaned against one of the
consoles and watched as Chief O'Brien fed a series of
queries into the computer. Maybe humans weren't
crazy after all, she thought, as the information began
to trickle back out.
    The first thing O'Brien looked at was the station's
recording of the Galactic Queen's warp signature as it
entered Bajoran space. It appeared completely nor-
mal, which meant the ship's warp engines worked
within acceptable parameters. It seemed almost mi-
raculous, considering the otherwise deplorable condi-
tion of the Galactic Queen.
    "All right," Kira said, "the engines work. But what
about everything else? What about the hull--that
stench is enough to smother anyone!"
    "I'm getting to that." He punched up a series of
salvage records and began scanning them. Kira shook
her head in bewilderment. They weren't even the
Galactic Queen's records--they belonged to another
ship, this one called the Progress. Crazy, indeed.
    "Just as I thought," O'Brien said suddenly.
"There's still a Delphi-class ship sitting on the sev-
enth Bajoran moon. It hasn't been picked up for
salvage yet."
    "The pilgrims..." Kira said, suddenly remember-
ing the problems that had left them stranded on DS9
with no way back to Arvanus VI six months previ-
ously. That had been one logistical nightmare, all
right. Luckily Captain Sisko had been able to arrange
transport home for them aboard a freighter. She
frowned, thinking back to the incident. What had
been wrong with their ship? It had been their warp
engines, she recalled. They had damaged their warp
core and fried both nacelles.
    She snapped her fingers, suddenly putting two and
two together. "Quark's ship has working engines,"
she said.
    "That's right." O'Brien leaned back in his chair and
laced his fingers behind his head, grinning widely.
"Still think I'm crazy, Major?"
    She could have laughed with relief. "No. But can
you assemble one working ship out of the pair?"
    "If the engines are in decent shape aboard Quark's
ship--and I suspect they are from the warp
signature--I can have them out and fitted aboard the
pilgrims~ Progress in six hours. The Delphi-class is
modular. I've done it before."
    "Then our only problem," Kira said, sliding into
the seat next to O'Brien, "will be acquiring salvage
rights to the pilgrims' ship." She transferred the
salvage claim he'd been studying to her terminal.
"Loran Devys Salvage," she read aloud, "owns the
hull."
    The name sounded familiar. Where did she know
Loran from? Suddenly it came to her. There had been
a fellow named Loran Devys in another cell during
the resistance. She'd worked with him at least once. If
this was the same man, perhaps he'd remember her
and cut her a deal. It was worth a try, anyway.
     "Do you think you can get the rights to it?" O'Brien
 was saying.
 "There's only one way to find out." She opened a
 link to Bajor and called the number on the salvage
 claim.
     A Bajoran woman in a gold and silver one-piece
 suit answered. An intricate earring dangled from her
 right ear. "Loran Devys Salvage," she said, then her
 eyes widened. "Nerys!" she said in surprise.
    Kira forced a smile. "That's right," she said. Who
was this woman? She didn't look familiar.
    "You don't remember me, of course," the woman
said. "I'm Jael--Koratta Jael, from Devys's cell? We
only met once, and it was many years ago. But I've
seen you quite a few times lately on the news reports.
You're making quite a name for yourself. Are you still
stationed on DS9?"
    "Yes," Kira said. Koratta Jael... that name did
sound vaguely familiar, even if her face wasn't. It had
been quite a few years, she reminded herself. People
could change a lot in all that time. She tried to think
back to the others in Devys's cell. "Didn't you used to
have your hair..." she began, sketching vaguely with
her hands.
    Koratta was nodding. "Yes, much longer. You do
remember. It's wonderful to talk to you again, Nerys,
but is this a social call?"
    "I'm afraid it's business," Kira said. "Devys owns
salvage rights to a Delphi-class transport ship on the
seventh Bajoran moon. Perhaps you know the one I'm
talking about."
    "We own a lot of salvage. Wait a second." Jael
punched something up on her computer terminal.
"Yes, I see the one you mean. The Progress, a Delphi-
class transport. We picked it up at auction six weeks
ago. It's scheduled for retrieval next month."
 "I'd like to buy it," Kira said.
    Jael stared at her in surprise. "It's a dead hull," she
said. "No power--"
    "I know," Kira said, and quickly she explained that
they hoped to assemble one whole ship out of two.
"Do you think Devys might be willing to sell it to
me?"
    "I'm sure he would," Koratta said, studying the
records before her. "We have the estimated salvage
value as scrap duranium at twenty-two bars of gold-
pressed latinum. If you'd like to buy it, that would be
the price. Frankly, I'm sure he'd jump at the offer--it
would save us a lot of work."
    "Thanks, Jael," Kira said with a smile she truly felt
this time. The price sounded more than fair to her. At
times like these, she thought the resistance movement
had brought the Bajoran people closer together than
at any other time in history. "Hold the ship for me.
I'll get back to you later today to work out the
details."
    "Of course," Jael said. "I'm happy to help. Take
care of yourself, Nerys." She severed the connection.
    Kira leaned back. "It looks like we've got your
hull," she said a trifle smugly to O'Brien. It was easy,
when you knew the right people.
    O'Brien shook his head. "Is there anyone you don't
know on Bajor?" he asked.
  Kira grinned. Sometimes it felt that way to her, too.
"You forget how big the resistance movement was,
Chiefi"
    He rose suddenly. "I'd better get an environment
suit and take a look at the Galactic Queen's engines,"
he said. "I'll let you know in half an hour whether it's
workable."

