Star Trek: Deep Space 9
# 18
Saratoga

HISTORIAN'S NOTE

The events in Saratoga occur between the third and
fourth seasons of Star Trek: Deep Space Nine.

Prologue

OLD FRIENDS, THOUGHT Pernon Obahr. You come to
know them as you know yourself, to love them, to rely
on them. You allow yourself to believe they will never
let you down.
    And yet, in the course of time, even the oldest
friend may betray you. It was a fact of life, he
mused--not only on Bajor, but on any world in the
great, star-spanning cosmos.
    Pernon stood on the highest balcony of the highest
building in Karvis and followed the curve of the
glistening fiver with his gaze. On its near bank, a few
kilometers north of the city, a half-dozen large gray
water pumps worked with the power and perserver-
ance of prehistoric animals.
    It was a good thing, too. Thanks to the pumps,
some thirty percent of the river's volume was redi-
rected through a channel that bisected the city. At
the other end of the channel, the river water fanned
out along a steep incline, eventually spilling into the
sea.
    Were the pumps not there, the city would have been
washed away long ago. If that had happened, Pernon
and his family would have been left penniless, desti-
tute, like a great many other Bajorans at the time.
Hence, his abiding love for the machines, a love
shared in full by his fellow Karvisians.
    But circumstances change, he thought. All manner
of things decay. And what a man thought was solid as a
rock in his youth turns out to have been anchored in
shifting sands.
    The words were those of Inartha Dor, one of
Bajor's greatest poets before the Occupation. But they
fit the situation, Pernon told himself--fit it as a hand
fits a well-made glove.
    After three decades, the pumps were beginning to
failmnot because they were structurally unsound, for
they had been given a good deal of attention over the
years. No, the machines themselves were not the
problem.
    It was the power source that made them run. That
was the problem. And if it were not solved, Karvis
would eventually be destroyed.
    Pernon sighed. As a youth, he had seen the birth of
the pumps. He had witnessed the arrival of the
Cardassian architects and the terrain engineers, the
excavation specialists and the builders. He had
watched the ground vehicles converge on the river-
bank day after day, bringing all kinds of construction
devices and raw materials.
    Of course, for the Cardassians, the pumping station
was a bandage on a self-inflicted wound. To obtain
cheap power farther north, they had meddled with the
river's tributaries. The result had been a massive
increase in volume and several bad floods the follow-
ing spring.
    This was not pleasing to the Gul responsible for the
area--a scaly-necked festival pole of a man named
Divok. After all, it was Divok's head that would roll if
the problem were not corrected somehow.
    The point of the occupation had been to exploit
Bajor's resources with a minimum of effort. Wiping
out a fair-sized city was not part of the plan, nor did
the Cardassian authorities wish to deal with addition-
al backlash.
    There was already a resistance movement brewing.
Why fuel it any more than they had to?
    Even as a boy, Pernon had hated the Cardassians as
much as any Bajoran. He had detested them with
every drop of blood in his body, with every muscle
and every bone. Had he seen the pumps as something
Cardassian, he would certainly have hated them as
well.
    But right from the start, he saw the lack of enthusi-
asm in the building of the things. The invaders had
fitted the pieces together methodically, as if they
themselves were nothing more than automatons.
There was no joy in the project for them.
    And even when they were finished, the Cardassians
seemed only to tolerate the machines as a necessary
evil. That, as much as anything else, made Pernon see
the pumps as something Bajoran. "Obahr? Is that you?"
    Pernon turned at the sound of the familiar female
voice. As he watched, his friend emerged from the
shadows of the room behind him.
    "Nerys," he said, glad for the opportunity to speak
her name. "What's it been? Almost a year?"
     "More like a year and a half," she told him,
approaching with her arms thrown wide.
 "You're kidding," he declared.
    "I'd never try to kid an old resistance fighter," she
assured him.
    As they embraced, he remembered a time when he
had hoped she would be more than a comrade. As it
happened, the opportunity to express that hope had
never materialized. And with their lives constantly on
the line, he came to value her friendship too much to
try to change it.
    Kira leaned back to look at him. "You're gaining
weight," she observed. "Being a city administrator
agrees with you, I see."
    "That's not it," he explained candidly. "I'm mak-
ing up for all the times we went hungry fighting the
Cardassians."
    Her smile faded. "I remember." Then she patted
him affectionately on the shoulder. "So what can I do
for you, Pernon Obahr? Or were you serious when you
asked me down here for a game of nobmoch?"
  "Don't I wish," he replied.
    That's when he told her about the pumps. And he
told her some other things as well, things he had
learned through the network of former resistance
fighters--a network made more useful since Shakaar
had come to power.
    While Pernon spoke, Kira nodded. And when he
was done, she nodded some more. Despite the cir-
cumstances, he couldn't help but remark inwardly on
her beauty. It wasn't easy to pull his thoughts back on
course.
"Do you think you can help?" he asked at last.
She looked at him. "I can try," she promised.
Pernon smiled with relief. When Kira Nerys said
she would try, the reward was as good as won. It was
good to know at least one old friend could still be
counted on.


CHAPTER
        1

JAKE SISKO LEANED over the rail of the Promenade's
upper level and peered into Quark's. By craning his
neck a little, he could see his father sitting at a table
with Lieutenant Dax.
    The elder Sisko was staring into his raktajino, an
iced-coffee type drink. Even from here, Jake could see
the crease in his father's brow. "Jake?"
    The boy turned to his companion, whose face
barely cleared the rail. But then, Ferengi were among
the smaller races that populated the station, and
Nog--being a mere teenager--was shorter than
most.
 "Mm?" Jake replied.
    "Why does your father look so depressed?" asked
Nog.
    The human sighed. "He's going to see some of his
old cronies again."
    The Ferengi looked at him. "And he's depressed
about that?" He grunted. "They must not have been
very good friends."
    Jake scrutinized his father. "Actually, they were
some of the best friends he's ever had. They served
with him on his last assignment, the Saratoga. A
couple of times, they even saved his life."
    Nog shook his head. "Then why isn't he glad to see
them?"
    The human shrugged. "It's difficult to explain. You
see, he'd have been happy to see any one of them, if he
met them at another starbase or something. But this is
an official occasion."
    The Ferengi seemed to ponder the information.
"Ah, an official occasion. I understand," he said with
assurance. "Of course I understand. I mean, who
wouldn't understand?"  He paused. "Jake?"
    The boy glanced at him. "I know. You haven't the
slightest idea of what I'm talking about."
    "That's right," the Ferengi complained, unable to
hide his exasperation. "What difference does it make
if it's official or not? Friends are friends, aren't they?"
    Jake shook his head. "Believe me," he said, "it
makes a difference. Dad will be using the Defiant to
take his old shipmates to the Utopia Planitia ship-
yards in orbit around Mars. That's where they'll
witness the commissioning of the new Saratoga."
    "The new Saratoga?" Nog echoed. He looked per-
plexed. "What happened to the old Saratoga?"
    The boy was suddenly beset by memories, which
not so long ago would have overwhelmed him. But he
was older now. He could take a deep breath and wish
them away.
    "The old one," he said, in slow, careful tones, "was
the ship where my morn was killed. You know, by the
Borg."
    He wasn't looking at his friend, but he could
imagine the embarrassment on the Ferengi's face.
    "Oh," declared Nog, in an artificially cheerful tone.
"Now I remember." He paused. "So that's why it's so
hard for your father to see these people together?
Because they remind him of your mother's death?"
  Jake nodded. "That's why," he answered.
    It wasn't going to be easy for him, either. But more
than himself, he was worried about his dad. As
commanding officer of Deep Space Nine, the man
seldom let on that he had feelings about anything.
    But Benjamin Sisko's feelings ran deep indeed. And
when it came to that terrible moment on the Sarato-
ga, they ran so deep Jake had never seen the bottom of
them.

    Sisko turned to Dax. At some point, he had allowed
their conversation to slip away from him.
 "Did you say something?" he asked her.
    The Trill regarded him with a mixture of compas-
sion and rebuke. "I said a lot of somethings, Benja-
min. At what point did you stop listening?"
    The captain peered into his raktajino and frowned.
"I'm sorry, Old Man. I just can't seem to concentrate
on anything lately."
    "Because all you can think about is the Saratoga,"
said Dax. "And seeing your fellow officers again."
    He looked up at her. "You know, I'd come to grips
with Jennifer's death. As far as I could tell, I'd
accepted it. I'd put it behind me."
    "Until you got that message from Starfleet," his
friend suggested, "ordering you to ferry a bunch of
Saratoga survivors to Mars."
    Sisko sighed. "The wounds have closed," he ex-
plained, "but that doesn't mean they won't open
again under the right circumstances."
    "So I take it you're not looking forward to the
ceremony at Utopia Planit/a," Dax concluded.
    He looked at her. "Not looking forward to it? I'd
rather be dipped in Klingon hot sauce."
    His companion shrugged. "Actually, I'm quite par-
tial to Klingon hot sauce. Being dipped in it doesn't
sound half-bad."
The captain frowned. "You know what I mean."
In her several previous lives as a joined Trill, Dax
had been ambassador and artist, male and female,
scientist and explorer. All that life experience had
endowed her not only with a playful sense of humor,
but with a keen and penetrating intelligence.
    "If that's the case," she remarked sympathetically,
"maybe you'd better not go to Utopia P!anitia."
 The captain straightened. "Not attend, you mean?"
 She nodded. "You know, decline the invitation--as
respectfully as possible, of course. Tell them things
are just too grim here at the station, what with the
Dominion knocking at the door and Bajor on the
perpetual brink of disaster." She grunted. "Actually,
it won't be that far from the truth."
  He shook his head. "But I can't decline."
  "Why not?" asked the Trill.
    Sisko held out his hands in an appeal for reason.
"I'm the old Saratoga's highest-ranking survivor. I've
got to go. I owe it to all those people who died--not to
mention those who lived."
  "That's a lousy reason," she pointed out.
    The captain disagreed. He was about to say so when
his companion forged on, her blue eyes suddenly alive
with purpose.
    "Don't do it for all those others," she told him,
jabbing a forefinger in his direction. "Do it for
yourself Benjamin."
  Sisko eyed her. "For myself?." he echoed.
    "That's right," said Dax, smiling. "Because you're
alive. Because you gave everything you had to that
proud old ship. And most of all, because deep down
inside, you really want to." She leaned forward.
"Maybe it'll be a little uncomfortable for you, at first.
I don't doubt that. But in the end, you'll have a good
time. I know you will."
    The captain couldn't help but smile back, albeit
with a certain wariness. That's how infectious his
friend's enthusiasm was.
    He eased back in his seat. "You know me that well,
do you?"
 Dax grunted. "Who knows you better?"
    Sisko regarded her for a moment, drawing confi-
dence from her. Finally, he accepted the situation.
"Done," he told her. "I just hope you're right about
this, Old Man."
    Her smile turned impish. "Benjamin," she said,
"when have I ever steered you wrong?"