    As the airlock cycled and the huge coglike door
rolled to the side, Benjamin Sisko pulled his shirt
smooth and drew himself up straighter. A Starfleet
captain had to maintain an air of dignity at all times,
he knew. The Valtusian delegation had gone to a lot of
trouble to set up these peace negotiations, and Admir-
al Dulev had underlined the importance of success to
him. Fighting the Maquis sapped both Cardassian
and Federation strength, diverting their attention
from a larger threat in the Gamma Quadrant. If there
could be a fair and amicable settlement, they would
jump on it.
    If only the Valtusians' timing had been better. He
didn't relish the idea of having this peace conference
aboard DS9 while Odo, Kira, and Worf were away.
    Their mission to the Gamma Quadrant had come
about three days previously, when Admiral Dulev had
summoned him to Starbase 201. He'd gone aboard
the Defiant with Worf and Dax.
    There, they had been ushered almost at once into
the admiral's meeting room. It had been Spartanly
furnished: a long table, eight chairs, a pitcher of ice
water on a tray with glasses. Sisko surveyed the room
and noticed the three other people already there and
tried to hold in his surprise. The admiral, of course,
sat at the head of the table. She had her brown hair
pulled back in the severe bun that was becoming
popular among high-ranking Starfleet women. To her
right sat her golden boy, Lieutenant Colfax, looking a
little smug in his trim red command uniform. To the
admiral's left sat a humanoid alien covered in pale
yellow fur, with a pronounced snout and eight-
fingered hands... a female Groxxin, he realized.
They were native to the Gamma Quadrant. So what
was this one doing sitting in on Admiral Dulev's
meeting?
    The admiral wasted no time in getting down to
business. "You remember Lieutenant Colfax, of
course," she said. Sisko nodded; Colfax had been the
one to contact him about this meeting. "This is
Zheronn," she said, indicating the alien, "one of our
informants from the Gamma Quadrant."
    Sisko raised his eyebrows slightly, but made no
comment. An informant would have to have big news
to travel this far, he realized. It meant the Groxxin
had abandoned her job, her family, and any cover she
might have established to hide her activities.
    "Zheronn," the admiral went on, leaning forward
slightly, "has made a discovery about the labs which
genetically engineered the Jem'Hadar for the change-
lings. It seems that these 'perfect warriors' are not
quite so perfect as we thought."
    "In what way?" Dax asked, leaning forward with
interest.
The admiral punched something into the terminal
to her right. Instantly a holographic projection ap-
peared over the conference table: a common molecu-
lar sequence, Sisko saw as it revolved: a double-helix
design. It looked almost like human genetic coding.
  "The Jem'Hadar version of DNA?" Dax guessed.
  "That's right," Admiral Dulev said. "The complete
  genetic code for the Jem'Hadar, including the changes
  which created their chemical dependency on the drug
  called Ketracel-white, their inborn respect for the
  Founders, and most important of all, their aggres-
  sively militant natures."
    "Surely we had already had access to this informa-
tion," Sisko said. "We've encountered the Jem'Hadar
often enough to have skin and other cell samples
available for our scientists to analyze."
    "True. What we didn't have was a way to shut off
these Founder-given genetic tweaks."
    "Shut them off..." Sisko echoed, shocked. "You
mean we can change their genetic code?"
    "You're talking about a retrovirus, aren't you?"
Dax asked. Sisko heard the rise of excitement in her
voice. She knew what this meant, too, he thought.
  "I do not follow you," Worf said.
    Dax turned to him. "Retroviruses are small organ-
isms that work on a genetic level. They exist as
parasites in DNA. Your body is full of them, but that's
all right since most of them are harmless. Some of the
more dangerous types can rewrite bits of genetic code,
making changes throughout the body."
    "Like Panzer's Syndrome," Sisko said. His few
medical classes at the Federation started coming back
to him. A retrovirus had invaded the bodies of every
colonist on Galagos VI, and two hundred thousand
humans had suddenly found themselves developing
gills as a dormant genetic code reactivated itself.
    "Exactly," the admiral said. "I'11 let Zheronn ex-
plain." She turned to the yellow-furred Groxxin.
    Zheronn hesitated a second. When she spoke, the
universal translator gave her a soft, sultry voice.
    "My mate and I work at Laboratory Complex
Ileph-B on Daborat V," she said. "We were in charge
of cataloging and filing. One day a computer error
gave us access to a classified section of the cataloging
system, and Orvor found records from the earliest
days of the Dominion including the designs for a
retrovirus that can modify the Jem'Hadar's genetic
code to eliminate their violent tendencies and stop
their dependence on Ketracel-white. In essence, it
returns them to their state before the Founders modi-
fied their bodies."
    "Effectively neutralizing them as a military threat,"
Lieutenant Colfax finished.
    "If that is true," Worf said, "we must obtain that
retrovirus at all costs."
    Sisko steepled his fingers thoughtfully. This
sounded like the solution to their conflict with the
changelings. Without the Jem'Hadar to back them up
with military strength, much of the Dominion's
threat to the Alpha Quadrant would be ended.
    And yet something still bothered him. Why had
they been summoned to this meeting? Where did he
fit into Admiral Dulev's plan?
"Why do I feel there's a catch?" he asked.
Zheronn said, "Only one of us could make it out
with the information, and Orvor chose to send me.
He, however, kept the design specifications for the
retrovirus. You must rescue him from Daborat V to
get it. That is our price for helping you."
    "Impossible," Worf said. "Daborat V is one of the
most heavily guarded Jem'Hadar bases in the Gamma
Quadrant!"
    "It must be done," Zheronn said. "That is our
price."
    "We feel a small group may be able to infiltrate
Daborat V successfully in order to bring Orvor out,"
Admiral Dulev said. "Your people have the most
experience with changelings and the Jem'Hadar, Cap-
tain. I want you to put together an away team for this
mission including your Constable Odo. They will
depart as soon as possible. Time is of the essence."
    Sisko frowned a bit. Rescuing someone from one of
the largest Jem'Hadar bases in the Gamma Quadrant
was a lot to ask, but he knew that with such a big
payoff at stake, they had to take the chance. He said,
 "I'11 need a civilian ship."
    "Requisition whatever you need," Admiral Dulev
said, rising. "I'll leave you and Lieutenant Colfax to
work out the details." She nodded to Zheronn, and
the two of them left together.
    As soon as they were alone, Lieutenant Colfax
smiled his too-smooth smile and said in his too-
smooth voice, "Who do you have in mind for this
mission, Captain?"
    And so Sisko had mentioned Kira and Worf. Worf
had been only too happy to volunteer, as had Major
Kira when he briefed her the following day back at
DS9. Things had fallen quickly into place from there.
If all went well, the three of them--Kira, Worf, and
Odo--would leave tomorrow, and the peace negotia-
tions would continue without pause aboard DS9.
    The airlock door finished opening, and Sisko felt
his ears pop slightly as the Valtusian ship released its
seals and pressures equalized. Suddenly a scent of the
ship's internal atmosphere reached Sisko, and he
found himself breathing deeply. It was a rich, earthy
smell, filled with the tang of nitrogen and ozone, and
it made the skin on the back of his hands and neck
prickle. It smelled just like New Orleans after a
thunderstorm, he thought, enjoying the sensation. It
brought back quite a few pleasant memories, and for
an instant he wished he could visit his father again. I
do need a vacation, he thought. Maybe after every-
thing settles down again.
    He forced his mind back to the here and now as
three Valtusian ambassadors strolled single file
through the airlock. All three had to duck--they
towered over him, each a little more than two and a
half meters in height, but less than half as wide as an
average human. Their elongated gray-green skulls, the
only part of their bodies showing, held two large,
bulbous, unblinking green eyes set on either side of
their heads. Their toothless mouths were oddly tiny,
and they had no noses, only a pair of slits covered by a
fine grayish green membrane that flared open, then
closed, then flared open again as they breathed.
    They had a dislike of physical contact, Sisko re-
called, which probably explained the concealing
robes. Even their hands were covered, he noticed.
That wouldn't make Bashir's job any easier.
    Their feet making faint clicking noises beneath
their robes, they drew to a stop before him. Sisko
swallowed as he gazed up at their leader's face. He
hadn't realized they were so tall, and he tried not to
stare. Of course he knew what they looked like from
pictures, and many years ago he'd seen one on Vulcan
in the distance, but it had not prepared him to meet
three at one time. They were daunting, to say the
least.
    He glanced from one to another. It was impossible
to tell which was their leader. As one, they bowed to
him, their foreheads almost touching the floor.
    Sisko bowed back and noted how Bashir and Odo
did likewise. Worf, to their far left, nodded politely.
They knew their protocols as well as he did.
    "Welcome to Deep Space Nine," he began. "I am
Captain Benjamin Sisko. This is my chief medical
officer, Julian Bashir, and Constable Odo, who is in
charge of security for the peace conference, and
Lieutenant Commander Worf, my military opera-
tions officer. On behalf of the Federation, we wish to
welcome you and extend an invitation to use any of
the facilities aboard the station that you require."
 The three Valtusians bowed again. "I am Ambassa-
dor Zhosh," said the one on the far left. His voice was
high and reedy, almost musical. "My associates are
Gerazh and Senosh."
    "Do you have any special requirements to make
your stay more pleasant?" Sisko asked. "The envi-
ronmental control in your suites can be adjusted
to suit your needs, of course, but if there is anything
else...?"
    "This has been a long and tiring journey," Ambas-
sador Zhosh said. "We would like to rest now."
    "Of course," Sisko said. "We have one small securi-
ty formality, however. We are requiring all conference
attendees to take a DNA screening test. This is
entirely for your own safety, of course," he added.
    "Test?" Ambassador Zhosh said. His solid green
eyes stared unblinkingly at Sisko, and bits of gold
inside them seemed to sparkle with sudden anger.
"We were not informed of any such test."
    "It is a routine security check, to make sure you are
who you say you are," Sisko said quickly. He tried to
keep his voice calm and soothing. He could well
understand the ambassador's reaction; there weren't
supposed to be any surprises in diplomacy. "As I am
sure you're aware, there is the possibility of change-
lings from the Gamma Quadrant trying to infiltrate
and disrupt this peace conference."
    "Yes," said Zhosh distantly. "We do understand the
necessity. You may proceed."
    "Doctor?" he said, moving aside. Bashir had a
soothing manner when dealing with patients, he
knew, and that was what the situation called for. The
Valtusians were an intensely private race, and he did
not want to offend them.
    Bashir stepped forward and held out his DNA
analyzer. "This box will read your DNA and identify
your genetic codes," he said, "then use them to verify
that none of you is a changeling."
    "How does it work?" Ambassador Zhosh asked,
cocking his head to the side and staring down at the
box with one round green eye.
    "Place your hand on top of the device. It will
remove a skin cell and analyze it."
    Zhosh drew back as if horrified by the idea. "Our
hands must not be touched!" he said with a shudder.
There was a note of alarm in his voice. "Our hands
must not be touched!"
    They must have stumbled onto a cultural taboo,
Sisko realized with a mental sigh. Perhaps that was
why the �attusians wrapped themselves so thoroughly
in robes. That, or the Valtusians were changelings,
which seemed singularly unlikely, since they had
spearheaded the peace initiative from the beginning.
    Quickly he said, "I'm sure we can work out an
alternative testing method."
    "It doesn't matter what part of the body is used,"
Bashir said hastily. "Arms, elbows, feet--any patch
of skin will do."
    Ambassador Zhosh gave another shudder. "We
must discuss this matter privately," he said. "This is a
serious breach of protocol, Captain Sisko. We are not
pleased."
 Turning, he led the other two Valtusians back into
their ship. The airlock door rolled closed with a low
grating sound.
    Sisko swallowed. Had he single-handedly derailed
the peace process? If so, Admiral Dulev would have
his head on a platter--not an event he looked forward
to.
    "I'm afraid they didn't react at all well to my
scanner," Dr. Bashir said uneasily.
  Worf said sharply, "They are hiding something."
  "I felt that, too," Odo said.
    "I don't know very much about them," Sisko
admitted. "However, nothing I've seen here today is
the least bit out of character. They are an intensely
private people, after all, and we may have stumbled
onto one of their taboos. Let's give them a few
minutes to talk things over. After all, we did spring
this on them as a surprise. What do you think,
Constable?"
    "I don't like them," Odo said. "Something about
them makes me distinctly uneasy."
    That was interesting, Sisko thought. Odo very
rarely voiced his inner feelings. He had to be more
than a little uneasy to speak up like this now.
    "Why don't you call for more security," Sisko said,
"in case we need help. Just keep them back. We don't
want an incident if we can avoid one."
    "Agreed." Odo tapped his badge and said, "Bring a
security detachment to Docking Port Three on the
double!"
    Sisko tried to wait patiently. His thoughts bounced
back and forth between the Valtusians, the peace
conference, and the possibility of changelings trying
to disrupt matters. Why weren't things ever easy?
    Four of Odo's security guards arrived, panting a bit
from sprinting, and Odo drew them aside, getting into
position to cover the hatch unobtrusively. Hopefully
it wouldn't be necessary, Sisko thought. Were the
Valtusians ever coming out? How long would it take
them to discuss the matter of being tested?
    Sisko glanced at a chronometer. Only three minutes
had passed, he told himself. That wasn't long to wait.
He had to be patient--diplomats moved at their own
pace, after all, and he didn't want to get off on the
wrong foot by pushing too hard.
    Suddenly the hatch rolled back and the three Valtu-
sians emerged single file once more. Sisko frowned.
What was that faint clicking sound? Ambassador
Zhoshmat least Sisko thought it was Ambassador
Zhosh--addressed him again.
    "We have discussed the matter," Zhosh said, "and
we will allow your device to touch us. It may analyze
our feet, which are among the least sacred parts of our
body."
    Zhosh pulled up the hem of his flowing green robe,
revealing a long, narrow green foot that ended in three
clawed toes. A fourth and much broader claw jutted
from its heel. The Valtusians walked balanced on the
tips of the claws, Sisko realized, which explained the
faint clicking he heard when they moved.
 "That will do nicely," Dr. Bashir said.
    He activated his DNA scanner and set it on the
floor in front of Ambassador Zhosh. Sisko watched
with interest as the Valtusian gave a birdlike hop
forward and placed the flat middle part of its foot
upon the box.
    "Reading," the scanner said. It paused for a long
time--longer than it had with Worf, Dr. Bashir, or
Odo. Sisko took a deep breath... had it broken
down again? If so, Bashir would have a lot of explain-
ing to do.
    But then the lights on its side flashed twice, and it
said, "Subject DNA passed. Subject is Valtusian."
    Sisko smiled to hide his relief, thinking of the time
on Earth when he'd mistaken his own father for a
changeling. His father had refused to take a blood test
being administered to the families of all Federation
officials due to plain old-fashioned stubbornness,
nothing more, and Sisko had learned a lesson that day
about paranoia. You had to have limits. Life wasn't
worth living if you couldn't trust anyone around you.
He nodded a bit. No, there weren't any changelings
here--just the private mysteries of an alien race. Dr.
Bashir wouldn't have these body-taboo problems with
the humans or Cardassians attending the conference,
at least.
    "When are the other representatives scheduled to
arrive?" Ambassador Zhosh asked, as Bashir ran the
other two Valtusians through the test.
    "The Cardassian delegation should be here in a few
hours," Sisko said. "The Maquis and the Federation
ambassadors are scheduled to arrive tomorrow."
    "I have an itinerary prepared. We will begin in two
days, at the ninth bell."

  "The ninth bell?" Sisko repeated.
    "That would be approximately eight-fifteen in the
morning," Dr. Bashir said. The second ambassador
passed the test. "The �altusian calendar is quite
interesting," he went on. "Their clocks use musical
tones to indicate the time."
    Sisko felt his eyes starting to glaze over as Dr.
Bashir began one of his endless lectures, this one on
Valtusian clockwork mechanisms. He really shouM
have gone into teaching, Sisko thought. The way he
likes to talk, he wouM have made an excellent instruc-
tor at the Academy. Then he reminded himself that
he'd be losing one of the best doctors in Starfleet. He
can always retire to teaching, he told himself.
    "Quite correct." Zhosh gazed at Bashir with one
eye. "Have you visited �altusia, Doctor?"
"No, but my mother owns one of your clocks."
The third Valtusian also passed the test. Odo's
suspicions had proved unfounded, for once. No
changelings here.
    "Ah." Ambassador Zhosh faced Sisko again. "If we
could be shown to our quarters now?"
    "Certainly," he began, and then his badge chirped.
"One second," he told Zhosh. He tapped his badge.
"Sisko here."
    "I have a priority one transmission for you from
Admiral Dulev," Dax said.
    "Thank you," Sisko said. "I'll be right there." He
turned back to Ambassador Zhosh. "Constable Odo
will have to show you to the habitat ring," he said. "If
you need anything, don't hesitate to let him know."
All three Valtusians bowed low to him. He returned
the gesture, then hurried toward the turbolift.
    "This way," Odo said behind him, sounding faintly
irritated that they hadn't turned out to be change-
ling spies after all. "Right now we are in the third
docking pylon," he said, beginning the standard tour
of the station. "Your quarters will be in the habitat
ring . . ."
    "Ops," Sisko said to the computer as he entered the
turbolift. It whisked him down rapidly. Another
transmission from Admiral Dulev... what could she
want?