    Quark smiled. Everyone in the place seemed to be
enjoying himself--or herself, as the case might be.
Even Captain Sisko, who'd seemed down in the
dumps until just a few moments ago.
    The Ferengi liked seeing people happy. When they
were happy, they ate and drank more. They spent
more money. And that made Quark happy.
    To top off his delight, the long-necked, scaly-
skinned Lu'ufan at the other end of the bar was
describing to yet another innocent bystander the size
of the merragat worm he'd snared for his sister's
wedding feast.
    Bending down, the Ferengi reached under his bar
for the naturally cultivated erriz pod that he kept
there. He'd only recently acquired a couple gross of
the pods, which were perfect for cleaning delicate
surfaces. Also, he'd gotten a great deal on them. And
as the Rules of Acquisition clearly stated: When you
see a good deal, jump on it.
    Of course, at this rate, Quark would go through his
whole supply of erriz pods before the week was out.
But he didn't mind.
 The reason for his tolerance manifested itself a
moment later--as the Lu'ufan made a particularly
expansive gesture and knocked over his drink. The
slushy yellow and brown contents of his Scintaavian
Sunset spilled out over the previously spotless surface
of the bar.
    Whirling, the Lu'ufan gasped at his clumsiness. But
before he could exhale, the Ferengi was on top of
things. With a few circular swipes of his erriz pod, he
sopped up the mess. Then, with a flourish, he righted
the Lu'ufan's tall, fluted glass.
    "Oh, my," he said, picking up the vessel, which was
now empty except for a viscous yellow sediment along
its insides. "It seems you've spilled your drink.
Again."
    The Lu'ufan sighed--a response which included a
pronounced, almost comical rise and fall of his very
angular shoulders. "It seems I have," he agreed.
"Spilled it, that is. Again."
  "And you'd like another?" Quark ventured.
  "Yes," said the Lu'ufan, "I would."
    The Ferengi wagged a finger at him. "Try to take
better care of this one, would you? The ingredi-
entsw"
    "I know," the Lu'ufan interrupted. "They come
from the planet Scintaavi--which no longer exists,
since it was destroyed by a rogue comet several years
ago."
    "Along with the rest of its star system," Quark
reminded him. "It's nothing less than sacrilege to
waste such rare and exotic constituents."
  The Lu'ufan nodded soberly. "And worse than that,
it is expensive." Taking another gold coin from his
pocket, he laid it down on the bar. "Please. I'll be
more careful this time. I promise."
    "Well," said the Ferengi, in his most compassionate
tone, "all right, then. I trust you." And with another
swipe of the erriz pod for good measure, he went to
mix his guest another drink.
    Erriz pods didn't grow on trees, it was true. But
considering what he was charging for his Scintaavian
Sunsets, he might soon be able to buy his own pod
farm.
  "Brother?" called a familiar voice.
    Quark turned and saw his sibling Rom advancing
on the bar. He was carrying something wrapped in
what looked like a bunch of rags. And he was
smiling--always a bad sign when it came to Rom.
  "What is it now?" asked Quark.
    "Look what I found in the storeroom," said his
brother. He held out the thing in his hands. "It was
behind a case ofadfittari wine. You know, the stuff we
claim is ten years older than it really--"
    Quark clamped his hand over his brother's mouth
and looked around. Fortunately, no one seemed to
have overheard Rom's indiscretion.
    "Listen," rasped Quark. "I don't care where you
found it. I don't even particularly care what it is. I just
want to know if you've found out what I asked you to
find out."
    Rom regarded him with a certain amount of befud-
dlement. "And what was that, Brother?"
 Quark cursed beneath his breath. How could he
and Rom have sprung from the same set of parents? It
defied belief.
    "I asked you to find out when the Saratoga survi-
vors were going to arrive. You know, so we could hold
some kind of event to honor them--an event that
would draw people into the bar. You do remember
that, don't you?"
    His brother thought for a moment. Then, as he
recalled Quark's instructions, he slapped his forehead
with the heel of his hand.
    "You're right, Brother. And I was going to find that
out for you, I swear I was--until I realized we were
out of those little menju nuts Morn is so fond off"
    Quark grunted. "Morn's tab is longer than he is tall.
You're forbidden to bring him any more nuts until he
pays his bar bill."
    Rom shook his head sheepishly. "All right, Brother.
I won't bring him any more menju nuts. But the point
I was making is that I had to go to the storeroom to
get them. And while I was rummaging around for a
fresh canisterm"
    He held up the thing in his hand. What's more, he
seemed proud of it.
 "--I discovered this."
    Quark sighed. "And what, pray tell, is that thing,
anyway?"
    Rom shrugged. "I don't know," he admitted. "I was
kind of hoping you would be able to tell me."
    With that, Rom began to peel away the rags. They
didn't come away easily, and when they did they
tended to fall apart. But eventually, he revealed
enough of their contents for Quark to get an idea of
what they were dealing with.
 And when he did, it took his breath away.
    The object was smoky blue and perfectly round,
except for a small hole in the top of it. For the most
part it looked smooth as glass, but there was a band of
coarser material running around its circumference.
    "By the Nagus," Quark breathed, reaching out for
the thing involuntarily. "Do you know what that is?"
    Rom rolled his eyes. "If I knew what it was, I
wouldn't have asked you, Brother."
 "It's a beverage container," Quark told him.
 Rom tilted his head. "A beverage container?"
    He took a step away from Quark, to view the object
in a better light. But as he moved, his foot snagged on
the base of one of the bar stoolsmand he stumbled,
sending the smoky blue beverage container tumbling
through the air.
    Quark couldn't let the thing breakmnot when it
was worth several times its weight in gold-pressed
latinum. Diving full length, he reached out for the
object in an attempt to catch it before it hit the
ground.
    He could feel his fingers grazing the beverage con-
tainer, closing about it, trying to cradle it...
    Then he hit the floor--hit it so hard, in fact, that
his teeth rattled with the impact and the breath was
knocked out of him.
  "Brother, are you all right?"
  As he lay on the floor, gasping for breath and
certain he'd broken some ribs, Quark found the
strength to look up at Rom. Fortunately for his
brother, Quark was in no position to throttle him, or
he might have found himself an only child.
    "Let me help you," Rom pleaded, grabbing Quark
under his arms and pulling him up--whether Quark
liked it or not.
    It was the worried tone of Rom's voice that ulti-
mately saved him from becoming a victim of fratri-
cide. After all, how could Quark kill the only being in
the universe who genuinely gave a spacer's damn
about him?
    "Leave me alone," he grated, still trying to catch his
breath. "I'm fine, no thanks to you."
    Slumping against the bar, he looked around and
saw that several of his customers were staring at him.
He smiled and waved a bit, to signify that he wasn't
going to die and thereby release them from their
obligations to him.
    Besides, it didn't matter what kind of embarrass-
ment he'd brought on himself--or to be more accu-
rate, Rom had brought on him. The important thing,
he reflected, as he looked down at his hands, was that
he'd rescued the beverage container.
    Setting the artifact down gently on the surface of
the bar, Quark regarded it with an appropriate rever-
ence. A moment later, he realized that his brother was
gazing at it over his shoulder.
    "I still don't understand," Rom told him. "If it's
only a beverage container--"
    "It's not just any beverage container," Quark in-
formed him. He was almost able to speak normally
now. "It's from Thetalian Prime."
His brother shook his head. "Thetalian Prime?"
"That's right," said Quark. "Thetalian Prime."
He lowered his voice, not wanting to tempt any
thieves who might be in earshot. After all, one never
knew.
    "And like everything else made from the clay of
that world," he went on, "it contains traces of corlan-
dium. In case you haven't heard, that's a mineral. A
rare and very valuable mineral."
    Rom's eyes narrowed. "I have heard of it. And it's
in that beverage container?" He leaned closer. "Are
you sure?"
    "Sure as I can be," Quark responded. "Of course,
this thing would be even more valuable if the organ-
isms that secreted the mineral were still alive. But
then, it's not a perfect galaxy, is it?"
    "Are you going to share the profits with me?" asked
his brother.
    "Most certainly not," Quark snapped. "By your
own admission, you found this in my storeroom. And
though I can't say exactly what container it fell out of,
it clearly belongs to me."
    Rom frowned. "Then you're right. It's not a perfect
galaxy."
    "I'd better lock this away," said Quark, pulling the
beverage container to his bosom. "For safekeeping."
    But he'd no sooner turned away from the bar than
he found himself staring at a Bajoran uniform. And
even before he looked up to see whose face went with
it, he could tell from the way it was filled out whom it
belonged to.
    "Major Kira," he chuckled--a bit nervously, he
thought. "To what do I owe the honor of this visit?"

    Kira smiled. It was obvious from Quark's expres-
sion that he was trying to figure out what he'd done
wrong.
    But for a change, he hadn't done anything. Or at
least, it wasn't any of the things he'd probably done
that had brought her here.
 "Please," she said. "The honor is all mine."
 "It is?" Quark replied, clearly surprised.
    "Of course," the Bajoran assured him. "I feel at
home here. But then, maybe that's because I feel so at
home with you."
    The Ferengi's smile faded. "You want something
from me," he realized.
    "Want something?" she repeated, as innocent as the
day she was born.
 "Come on," he told her. "Admit it."
    "What makes you say I want something?" Kira
inquired.
    Quark frowned. "You can't con a con man, Major.
You've been coming into my bar for years, and in all
that time you've never said anything even vaguely
nice to me. All of a sudden, you're treating me with
respect--even affection. And you're telling me you
don't want something?" He chuckled some more, this
time honestly amused. "So what is it?"
The Bajoran sighed. "All right," she conceded.
"Maybe I do have a bit of an ulterior motive."
    "Aha," said the Ferengi, poking a finger at her. "I
knew it."
    "But what I'm asking isn't for me," she amended
quickly. "It's for a place called Karvis. You may have
heard of it."
    Quark thought for a moment. "Karvis," he echoed.
"Southern continent, yes? A medium-size city? At the
mouth of the Teejan River, I believe?"
    "That's the one," she told him. "Unfortunately,
Karvis began flooding about thirty years ago--about
the same time the Cardassians began tampering with
the Teejan's tributaries. In order to preserve Karvis,
they had to install a series of heavy-duty water
pumps."
    The Ferengi nodded. "Fascinating stuff," he said
sarcastically. "But what's it got to do with me?"
    "I'm getting to that," Kira assured him. "You see,
the power coils that keep the pumps going are running
down. Karvisian officials say that the first of them will
go in a matter of weeks--maybe days. A couple of
months from now, the pumps will grind to a halt for
lack of power."
    "Too bad," Quark remarked. "But I still don't see
how--"
    "My friend is one of the administrators of Karvis,"
she interrupted. "He recently learned of a supply of
Cardassian power coils--just the kind his city needs.
But they're owned by a Retizian, who wants to charge
Karvis two arms and a leg for them."
Quark's eyes narrowed. "A Retizian, you say?"
The major nodded. "And not just any Retizian.
This particular one got into a tough spot once upon a
time, and needed the help of a Ferengi to get him out
of it. In fact, you might say the Ferengi saved his life."
  Quark's brow creased. "Fel Jangor," he muttered.
  "I see you remember him," Kira noted. "Then you
  must also remember how you talked that Cardassian
  guard out of killing him--right here on this very
  station, if I'm not mistaken."
    The Ferengi winced as he recalled the incident.
"The Cardassian thought Jangor had insulted him.
And of course, he had. But I hated to see such a clever
businessman get killed for something so meaning-
less."
    "A truly humanitarian gesture," the Bajoran re-
marked. "And one that could serve us all in good
stead."
     Quark looked at her. "You're asking me to take
advantage of Jangor's debt to me?" "I am," she said simply.
 The Ferengi balked. "It wouldn't be right, Major."
    "Since when does it disturb you to take advantage
of people?" she asked.
    "It's not that," Quark told her. "That kind of debt
has real value, you know. I was saving it for a really
big deal. How can I..." He searched for the right
word. "... fritter it away on a bunch of strangers?"
    "Strangers in desperate need of your help," Kira
reminded him.
 Quark shook his head. "I don't know," he said,
dearly on the fence about this. He grinned sugges-
tively at her. "Unless, of course, you're absolutely
determined to make it worth my while .... "
    She knew what he was getting at. "Oh," she replied,
"you'll get something for your troubles, all right."
      His eyes lit up. Unconsciously, the fingers of his
right hand rose to caress the lobe of his ear.  "I will?" he asked.
    Kira grinned back at him. "Absolutely. You'll get
an opportunity to continue doing business on Deep
Space Nine." She ran her forefinger down the outside
of his other ear. "Also, the undying admiration of this
station's first officer, for a job well done."
    The Ferengi sighed. "I have to admit, I'd hoped for
a better deal. Maybe one with a quicker return on
investment."
    "Don't push your luck," she advised him, with-
drawing her hand.
    Quark muttered something uncomplimentary be-
neath his breath. "All right," he agreed, albeit with
obvious reluctance. "I guess I have no choice in the
matter. Count me in."
    The major felt as ifa terrible weight had been lifted
from her shoulders. "That's good," she responded.
    She was about to thank the Ferengi when she
noticed something in his hands. It was round and
blue, with a small hole in the top of it.
    "By the way," Kira said, "what's that thing you're
holding?"
    The Ferengi looked down at it. He seemed sur-
prised.
    "Oh," he declared, turning away so that the thing
was concealed from her, "it's nothing, really. Just
some old family heirloom that Rom found in the
storeroom. I was going to polish it and send it to my
mother."
    The major had a feeling he was going to do nothing
of the sort. But, she mused, this wasn't a good time
for Quark to be discovered committing a crime. At
least, not until he was done helping Karvis.
    Kira just smiled. "Whatever you say," she told him.
Turning away, she left Quark's bar and its proprietor
behindwsecure in the knowledge that, one way or
another, her friend would get his power coils.