CHAPTER
       4

"ADMIRAL DULEV," SISKO said as her stern face ap-
peared on his monitor. He couldn't recall ever seeing
her smile.
    "Captain Sisko," she said, as usual cutting through
all formalities, "you are to delay the mission to the
Gamma Quadrant until the Excalibur gets there."
  "If I may ask," Sisko said, "why?"
    "My aide, Lieutenant Colfax, will be aboard the
Excalibur. He will brief you and your people fully
upon his arrival."
    "Very well," Sisko said, puzzled. "When is the
Excalibur due?"
    "Thirty-two hours. If you have any questions,
please address them to Lieutenant Colfax. Dulev
out," she said, and the screen went blank.
 Sisko steepled his fingers thoughtfully. Thirty-two
hours. Starbase 201, where he'd met with the admiral
and Colfax, lay sixteen hours away which meant the
Excalibur either hadn't arrived yet or had another
stop to make before coming to DS9. At least the extra
time would give them a chance to better prepare for
the mission into the Gamma Quadrant. The peace
conference should already be underway by then. Per-
haps it would be less of a juggling act than he thought.
He could certainly use the extra help Odo would
provide when the Cardassian delegation arrived.
    Cardassians on the station always meant trouble, he
knew... not that they themselves posed a threat to
DS9's security. If anything, they tended toward model
behavior while visiting. The problems always came
from Bajorans, with their endless protests and picket-
ing and threats of violence against any and all Cardas-
sians they deemed war criminals.
    He felt a slight headache beginning, and he forced
himself to stretch and focus his eyes on the far wall.
Too much work, too much stress--he'd better not let
Dr. Bashir find out, or he'd find himself in a holosuite
on forced R and R despite the importance of every-
thing going on around him.
    He picked up the baseball he kept on his desk and
gripped it in his strong right hand. The tension of
dealing with two high-priority missions simultane-
ously was starting to get to him, he thought. He
needed to unwind. Perhaps a half hour game of catch
with his son Jake, or in a holosuite with the 2106
Brooklyn Dodgers... a scenario he'd been working
on for some weeks now. The Cardassians weren't due
yet, the Valtusians were safely in their quarters, and
the Excalibur wouldn't arrive for thirty-two hours.
He'd have enough time, wouldn't he?
    The door to his office chirped. Sighing, he put the
baseball back on its little stand. No rest for a weary
captain, he thought. "Come," he called.
    Lieutenant Jadzia Dax stepped in. Behind her he
could see Major Kira and Chief O'Brien. "Benja-
min," Dax said, "if you have a minute..."
    "Of course," he said, leaning back in his chair.
"What is it, Dax? A problem with Quark's ship?"
    "Have you been looking over my shoulder?" she
asked with a faint smile.
    "I expected it, actually," Sisko said. "What do you
think, Chief?. Will it do?"
 "It's a death trap," O'Brien said.
    "That doesn't sound very promising." But probably
what I shouM have expected, he mentally added. They
might have to use a runabout after all.
    "It gets better," Dax said. "Quark has already
billed us for two hundred and fifty bars of gold-
pressed latinum."
    "Outrageous," Sisko agreed, shaking his head. Still,
what could he expect from a Ferengi?
    "But here's the thing, sir," O'Brien said, leaning
forward. "It's a Delphi-class ship, just like the one the
pilgrims from Arvanus Six abandoned on the seventh
Bajoran moon. The pilgrims' ship has already been
claimed for salvage by a Bajoran company, but they
haven't picked it up yet."
 "I've made a few inquiries of my own," Kira added.
"We can have the pilgrim ship's hull for twenty-
two bars of latinum. All it needs are new warp en-
gines..."
  "And Quark's ship has those," O'Brien finished.
    Sisko looked at Dax. "What do you think?" he
asked her.
    She shook her head a fraction. "I think it's risky.
We have one day to put together a working starship.
That would be hard under the best of circumstances.
But I don't see a better alternative."
    "I have good news on that front," Sisko said.
"Admiral Dulev wants the mission delayed until the
Excalibur gets here. That gives us at least thirty-two
hours."
"Is the Excalibur coming with us?" Kira asked.
"The admiral wasn't clear on that point," Sisko
said. "I would assume not, though.~ So, what do you
think, Chief? Can you put together a working ship for
us in thirty-two hours?"
    "Oh, we can do it." O'Brien nodded. "For once,
I've got every system on DS9 functioning within
acceptable parameters. It's taken me three years, but
it's finally happened. I can put every man I have on
refitting the warp engines. Delphi-class ships are
completely modular in design, so it shouldn't be too
hard. My original estimate was six hours, and I still
think it can be done that quickly. The extra time will
give us a chance to make a few shakedown flights and
run full diagnostics."
 "Excellent." Sisko considered the options. If
O'Brien said he could make a working ship out of the
two, Sisko knew he could rely on him to deliver. Their
three years here together had proved his chief engi-
neer's competence time and again. Still, putting to-
gether a fix-up ship had its own risks. You never knew
quite what you were getting with a used starship...
let alone two of them. Systems might fail suddenly, or
there might be slight design variations between them
if they were built in different years.
    Unfortunately, there didn't seem to be much
choice. They needed a civilian ship, and there just
weren't any available through regular channels on
such short notice. He began to nod. It seemed Admir-
al Dulev's delay was in fact a godsend.
    "Very well," he said, "get on it... as soon as I
finish with Quark."
    "Two hundred and fifty bars of gold-pressed
latinum is an outrageous price for a ship in that
condition," Dax said.
    "What's fair?" Sisko asked, looking at O'Brien. He
would know, if anyone did aboard DS9, because he
kept close tabs on the used equipment market. "A
hundred?"
    "I'd say fifty," O'Brien said, "if that. It needs a lot
of work."
    Kira said, "Security has been keeping Quark under
surveillance. Why don't you ask Odo what Quark
paid for it?"
    "An excellent suggestion, Major," Sisko said. I
must be slipping, he thought. I shouM have thought of
that myself He activated the communications console
on his desk, and a second later Odo's smooth, nearly
featureless face appeared on the viewscreen.
    "Yes, Captain?" Odo asked, sounding faintly an-
noyed. Sisko hid his smile. Everything seemed to
faintly annoy Odo.
    "Did you get the Valtusian ambassadors settled
into their suite?" he asked.
    "Yes." He sounded more annoyed than ever. "Was
there anyhing else?"
    "By any chance, can you tell me what Quark paid
for that ship he just bought?"
    "The Galactic Queen--if you can call that mess a
ship?" Odo gave a snort. "He didn't pay anything for
it. Two Andorians paid him to take it off their hands.
Repairs would cost more that it's worth, and the
owners couldn't even afford the station's docking fees.
Quark promised to handle everything for them, in-
cluding the disposal of their ship, for two bars of gold-
pressed latinurn."
    Sisko had to laugh. "Leave it to Quark to try to
make a profit on every side of a deal," he said.
    "I don't find that particularly amusing," Odo said.
"Am I missing something, sir?"
    "Not really. Thank you, Constable. Keep up the
good work." He shut off the viewscreen. "Well," he
said to Dax and the others, "that certainly gives us a
lot of bargaining room."
    Kira folded her arms. "I say we let him keep the
ship. We can still take a runabout."
"I wouldn't object if you weren't going to a planet
with a Jem'Hadar base," Sisko said. "Taking a Feder-
ation vessel is simply too risky. Besides, I think
Quark's ship will work out, as soon as negotiations
are over."
    He turned again to his communications console.
"Quark," he said, and a second later an image ap-
peared on the viewscreen before him: Quark in his
bar, the babble of happy crowds creating a pleasant
background noise. Cheers came from one of the
gambling tables, followed by cries of "Dabo!"
    "Captain Sisko!" Quark said. He was wiping a glass
clean. "This is an unexpected surprise. I take it Chief
O'Brien has relayed the good news about the ship I
found?"
    "It is unacceptable," Sisko said, clipping his words
to emphasize how seriously he took the matter. "We
have had to make other arrangements, Quark. I'm
very disappointed in you."
    "What!" The shock was apparent on Quark's face.
Sisko felt a sudden pang of sympathy, but forced it
down. You had to play hardball with Ferengis during
negotiations, as the old saying went. They'd walk all
over you if you didn't.
    "I'm sorry things didn't work out," he went on. "rll
let you know if we have any more needs." He discon-
nected, and Quark's face disappeared.
    Smiling, Sisko leaned back in his seat and looked at
his officers. "Bets?" he asked, taking a glance at the
chronometer.
 "Ten seconds," O'Brien said instantly.
 "Ten? You're crazy," Kira said. "Eight."
    "It'll take him that long just to stop shaking," Dax
said. "Twelve, at least."
  "I'll take fifteen," Sisko said.
    The seconds ticked away. Eight... ten... and at
twelve seconds exactly the communicator chirped.
    "I believe you three owe me dinner," Dax said
triumphantly.
    Before Sisko could touch the controls, Quark's face
appeared on the viewscreen. Sisko frowned, a trifle
annoyed. The security devices in Ops and his private
office shouldn't let calls through to him like that.
Quark must have a security key. He made a mental
note to have Odo confiscate it.
      "Quark," Sisko said, trying to keep his tone even
and pleasant. "What can I do for you?"  "About this ship--"
  "It won't do. I thought we settled that."
    "If it's a matter of price, I am open to reasonable
counteroffers."
    Sisko shook his head. "As I told you, time is of the
essence here. Chief O'Brien informs me that it will
take all of his people two days working around the
clock to get that ship put back into working order. I
simply cannot spare him at this time, with the peace
conference coming up, so I have been forced to make
other arrangements. Luckily I managed to find an
alternate ship through an old friend of mine. It will
save us a little money, true, but manpower is the
primary factor."
    "Surely we can come to some arrangements?"
Quark said, a bit of a desperate whine creeping into
his voice. "I know this ship is perfect for your needs.
How much would it take to persuade you to use my
ship instead?"
    Sisko tilted his head to the side. "Quark, is that a
bribe you're offering me?"
    "No, no," Quark said hastily, raising both hands.
"What I meant is, how much of a reduction in price
would it take for you to consider my ship instead of
your friend's?"
    Sisko gazed down at the baseball on his desk
thoughtfully. "Forty bars of latinum?" he suggested.
    "Done!" Quark cried. "I'll put through the invoice
at once for two hundred and ten..." His voice
trailed off.
    Sisko was shaking his head. "Forty bars of latinum
total," he said. "Not one bar more."
Quark let out a strangled cry. "You're killing me!"
"It's the best I can do," Sisko said. "And I'll wave
the docking fees your ship has incurred while it's been
here."
    "I'll get back to you," Quark said. Muttering to
himself, he stabbed the disconnect button. Sisko
found himself staring at a blank screen, which was
quickly replaced by the Federation logo of a starfield
and two olive branches on a blue background.
    "Let me guess," Dax said. "Right now he's finding
out how much the hull is worth from salvage dealers."
    "I expect so," Sisko said. "And thanks to Kira, we
have a good idea what that is."
 Kira was grinning. "Right, Captain," she said.
 Half a minute later, Quark called again. "It's a
deal," he said to Sisko. He seemed more subdued
than usual, Sisko thought, and almost sulky. Perhaps
he was mourning the loss of two hundred and ten
undeserved bars of gold-pressed latinurn.
    "Excellent," Sisko said. "If you'll put through your
invoice, I'll see that it receives priority payment
authorization."
"Thank you," Quark said sullenly, disconnecting.
Now, Sisko thought, to see about the wreck on the
Bajoran moon. Then it would all be up to O'Brien and
his people.