CHAPTER
        2

As CAPTAIN ISI~mAKi of the Federation Starship
Zapata wove his way through the vessel's lounge
toward his favorite table, he considered the quartet
seated there.
    The only familiar face was that of his first officer,
Mara Klein. She fairly beamed at the sight of him.
    Strange, the captain thought. Mara wasn't usually
so glad to see him. After all, they'd had their differ-
ences lately. If she wasn't such a damned good exec,
he might have been tempted to seek a transfer for her.
    The others at the table peered at Ishimaki with
muted curiosity--just about what he'd expected. It
was only natural for a visitor to hold himself in
reserve until he'd sized up his host. Obviously these
three were no exception in that regard.
 The first, he saw, was the Craynid--one of four in
the service of Starfleet, and the only female. There
was no mistaking her hunched, vaguely insectoid
posture, or her pale, almost translucent skin, or the
round black eyes set into her massive head.
    One of her companions was a Bolian, in the gold
uniform of operations. The other was human, dressed
in medical blue, with short brown hair that didn't
draw enough attention from the length of her face.
    "Well," said Ishimaki, as he stopped in front of his
guests, "we meet at last. I apologize for not having
been available to greet you personally as you arrived,
of course--but there were extenuating circum-
stances."
    Klein's smile actually broadened--something the
captain wouldn't have thought physically possible. If
he was mildly interested in her reaction before, now
he was downright intrigued.
    "It's all right, sir," his first officer told him. "I've
already explained about our unscheduled side trip to
Beta Jalonis, and how long you'd been without sleep."
    "Believe me," remarked the Bolian, "we've all
answered our share of colony distress calls. There's no
need to make excuses."
    Ishimaki inclined his head--a gesture of respect. "I
appreciate that, Lieutenant. Zar, isn't it?"
    The Bolian nodded congenially. "Tactical officer on
the Crazy Horse. At your service."
    Had Zar been human, the captain would have
extended his hand. But to a Bolian, he knew, the
gesture had no meaning.
  Instead, he turned to the Craynid. "And you must
 be Lieutenant Commander Graal," he concluded.
 "Chief engineer of the Charleston, I believe?"
     The Craynid nodded her cumbersome head. "Cor-
 rect," she rasped softly.
    Finally he regarded the last of the visitors. And this
time, he did extend his hand, since she was a fellow
human.
    For a moment, however, the woman failed to re-
spond to the gesture. She stared at his hand, inspect-
ing it as if it were some exotic variety of alien fauna.
Finally she grasped it with her own.
    Her touch was cold and a little clammy. But it was
also brief.
  "Dr. Laffer," Ishimaki noted.
  "Yes," she replied simply.
    Suddenly Klein got to her feet. "Sorry to leave so
abruptly," she said, taking in the visitors with a
glance, "but someone's got to be up on the bridge
while the captain makes you feel at home. See you."
    As she brushed past Ishimaki, he tried to divine the
reason for his first officer's sudden departure. Despite
her claim, there wasn't anything on the bridge that
required her immediate attention. If she'd wanted to,
she could have stayed a bit longer.
    So, clearly, she hadn't wanted to. The captain
wondered why.
    First the inexplicable smile, then the sudden desire
to be gone. One would think these people had been
torturing Klein with Klingon painstiks.
 Dr. Laffer leaned forward. "Captain?"
 "Yes?" he answered.
    "I hope you weren't thinking of calling me Miri-
am," she said. "Because I much prefer Dr. Laffer."
    Ishimaki regarded her, thinking she was joking at
first. Then, when he saw the way she looked back at
him, he wasn't so sure.
 "Dr. Laffer it is," he agreed, just in case.
    "Good," said the doctor, with apparent earnest-
ness.
    The Bolian's mouth crept up at the comers. The
captain got the distinct impression that he was trying
to keep from laughing.
    Ishimaki considered Laffer again, then Zar, then
the Craynid. He smiled. "Am I missing something
here?"
  "Missing?" echoed Graal.
 The captain nodded. "A joke, perhaps?"
  "I don't make jokes," the doctor noted.
    Ishimaki believed it. He was beginning to get an
inkling of why his first officer had been so eager to
leave.
    "So," he began, trying to jump-start the conversa-
tion, "I guess you're all excited about the chance to
christen the new Saratoga?"
  "Yes," the Craynid hissed.
    Of course, to the captain's mind, she didn't sound
very excited. Nor did she look very excited. For all he
knew, she was being sarcastic. It was difficult to tell on
the basis of a one-word answer.
    "Graal's not much of a conversationalist," Laffer
pointed out.
  Ishimaki believed that as well.
     "We are excited," Zar chimed in. "Not that it
 makes up for the loss of the original Saratoga, of
 course. Or the deaths of the brave and dedicated
 people we served with."
  "That is correct," the Craynid verified.
    "On the other hand," Zar continued undaunted,
"we worked hard to make the Saratoga the best ship
in the fleet. It's good to know all that hard work didn't
go unnoticed."
    "Rest assured," said Ishimaki, "we'll get you to
Deep Space Nine as quickly as possible. Then you
canto"
  "When do we eat?" interrupted Dr. Laffer.
  The captain looked at her. "Eat?"
"Yes," said the doctor. "Eat. Ingest. Consume."
There was no irony in her voicemat least none that
Ishimaki could detect. It was as if she honestly didn't
think he knew what the word meant.
    The captain had the feeling again that he was
missing something. It was either that, or Laffer was
the rudest human being he'd ever met.
  "We can eat any time you like," he responded.
  "How about now, then?" asked the doctor.
  "Now is fine," Ishimaki told her.
    Looking around, he spotted a waiter--a large, fair-
haired man named Soderholm. He gestured.
    A moment later, Soderholm was '~:anding beside
their table. "What can I get you?" the waiter inquired
cheerfully of Ishimaki and his companions.
    "Anything," Graal replied. "As long as it is Craynid
food."
 Soderholm glanced at the captain.
    "It's all right," Ishimaki told him. "I had McCall
program the replicator for several popular Craynid
dishes."
 "Any one will do," Graal whistled.
    Soderholm shrugged. "Whatever you say, sir." He
looked to Zar. "And what can I get for you, Lieu-
tenant?"
    "Anything that's not Craynid food," the Bolian
replied. He grimaced good-naturedly. "When you see
it, you'll understand."
    The captain could only imagine. "All right, then.
Lieutenant Zar and I will have the Actuman ginger
chicken," he instructed the waiter. "And don't skimp
on the seaweed." He turned to Laffer. "And you,
Doctor?"
    The woman waved her hand in front of her. "Noth-
ing for me," she said.
 Ishimaki regarded her. Laffer returned the scrutiny.
    "Nothing?" he repeated. "Excuse me, but didn't
you ask just a moment ago when we could eat?"
    The doctor thought for a moment. "Yes," she said
finally. "As a matter of fact, I believe I did."
    The captain glanced at the waiter, who seemed
somewhat perplexed now as well. Then he turned
back to Laffer. "But now you're saying you don't want
anything," he pressed.
    "I don't," she explained. "I'm not hungry. I had
something in my quarters just a little while ago."
    He shook his head helplessly. "Then why did you
ask about eating?" he inquired.
     Laffer shrugged. "I don't know. Curiosity, I sup-
 pose."
     "The doctor isn't all that enamored of dining in
 public," Zar interjected. "It's one of her quirks." He
 leaned forward and winked at Ishimaki. "One of her
 many quirks."
    "I do not have quirks," Laffer insisted. "I have
unique behavior patterns. And exemplary ones, at
that."
    "You are incorrect," stated the Craynid. "You have
quirks."
The doctor's eyes narrowed. "Stuf it, Graal."
Soderholm grunted. "I think I'll get your orders
now, Captain." With that, he whirled and made his
escape--much as Ishimaki would have liked to.
    Zar sighed and looked apologetically at the captain.
"It was only a matter of time," he observed. "Usually,
they go at it in the first thirty seconds."
    Ishimaki steeled himself. From all appearances, it
was going to be a very interesting evening.
    Mara Klein would pay for this, he resolved. Oh,
how she would pay.

    First Officer Zina Forrest of the Starship Agamem-
non was not an impulsive woman. She was not given
to indiscretions of any kind, major or minor.
    But as she and her companion turned the corner of
a corridor and headed for the Agamemnon's primary
transporter room, Forrest was on the verge of com-
mitting the indiscretion to end all indiscretions.
    The doors to the transporter room were just up
ahead, not more than ten meters away. She would
reach them in a matter of seconds.
    Turning to the man beside her, whose blue and
black uniform marked him as a Starfleet science
officer, she studied his features for a moment. The
large, soulful eyes, set beneath mysterious dark brows.
The clean, well-defined jawline~ The tousled black
hair and the expressive lips.
    In one moment, the man seemed the epitome of
boyish innocence--full of mischief and a thirst for
exploration. In the next, he appeared to know all that
could possibly be worth knowing.
    Suddenly, Forrest grabbed her companion by the
shoulder, spun him around, and pinned him hard
against the bulkhead. Then she kissed him full on the
mouth, as passionately as she'd ever kissed anyone.
    He didn't protest, either. He returned the kiss. And
when she released him, a few moments later, she saw
that his eyes were smiling at her.
    She smiled too. "I'm going to miss you, Esteban
Lopez."
    His expression turned rueful. "I'11 miss you too,"
Lopez assured her. "But the LaSalle frequents many
of the same space routes as the Agamemnon. With
any luck, we'll see each other again sometime soon."
    "And if not," she said, "there are always shore
leaves."
    "Yes," he replied, running his fingers through her
honey-colored hair. "There are always those."
     He glanced about, as if he'd just remembered the
 circumstances. Fortunately, there was no one else in
 the corridor.
     "We should continue to the transporter room," he
 advised gently, though there was a reluctance in his
 voice. "If anyone should see us like this..."
     He was right, of course. Releasing him, Forrest
 stepped back and straightened the front of her tunic.
 Her lover did the same.
     Then, as if nothing had taken place between them,
 either just then or over the last few days, they negoti-
 ated the remainder of the corridor and walked
 through the transporter room doors.
    Tanya Federovna, the petite, pale-blonde ensign on
duty, was attending to some last-minute adjustments
at her control console. She barely looked up as the
first officer joined her, or as their visitor crossed the
breadth of the room on his way to the transporter
platform.
    Forrest's heart skipped a beat as she watched Lopez
step up onto the platform and turn to look at her.
Then he dutifully lifted his sculpted chin and looked
away.
  "Ready to transport," said Federovna.
    "Energize," the first officer commanded, still hun-
grily taking in the sight of her paramour.
    A moment later, Lopez was claimed by the trans-
porter effect. And a moment after that, he was gone.
Forrest sighed.
 "You know," she said out loud, her judgment still
impaired by the man's spell, "men like him aren't
easy to find."
    "No," agreed Federovna, with equal fervor.
"They're--"
    Abruptly they looked at each other. The ensign
looked surprised--shocked, even. Before Forrest's
eyes, she turned a ripe shade of crimson.
    "My god," said the first officer, doing her best to
adjust to the situation. "Not you, too?"
    A little sheepishly, Federovna nodded. "But I
thought I was the only one." She winced. "How
long... ?"
 "Long enough," Forrest remarked.
    She looked to the empty transporter platform, not
quite sure how to feel about this. For a moment, she
leaned toward anger. Then bitterness. But in the end,
a smile came to her face.
    "That bastard," she said admiringly. "That hand-
some, charming, silver-tongued bastard."
    And she wondered if Lopez had made any other
conquests while he was at it.

    As Esteban Lopez materialized in the primary
transporter room of the Endeavor, he mentally added
the Agamemnon to the list of starships on which he
was no longer welcome.
    Too bad, he thought. All three of his romances there
were quite stimulating, each in her own way.
    Fortunately for him, there were plenty of other
ships in the fleet, and plenty of attractive women who
 hadn't heard of him yet. And one of them, he noted
 happily, was standing behind the transporter console.
     He was just about to make the woman's acquain-
 tance when the doors to the room slid open. A bear of
 a man swaggered in, his small blue eyes blazing over
 his ample, golden brown beard.
     What's more, Lopez knew this man. His name was
 Aidan Thom, and he had once been the chief of
 security on the Starship Saratoga. Beyond that, he
had been the science officer's closest friend.
  "Esteban!" cried Thom.
    Lopez came down off the platform and extended
his hand. The security officer nearly tore it off at the
wrist in his exuberance.
    "Yeow!" cried Lopez, clutching his forearTM with
his left hand. "Take it easy, damn you!"
    "Fat chance of that!" roared the big man, wrapping
Lopez in a bear hug that made the science officer's
ribs ache. He couldn't even shout for mercy. He could
only bear the pain until it was over.
    Finally his tormentor set him free. Gasping for air,
Lopez held his hand out, palm out for peace.
    "No more," he breathed. "I may've survived the
Borg, Thom, but you'll be the death of me yet."
    The big man grinned and brushed imaginary dust
from his mustard and black tunic. "Come on," he
gibed. "I took it easy on you. If I'd really wanted to
hurt you, you'd be on your way to sickbay about
now."
    Lopez smiled. "How have you been, you old devil?
How are things on the Gorkon?"
    Thorn, who was in truth just a year older than
Lopez himself, shrugged his big shoulders. "They're
secure," he said, "which is how we security chiefs like
it."
    Over Thorn's shoulder, the science officer saw the
transporter room doors slide apart again. He couldn't
help but notice the form they admittedma female
one, and rather comely at that.
    Dark skin, dark eyes, even darker hair. Her lips
were full and inviting, her build lithe and athletic-
looking. Yes, thought Lopez, very comely indeed.
    Thorn turned to look in the same direction--and
made a beckoning motion with his arm. "Come on,
Counselormdon't be shy. This is the man I was
telling you aboutrathe one you and all the other
ladies have got to watch out for, if you know what's
good for you."
    Lopez cursed inwardly. Leave it to his old friend
Thorn to spoil his prospects. Not that it made things
impossible for him, of course. Just a lot more difficult.
    "I'm Esteban Lopez," he said cordially, inclining
his head as he came forward to meet the counselor.
"And you are... ?"
    "Constance Barnes," the woman replied. "I work
here." Her tone was detached, professional. And her
expression only served to reinforce the impression.
"Welcome to the Endeavor, Lieutenant Lopez."
    The science officer smiled. "It's a pleasure to meet
you, Counselor Barnes."
The woman's attitude changed a bit, then, though
 Lopez couldn't have said exactly how. She cleared her
 throat.
     "Obviously," she said, "you don't remember me,
 Mr. Lopez."
     The science officer was caught off balance. He
 peered more closely at Barnes, hoping like crazy this
 wasn't one of his former liaisons come back to haunt
 him.
     But try as he might, he didn't recognize her. Finally
 he cast a look at Thom, who just grunted.
    "I served with you on the Saratoga, "the counselor
revealed at last. "Of course, I was only a trainee back
then, and I'd only just arrived when the ship was
deployed to Wolf Three-five-nine and our encounter
with the Borg. You and I never had a chance to be
formally introduced."
    Lopez thought for a moment. "Yes," he said at last.
"I do remember you now." It was a lie, of course.
    Barnes shook her head. "No, you don't. I can tell.
I'm a counselor, remember?"
    For once, the science officer was speechless. Thorn
seemed to find amusement in the fact.
    "There's no need to massage my feelings," the
woman pointed out. "I take no offense at not being
remembered. And if it's any consolation, Mr. Thorn
had no recollection of me, either."
"True," the security chief confirmed.
"Nonetheless," said Lopez, "I regret the fact. And I
would like to make it up to you, somehow. Perhaps,
with dinner?"
    Barnes cracked a smile, at last. "Dinner?" she
echoed.
    He nodded. "We've got a while before we reach
Deep Space Nine. Being old comrades, we might as
well get to know each other."
    "I don't think I'll have time for that," the counselor
told him. "After all, I'm not a guest like you and Mr.
Thom here. I'm a member of the crew. And I've got a
lot of work to finish before I can attend the Utopia
Planitia ceremony in good conscience."
"But surely, you have to eat," Lopez entreated.
"Yes," Barnes agreed. "Unfortunately, it'll have to
be at my desk." She paused. "Again, welcome to the
Endeavor, Lieutenant. Mr. Thorn can show you to
your quarters."
    And with that, she turned and left the two men
standing there, along with the transporter operator.
Lopez turned to the young woman--a slender bru-
nette with skin like alabaster.
    "It appears I'll be free for dinner," he said. "I don't
suppose you know where I can find someone to take
the counselor's place."
    The transporter operator regarded him sternly.
"I'm on duty," she told him. Suddenly, her eyes
crinkled playfully at the comers. "But I'm sure I'll be
hungry when I get off."
    Lopez grinned. "Excellent. I'll meet you here at the
end of your shift. Deal?"
  The woman nodded. "Deal," she agreed.
  Good, thought Lopez, as he followed his friend
Thorn out of the transporter room. He wasn't sure he
could have taken two rejections in the space of a
single minute.
    "You haven't changed a bit," the security chief
noted, his eyes narrowed with obvious amusement.
    "Nor have you," the science officer jabbed back.
"Still trying to sink my ship before I get it afloat."
    Thorn clapped him on the shoulder with a large,
heavy paw. "Relax, Esteban. You would've struck out
with Counselor Barnes no matter what."
  "What makes you say that?" asked Lopez.
    The bearded man shrugged. "I've been on the
Endeavor for two days now, and I wasn't able to get so
much as a smile out of the woman." He shook his
head. "Not exactly the kind of personality one would
expect from a ship's counselor, now is it?"
    Lopez chuckled. "No," he agreed. "Come to think
of it, it isn't."

CHAPTER
        3

CAPTAIN NIKOLAS KYPRIOS shaded his eyes and
scanned the mighty copper-colored disk of a sun. It
was nowhere near its zenith yet, but it still dominated
the purplish blue heavens of Danula II, and baked
his leathery brown skin in a way the Greek sun never
had.
    Beneath that torturous sun and sky, the landscape
was a flat, parched plain in every direction except
south. As one gazed in the direction of the planet's
distant equator, one saw the tawny, humpbacked hills
that had broken many a runner's spirit.
    But then, the Academy wouldn't have held their
annual marathon here if the setting were too idyllic.
The idea was to separate out the cadets with real grit,
with real couragemnot to pass a pleasant afternoon.
Of course, it had been thirty years since Kyprios
 had run the real Academy marathon. This was just a
 holodeck re-creation, in which he took part once a
 month to keep himself sharp.
     Planting his hands on the ground, Kyprios ex-
 tended his right leg behind him and stretched out his
 calf muscle. Then he did the same with his left leg.
 Rising again and spreading his legs out, he reached for
 the dry, cracked ground with his palms, feeling his
 hamstrings strain in the process.
     Only when he felt he was good and loose did he add
 the final ingredient, reluctantly yielding up his soli-
 tude. "Computer," he said, "add cadets."
    A moment later, he found himself surrounded by
young men and women of various races and planetary
origins. Naturally there was no need for them to
warm up. They were composed of magnetic fields, not
real muscles.
    The first few times he'd run this program, he'd
raced through the hills all by himself. But after a
while, he'd found the exercise lacking in stimulation.
Kyprios had craved company--competition. Hence,
the addition of the other runners into the mix.
    The starting line was a shallow furrow cut into the
ground. As one, the runners gravitated to it, Kyprios
himself among them.
    An Academy proctor he'd known--a small, muscu-
lar man named Tarleggia, who'd taught him quantum
mechanics--approached the assembled competitors.
Raising his hand, he alerted them to the imminence
of the start.
 The runners tensed, their eyes narrowed with put-
pose, their muscles taut with anticipation. Kyprios
watched Tarleggia, eager to take off at precisely the
moment his old instructor dropped his hand.
    But before that could happen, a portion of the
horizon disappeared in the shape of the holodeck
entryway, and another flesh-and-blood person en-
tered the program. The captain straightened.
 "Freeze program," he commanded.
    Immediately the other cadets froze in place, their
bodies leaning, their eyes fixed on what they imagined
to be the distant finish line.
    Kyprios eyed the interloper. "I was wondering what
had happened to you," he said.
    Counselor Barnes frowned. "Sorry, sir. I had to file
a few reports, and I lost track of the time."
    The captain smiled forgivingly. "You've been doing
that a lot lately, Constance. In fact, ever since this
Utopia Planitia thing came up. Now, you could tell
me that's a coincidence, of coursewbut I'd have a
hard time believing it."
    Barnes looked away, as if she'd suddenly developed
an interest in the other runners. She sighed. "No," she
said finally, in a low voice. "It's not a coincidence."
     Kyprios eyed her. "That's why I asked you to meet
 me here, Constance. I'm concerned about how you're
 taking all this--the arrivals of your fellow officers, the
 prospect of seeing even more of them. Of revisiting an
 understandably traumatic time of your life." He
 paused. "We've never spoken much about what hap-
 pened on the Saratoga."
    "That's true," the woman admitted, still intent on
the other runners. "We haven't."
  "Would you like to talk about it now?" he asked.
    The counselor turned to him, her dark eyes full of
pain for a moment. Then the pain seemed to subside.
    "The Saratoga was a bad experience," she said.
"As bad as you may have imagined, and then some.
All those people dying, and nothing--there was noth-
ing I could do about it. I'd made it my life's work to
help people, to ease their pain. But in a situation like
that..."
    "I know," the captain told her. "A counselor is of
little or no use in those circumstances. Sparks flying,
bulkheads exploding, alarms going off all over the
place. It's all you can do to keep your wits about you."
    Barnes sighed again. "You think you're prepared
for it. At least, that's what they tell you they're doing
at the Academy--preparing you for it. But you can't
ever be ready for something like that."
    Kyprios didn't want his ship's counselor to have to
relive that kind of pain. He said as much.
    "They'd miss you at Utopia Planitia," he told her.
"But the hell with them. I'll cover for you."
    Barnes shook her head. "No," she said. "I'm fine.
In fact, in a funny way, I'm looking forward to it. If
nothing else, it'll give me a sense of..." She
shrugged. "Of closure, I guess."
    The captain nodded. "If that's how you honestly
feel about it, all right. But remember, you can always
change your mind."
 "Thank you," she told him, smiling just a little.
"But I don't think I'll need to do that. And in the
meantime, I promise I'll try to lighten up a little."
    Kyprios smiled. "You do that. Dismissed, Coun-
selor."
    Barnes retreated from the holodeck. The captain
watched her go. And he didn't stop thinking about her
until long after the irregularly shaped doors had
interlocked behind her.