CHAPTER
        5

FIVE O'CLOCK IN the morning is too early for delegates
to arrive, Dr. Julian Bashir thought with a yawn as he
strolled down the crossover bridge toward the dock-
ing ring. He hefted the DNA analyzer he was carrying.
It only weighed fourteen kilos, but lugging it with him
across half the station, he found it growing increas-
ingly heavy. He'd have another look at the schematics
later, he thought, and see if he could get the size
trimmed down a little more.
    At this hour, the station seemed oddly still, almost
serene in its emptiness. None of the shops in the
Promenade had opened for the day yet. Even Quark's
bar was closed, and that, he reflected, spoke volumes
about how dead the station became in the early hours
of the morning. He'd only passed two other people so
far, and one of them had been Dax out for her
morning jog. She had waved and called a brief invita-
tion for him to join her before passing by, but he'd
declined. Her energy never ceased to amaze him.
    Ahead, at the end of the crossover bridge, he
spotted a knot of men and women blocking the
passage. Something had to be going on here, he
realized. Their low babble of voices grew steadily
louder and more anxious. If someone was hurt, they'd
need a doctor. Bashir quickened his pace to a near jog.
But if someone was hurt, why hadn't he been called?
    "Kill the Butcher of Belmast!" he suddenly heard a
loud voice shouting.
  "We want justice!" another cried.
    "Bring him back to Bajor for trial!" a third voice
called. "We know how to deal with Cardassians!"
    Bashir groaned inwardly and drew up short. Not
again, he thought. The crowd faced away from him,
but now he recognized them all as Bajorans. The
dangling earrings gave them away, if not their civilian
clothes and anti-Cardassian sentiments. Somehow
they'd found out that the Cardassian delegation had
arrived, and they'd turned out in force as an unofficial
harassment party. It seemed to happen every time a
high-ranking Cardassian boarded the station.
    But who was this "Butcher of Belmast" they were
talking about? He frowned, trying to think back to
where he'd heard of Belmast before. Wasn't it a
remote province on Bajor? Hadn't some war atrocity
been committed there? He shook his head. It wasn't
his concern right now--he had delegates to screen for
the peace conference. If he remembered, he'd ask
Major Kira about it later.
    Taking a deep breath, he started forward with
determination. He'd never liked angry mobs, but he
couldn't see any way around this one--they were
completely blocking the walkway. To get around
them, he'd have to retrace his steps to the Promenade
and take a turbolift. Best to get it over with, he
thought. Besides, they weren't mad at him.
    The crowd seemed a little thinner to the left, so
he eased his way between two women in pink and yel-
low robes. "Excuse me," he murmured. "I need
through--station business."
    "Aren't you Dr. Bashir?" one of the women asked.
She was short and slightly overweight, with long
reddish brown hair tied up behind her head, and her
pale blue eyes held what looked like a fanatical gleam.
    Bashir gulped and tried to remember if they had
ever met before, but couldn't place her sharp features.
"Uh, yes," he admitted. "Do I know you?"
    Instead of replying, she seized his arm and pulled
him forward. "Let us through!" she called. "Let us
through to Werron!"
    Everyone around them turned to look, and Bashir
found himself the center of attention. A little ner-
vously, he forced a small nod and an even smaller
wave. What have I done to deserve this? he wondered.
He was almost certain he'd never met the Bajoran
woman before. And who was Werron?
 The crowd parted, and he rapidly found himself
pulled to the front. There, the Bajorans held placards
in a variety of languages--English, Cardassian, and
Bajoran. He scanned the ones he could read, and they
all talked about "Justice" and "Cardassian War Crim-
inals," as he'd half expected.
    Six of Odo's men in tan and brown security uni-
forms held the line of Bajorans at bay. A couple of
them gave Bashir welcoming nods, and the doctor felt
a little better. They would rescue him if trouble
started. Not that he really expected trouble. Relations
remained good between humans and Bajorans at the
moment, what with them applying for Federation
membership and Captain Sisko being their Emissary
and all.
    "Vedek Werron," the woman said, "this is Julian
Bashir, the station's medical officer."
    A Vedek--no wonder they were so riled up. Bashir
focused on the tall Bajoran wearing gray robes who
turned at her voice. The man might dress simply,
Bashir thought, but he carried himself like someone
important. Vedeks were among the highest religious
positions a Bajoran could attain, he knew, and their
unique authority in Bajoran society allowed them to
incite the masses with their words. Most of the
trouble on DS9 between Bajorans and Cardassians
could be traced to Bajoran religious leaders.
    Vedek Werron had the thin, almost emaciated fea-
tures of one who habitually fasted. His intense green
eyes focused on Bashir, who felt instantly dissected by
that gaze. Like he can see into my soul, Bashir thought
with a shiver. Werron's short brown hair had been
swept back over his scalp, and when he smiled,
showing perfect white teeth, the image that leaped to
Bashir's mind was that of a hungry tiger catching sight
of breakfast.
    "Doctor," Werron said in a low, powerful voice,
stepping forward and taking Bashir's hand. He shook
it in the human fashion. "I am delighted to make your
acquaintance, sir. I have heard good things about
you."
    "And I am delighted to meet you, Vedek," Bashir
said quickly. He extricated his hand as gently as he
could; no sense offending the fellow. The sooner the
niceties of introduction ended, the sooner he could
get back to his work and away from here.
    Vedek Werron searched Bashir's face. "It must be a
great privilege serving with the Emissary," he said.
    "Uh, yes, it is," Bashir said. Was this leading
somewhere? He had a suspicion it was. "Captain
Sisko is a fine commanding officer."
    "I would like the chance to confer with him, but I'm
afraid I haven't been able to reach him."
    Bashir nodded. So that was it; Sisko didn't want to
meet with Vedek Werron. Now Werron hoped to use
him as an intermediary. Bashir felt a flash of triumph
at having figured the man out.
    But Werron merely said, "I am certain we'll be
seeing more of each other, Doctor. It is, after all, a
small universe." He motioned to his people, who
drew back a half meter, leaving him a clear path. "I
believe you were on a business call?" Again his smile
reminded Bashir of a predator's.
    "That's right," Bashir said. He swallowed and
forced his eyes from Werron's face, feeling a cold knot
form in his stomach. This was a dangerous man,
something inside him said. He wished they hadn't
met. And he certainly hoped they wouldn't meet
again. Luckily business called.
    Taking a deep breath, he ducked past Odo's depu-
ties and continued toward the docking ports. He had
to get to the Cardassians and administer his DNA
test.
    Behind him, he heard the Bajorans begin their
chanting again: "Justice for Bajor... Justice for
Bajor... Justice for Bajor..." Vedek Werron's
deep, powerful voice boomed over the others, loud as
a bell on a clear summer day.
    When Bashir glanced back, he found Werron facing
his own people, exhorting them to louder shouts of
protest.
    He forced his attention back to the task at hand.
The Cardassian shuttle had parked at Docking Port 2.
Odo stood just outside the open airlock door with two
more deputies. Half a dozen Cardassians were stand-
ing just inside, out of sight of the Bajoran crowd, and
they did not look happy.
  "You're late, Doctor," Odo said gruffly.
    "Sorry," he said. "I had a little trouble getting
through the crowd."
    Odo glanced back at them. "Yes, I can see how that
might happen."
    Bashir scanned the Cardassians' faces and was a
trifle disappointed not to recognize anyone among
them. The enemy you know and all that, he thought.
Though their people might officially be at peace, he
had seen little to end his distrust of Cardassians
during his time on the station. If anything, he was
more paranoid when dealing with them than ever.
And he felt quite a bit of sympathy for the Bajorans--
Cardassian occupation had nearly destroyed their
world.
    "I am Dr. Bashir," he said to the Cardassian at the
front of the group, who seenled to be in charge. "I'm
the station's chief medical officer."
    "Gul Mekkar," the Cardassian replied. He was
short and heavyset, with a lumpy, grayish face and
thick corded neck. Mekkar folded his arms and
glared. "We are here on a peace mission, Doctor. Why
are we greeted by rioters, detained in our ship's
airlock, and met by underlings instead of diplomats?"
    Bashir wanted to roll his eyes and groan. It was
going to be one of those days. "I'm sorry if we weren't
prepared for you," he said, a trifle archly. "As you
may recall, you arrived three hours early and wouldn't
wait for proper clearance. Captain Sisko is in confer-
ence now and cannot be disturbed. He will join us as
soon as he is able. In the meantime, I am here to
ensure the safety and security of these proceedings.
Anyone who plans to debark your ship will be re-
quired to undergo a DNA test to prove that they are in
fact Cardassian."
    Mekkar snorted. "Who else would we be--
humans, perhaps? Or maybe VulcansT'
Odo said, "As I already told you, we have reason to
believe changelings from the Gamma Quadrant may
try to infiltrate these proceedings. This is a routine
security measure, I assure you."
    "Rubbish," Mekkar sneered. "It's another excuse
for harassment, nothing more. No one mentioned
tests when this conference was arranged."
    Bashir said, "It's a surprise test, to make sure the
changelings have no chance to prepare some way
around it. The Valtusians have already submitted to
the procedure, as has the entire command staff of
DS9. It's fast and painless. I assure you, you won't
feel the slightest discomfort."
    Odo added, "You will not be allowed aboard the
station until you and your entire crew submit to the
screening process."
 "This is an outrage!" Mekkar gestured angrily.

    The Cardassian woman behind him leaned forward
and whispered something in his ear. He listened for a
second, then frowned.
    "Very well," he said coldly to Bashir. "If it will
allow us to get on with our work, you may proceed.
But I warn you, if this is some sort of trick..." He let
the threat hang between them.
    One of those days, indeed. "And the rest of your
people?" Bashir asked.
    Many of the Cardassians behind Mekkar stirred,
muttering to one another. None of them seemed
happy with the idea of being tested.
    Mekkar turned to his people. "They will submit as
well," he said flatly. There were a few grumbles, but
they quickly died down. Mekkar was not a Cardassian
who was used to being argued with, Bashir saw.
    At least it would be over soon. "Please place your
hand on top," he said. He held out the DNA scanner.
    Still glaring, Mekkar did so. The computer voice
promptly announced that he was Cardassian.
    "As you can see," he snarled, "I am who I say I
am."
    Bashir nodded and stepped back. "You may pro-
ceed."
    Mekkar stomped out of the airlock, then turned
and surveyed the mob cordoned off twenty meters
away. His sneer grew, and Bashir heard him mutter,
"Rabble!"
    "That's him!" Bashir heard one of the Bajorans
shout. "That's Mekkar!" Other voices cried, "Cardas-
sian Butched" and "Murderer/"
    Mekkar set his hands on his hips and glared at
them. "On Cardassia," he announced in a loud voice,
"this display would be punishable by death!"
  More jeers came from the Bajorans.
    Bashir sighed. He'd better get this over with
quickly, he thought. The crowd was turning ugly. He
only hoped Odo's people would be able to keep them
in line.
    The Cardassian woman who'd reasoned with Mek-
kar was next, and she placed her hand on the scanner
before he asked. "Proceed," she said. There seemed to
be a trace of amusement in her voice.
  Bashir activated the scanner.
  "What's your name?" he asked.
    "Kloran." She brushed back her long, stringy black
hair with one hand and gave him a brief smile. "I am
Mekkar's second in these negotiations."
    "Subject DNA passes," the computer said. "Sub-
ject is Cardassian." A wave of relief passed through
Bashir. Every time he ran the scanner, he found he
half expected someone to fail.
    "You may proceed," he told her. "And thank you
for your help."
    "It was done in the interest of cooperation." She
gave him a brief smile, then stepped forward and took
Mekkar's arm. More jeers came from the Bajorans.
Bashir glanced over and found Kloran smiling faintly,
almost mockingly, at them, and a chill went through
him. The two Cardassians made a rather daunting
couple, he thought.

    Chief Miles O'Brien felt beads of perspiration start-
ing to form on his brow and shook his head. Damn
space suits. He felt an overpowering urge to wipe his
forehead, but there was no way he could reach inside
through the faceplate. Next time they asked him what
upgrades he wanted for DS9, he was going to ask for a
spacedock.
    For now, though, he'd just have to make do. Grit-
ting his teeth, he raised his heavy cutting phaser,
adjusting the controls to a tighter beam, and began
burning through the final series of power couplings
holding the Galactic Queen's nacelles in place over
the passenger compartment. Durasteel turned red,
then white under the burst of energy, bubbling like
one of Captain Sisko's gumbos. He could feel the heat
even through the insulation in his gloves and space
suit.
    One power relay parted silently, then the second,
then the third. Globules of rapidly cooling durasteel
spiraled off into the darkness. O'Brien felt a drop of
sweat run down the side of his face, then crawl along
the line of his jaw. His faceplate began to fog up ever
so slightly at the edges.
    He shifted the phaser and fired again. Finally the
fourth relay melted; the Galactic Queen's starboard
nacelle now floated freely in space. Only inertia held
it in position.
    O'Brien took a deep breath. The easy part was
done. Clipping the phaser to his side, he took a second
to glance down at his space suit's readouts. Twenty
degrees just isn't coM enough, he thought. He'd set the
controls as cold as they would go, but radiant heat
from the phaser and the fused metal had raised the
internal temperature of his space suit to nearly sixty
degrees centigrade.
    If only we had another couple of days, he thought.
He hated working out in raw vacuum, but didn't see
much choice. Fast and dirty, that was the only way to
get the job done in time.
    The durasteel had cooled back down. O'Brien
turned his back to the ship, planted his feet against
the hull, hooked his fingers under the power coupling
he'd just severed, and heaved with all his strength.
The ship had no weight in space; it was all a matter of
getting its mass moving. Slowly, a fraction of a
millimeter at a time, the nacelle parted from the main
passenger compartment.
    O'Brien let go after fifteen seconds. No sense strain-
ing any more against all that mass, he thought. Age
was catching up to him; he didn't want Bashir doing
an emergency procedure on his back to fix a slipped
disc. He'd never hear the end of it.
    He released the magnetic grips on his space boots
and floated away from Galactic Queen's hull, looking
over his work with a critical eye. The port nacelle,
already cut free, drifted a hundred meters away. He
nodded to himself. Yes, it was coming along right on
schedule.
    "Chief," a tinny-sounding but recognizably female
voice said through a burst of static. "We've got the
dead hull."
    He nudged the transmit bar with his chin. "Great,"
he said. He'd sent Ensign Polatta and her crew off in a
runabout to fetch the Progress from the Bajoran
moon. "How's she look?"
"Good, for scrap. Not so good for a starship."
"Bring her alongside the Galactic Queen. You'll
have to round up the nacelles I just cut loose with
tractor beams. We'll lick her into shape yet."