    Sisko was just sitting down behind his desk when
Dax's melodious yet efficient voice filled his office.
"Benjamin, the Zapata has arrived. Captain Ishimaki
is hailing us."
    The captain turned to his Cardassian monitor, a
vestige of the station's former occupants. "Open a
channel, Lieutenant. And clear a space for the Zapata
on the docking ring."
 "Aye, sir," came the accommodating reply.
    A moment later, Ishimaki's image appeared on the
monitor. The face looked familiar, though Sisko had
no idea where they might have met. He'd encountered
so many officers in the course of his career, they'd all
begun to blur a long time ago.
    "Captain Sisko," said Ishimaki. "A pleasure to see
you again."
    The man really seemed to mean it. What's more,
Sisko had a fair idea why that might be.
    "Likewise," he answered. "As I understand it,
you've been kind enough to bring some of my old
comrades with you."
 "I've got them, all right," said Ishimaki, stoically
avoiding the issue of just how kind he'd been. "But, as
much as I've enjoyed their company, I'm going to
have to turn them over to you."
    Sisko noted a sense of relief on the man's partma
relief he well understood, having served with Laffer
and Graal for a number of years. Still, he couldn't
resist pushing a few of Ishimaki's buttons.
    "Actually," he said, "we're having a bit of trouble
with some of the airlocks on our docking ring. You
may have to hang on to those old comrades of mine
for another day or so until we get things worked out."
    Ishimaki's eyes opened wide. With fear, Sisko
thought. Somehow, he managed to keep a straight
face.
    "I know it's not your custom to beam people back
and forth," said the captain of the Zapata, "but we'll
have to make this an exception. After all, we've got
pressing business... urn, somewhere else."
    Sisko smiled. "I'm sure you do, Captain. In that
case, Lieutenant Dax will be glad to give you the
coordinates of---"
    "She needn't bother," Ishimaki assured him. "My
transporter operator's identified an appropriate space
for their arrival."
    "I see," said Sisko. He leaned forward. "In that
case, thanks for your help, Captain."
    "Think nothing of it," Ishimaki answered. He was
gone almost as soon as the last word was out of his
mouth.
 Turning to Ops, which was visible through his office
doors, Sisko noted the materialization of three figures
to one side of Dax. Getting up, he circumnavigated
his desk and walked outside.
    There was some confusion among his station off~-
cers as to how and why the newcomers had shown up
the way they did. However, thought Sisko, he'd take
care of that in a moment. "Zar!" he called out.
    The Bolian turned to look at him. A grin spread
over his face.
 "Commander," he said warmly.
    "Captain," Sisko corrected. With pure affection, he
reached out and grasped Zar by the shoulder. "Good
to have you aboard, Lieutenant."
The Bolian inclined his head. "Thank you, sir."
Sisko turned to the doctor. "Welcome to Deep
Space Nine, Dr. Laffer. And don't worry--I have no
intention of addressing you as Miriam, even if we
have known each other for several years now."
    Laffer nodded. "Good," she said. "I'm glad to hear
that."
    Finally, the captain addressed the Craynid. "Lieu-
tenant Commander Graal. It's an honor to have you
here."
    As always, he treated the engineer with great defer-
ence. After all, she might have been his subordinate
on the Saratoga, but she was a very high-ranking
individual in her homeworld culture.
    Graal looked at him askance. "Facial hair," she
observed, "and you've shaved your head."
  Sisko nodded. "Yes. You like it?"
    The Craynid shrugged. "It is only hair," she re-
marked.
    The captain smiled. He had missed Graal's unique
perspective.
"Let me introduce you to my senior staff," he said.
With a gesture, Sisko indicated the people on whom
he depended most these days. In accordance with his
orders, they were all present on the bridge, assembled
around Dax's station.
    "This is Major Kira Nerys, my first officer. Major,
Lieutenant Zar, Commander Graal, and Dr. Laffer
ú.. all old friends and colleagues from my days on the
Saratoga."
  Kira nodded. "A pleasure," she noted.
  "And Lieutenant Daxw"
    "The Trill," commented Laffer, her voice fiat and
inflectionless.
    "Yes," replied Dax, sweetly enough. "I remember
you, too, Doctor."
    Unfortunately, their interactions hadn't always
been congenial. Curzon Dax, her previous host, had
time and again rubbed Laffer the wrong way. But
then, Curzon had been a fun-loving sort, and the
doctor was anything but.
    "As you can see," the captain pointed out, "Lieu-
tenant Dax--Jadzia to her friends--shares only some
of Curzon's personality traits."
    "That's good," remarked Zar. "Because I could
never beat Curzon Dax at dom-jot. Maybe I'll have
more luck with Jadzia."
The Trill shrugged. "You're welcome to try," she
chuckled.
    Clearing his throat, Sisko continued with his intro-
ductions. "Dr. Bashir, our chief medical officer."
    Bashir smiled his most charming smile. "I've been
looking forward to meeting you," he told their guests.
"The captain has told us a great deal about you."
    Not quite true, Sisko mused. But it was the polite
thing to say. And Bashir seldom missed an opportuni-
ty to be politeú
    "And last," the captain said, "but certainly not
least, our hardworking chief of operations--Miles
O'Brien."
    O'Brien, who had a tool in each hand, just
shrugged. "Sorry about that," he apologized, "but I
was working on some Cardassian circuitry. I dream of
the day when we've replaced it all with good, old
Federation equipment."
    Zar turned to Sisko. "What about your chief of
security? The shapeshifter I've heard so much
about?"
    The captain grunted. "You'll meet Constable Odo
in due time, Lieutenant. He would have been here as
well, except he had some... how did he put it? Some
official business to take care of."

     Odo leaned over the bar, until his nose was almost
touching Quark's. The Ferengi swallowed--hard.
  "What did I do now?" protested Quark.
    "Now," said the changeling, in a reasonable tone,
"you've made communications contact with an indi-
vidual known as Fel Jangor. A Retizian, whose deal-
ings outside the law are almost as well known as your
own."
    Odo leaned back and pretended to admire his
reflection in the polished surface of the bar. While the
reflection itself was nearly perfect, the object it re-
flected was eminently flawed.
    Despite all his skills at shapeshifting, he had never
entirely mastered the humanoid form. As a result, his
features looked rough, as if his maker hadn't quite
finished with him.
    Odo looked up again at the Ferengi. "Of course, you
could deny it all. Then I would have to drag you back
to my office, where I would show you proof of your
communications. Or you could save us both some
time and trouble and simply sever your dealings with
Fel Jangor."
  Quark sighed. "I can't," he said.
"Can't?" echoed the changeling. "And why not?"
The Ferengi looked more uncomfortable than Odo
had seen him in a long time. "I can't tell you out
here," he replied. He tilted his head in the direction of
a shadowy corner table. "Grab me and pull me over
there."
    The shapeshifter looked at him. "You want me to
grab you?" he asked.
    "Yes," Quark whispered. "Come on. You want to
know what's going on, don't you?"
    Indeed, Odo did wish to know what was going on.
Grasping the Ferengi by his upper arm, he guided him
past the end of the bar and over to the table he'd
indicated. Then he thrust Quark into a chair and
pulled another one out for himself.
    "All right," the constable went on, in a vaguely
threatening tone, "here we are. What is it you were
going to tell me?"
    The Ferengi cast a few surreptitious glances about,
to make sure they wouldn't be overheard. Then he
leaned closer to Odo.
    "I didn't want my altruism to become public
knowledge," he explained. "It'd be bad for business.
But, you see, I'm only speaking with Fel Jangor on
behalf of Major Kira."
    The shapeshifter looked at him. "You expect me to
believe that?"
    "It's true," Quark insisted. "The major asked me to
obtain some power coils Jangor has in his possession.
There's a village on Bajor in dire need of them. A
place called Karvis."
    "Why can't the village obtain the power coils
itself?." Odo inquired. "Why do they need you?"
    "Because the village can't afford them," the Ferengi
explained.
 "But you can," the constable concluded.
    "That's right. You see, I did Jangor a favor some
time ago. Kira believes I can trade on that favor to get
the power coils cheaper."
    Odo peered at Quark through narrowed eyes. "And
can you?"
    The Ferengi shrugged. "All I can do is try." He held
his hands out. "So? Do you believe me now?"
 The changeling didn't say anything. He was still
thinking about it, still searching Quark's features for a
sign of dissembling.
    "I'm as innocent as a newborn babe," the Ferengi
advised. "Check with Kira if you don't believe me."
      Odo frowned. "That won't be necessary," he said.
"Clearly, you're telling the truth for a change."
  "Good," replied Quark.
    He got up to go, but the constable stopped him. The
Ferengi looked exasperated.
    "What?" he asked. "I thought we agreed that I was
legitimate this time."
    Odo shook his head from side to side. "Not at all.
While I sympathize with the Bajorans' problems, I
still can't let Fel Jangor dock his vessel at Deep Space
Nine--or I'd be forced to seize it in accordance with
the several warrants out for his arrest."
    "Don't worry," Quark told him. "We weren't plan-
ning to conduct our business on the station, anyway.
After all, you're not the only one who knows about
those warrants." He smiled in appreciation of his own
talents. "We've agreed to meet on a world in the next
star system. That way, we can both be sure of avoiding
interference as we pursue a transaction."
    The changeling made a sound of disgust. "I don't
need to know all the details," he declared. "Just that
you'll be out of my jurisdiction."
 "Which we will be," the Ferengi maintained.
 "Which you'd better be," Odo remarked.
    With a last withering glance, he got up and left
Quark to his dealings. Despite the Ferengi's claims to
the contrary, he had a nagging feeling he would live to
regret all this.

    With an effort, Miles O'Brien managed to dislodge
the heavy bulkhead plate that covered the Cardassian
power waveguide outlet. Casting a glance back over
his shoulder, he smiled as best he could.
    "If you don't mind, ma'am, I need you to step back.
This plate is heavy, and I've got to put it down
somewhere."
    Lieutenant Commander Graal just looked at him
for a moment, her dark eyes glistening in the rounded
terrain of her alien skull. Finally, as if his request had
taken a while to register, she moved back a couple of
steps.
    With a pronounced grunt, O'Brien lowered the
bulkhead plate to the deck, careful not to lose his grip
on it. Once before, shortly after he'd arrived on the
station, he'd allowed a similar monstrosity to slip out
of his hands.
    It hadn't damaged the deck much, but he'd crushed
a few toes. The pain had been excruciating. So if it
took a little caution to avoid a repeat performance,
that was the way it would have to be. He'd be as
careful as a Cardassian with a tushpah egg.
    "Well," he said, "there it is, Commander."
Straightening, he indicated the exposed mechanism.
"A Cardassian power waveguide outlet, in all its
arcane glory--just as you requested."
 Actually it had been Sisko's idea for O'Brien to
show the Craynid around the station, and to expose
her to some Cardassian technology. But Graal hadn't
objected when the offer was made.
    "Of course," the human continued, "you'll notice
the inefficiencies. And also, how damnably incompat-
ible it is with Federation technology."
    The Craynid inched forward again. Her eyes nar-
rowed as she took in the sight. After a couple of
minutes, she nodded.
    "Yes," she hissed thoughtfully. "Inefficient and
incompatible. But you say you incorporated it
anyway?"
    "That's right," O'Brien confirmed. "It wasn't easy,
I don't mind telling you. But I found a way to modify
our circuitry so that it accommodated Cardassian
output. It was the only way I could convert the station
without shutting it down and starting from scratch."
    "I see," said Graal, still studying the waveguide
outlet.
    "Now, of course," the human went on, "we've got
precious few of these things left. Almost every one of
them has been replaced with an EPS conduit. But it
took me a good few years to get to this point."
    The Craynid turned to him. "With eighty-nine
percent of rated power," she observed.
    O'Brien frowned. "Eighty-eight percent, actually.
But that was pretty good, I'd say, considering what I
had to work with."
    Graal shrugged. "You could have achieved ninety-
two percent--perhaps as high as ninety-four."
The human looked at her. "Oh? And how's that?"
    "By employing solid-state energy transfers," the
Craynid explained.
    O'Brien wasn't sure he'd heard her right. "Solid-
state energy transfers haven't been used in almost
forty years, Commander."
    "True," Graal breathed. "But they are still stored in
Starfleet distribution centers. And you would have
found them to be much more compatible with a
Cardassian power source."
    The human thought about it for a moment. And the
more he thought, the more he had to concede it
wouldn't have been a bad idea.
 Too bad he hadn't thought of it at the time.
    The Craynid glanced at him. "I have seen all I wish
to see. You may replace the bulkhead plate now."
    O'Brien managed a semblance of a smile. "Of
course," he replied. "Whatever you say, Com-
mander."
    Apparently, his sarcasm was lost on Graal. She
didn't move a muscle as he bent down and hefted the
bulkhead plate, or as he wrestled it back into place. Or
as he grunted and cursed at the resulting twinge in his
lower back.
    It was only after he was finished, and was wiping
the sweat from his brow, that she spoke again. "I
would like to see a Cardassian transporter mechanism
next," she told him.
    The human shook his head. "We don't have those
anymore. At least, not in working order."
    "Then," the Craynid told him, "I would like to see
one that is not in working order."
    O'Brien looked at her and sighed. "Fine. It's in one
of the cargo bays. Of course, I'll have to lug a few
things around to get to it--assuming you don't mind
that."
    Graal regarded him. "No," she answered, seem-
ingly oblivious to his implied protest. "I do not
mind."
    He bit his lip. "Very well, then," he told her, leading
the way down the corridor. "This way, Commander."
    The Craynid followed with that strange shuffling
step of hers. Apparently she was warming to his little
tour.
    The captain would be pleased, O'Brien thought
with a grimace. The only question now was which
would give out first--Graal's curiosity or the chiefs
aching back.