    Starfleet's diplomatic team arrived just after mid-
night that night, and Sisko found himself standing
outside the docking port, feeling bleary-eyed and
tired.
    Something hissed, and he felt a light touch on his
arm. He jumped, a bit startled.
    Dr. Bashir held up a hypo spray. "Vitamins," he
said. "You're looking a little pale."
    Leave it to Bashir to notice. "You, too, Doctor," he
said.
    "Yes, in my case it's lack of sleep." He stifled a
yawn. "I've been up since four o'clock this morning."
    "I've been meaning to thank you for covering the
Cardassians' arrival for me."
    "No problem," Bashir said. "Glad to help out.
Actually, it was an interesting experience. I almost
wish I could sit in on the negotiations just to see how
everyone interacts."
    "I'm expecting fireworks," Sisko admitted. Federa-
tion, Maquis, Valtusian, and Cardassian diplomats
struck him as about the least compatible bunch
imaginable. Even the Klingons and the Romulans
could be more reasonable than Cardassians.
    The door rolled aside, and a strikingly beautiful
Vulcan woman walked out, looking around curiously.
Her short black hair and pointed, almost elfin ears
loaned her delicately boned face an almost ethereal
quality. Sisko found his gaze moving from her face to
the stunning aqua dress she wore off one shoulder.
Matching blue sandals, studded with gemstones, com-
pleted the outfit.
    "You must be Captain Sisko," she said, her voice
flat and emotionless.
  "That's right," he said. "And you are...?"
    "Ambassador T'Pao." She turned and indicated the
heavyset man with short reddish blond hair following
her. "This is Ambassador DuQuesne, and behind him
is Ambassador Strockman." Strockman, thin to the
point of emaciation, with pinched cheeks and thin-
ning black hair cropped close to his skull, gave a curt
nod.
Sisko smiled politely, then did the introductions.
"We have designed a test to check for changeling
infiltration," he said. "It only takes a minute and is
completely painless."
      He half expected a series of protests, but T'Pao
merely nodded once. "Proceed."  "Doctor?" Sisko said.
    Bashir stepped forward. "If you would place your
hand on the scanner," he said.
    T'Pao did so, and it promptly announced that she
was Vulcan. Then DuQuesne stepped forward and
placed his hand on top.
    "A good idea," T'Pao commented. "One cannot be
too careful in negotiations such as these."
    "Our thoughts exactly," Sisko said. He couldn't
help but grin. At least the Federation ambassadors
understood the necessity of security.
    Both DuQuesne and Strockman passed the DNA
test.
    "Now," T'Pao said, "if you could show us to
our quarters. It has been a long trip, and I believe
my colleagues require rest. They have become
somewhat... irritable."

    "Of course." Sisko turned and led the way toward
the turbolift. "Your suites are on the habitat ring..."
he began.
    "Sir," Ensign McCormick said. "I think I'm pick-
ing up a ship on the extreme limits of sensor range."
    A new ship? Dax crossed to the ensign's console
and studied the readouts over his shoulder. The only
ship she was still expecting belonged to the Maquis
delegates to the peace conference, and if she knew her
Maquis, they'd be playing it very cautiously. After all,
DS9 was a Federation outpost, and technically they
would fall under Federation law the moment they set
foot aboard. Despite all of the assurances Starfleet
and the Valtusians had given them, they must still be a
little paranoid. She didn't blame them.
    On the other hand, it could be a Dominion ship
looking them over from the distance ....
    Dax reached down, channeled extra power to the
sensor relays, and scanned the ship again.
    "Bingo," she said, as the results came up on the
ensign's monitor screen. It was an old Federation
transport ship, probably decommissioned and sold off
to colonists years ago. The station's computer identi-
fied it as the Uganda.
 "Sir? Bingo?" The ensign gazed at her blankly.
 They were getting younger every year, Dax thought.
    "An old Earth expression," she explained. "It
means 'you're right.'"
 "Are they... Jem'Hadar?"
    "Wrong direction." She moved aside so McCor-
mick could see the readouts. "Take a look at that. It's
a Federation ship. Or used to be."
  "Maquis..." the ensign breathed.
    Dax smiled. "A pretty good guess, especially since
we're expecting them." She returned to the science
station. "I'11 take it from here."  "Yes, sir."
    Dax hailed the ship. "This is Lieutenant Com-
mander Jadzia Dax of Deep Space Nine. Maquis ship,
please identify yourself."
    There was no response. Probably still looking us
over, she thought, and who could blame them? It
must have taken a lot on the Valtusians' part to even
get them this far.
    "Maquis ship," she said again, "please identify
yourself."
    "This is the Uganda," a male voice responded
hesitantly a moment later. It was an audio-only signal.
How paranoid were these people? "We are here for
the peace conference."
    "You're early," she said. "Our docking schedule is
full for the next three hours. If you'd care to wait, I'll
fit you in--"
    "We've just picked up a Federation warship ap-
proaching at high warp!" The pitch of his voice rose
half an octave. "You've betrayed us--"
    "Not true," Dax said. Damn, what a time for a
Federation ship to show up! "Hold your position,
Uganda. You have nothing to worry about."
 She punched the new ship up on her console--the
Excalibur, with high-priority clearance. She groaned
inwardly. This was really going to screw up her
docking schedule. Perhaps they'd beam people over
instead of docking...
    She split the screen to monitor both ships at once.
The Maquis vessel had already come about and begun
accelerating away from DS9. She saw that its warp
coil was powering up.
    "Uganda," she said, "the Federation ship is only
here to drop off delegates for the conference. It will
depart as soon as it's done. You have nothing to worry
about."
 "I have your word on that, Commander?"
 "That's right."
    "We will withdraw for now," his voice said. "We'll
return in three hours. Uganda out."
    "DS9 out," Dax said. She nodded. No doubt about
it, they were nervous. At least they were coming back,
though. Hopefully the Excalibur would be gone by
then.


CHAPTER
        6

SISKO WATCHED THE colorful flicker of lights in the
Ops's two-person transporter chamber as a figure
began to materialize. The Excalibur had come to a
stationary position between DS9 and the wormhole,
and now Lieutenant Colfax was in the process of
beaming aboard.
    The hum of the transporter faded away as Colfax
materialized. He carried what appeared to be a cloth
satchel in one hand. It seemed quite heavy, Sisko
noted. Stepping down from the transporter, Colfax
smiled coolly and offered his hand to Sisko.
    Sisko shook it. "Won't you come into my office," he
said.
    "Certainly," Colfax said, shifting the satchel to his
other hand and following.
"We weren't expecting you so soon," Sisko said
over his shoulder. "Admiral Dulev said thirty-two
hours."
    "We made excellent time," Colfax said. "I had the
Excalibur's captain shave every second off the run
that she could. You know how important speed is
here. I'm sorry to have held up your away team this
long, but I believe you'll find it necessary."
 "The admiral didn't say much about it."
    He nodded. "We're taking every precaution possi-
ble, in case the changelings are monitoring our sub-
space communications. Now, I'd appreciate it if
you'd call in your away team. I want to brief them as
quickly as possible."
    "Certainly." He paused in the doorway to his office.
"Dax?"
 "I'll get them here," she called.
    "Thanks." Sisko entered his office, then closed the
door behind them. To Colfax he said, "Can I offer you
a drink?"
    "No, thank you," Colfax said. He set his satchel on
a chair, then ran his finger along the seam and peeled
it open. "I'm afraid this is only a brief stopover for
me. I'm here to drop off equipment for your away
team, that's all. I trust they're ready to leave?"
    "Their ship is waiting," Sisko said. That was close
enough to true; it would be a matter of hours now
before the last tests were complete. He perched on the
edge of his desk and folded his arms.  "Good," Colfax said.
 The door chirped. "Come," Sisko said.
    Kira, Odo, and Worf filed in. "You wanted to see
us, sir?" Worf asked, his voice low and gravely.
    Sisko indicated his guest. "This is Lieutenant Col-
fax from Admiral Dulev's office. Apparently he has
additional equipment for you."
    "That's right," Dulev said. He pulled a thick metal-
lic belt from the satchel and turned around to face
them. "This is an experimental device which the
Romulans have loaned us specifically for this mission.
It's called a personal cloaker."
    A personal cloaker? Sisko found himself leaning
forward to study the belt. Surely it couldn't be a
cloaking device; it was far too small. He frowned a
bit, studying a series of silver boxes connected with
mesh links. It had a small control panel on the front,
he noted, which appeared to consist of a simple power
readout and an on/off switch.
  Odo asked, "What exactly does it do?"
    "I'm getting to that." Colfax snapped the belt
around his waist and looked up. "As the name sug-
gests, it's a variant on the cloaking devices which
conceal Romulan ships in space. It creates a distor-
tion wave which surrounds your body, rendering you
effectively invisible to the naked eye. Watch."
    Colfax activated one of the buttons on the belt's
control panel. The air around him rippled for a
second, and then he faded from view.
    Sisko stood bolt upright, shocked. The security
implications were devastating. With one of these,
someone could walk into the most closely guarded
Federation installation undetected.
    A second later Colfax reappeared. "Simple, yes?"
he said.
    "How many of these things are there?" Odo de-
manded.
    "I've brought two for use in your mission," Colfax
said. "The third one must remain with me. Our
people are working with Romulan scientists to perfect
the devices. They may well offer our first counter to
the advantages offered by the changelings' morphing
abilities."
 "How do they work?" Sisko asked.
    "Simplicity itself," Colfax said. He removed the
belt and laid it flat on the desk so everyone could see
the control panel on the front. "There is an on/off
button and a time readout."
 "A time readout?" Worf asked, frowning.
    Colfax hesitated. "There are problems with the
personal cloakers," he admitted. "They use a fantastic
amount of energy. Our most powerful battery can
only run one for eight minutes."
    Odo seemed to relax a little, Sisko saw, and he knew
why: With only eight minutes of power, it would be
difficult for anyone to use them effectively for sabo-
tage.
    "I know it's not a lot of time," Colfax said, "but it's
one extra advantage you didn't have before. It could
well mean the difference between getting caught and
eluding capture."
    "There is almost something cowardly about hiding
behind invisible shields," Worf said, a little stiffly.
 "Commander Worf," Colfax said, rising and facing
him, "the entire Alpha Quadrant risks subjugation
under the changelings. We will not allow this to
happen--whatever the cost. Honor is one of our least
valuable commodities right now. Is that understood?"
    Worf bristled a little, but nodded. Sisko could tell it
troubled him nonetheless.
    "Good," Colfax said. He drew two more belts from
his satchel and handed one to Kira and one to Worf.
"Wear them under your clothes at all times on this
mission," he said. "I know they're bulky, but they're
the best we can do. And one more thing: If you're in
danger of being caught, or if you exhaust the belts'
power supplies, destroy them. They cannot be
allowed to fall into the enemy's hands." He put the
belt he'd used for his demonstration away. "Any
questions?"
    A little to his surprise, Sisko found he didn't have
any, and neither did anyone else. The personal cloak-
ers seemed straight-forward enough.
    "Good." Colfax smiled and sealed up his satchel. "I
wish you all luck and all success. And now, Captain,"
he said to Sisko, "I've got to get back to my ship."
  Sisko rose. "I'll walk you out," he said.

CHAPTER
        7

Two HOURS LATER, Kira found herself standing next to
Worf on the transporter pad in Ops.  "Energize," O'Brien said.
    Kira tensed a little as the two of them beamed over
to the Progress. She didn't know what to expect, but
she had a feeling in the pit of her stomach that she
wouldn't like it.
    The second she materialized, she sniffed the air as
discreetly as she could, but tasted none of the Galactic
Queen's foul odor. That was one mark in this ship's
favor, she thought, ~ancing around. Beside her, Worf
was doing likewise.
    The Progress had a large oval cabin, with seats for
a pilot and copilot in the front, facing a broad
viewport. The middle section of the ship had fifteen
rows of seats that could recline into beds. Behind
them, half screened off by panels, stood the warp
engines and life-support panels. The only thing lack-
ing seemed to be a transporter. Hopefully they
wouldn't need one.
    Right now DS9 hung before them, visible through
the forward viewport, spinning ever so slowly. There
were starships attached to every single port on the
docking ring, Kira noted, and to two of the three tall
docking pylons jutting over the station. She hadn't
seen the station this busy since the Bajor's rogue
moon had passed by several years before. Tourists and
sightseers had flocked aboard to see the spectacle.
    Chief O'Brien and Odo materialized a few meters
away in a shimmer of light. She forced her attention
from DS9 and walked back to join them.
    "All systems check out, Major," O'Brien said with
a broad grin. "She's ready to go. Maximum warp
six-point-two, with a maximum safe range of about
two hundred and fifty light-years."
  "You're sure the nacetles won't fall off?." she said.
    "Major..." His crestfallen expression betrayed his
disappointment in her lack of faith.
    "Okay, okay," she said, laughing a little. "I'm sure
everything's fine. But I'll run my own diagnostics, if
you don't mind."
  "I'd be disappointed if you didn't," he said.
    Kira returned to the pilot's seat and brought the
diagnostic tests online. Quickly she ran them through
their paces and found that O'Brien hadn't
exaggerated--everything did indeed check out at a
hundred percent. There wasn't so much as an uneven
flicker in the power couplings.
    "You're a miracle worker," she said. "I never would
have believed it."
    He blushed a little. "Well, ! had help," he said. "I
put eight people on it."
    Kira began to nod. It would do. For the first time,
she thought this mad plan might actually work. And
with the Romulan personal cloakers...  
"Any questions?" O'Brien asked.
    "None," Kira said. "We'll leave in half an hour.
Just give us time to change into civilian clothes and
we'll be set."
    "Great. I have one more thing to show you all first,
though," he said. "If you'll follow me?" Turning, he
headed aft.
    She accompanied him to the screened off engine
area. There, he paused by the back wall.
    "This is it," he said, indicating battered, stained
durasteel panels.
 "What?" Worf said, wandering closer. "A wall?"
    "No, I see the seams," Odo said, moving forward
and looking closely. "Very ingenious, Chief."
    Worf stepped forward and ran his hands over the
panels. "I see nothing," he said.
    Kira too peered closely at it, but couldn't see much
more than durasteel plating. "Are you sure?" she said
to Odo.
    O'Brien was grinning. "It takes a pro to spot it," he
said.
    Odo snorted. "Or someone who's been watching
Quark too long," he said.
    O'Brien stepped forward, pushed in a hidden catch,
then slid the panel to one side, revealing a compart-
ment large enough to hide a person.
    "In case of trouble," he said, "I put in two secret
compartments. You can hide in them. They're fully
screened, so if someone scans the ship, they won't
pick up life signs."
 "Aren't you forgetting Odo?" Kira said.
    "It's hard for a scanner to pick up a changeling at
the best of times," Odo said. "If I turn myself into
something inanimate, they won't spot me, either."
    She nodded. O'Brien seemed to have thought of
everything. Again she felt a surge of optimism. This
mission really could succeed, she told herself.
    "Then let's move," she said. "The sooner we get
going, the sooner we get back." She tapped her badge.
"Major Kira to DS9. Four to beam over."

    Odo beamed back to DS9 with the others, but while
Kira and Worf went to change into civilian clothes, he
returned to his office. All the security details for the
peace conference had already been set, but he wanted
to take a last look at them. This would be the first
major event on the station that he'd missed in all his
years as head of security, and he didn't want anything
to happen while he was gone. Nobody was indispensa-
ble, of course, but he liked feeling needed. Since he'd
rejected his own kind, it gave him a measure of
comfort knowing there was a place he would always
be welcome. He wouldn't allow anything to jeopar-
dize that. He wanted a home to return to when this
mission ended.
    His door opened, and Captain Sisko stepped in
with a large square box in his hands.
    Odo rose. "Captain," he said. "What brings you
here?"
     "This," Sisko said, indicating the box. Odo looked
it over, but it appeared innocuous. "A bomb?" he asked.
    "A peace initiative," Sisko said. "It contains a
holographic recording inviting the Founders to a
peace conference. If you're caught in the Gamma
Quadrant, it might buy you some extra time. At the
very least it gives you a legitimate excuse to be there."
He smiled a little too thinly, Odo thought. "And, of
course, there is always the chance your people will
choose to take me up on the offer... remote as it
seems now."
    "Very remote," Odo said dryly. He couldn't imag-
ine anything more surprising when it came to the
changelings; they had stated their intention of con-
quering the Alpha Quadrant quite clearly. "But ! will,
of course, pass it on... should the opportunity
arise."
    "That's all I ask." Sisko set the box on the edge of
Odo's desk, then turned toward the door. Almost as
an afterthought, he added, "Take care of them, Odo. I
want my people back alive. And that includes you."
 "Of course," Odo said, straightening a little. Sisko
was depending on him. Sisko needed him. "I'll do my
best."

    Kira studied her reflection in the full-length mirror
next to her closet: a dark blue one-piece suit, with a
stripe of silver across the left shoulder and a splash of
gold at the wrists. The sleeves flared a little more
widely than she liked, allowing two silver bracelets to
show, but she could live with that. What she missed
was her earring; the right side of her head looked odd
without it, and she felt a little off-balance. Imagina-
tion of course, since the earring didn't weigh much,
but still, it didn't look or feel like her, like Major Kira
Nerys the Bajoran, without it.
    She turned to the side and studied her profile. She
looked very different, she decided. Nobody on Bajor
would recognize her now. Not even--
    A loud series of electronic beeps interrupted her
thoughts. "Come in," she called.
    The door whisked open. Captain Sisko stepped in
and did a double take.
    "What do you think?" Kira asked, turning around
once for him.
  "You look quite different, Major," he said.
    "Good different or bad different?" she asked with a
wicked grin. She'd see if he'd fall into that trap.
    "Like a Gamma Quadrant native," he said with a
laugh. "The Maquis ship will be here soon, and I
wanted to wish you luck before you go." 
 "Thank you," she said seriously.
  "Is there anything else you want to bring with
you?" he asked. "Any tools or weapons or...
anything?"
    Kira indicated her pack, which sat on the table by
the door. It held everything from emergency food
rations to high-tensor cord to extra power packs for
their phasers. "Worf and I already went through
that," she said. "I think we're set for anything we
come across." I hope, she mentally added.
    "Take care of yourself, Major," he said somberly.
"I'm counting on you to bring everyone else back
alive."
    Kira swallowed. "Yes, sir," she said, and she felt a
sudden flush of pride. He was counting on her. She
knew she couldn't let him down.
 Then he nodded once and left.
    She'd do her best to make sure she lived up to his
expectations. She glanced at the mirror one last time,
picked up her pack, and headed for the transporter in
Ops. Time to get going. The sooner they left, the
sooner they'd be back.

    Worf shouldered his pack and started for the door.
This was just a mission like any other, he told himself.
They would go, get the informant and his data, and
come back. Never mind that he had to dress in a
loose-fitting gray tunic, with a hood that could be
pulled up to cover his head; the importance of the
mission far outweighed his own comfort and fashion
sense. But he'd still take a good uniform any day.
    As his door opened, he stopped short. Captain
Sisko stood outside, poised to knock.
"Captain," he said, stepping back. "Won't you...
come in7"
    "Thank you, Commander," Sisko said, stepping
forward. "I've only known you a short while," he said
as the door closed behind him, "but I've developed a
deep respect for your talents."
    Worf felt his chest puff out a little. "Thank you,
sir," he said. Sisko was not a human given to extrava-
gant praise, he knew, and coming from him, this
meant a lot.
    "Although Major Kira is in charge of this mission,
you're still the ranking Starfleet officer. I wanted you
to know that I'm counting on you to make sure our
interests are fully protected."
    Worf nodded. That much went without saying. He
intended to give one hundred percent of his energy
and attention to making sure they succeeded.
    "And..." Sisko went on. "Good luck. Bring every-
one back alive, Worf."
    "Thank you, sir," Worf said. He'd do his best. Even
if it killed him.

    Sisko accompanied Worf to Ops, then watched as
Dax beamed first the Klingon and Kira, then Odo
over to the Progress using the two-man transporter.
    He had nodded to each of them, and he saw how
each took it personally to heart. Pep talks had never
come easily to him, but this time he'd meant every
word. He was depending on them to make it back.
Succeed or fail, he wanted them home safely.
  Dax joined him and leaned on his shoulder. "You
have the gloomiest expression on your face that I've
ever seen," she said. "They'll be back. Let them do
their jobs while you do yours. Come on, I'll buy you a
drink at Quark's. I hear O'Brien and Bashir are
planning another rematch in their ongoing darts
tournament."
 "Maybe later, old man."
 "It's a date. I'll collect you at six."
    He gazed over at one of the monitors, which
showed the Progress slowly accelerating away from the
station. Suddenly the wormhole opened before the
ship like a dazzling blue whirlpool in space--and just
as suddenly it was gone, the Progress along with it.
 "Stay well, my friends," he murmured. "Stay well."


CHAPTER
       8

AN HOUR LATER, the door to his office beeped. Sisko
sighed and looked up from his computer terminal.
Just as he was starting to get a handle on this week's
reports... just as he was starting to forget that he'd
just sent three of his people on what might turn out to
be a suicide mission by burying himself in routine
work... reality had to intrude.  "Come," he called.
    Dax stuck her head in the office, and Sisko relaxed a
little. It was hard to be annoyed by your best friend.
"Yes, Dax?" he said.
    "I thought you'd want to know, Benjamin," she
said. "The Maquis ship just docked."
    "Thank you," he said, tabbing off the screen and
rising. "Have you told Dr. Bashir yet?"
  "I've already alerted him." Dax matched his stride
as Sisko headed for the turbolift. "He's going to meet
us there."
    "Us?" Sisko shot her a puzzled glance. She hadn't
expressed any interest in meeting the other delegates;
she had to have an ulterior motive. He knew her
symbiont well enough to realize that.
    She smiled. "Well, they were a little nervous about
coming here. This is a Federation base, and when the
Excalibur showed up, it really spooked them. I gave
them my word that this wasn't a trap, so I thought I'd
be there to make sure everything goes smoothly."
    That was more like it. But something still seemed to
be bothering her. As the lift doors shut, he asked, "Is
something else concerning you?"
    "Well, yes, now that you mention it," she said.
"Benjamin, you've looked better, and you seem dis-
tracted. Is there anything I can do to help?"
    Sisko forced a smile. "I'm just feeling a little
overwhelmed. There's too much going on at once."
    "You mean between the mission to the Gamma
Quadrant and the peace conference."
    Those, and a thousand other things, Sisko thought.
He nodded.
    "Don't worry about Kira and Worf. You know they
have a good chance to make it out," Dax said. "Those
personal ctoakers are enough to get them out of
anything. And Odo is a Founder. The Jem'Hadar
practically fall to the floor and worship him whenever
they see him."
    Sisko nodded. "Yes, but I can't help but feel I
should have gone myself."
 "They volunteered."
    "I know--and I know my accompanying them
wouldn't have helped."
    "And you are needed at this peace summit," Dax
went on. "Put your energies where they'll do the most
good."
    "Like here," Sisko said with a quick grin. Some-
how, she always knew what to say to him. Sometimes
he thought she knew him better than he knew himself.
  "Like here," she said firmly.
    "Dax, sometimes I think you should have been a
psychiatrist."
 She made a face. "That's so boring."
    The doors opened. Sisko pulled his dress uniform a
trifle straighter. "Let's get it over with," he said.