CHAPTER
        4

"As YOU CAN see," said Bashir, indicating the entire
infirmary with a sweep of his arm, "we're not exactly
embracing the state of the art out here. However, we
manage somehow to get the job done."
    Dr. Laffer nodded as she inspected the place, look-
ing for all the world as if she were examining a patient
with only a few days left to live. Abruptly the woman
turned to him.
    "You treated a Menas Baari here," she noted.
"Didn't you?" She made it sound a bit too much like
an accusation.
    Bashir was certain she hadn't meant it that way.
Well, he thought, relatively certain.
    Of course, the Menas Baari were the scourge of the
sector--amoral beings who made the Cardassians
look benevolent. If they hadn't badly diminished
their numbers with their incessant infighting, they
might have been a bigger threat than the Dominion.
    He shrugged. "Yes, I did treat a Menas Baari. And
several thousand other patients, including a sprin-
kling of Ferengi, Cardassians, Klingons, In'taq, Pan-
drilites, Silesi, and even a Jem'Hadar--not to
mention more Bajorans than you can shake a festival
stick at."
    Laffer frowned slightly. "It's the Menas Baari I'm
interested in specifically. As I understand it, the
patient was afflicted with Goryyn's syndrome. Pallid
skin with raised green blotches, excess perspiration,
soreness in the joints?"
    Bashir smiled, though it didn't come easily. "I'm
familiar with the symptoms," he told her. "And yes, I
diagnosed the patient with Goryyn's. Fortunately, it
wasn't the virulent kind."
    "You had no trouble containing it, then?" she
inquired.
    Bashir found it a little harder to maintain his smile.
"We do have force fields here, Doctor. It really wasn't
very difficult."
  "And your cure?" she prodded.
    He chuckled. This was all textbook stuff. "A steady
diet of thoridium sulfide," he told her.
    "Thoridium sulfide?" echoed I_,after. She looked
away from him and shook her head. "Then you
haven't seen Dr. Secori's monograph on Goryyn's?"
    "Secori?" He shook his head. "I'm not familiar
with the fellow."
 His guest grunted in a vaguely derisive way. "Ainad
Secori of Muuldax Prime. He's on the cutting edge of
immunology in the inner systems. I've met with him
several times myself."
    Bashir experienced a flare of resentment. Or was it
a sudden sense of inferiority?
    "And you're saying he's developed an alternative to
thoridium sulfide?" he asked.
    "That's correct," Laffer confirmed. "A substance
called benarrh, derived from the stamen of the
Muuldaxan kras'suda blossom. It has a ninety-eight-
percent cure rate when introduced in the first two
days."
    That was six percent higher than anyone had
achieved in the past. Bashir couldn't help but be
impressed. But even more than that, he was annoyed.
    How was it this Secori had come so far in this area
and he'd never gotten wind of it? Was he really that
isolated out here on Deep Space Nine? Or was his
guest perhaps making more of the Muuldaxan's work
than she ought to be?
 "I'll have to look into it," he promised.
    Laffer didn't respond to his comment. Instead she
continued to scrutinize the infirmaryrepaying partic-
ular attention to his scalpel set, which was housed in a
transparent plastic case.
    "That was a gift," Bashir pointed out. "From my
aunt Gauri and uncle Nigel. I received them when I
graduated medical school."  "I see," said Laffer.
    She didn't say the scalpels were antiquated. She
didn't say they were ineffective. But there was some-
thing in her voice that implied those things nonethe-
less.
  "They're really quite adequate," he added.
  "I'm sure they are," Laffer replied.
    She moved on toward his surgical alcove. Bashir
tagged along, not at all eager to continue the tour--
not that he had any choice. The captain had entrusted
him with a former colleague, and he had to make the
most of it.
    Halfway to the alcove, Laffer stopped at his desk
and reached for something. Surprisingly it was his
racquetball trophy.
    "First place," she noted, reading the information
off the base of it.
    He nodded. "Yes. I got lucky, I suppose. I hadn't
even mastered the three-corner ceiling shot at that
point."
    Laffer turned to look at him. "But you've mastered
it now?" she asked.
    Bashir shrugged. "By now? I should say so. It's the
most effective shot in my repertoire." He paused. "Do
you... er, play?"
    She shook her head. "No, I was never inclined
much toward sports. Too hard on the joints. However,
I have a friend who won the Starfleet Medical tourna-
ment back on Earth."
    "Really?" He was impressed. "That wouldn't be
Marta Grindberg, would it?"
 "Actually," she replied, "it is."
    Bashir smiled. 'TII bet she makes good use of the
three-corner ceiling shot."
    Laffer put the trophy down where she'd found it.
"To tell you the truth, she never uses it. Not anymore,
I mean."
 He felt his jaw drop. "Why not?" he asked.
    "I don't really know," his guest told him. "She just
says it's out of fashion. None of the better players
resort to it any longer."
    Bashir felt his cheeks burning. "Oh," he responded
lamely. "Well, that'll teach me to be so out of touch."
    The woman's game was obvious to him now. She
was the high priestess of one-upmanship, the ultimate
contrarian. Whatever he'd done, she knew someone
who'd done it better. Whatever he said, she had some
counterargument waiting in the wings.
    It might have been out of spite or jealousy. Or it
might simply have been her nature.
    In either case, if he was going to survive the
remainder of this tour, he would do better to turn the
spotlight somewhere else. In other words, on Laffer
herself. And as luck would have it, there really was
something Bashir had been meaning to ask her.
    "Tell me something," he said, maneuvering himself
into a position between Laffer and the surgical alcove.
    She looked at him. "What would you like to
know?"
    He rubbed his hands together. "The Siskos--both
the captain and Jake--have a rather interesting resi-
due of cells in their blood." He went on to describe
them.
    "That's correct," Laffer confirmed. "They were left
over from our exposure to a rather rare disease,
during our time on the Saratoga. We all have those
cells."
    Bashir held his hands up, calling for a halt. "Actu-
ally," he said, "according to your medical records,
two of you do not exhibit those cells. More specifi-
cally, Lieutenant Lopez and Counselor Barnes."
    She frowned slightly. "And it's not clear to you why
that should be."
"Let's say I'm a little curious about it," he pressed.
"The answer is a simple one," Laffer responded.
"Neither Lieutenant Lopez nor Counselor Barnes
were on the Saratoga when the crew encountered the
disease. Lopez joined us very shortly afterward, and
Barnes a full year later." She stared at him. "But this
information is in their medical records. You did say
you'd received them, didn't you?"
    Bashir's cheeks burned even hotter than before.
"Yes," he said, regretting his oversight. "I received
them, all right. I just hadn't read them all the way
through yet."
    "Well," Laffer remarked, "if you had, you'd have
seen that we contracted a rather dangerous strain of
the disease. And that some of us, Commander Sisko
included, were close to death when I discovered a
cure."
    She went on to give Bashir the details--many more
of them, in fact, than he might have desired or found
remotely useful. And just when he thought she was
through, she went on to catalog several other in-
stances in which she rescued the crew of the Saratoga.

    Bashir sighed. He sorely wished he had never
brought the subject up in the first place.
    Sisko's laughter filled the upper level of the Prome-
nade, attracting more than a couple of looks from
passersby. He put his arm around his son's shoulders
and shook his head.
    "Dinner?" he echoed. "With both of them? At the
same table?"
    Zar, who was walking alongside them, smiled mis-
chievously as he nodded. "Ishimaki just didn't know
who he was dealing with. You should have seen his
face when Laffer prodded him to call a waiter over--
and then told him she'd already eaten."
    "That poor man," said the captain. "Now I'm sorry
I teased him a bit when he arrived with you three in
tOW."
The Bolian looked at him. "You teased him? By the
deities, you should have given him a medal."
    Sisko chuckled and turned to Jake. "Do you re-
member what those two were like together?" he asked.
    The youngster shrugged. "I thought I did. I guess
they didn't seem so bad to me--maybe because I
didn't see them very much."
    "Thank your stars," quipped Zar. "I wish I could
have said the same."
    "And now," the captain commented ruefully, "I've
asked two of my most trusted officers--men I like--
to baby-sit for Graal and Laffer. What kind of com-
manding officer am IT'
     "You had no choice," the Bolian told him. "Laffer
 made a point of asking to see the infirmary. And
 Graal would have asked to see something, if you
 hadn't suggested it yourself."
    Sisko sighed. "I suppose. Just remind me of that
when O'Brien and Bashir stage a mutiny."
    "Hey, Jake," said Zar. He pointed to an exotic
foods emporium along the Promenade. "I'll bet
they've got some mak'terama drops in there."
    The boy smiled. "They do," he said. "Big ones.
Three different flavors, too, each one better than the
last." He sobered as he looked at his father. "But my
dad says they're too sweet. They'll rot my teeth."
    "Well," remarked the Bolian, assuming an equally
sober mien, "in that case, there's just one thing to
do." He cast a sidelong glance at Sisko and leaned
closer to Jake. "We won't tell the old fellow."
    Then, with a cackle, Zar hooked the boy by his arm
and pulled him in the direction of the emporium. The
captain watched them go, unable to keep from crack-
ing a smile himself.
    Undoubtedly, the Bolian was a bad influence. But
he was a very good bad influence. Especially for Jake,
who'd looked up to Zar like an older brother during
their stint on the Saratoga.
    Those were good times, Sisko reflected. Family
times. And the Bolian had, for all intents and pur-
poses, been part of their family.
    He'd worshipped Jennifer in particular. Hadn't Zar
said, time and again, that she'd spoiled him for other
women? That he'd never settle down until he could
find a mate as beautiful and bright and charming as
Sisko's?
    With all that, it couldn't have been easy for the
Bolian to leave Jennifer behind on the Saratoga--to
countenance her crushed and broken body, and pull
her husband away from her. But Zar hadn't had any
choice in the matter.
    He had done what he had had to do. And ever since,
Sisko had been grateful to the Bolian.
    Except for the first few days, of course. During that
time, the captain had hated him. With a passion. It
was only after he'd had time to think about it that he
realized what kind of favor Zar had done for him. If
not for the Bolian, he would have been a dead man.
    So if Zar wanted to spoil Jake a little, if he wanted
to stuff him with those damned mak'terama drops,
the captain would see fit to overlook the transgres-
sion. After all, the Bolian had earned it.
Abruptly, his communicator bleeped. He tapped it.
"Sisko here."
It was Kira. "Sir," she said, "the Endeavor has
arrived. We've directed it to docking pylon two."
    The captain grunted by way of acknowledgment.
"Thank you, Major. I'm on my way."
    Kira's timing was good. By then, Jake and Zar were
coming out of the exotic foods emporium with a
couple of bags full to bursting. They were grinning
from ear to ear--a sight that did Sisko's heart good.
    "Come on," he called to them. "Hurry up, you two.
It looks like the rest of our visitors have shown up."
    As Captain Kyprios stood in the aifiock, he glanced
at Counselor Barnes, who had positioned herself on
his right flank. He sought some hint of trepidation in
her face, some indication that she had lied to him
about her determination to take part in this Utopia
Planitia thing.
    But he perceived nothing of the kind. The counsel-
or looked composed, even eager to be here.
    Barnes was such a good officer, such a good friend,
Kyprios hated the idea of letting her inflict pain on
herself. If she had shown the slightest sign of distress,
he would have found a reason to extricate her.
    But there was no sign. And, therefore, no reason to
pull her out.
    Relax, he told himself. She's a grown woman. She
knows what she's doing. He just wished he believed it.
    Turning his head, he noted the presence of Thorn
and Lopez on his other flank. If the counselor was
looking forward to this, they were downright ecstatic.
They hadn't stopped laughing and slapping each other
on the back since Lopez's arrival.
    Clearly this was a different kind of experience for
them than it was for Constance Barnes. A very differ-
ent experience. They had managed to put the tragedy
behind them and move on.
    The grinding of gears caught Kyprios's attention.
Facing forward, he saw the Cardassian-style doors
begin to part. He had a feeling he knew who would be
on the other side.
  The captain had never met Benjamin Sisko, though
he had heard a lot about him--even before the
Endeavor played host to Thorn and Lopez. After all,
the man had been in the eye of a mounting storm the
last several years, and had comported himself better
than anyone expected.
    So as the docking-bay doors continued to slide
apart, Kyprios confessed inwardly to a certain
curiosity--a certain interest in the kind of man who
could take a run-down relic of a station and make it a
key piece on the galactic chessboard. A moment later,
that curiosity was satisfied, as the aperture widened
enough to reveal three figures.
 One was a Bolian. Obviously not Sisko.
    The second was much too young to be the station
commander. Hell, he wasn't even wearing a Starfleet
uniform.
    It had to be the third one, then. The man with the
clean-shaven head and the dark goatee, and the look
of quiet confidence about him. And, of course, the
command colors. Yes, that would be him, all right.
    Kyprios took a couple of steps forward and ex-
tended his hand. "Captain Sisko, I presume?"
    The station commander smiled cordially. "Captain
Kyprios. Welcome to Deep Space Nine." He nodded
to his companions. "Lieutenant Zar of the Crazy
Horse. And my son," he said, with an unmistakably
paternal pride. "Jake."
    The Bolian nodded. A little more hesitantly, betray-
ing a typically teenage awkwardness, the youngster
did the same.
    "Pleased to meet you both," Kyprios told them. He
turned to Sisko again. "I take it you know these
three?" He indicated his companions with a tilt of his
head.
    Sisko's smile faltered a little. "Yes," he replied,
"Lieutenant Lopez and Mr. Thorn are old friends."
"Bloody right we are," chuckled the security chief.
Lopez elbowed Thorn for his breach of protocol.
"Mind your manners," he said. But he had trouble
containing a smirk of his own.
    "However," the station commander went on, ignor-
ing the other two and gazing at Barnes, "I don't
believe I knew Counselor Barnes very well."
    "That's true," she remarked evenly. "I was new on
the Saratoga when it was destroyed. But it's a pleasure
to meet you now, sir."
    Sisko inclined his head chivalrously. "The pleasure
is mine, Counselor." He turned to Kyprios again.
"Will you be staying on, Captain?"
    Kyprios shook his head. "I'm afraid not. I just
wanted to pay my respects--and to see in whose
hands I'm leaving my ship's counselor."
 'Tll take good care of her," Sisko promised.
     "See that you do," said Kyprios, only half in jest.
"I'll be back in a couple of weeks. Until then, sir."
  "Until then," the station commander echoed.
  Kyprios could see in his eyes that Sisko understood
  his concerns. Feeling a little better than he had when
  he arrived, the older man nodded to his counselor,
  turned about, and made his way back to his ship.
    Sisko watched Kyprios depart. Certainly the man
didn't pull any punches. He was concerned about his
counselor and he didn't care who knew it.
    "Pay no attention to my commanding officer," said
Barnes.
  Sisko looked at her. "I beg your pardon?"
    She smiled apologetically. It was an attractive and
strangely unexpected smile. "Captain Kyprios is
known to overdo it sometimes. He's very protective
of his people."
    So am I, thought Sisko. But I don't show it that way.
At least, I don't think I do.
    "That's all right," he assured her. "I'm sure his
heart is in the right place."
    In the meantime, Zar and Jake were exchanging
greetings with Lopez and Thorn. The big man picked
Jake up like a baby--something Sisko himself hadn't
attempted for a number of years now.
    "You used to be such a pipsqueak," said Thorn.
"Now look at you. You're bigger than Lopez."
    "So he is," the science officer agreed. "I'll bet the
ladies can't keep their hands off him."
    Jake squirmed a bit under the scrutiny of his old
shipmates. "Come on, guys. This is embarrassing."
    "Let him down," said Sisko, intervening. "And as
for the ladies," he added, casting a remonstrative
glance at Lopez, "the last thing he needs is encourage-
ment."
    "That's right," Zar chimed in, affecting a fatherly
demeanor. "He already spends more time with the
Dabo girls than he does at his studies."
    Barnes cleared her throat. Obviously she felt like a
fifth wheel at this gathering.
    "If someone will show me to my quarters," she told
the station commander, "I think I'd like to call it a
day."
    Sisko nodded. "Of course. I'll see you there my-
self."
    She held up her hand. "That won't be necessary,"
she told him. "I wouldn't want to pull you away from
your reunion."
    "No," said the captain. "I insist." He turned to
Lopez and Thorn. "In fact, I'll show you all to your
quarters. The reunion can wait until later, after I've
taken care of some things."
    The big man nodded understandingly. "Of course.
You've got a station to run. You're busy."
    Sisko grunted. "Unfortunately." He tilted his head
to indicate the direction in which they would proceed.
"This way."
    As the captain led them along the corridor, his son
and colleagues fell into line behind him. All except
Lopez, who wound up walking beside him.
    "Esteban," he said, taking advantage of the oppor-
tunity. After all, the others were conversing among
themselves.
 The science officer looked at him. "Yes?"
    Sisko smiled. "You know what I'm going to say,
don't you?"
    Lopez shook his head, his eyes full of innocence.
"No, what?"
    Apparently Thorn had been listening in. He caught
up with them in a couple of long strides.
    "You're not to terrorize the females on the station,"
the bearded man provided. "That's what."
    The science officer reigned indignation. "Me?" he
replied. He shook his head. "You wrong me, Captain.
I'm not nearly the bon vivant I used to be. I've
mellowed in my old age."
 "Sure you have," said Thorn.
     Lopez cast a reproachful look at him. "Nothing like
a character reference from a friend," he muttered.
  Sisko chuckled. "Your cover's blown, Esteban."
  "Don't worry," said the security chiefi "I'll keep
  him on a short leash, Captain. He won't get into any
  trouble while I'm around."
    "See that he doesn't," Sisko advised. "There are a
great many temptations on this station. I'd hate to see
an old comrade fall on the wrong side of a jealous
husband."
 "I hear you," Thorn assured him.
    The science officer scowled resentfully at his
powerful-looking friend. "Yes," he said. "And so did
i.,,
    "Good," the captain responded. "Then we won't
have any misunderstandings." Satisfied that he had
done his job, he headed for the Promenade.


CHAPTER
        5

SHUTrING OUT THE sights and sounds of Quark's as he
always did, Bashir tried to line up the dart in his hand
with the round board on the wall. However, he
couldn't seem to make himself concentrate this time.
"What's wrong?" asked O'Brien.
    The doctor turned to him, exasperated. "Wrong?"
he echoed. "Who said anything was wrong?"
    The engineer recoiled a bit. "Sorry I asked," he
responded. "You don't have to bite my head off,
y'know."
    Bashir bit his lip. "You're right, Chief. I didn't. I
apologize. It's just thaW--he looked around, to make
sure there was no one in earshot--"that Dr. Laffer,"
he finished.
    O'Brien looked at him. "Gave you some trouble,
did she?"
    The doctor grunted. "Not exactly, no. I mean, she
didn't wreck the infirmary or anything. On the other
hand, she made me feel about this small." He used the
thumb and forefinger of his left hand to indicate a
millimeter or so. "First she criticized my methods,
then my equipment, and finally even my approach to
racquetball. By the time she finished, I was seriously
wondering if I was capable of doing anything right."
    The operations chief chuckled mirthlessly.
"Sounds nearly as bad as Lieutenant Commander
Graal." He considered his own darts and frowned. "If
she'd had me move one more piece of equipment, I'd
be stretched out on one of your operating tables
now--awaiting a spine replacement."
    Bashir smiled at the notion. "You would have had
to ask Dr. Laffer for one of those. I'm neither trained
nor equipped for anything more complicated than a
splinter removal."
    His friend seemed as if he was about to say some-
thing more--but something distracted him. Follow-
ing the engineer's gaze, the doctor saw what had
snared O'Brien's attention.
    It was Lopez, the science officer from the LaSalle.
And he had just escorted Dax to a secluded table in
the back of the place.
    Bashir found his teeth grating together. He flung his
dart at the board. It missed, embedding itself in the
wall instead.
O'Brien grunted. "Feeling a little jealous, are we?"
The doctor glared at him. "Of what?" he inquired.
"Jadzia is a grown woman. What she does with her
time is her own business." He glanced again at Lopez,
who was in the process of moving a little closer to the
Trill. "Besides," he went on, "we're just friends."
    "Er, right," the chief responded, lining up his shot.
"Whatever you say, Julian."
He let the dart fly. It struck the bull's-eye dead on.
Bashir whirled on him, prepared to defend himself
against O'Brien's suggestion. Then he stopped him-
self. What was the use? Some people were just more
transparent than others, he supposed--and he was
one of them.
    "All right," he admitted. "Maybe I am a little
jealous--in a brotherly sort of way. And a little
puzzled, as well. I mean, I don't know what Jadzia
sees in the man."
    The engineer shrugged. "She must see something,"
he remarked. "Otherwise she wouldn't be sitting next
to him."
    He had barely gotten the words out when Dax
excused herself, leaving Lopez all alone at the table.
Bashir harrumphed, deriving a measure of satisfac-
tion from the turn of events. It seemed his friend Dax
had better taste than he had given her credit for.
  "She's left him," O'Brien pointed out.
 The doctor smiled. "Has she? I hadn't noticed."
    "And by the looks of it, he's decided to visit us
instead," the chief continued.
    Bashir glanced over his shoulder. Sure enough,
Lopez was headed their way, weaving his way through
the crowd. The doctor frowned. What did the man
want of them?
    "Excuse me," said the science officer when he had
gotten close enough. He smiled a rather disarming
smile. "My name is Lopez. Esteban Lopez, science
officer on the LaSalle. You know, one of Captain
Sisko's muckety-muck friends from the Saratoga,
come to disrupt things here and generally plague you
until we finally depart for the commissioning cere-
mony?"
    O'Brien laughed. Bashir couldn't help but chuckle a
bit himself.
    "I wouldn't say you were plaguing us," the engineer
lied. "At least, not yet."
    "Ah, then you haven't met Commander Graal yet,"
Lopez told him. "Or even worse, Dr. Laffer." He
turned to the doctor. "Then again, judging by the
grimace on your face, perhaps you have."
    Bashir started to protest. "That was not a grimace.
iw,'
    O'Brien put a comradely hand on his shoulder.
"Give it up, Julian. The man has got us dead to
rights." He addressed the newcomer. "How did you
ever tolerate them on the Saratoga?" he asked.
    Lopez shrugged. "I stayed away from them,
mostly."
    "Good advice," the Ops chief observed. "I'll have
to remember that."
    "Of course," said the science officer, "they're not
the only ones you have to look out for. There's also
my friend Thorn. The man doesn't know his own
strength. Don't let him pat you on the back when he's
had one too many, or there'll be a permanent impres-
sion of your face in the tabletop."
    "I'11 remember that, too," promised O'Brien,
flinching a little at the image.
    "And then there's me," Lopez went on. "Lock up
your wives and daughters, Esteban Lopez is in town."
He grinned. "And I must admit, I'm flattered by my
reputation. I only wish it was quite as well deserved as
some make it out to be."
"You mean it's not?" the doctor inquired casually.
"Oh, there's always a kernel of truth in every
rumor." The science officer sighed. "But it's just a
kernel, I'm afraid. As you no doubt noticed," he
continued, "my efforts with Lieutenant Dax were
quite futile. So, as you can see, I'm as fallible as
anyone else."
  Bashir grunted. "That's good to know."
    Lopez looked at him. "Actually, as Dax tells it,
you're the resident Romeo around here, Doctor. She
even confessed to having a soft spot for you herself--
though I'm sure that comes as no surprise to you."
    "It doesn't?" responded Bashir. "I mean... no, of
course it doesn't." He managed a smile. "What else
did she tell you?"
    The science officer looked at him apologetically. "I
think, perhaps, that's all I should say. Bad enough I'm
thought of as a gigolo, you understand. I don't want to
be called a gossip into the bargain."
 The doctor bit his lip. "I understand," he said.
 It seemed that Lopez was more of a gentleman than
he had believed. The man's stock went up instantly in
Bashir's eyes.
    "So," said the science officer, tilting his head in the
direction of the dartboard, "would you mind very
much if I joined your game?"
    The doctor and O'Brien looked at each other. Both
men shrugged.
 "Not at all," said the Ops officer.
 "Be my guest," said Bashir.
    O'Brien gestured to Rom, who was passing by with
an empty tray. "Another round, please," he called
out. He glanced at Lopez. "What can I get you,
Esteban?"
    'Tll have a beer," the science officer replied. "But
let me get this round. It's my way of apologizing for
my colleagues' behavior."
    "I can't let you do that," O'Brien insisted, holding
up a hand for emphasis.
 "No," said Lopez firmly. "I insist. Really."
    The Ops officer sighed. "Very well, then." He
turned to Rom. "You heard the man."
    The Ferengi nodded. "I'11 put it on your tab," he
told the science officer.
    "Thank you," said Lopez. He turned to O'Brien.
"Now, I warn you, I'm no pushover at this. There's a
dartboard on the LaSalle, you know."
    The doctor stifled a smile. "There are plenty of
dartboards," he remarked. "But there's only one
Miles O'Brien."
 As it turned out, their visitor was pretty good. Not
as good as O'Brien, of course, but better than Bashir
had expected.
    And that wasn't the only way in which Lopez
surprised the doctor. As they played, it became clear
to Bashir that the science officer was a regular
fellow--one who hadn't merited the doctor's jealousy
in the least.
    "Well," said Lopez, after he had come in third for
the second game in a row, "it looks like Chief O'Brien
isn't the only ringer around here." He clapped Bashir
on the shoulder. "You're pretty good yourself,
Doctor."
  Bashir smiled. "Just lucky, I assure you."
    Lopez looked at him with mischief in his eyes.
"What do you say we make the game a bit more
interesting?"
  "In what way?" asked Bashir.
    "Well," said the science officer, "we couM make a
little wager on the outcome. Even odds, winner takes
all."
    The doctor felt a bit uncomfortable at the sugges-
tion. After all, he wasn't in the habit of gambling with
friends. Hell, he wasn't in the habit of gambling with
anybody.
    Apparently the chief felt the same way. "I don't
know," he replied, looking a little queasy. "I mean, I
usually play just for fun."
    "And a wager should make it more fun," Lopez
suggested. "Unless, of course, you don't feel you can
perform under pressure."
 He had clearly found the right button to push--
O'Brien's pride. The chief laughed. "Don't feel I can
perform?" he repeated. 'Tll have you know I thrive
under pressure."
    "Then it's a bet," the science officer concluded.
"One bar of latinum, or the equivalent."
    "A bar of latinurn?" O'Brien echoed. He winced a
little. "That sounds like a lot of money."
    Lopez chuckled. "There's no point in wagering
unless it means something," he explained, then
turned to Bashir. "Are you in, Doctor?"
    Bashir didn't like the direction in which this was
headed. He almost felt as if he were being coerced.
And that feeling gave rise to an unwelcome thought.
    What if Lopez were a con man? A hustler? What if
he'd been lulling them into a false sense of security
this whole time, hoping to take them for all they were
worth--starting with a bar of latinurn and going on
from there?
    The science officer smiled at him. "You're hesitat-
ing, my friend. That's a bad sign. It means you don't
trust me."
  The doctor flushed. "It's not that," he said.
    "Then you're in," Lopez concluded. Perhaps too
briskly, he turned to O'Brien. "And you, Chief?."
  The Irishman shrugged. "I suppose," he replied.
    "Good," said the science officer. "Let's give it a go,
then, shall we? Three rounds a game?"
    Bashir had the less-than-pleasant feeling that they
had been hoodwinked. He could already feel himsella
bar of latinum lighter.
  As the first round of darts flew, the results were the
 same as in the previous game. O'Brien opened a clear
 lead, with the doctor and Lopez neck and neck. A
 second round only saw the chief widen his lead. And
 in the third round Bashir snuck ahead of the science
 officer to take second place.
     Lopez sighed. "Good game," he told his newfound
 companions. "Care for another, gentlemen? Say, for
 twice the stakes?"
    The doctor swore inwardly. It was happening just
as he had predicted. His less-than-pleasant feeling got
a good deal worse.
    "Not me," said Bashir. "I know when I'm out-
classed."
    The science officer glanced at him in a vaguely
disappointed sort of way, then turned to O'Brien.
"Looks like it's just you and me, Chief."
    The doctor hoped his friend would decline as he
had. But after a moment he could see that wasn't
going to happen. It wasn't O'Brien's style to be a party
pooper--or to imply, by dropping out, that he sus-
pected Lopez of being a crook.
    "Looks that way," the chief agreed, if a little
reluctantly.
    The second contest went much as the first one had.
Of course, their guest couldn't have come in third this
time, with the doctor out of the game. Still, the
science officer's score was lower by ten points.
    "Damn," he breathed, as he plucked his darts out
of the board. "That's two bars of latinurn I owe you,"
he told O'Brien.