    Philip Twofeathers sucked in a deep breath and
tried to hide his growing nervousness. His wide, flat
face with its prominent nose, dark eyes, and deep
reddish brown skin told of his Native American
heritage more than his conservative gray one-piece
suit, and for an instant he almost wished he'd worn
something more comfortable. His people--
descendants of the Cherokee--had settled a frontier
planet called Dorvanto twenty years previously, and
they had gone back to their people's old ways. He
would have felt more comfortable in a leather vest,
breechcloth, and moccasins. It had been many years
since he'd worn such confining clothing. Unlike the
Starfleet vessels, Maquis ships had no stuffy dress
codes.
    Why they had selected him, he still didn't quite
understand. They had said it was because of his
honesty, his dedication, and his commitment. Every
other member of the Maquis felt the same way,
though, he knew. They wouldn't be fighting an impos-
sible guerrilla war against an overwhelmingly superi-
or opponent like Cardassia if they didn't.
    He glanced over at Myriam Kravitz beside him.
She, too, was from the Maquis, but it was her three
years of legal training at Starfleet Academy--she left
to join the Maquis when the Federation ceded her
Homeworld, too, to Cardassia in a peace treaty--that
bought her a place at the negotiating table.
    The airlocks slowly matched pressure between their
ship and Deep Space Nine, and then their hatch
opened. Twofeathers saw a gigantic blood-red cog
slowly roll to one side. It was the space station's
hatch, he realized suddenly, disconcerted.
 "You first," Myriam whispered.
    He nodded reassuringly to her, keeping his face
impassive, then proceeded down the short passage
and out into the docking ring. There were three
humanoids waiting to greet them: one tall, imposing-
looking black man in a command uniform, with his
head shaved and a short beard; a Trill woman, her
straight black hair tied behind her head, revealing the
patterning of her spots on her forehead and neck; and
another human, this one with short wavy black hair.
  "Philip Twofeathers?" the Trill asked.
  "Yes," he said, his voice deep and booming.
    "I am Lieutenant Commander Dax," she said. "We
spoke earlier."
  "Yes," he said.
    "I am Captain Sisko," the black man said, nodding
politely. "This is Dr. Bashir. On behalf of the Fed-
eration, I would like to welcome you aboard DS9,
Ambassadors."
    "Thank you," Twofeathers said. "This is my associ-
ate, Myriam Kravitz."
    "Pleased to make your acquaintance, Captain
Sisko," she said.
    He nodded to her. "We have one security test
before we admit you to the station," he went on. "A
DNA test to verify that you are, indeed, who you say
you are."
    "My DNA patterns are not on file with Starfleet,"
Twofeathers said. Was this some kind of trick? He
didn't like the sound of it.
    "It's to make sure you're human and not change-
lings trying to infiltrate the peace process," Bashir
said quickly. "Anything which brings stability to this
quadrant is against their best interests."
    "But what else can you do with my DNA once you
have it?" Twofeathers said. He shook his head. No,
this would not do at all. "This is against all diplomat-
ic protocols as I understand them. I refuse."
    "Then," Sisko said, "you can get right back on your
ship. Go back to the Maquis. Tell them that you
single-handedly derailed the entire peace process be-
cause you didn't want to prove to us that you are
human."
      "We don't do anything with the DNA except scan it
 to make sure you're human," Bashir said.  "Use a tricorder."
    "The changelings can fool even a tricorder," he
said.
  Twofeathers snorted. Paranoid fools.
    Kravits stepped forward. "My DNA is already on
file with Starfleet," she said. "Test me."
    Bashir held out the box he was holding. "Place your
hand on top," he said. "It's painless. You won't feel a
thing."
    Twofeathers watched, feeling his heart start to beat
a little faster with concern, as Myriam did what she
was told.
    "Scanning," the box said. "Subject DNA passes.
Subject is human."
    Myriam stepped back, flexing her fingers and star-
ing at her hand. The breath caught in Twofeathers's
throat--was she all right?
    Suddenly she looked at him and nodded. "Do it,"
she said. "I don't see any harm."
    The Federation officers looked relieved. Twofeath-
ers studied them a second, then nodded his assent.
They had DNA on file from many members of the
Maquis, he thought, and it had done them little good
in the past. He didn't see how it could hurt now,
either.
    "Very well," he said and stretched out his hand. A
second later the box announced that he, too, was
human.
 "This way," Sisko said. "Perhaps you'd like a tour
of the station before we show you to your quarters?"
  "Yes," Twofeathers said. "I have heard of a place
  here called... Quark's?... which a number of
  friends recommend."
    Sisko blanched a bit at that. "Quark's," he said,
sounding completely nonplussed.
    Twofeathers folded his arms, tilted back his head,
and stared impassively up at him. "Quark's," he
repeated.
    Lieutenant Dax smiled. "Why don't you let me
show them around," she suggested to Sisko.
    "Very well," he said. He smiled briefly at Twofeath-
ers and Kravitz. "I leave you in Dax's capable hands."
As he turned to go, Twofeathers overheard him whis-
per, "Just keep them out of trouble, okay, old man?"
    Old man? Twofeathers frowned in bewilderment.
What kind of nickname was that for a woman?
    But Dax merely smiled and hooked her arms
through theirs, leading them toward the turbolift.
"One of the station's many attractions is Quark's
Place," she said. "Julian here is an excellent darts
player--do you know the game?mand I believe he's
going to be in a tournament tonight."
     "Darts," Twofeathers said. It was a game he'd
 always enjoyed as a boy, though he preferred throwing
 knives these days. "Aren't those similar to tiny ar-
 rows?" he said, trying to sound naive.
     "Very similar, actually," Dr. Bashir said from be-
 hind him. "I'd be glad to give you some pointers, if
 you'd like."

    "I think I would," Twofeathers said. A tournament
might be a good way to make a little money, he
thought. He smiled inwardly. It was rather amusing,
actually, that Federation losses would go straight into
the Maquis war fund.
    But he couldn't let himself forget the other reason
he'd come. There was a lot of war surplus available on
Bajor... arms and equipment the Maquis desper-
ately needed if they were going to win the fight with
Cardassia. Peace negotiations were fine, but knowing
the Cardassians and the Federation, he had little hope
of success. So while he could operate here in the open,
he intended to take advantage of his every opportuni-
ty. Rumor said that Quark could get anything you
wanted, for a price ....


CHAPTER
        9

AFTER ^ BUMPY ride through the wormhole, Kira
brought the Progress into the Gamma Quadrant.
Instantly she ran a long-range scan... and picked
up nothing. Not a sign of a ship, Jem'Hadar or
otherwise. That had always amazed her. If this were
her quadrant, she would have put some kind of
watchers here to monitor traffic through the worm-
hole. But then, if the changelings had a weakness, it
had to be their cocky attitude. They felt they were
born to rule the universe. Present company ex-
cluded, of course.
    "We're safe," she said. "No sign of Jem'Hadar
ships."
  "Excellent," Worf said from behind her.
    Kira punched in the coordinates and set the auto-
pilot. The ship accelerated smoothly on a new
bearing... the Daborat system, fifty-seven light-
years distant.
    "Since there's no sign of trouble," Odo said, 'TII
leave you to your piloting."
    "We'll call you if anything comes up," Kira prom-
ised.
    When she glanced back, she saw Odo transforming
into a shining golden glob. He oozed across the floor,
then one end arched up and fountained into a bucket
sitting on top of one of the padded seats in the
passenger section. She didn't know how he managed
to fit all of himself into such a small space, but
somehow he did.
    "I would never be able to get used to that," Worf
said, dropping into the copilot's seat beside her. "It
looks so--confining."
     She swiveled around to face him. His knobby
forehead was furrowed as he stared back toward Odo.
  "I'm sure he finds it safe and comfortable."
  Worf grunted, then turned around to look at her.
  "Since we're going to be flying for most of the day,"
  she said, "this seems like a good chance to get to know
  one another better. Tell me about yourself, Com-
  mander. What's it like being the first Klingon in
  Starfleet?"
    Worf sighed and rolled his eyes. "That is the
question everyone in the universe seems to ask," he
said.
 "And you're sick of it."
 He nodded.
 "I understand. I can't tell you how many times I've
been asked by Bajorans what it's like to serve under a
Federation captain." "Oh?"
    Kira thought she saw a spark of interest in his eyes.
Perhaps that was the key to winning his friendship,
she thought--finding common ground. But wasn't
that the case with all sentient life-forms throughout
the galaxy? Every life-form except Ferengi, she
thought. They didn't have friends. They had cus-
tomers.
  She shrugged. "It's a living."
    "A living... I will remember that answer," Worf
said. He seemed to relax a bit.
    "I was raised by human parents," Worf said, "so I
grew up with Starfleet. Had my Klingon parents lived,
I would never have joined." He jerked his chin back
the way they had come. "I would probably be with my
brothers now, helping to seize Cardassian territory."
  "You don't sound thrilled with that idea."
  "It is a living."
Kira did a double take. Was that a sense of humor?
"I always used to think I'd make a great farmer,"
she said. "As a child, I dreamed of running through
the fields, smelling the sun-ripened plants, feeling the
sun on my back and the soil between my toes. I
sometimes wonder if that's what I'd be doing today, if
it weren't for the Cardassian occupation. I might be a
mother with four or five children, running my farm,
living off the land..."
    "I cannot picture you as a mother," Worf said. "Or
as a farmer."

Kira sighed. "It's hard, but a part of me still wants
it."
    Then Worf began to tell her of life on the Enterprise
before its destruction, of his son Alexander and his
friends Data and Geordi LaForge and Deanna Troi
and she found herself actually enjoying his company.
Secretly she had been half dreading the long flight
with him. Now it seemed it might be more pleasant
than she would have thought possible.
    Four hours later, as Worf and Kira were comparing
their encounters with the life-form named Q, alarms
began to ring. Instantly Kira swiveled her seat around
and disengaged the autopilot.
    Worf said, "We're being scanned. There's a vessel
approaching quickly from behind."
    "I see it," Kira muttered. Then she looked up. "It's
not on an intercept course. And they're no longer
scanning us." She reached over and switched off the
alarm. Silence flooded through the cabin. Kira found
her heart racing. She took a deep breath to calm
herself. It sounded like a gulp.
    "We do not have weapon systems aboard," Worf
pointed out. "Perhaps we did not register as a threat."
    "Or perhaps they're smugglers watching out for
Jem'Hadar patrols," Kira said. She continued to
watch the ship on the monitor until it left scanner
range. Only then did she return control of the Progress
to the autopilot.
 It was going to be a long trip, she realized.



CHAPTER
      lO

QUARK'S BAR WAS packed. Jammed toe to claw to wing,
O'Brien thought a little gloomily as he surveyed the
hundreds of beings massed around the bar, crowding
the gambling tables, and generally mobbing the place.
He was wedged in at the end of the bar between a pair
of Bajorans who were noisily arguing about some
aspect of the Cardassian occupation and a grizzled
old Taltic whose iridescent blue-green scales stank
from too many months locked aboard a starship. You
could always tell a Harden space traveller spacer by
his odor, O'Brien thought. Half the tramp freighters
working this sector seemed to make DS9 a port of call
these days, and he would have bet that not one of
them carried proper bathing facilities anywhere
aboard. The Taltic, nursing a bottle of Qualian sea-
brandy, was typical. And he didn't seem to be
going anywhere soon. In fact, the only place that
wasn't packed was the dartboard area at the back,
stuck under the walkway to the holosuites.
    O'Brien sucked in an angry breath as one of the
Bajorans accidentally jostled him, almost spilling his
mug of Tirellian stout. Bloody hell, would Bashir
never show up? Had the doctor completely forgotten
their dart game?
    Taking another sip of the stout, he winced and tried
to catch Quark's eye. The stuff was vile, no doubt
about it, and he regretted letting Quark talk him into
trying it. Good old-fashioned lager, that's what he was
in the mood for tonight. "That and a dart game," he
muttered to himself.
    Quark was too busy piling orders onto Rom's tray
to notice O'Brien. Now that Nog was off at Starfleet
Academy, Quark seemed to be perpetually short-
handed, O'Brien thought, and the Ferengi was just too
cheap to hire another waiter. O'Brien took another
sip of the stout. It had a certain afterkick, he decided,
which wasn't half bad. He could get used to it.
    The Bajorans jostled him again, this time spilling
half his stout across the bar.
 "Watch it," he said sharply.
    The Bajoran glanced back at him. "You talking to
me, human?" he demanded.
    "That's right," O'Brien said, standing to face him.
"You knocked my drink over."
    "Maybe you shouldn't sit on top of me," the
Bajoran countered rudely. "Maybe you owe me an
apology, Earther."
    O'Brien sucked in an angry breath. "I'11 have you
know," he began hotly.
    Suddenly Quark was there, patting his arm sooth-
ingly. "Easy there, Chief," he said, leaning forward to
refill O'Brien's mug from a pitcher. "I can't afford any
more murder investigations this month. It cost me a
fortune paying off the families of the two Caxtonians
you killed in that brawl last week."
    O'Brien blinked in puzzlement. Caxtonians were
huge, hairy humanoids with great natural piloting
skills but few social graces. He knew better than
tackling one in a fight. He'd certainly never killed a
pair of them in a brawl.
  "Two... Caxtonians?" the Bajoran said.
    Quark nodded seriously and lowered his voice to a
conspiratorial whisper. "Oh, yes, O'Brien here, he's
an expert in Klingon martial arts. You should have
seen it. Ten seconds after he waded into the fight, he'd
decapitated one and shattered the other's skull with a
flying kick." He shook his head. "I've never seen
anything like it."
    Catching on, O'Brien bared his teeth and snarled a
bit, the way he'd once seen Worf do it when Quark
had pissed him off.
    The Bajoran paled. "My apologies for spilling your
drink," he said quickly. "Put it on my tab," he told
Quark. Then he quickly gathered up his own glass and
hurried off toward the gambling tables with his friend.
    "Thanks," O'Brien said, leaning on the bar, "but I
can take care of myself, Quark."
  "Nothing to do with you," Quark said, setting up a
new batch of glasses. "They were too busy arguing to
drink. I was just clearing space for paying customers."
    A pair of long-necked Igrids, tall and graceful,
almost birdlike creatures covered in blue feathers, but
with six tentacles instead of arms, quickly took the
vacant seats. Quark gave them a hideously toothy but
sincere-seeming smile.
 "What can I get you ladies?" he asked.
 Ladies? O'Brien thought. How could he tell?
     The two Igrids tittered drunkenly, tentacles slap-
ping on the bar's counter. "Mooth!" one said.
 "Make mine a double!" said the other.
 "Mine, too!" said the first.
    "Coming right up," Quark said, and he began
mixing a fluorescent green concoction in a pitcher for
them.
     "Let me know if Julian shows up," O'Brien said,
sliding off his stool. "I'11 be practicing."
 "You got it," Quark said.
    O'Brien headed for the dartboard, weaving his way
between tables. As he went, he became conscious of
the fact that quite a few Bajorans had grown silent
and were staring at him. He swallowed a little nerv-
ously, not liking the attention.
    "He killed five Klingons bare-handed last week!" he
overheard one saying to another. "Five!"
    It seemed the rumor mill had started spreading
Quark's tale. O'Brien shook his head. All he wanted
was a quiet game of darts. He didn't want a reputa-
tion as some kind of Captain Kirk.
"Chiefl" he heard a familiar voice shout.
Glancing toward the door, he spotted Bashir there
along with Dax and a pair of humans he didn't know.
He grinned and waved toward the dartboard, and
Bashir gave him the "okay" sign. Now O'Brien
grinned happily. He had a feeling Bashir's lucky
streak--three winning nights in a row--was about to
come to an end.

    Dax sensed a hesitation in Myriam Kravitz as they
stood in the doorway of Quark's place. A pair of
inebriated Denuvians staggered past them, reeking of
synthale, and Kravitz took a quick step out of their
way. Her face showed distaste.
    "You said you wanted to learn darts," Bashir was
saying to Twofeathers. "O'Brien there is a true master
of the sport. Taught me everything I know, in fact."
  "I would like to meet him, then," Twofeathers said.
    "Follow me." Bashir started forward, then paused.
"Coming, Dax?"
    Dax glanced at Ambassador Kravitz, then shook
her head. "Not tonight. I'd like to find a quieter place.
How about you, Ambassador?" "I'11 join you," she said.
    "Great," Dax said. She gave Bashir a bright smile.
"Next time."
    Turning, she followed the Denuvians out. They
headed up the Promenade toward their crossover
bridge... probably planning to spend the night on
their ship, she decided.
    "Is it always so crowded there?" the ambassador
asked, following her.
    "Quark's? No, not usually. It's busy because of the
negotiations."
 She looked puzzled. "Aren't they private?"
    "Of course. But there are quite a few Bajorans here
to protest the Cardassian ambassador's presence. So
the crews of the ships that brought them are here,
waiting to bring them back. And there are interested
observers from the Federation and, unless I miss my
guess, from quite a few of the Maquis Homeworlds.
Plus there's the normal station traffic. DS9 can get
pretty full when something big is happening."
  "Ah," she said.
    "What kind of food do you want? There's a
Klingon restaurant, but it's not for timid palates."
    "I don't think so," she said. "I've heard about
Klingon meals. I don't think I could eat something
that's still moving. i'm more of a nice matzo ball soup
type."
    "In that case," Dax said, steering her toward the far
side of the Promenade, "may I recommend the public
replicators?"

    Twofeathers deliberately missed the bulls-eye for
the third straight time. He found it almost painful, in
a way, to deliberately lose a contest. It went against
his every instinct.
    "Close," Bashir said. "You're catching on." He
moved forward and removed the darts from the
target.
"I need another drink," Twofeathers said.
"Charge whatever you want to the station's ac-
count," Bashir said. He returned to the throwing line,
took aim, and let fly. The dart struck the tiny red
circle at the center of the target: a perfect bulls-eye.
The engineer--what was his name, O'Brien?--let out
a loud groan.
  "May I bring you something?"
    "I'm still fine," Bashir said, throwing his second
dart. It landed a hairsbreadth to the left of the first:
another perfect shot. The doctor hadn't exaggerated,
Twofeathers thought. He was an excellent dart player.
  "I'm fine, too," O'Brien said, lifting his mug.
  Twofeathers smiled and nodded pleasantly. Now
  was his chance, he thought, to make contact with
  Quark. He'd spotted the Ferengi behind the bar when
  he came in.
    Weaving between the full tables, he reached the bar
and pushed his way up to the front. Quark bustled
over, looking harried.
 "What can I get you?" he asked.
    "Synthale... and a Mark III attack cruiser," Two-
feathers said. "More, if you can get them."
    Quark studied him. "Now where," he said, "would
I get a Mark III attack cruiser?" he said.
    "Bajoran military surplus. I know you have con-
tacts."
    Quark leaned forward. "How do I know you're not
Federation security?" he asked in a voice barely
audible over the background roar of the crowd. Two-
feathers found himself straining to hear.
    "The Grand Nagus's second cousin, Goff, sent me
to you. He thought you might have a line on Bajoran
war surplus. And by the way, he says you still owe him
fourteen strips of gold-pressed tatinum. Plus a ten
percent commission for referring me to you."
    "That sounds like GotT, always kidding." Quark
laughed, but Twofeathers saw the greed in his eyes.
"How long will you be here?" the Ferengi asked.
    "As long as the peace negotiations take." Twofeath-
ers leaned back. "I'm one of the Maquis ambassa-
dors."
    Quark nodded subtly. "Here's your synthale," he
said, putting a mug on the counter and filling it from a
pitcher. "I'll be in touch."
    Twofeathers nodded, accepted his drink, and
headed back for the dart game. Quark was hooked, he
knew. Now it was all a matter of playing everything
out to its all too inevitable conclusion... victory.
 He began to smile.

    Bashir aimed his last dart carefully, threw, and
knew the second he released that it was another
perfect shot. Sure enough, it hit the target dead center.
"Yes!" he cried. "Game, set, and match!"
    O'Brien groaned again. "That's quite a streak you
have going," he complained as he went to retrieve the
darts.
    Bashir smiled. "Your game's off tonight," he said.
"Is something bothering you?"
 "I had a run-in with some Bajorans at the bar," he
said, and then he quickly explained what had hap-
pened. "They've been staring at me ever since."
  "Don't worry, Chief, it'll blow over."
    "I certainly hope so." He handed three darts to
Bashir, then stepped up to the throwing line.
    "You," a low voice growled. "You, the human."
Bashir glanced back and found a Caxtonian ap-
proaching. It had a decidedly unfriendly look on its
face, and he swallowed uneasily. He followed the
alien's gaze... to Chief O'Brien. "Uh, Chief..." he said softly.
 "Not while I'm throwing, Julian," O'Brien said.
 "I really think--" he began.
    The Caxtonian knocked a chair out of the way and
continued its inexorable advance. They weren't the
brightest of beings, Bashir knew, but they made good
pilots. They also never bathed, Bashir realized, as the
smell of this one reached him: a sour-sweet reek of
animal musk and sweat and decades of grime.
    "--that you should look over here," he went on,
still backing away. He tapped his badge. Better call for
help now, he thought, before things got ugly. "Bashir
to security," he said. "There's going to be a riot at
Quark's. Hurry!"
    O'Brien threw his dart. It not only missed the bulls-
eye, it nearly missed the dartboard altogether, hitting
a 5 point area in the outer ring.
    "Look what you made me do!" O'Brien com-
plained, turning. "So what is it, Julian, that's so damn
important--"
  "Human!" The Caxtonian seized O'Brien's tunic,
heaved, and in one motion sent him flying ten meters,
across two tables, and into a knot of humans playing
cards at a table. Poker chips flew in all directions.
Players began to curse and pick themselves up.
    Bashir saw shock on O'Brien's face and winced a bit
in sympathy. That had to hurt, he thought. Luckily
O'Brien didn't seem to have any broken bones.
    "For my dead brothers!" the Caxtonian screamed.
Then he headed for O'Brien again, shoving everyone
and everything out of his way. Men and women began
pushing and shoving one another in their haste to
escape.
    "Revenge!" the Caxtonian roared. "I kill you!"
Clearly, Bashir thought, he had believed Quark's wild
rumor.
    Half a second later, the whole bar exploded with
fists, flying chairs, and angry screams. Bashir saw
O'Brien scrambling out of the Caxtonian's way, then
a Bajoran leaped on the engineer's back. They van-
ished beneath a heap of bodies.
    Bashir dove for cover. No sense getting hurt, he
thought. He ducked as a half-empty bottle of
Romutan ale came flying past and smashed to shards
on the wall behind him. He had a feeling half the
people here would need his medical services soon
enough. How long till security arrived to break things
up?


CHAPTER
      11

AN ALARM SOUNDED aboard the Progress, and Odo
returned to full consciousness with a jolt. What had
happened? Jem 'Hadar?
    He poured himself up from the pail in a golden
stream and allowed himself to coalesce into his usual
humanoid form.
    "What's wrong?" he demanded. He hurried for-
ward to gaze out the front viewport. Stars blurred into
lines around them from the distortion of their warp
field. He didn't see anything out of the ordinary, but
then he was a security officer, not a pilot.
    "We've got trouble," Kira called from the pilot's
seat.
  "What sort of trouble