    The chief made a gesture of dismissal. "Listen,
Esteban, you don't owe me anything. Let's just call it
even, all right?"
    Lopez shook his head. "I'm not a weisher, Chiefi
Give me one more shot. And we'll double the stakes
again. That'll make it four bars of latinum."
    O'Brien's lips became a thin hard line. Four bars of
latinurn was a lot of money. And as good as he was,
there was always the chance he would falter--or that
the newcomer would get lucky.
    Bashir stared at his friend--hard. Don't do it, he
thought. He's just reeling you in, Chief.
    But O'Brien was too honorable a man to back out
now. "Done," he told the science officer. "Four bars it
is."
    There was no fun in this game--for either man, the
doctor thought. It was grim and tense and everything
a friendly game of darts shouldn't be.
    The first round went to Lopez. The chief had
missed badly with his first dart, putting himself in a
hole. And the science officer took advantage of it,
coming up with what was easily his best performance
so far.
    The second round was O'Brien's, however. His eye
seemingly sharpened by his failure in the first round,
he placed all of his darts in and around the bull's-eye.
Lopez did well, too, much better than he had done in
their earlier matches--but not well enough.
    The third round would decide it. The science officer
turned to O'Brien. "How are you feeling, Chief?."
  O'Brien nodded. "Not bad. And you?"
    "Pretty confident, actually," said Lopez. "Confi-
dent enough to double the stakes again, if you've got
the stomach for it."
    He smiled, but not with any genuine feeling. It was
the smile of a cat, Bashir thought, just before he made
mincemeat of a poor mouse.
    The chief looked drawn, hollow-cheeked. He swal-
lowed. "Whatever you say," he told the science of-
ricer.
    Inwardly the doctor winced. Eight bars of latinurn?
It would take his friend forever to make that kind of
money.
    But O'Brien had already agreed to the wager. His
jaw set in grim concentration, he stared at the board
and lined up his dart. Then he drew it back and, with
a flick of his wrist, sent it flying end over end.
    It embedded itself in the dartboard midway be-
tween the center and the edge. Not a terrible shot, but
certainly not the man's best.
    The next dart was in more or less the same spot. A
thin rivulet of perspiration made its way down the
side of O'Brien's face. Bearing down, he tossed the
third dart--and stabbed the bull's-eye with it.
    But he was vulnerable, and he knew it. Bashir
sighed. He could feel his comrade's frustration and
pain. How was he going to explain this to Keiko, after
all? That he had lost all their savings and then some?
    Lopez stepped up and lodged his first dart not far
from O'Brien's, near the center. A smile tugged at the
corners of his mouth--a smile which didn't go unno-
ticed by the doctor.
    The science officer's second dart wasn't as well
placed, however. It barely caught the perimeter, elicit-
ing a muffled curse from the man. And his third toss
missed the board entirely.
    The game was O'Brien's. Bashir could see the chief
breathe a sigh of relief.
    Lopez, on the other hand, looked pale and waxy--
almost feverish in his disappointment. At least, for a
moment. Then, as the color returned to his face, he
raised his eyes to O'Brien's and extended his hand.
    "Looks like you've won," he noted, in a clear,
steady voice. "I'll make arrangements to get you your
winnings."
    The chief shook his head. "There'll be no need," he
said emphatically. "The competition was worth more
to me than any amount of latinum."
    But Lopez was just as insistent. "As I told you," he
replied, "I'm not a weisher, Chief. See you later." He
turned to Bashit. "And you, Doctor."
    Bashit nodded, still a little stunned. He watched the
science officer disappear into the crowd, then turned
to O'Brien.
    "I could have sworn he was going to hustle you," he
muttered.
    The chief managed a half-smile. "Year," he said.
"Me, too. I guess neither one of us is much of a judge
when it comes to character." He paused. "Of course, I
can't let him pay me all that latinum."
 "Of course not," the doctor agreed.
    He still couldn't believe it. What kind of a man was
this Esteban Lopez? What kind of a fool, to jack the
stakes up that way... when he had every reason to
expect he would lose?
    Bashir shook his head. There were some things he
would never understand.

CHAPTER
        6

"THE IMPORTANT THING to remember," said Kira, as
she moved her forefinger along the bright red sche-
matic depicted by the tactical monitor, "is that the
Cardassians didn't mind losing a few troops here if
they could ultimately claim victory."
    "I see," replied Zar, who was standing at her side in
Ops.
    "In fact," she went on, "they would generally rather
lose a few troops than lose no troops at all, be-
cause--"
    "Because if they didn't lose anyone," Zar inter-
rupted, "it means they didn't fight very hard."
    Kira looked up at him and smiled. "That's right.
But I thought you didn't know much about
Cardassians... ?"
 "I don't," he confirmed. "But I've heard of other
races who thought the same way. After a while, you
begin to see a pattern."
  Kira nodded. "Yes," she said, "I suppose you do."
    After all, Zar had been a tactical officer for a good
many years. He would know these things.
     A moment later, the major resumed her inspection
of the grid. Where was that damned thing, anyway?
  "Ah," she blurted after a moment. "Here it is."
  She pointed out the Cardassian shield generator on
  the grid. It was the only one on this particular
  schematic, though there had been eleven others on the
  station.
    Peering over her shoulder, the Bolian took it all in.
"And it could simply be bypassed?" he asked. "Auto-
matically?"
    "That's right," she told him. "The shield generators
were set up to draw power according to prevailing~
circumstances. The trigger was generally a percentage
of rated strength. So if the station were under attack
and shield strength dropped below, say, seventy-five
percent..."
    "Power was shifted away from the more expendable
areas and directed to the operations center," Zar
finished. "And of course, that's where the highest-
ranking officers were holed up." He gestured to indi-
cate Ops. "The shields around this facility were
restored to full strength, while other parts of the
station were left all but defenseless."
    "Exactly." Kira looked at him. "And if the bulk-
heads were breached in one of those defenseless parts,
internal forcefields would seal the place off, prevent-
ing Ops from losing air and other life-support fea-
tures."
    The Bolian grunted. "They had their priorities, all
right."
    "Hideous though they may have seemed," the
Bajoran added. "Particularly if you weren't one of the
lucky few picked to work in Ops."
    Zar grunted again. "And you learned all this when
you took control of the station?" he asked.
    "Not me," Kira said. "In the resistance, we studied
Cardassian strategy till it was coming out of our ears."
"The resistance?" he echoed.
    She could see the mixture of admiration and sym-
pathy in his eyes. But then, she had glimpsed that look
before.
    "I was part of the Shakaar cell," she told him. "We
were better prepared than some of the others."
    Zar's eyes narrowed. "That wouldn't be the
Shakaar who is first minister of Bajor?" he inquired.
Kira nodded. "One and the same."
    He smiled. "Then I'm in distinguished company
indeed," he commented. "That is, even more distin-
guished than I thought."
    The irony didn't escape her. There was a time when
she hadn't expected to be in any company at all, much
less the distinguished kind.
    "I'm sorry," the Bolian said quickly, surprising her.
"I've brought back some painful memories, haven't
IT'
    The major realized that she was frowning. A little
embarrassed, she laughed and shook her head.
    "Don't be sorry," she told him. "It's not your fault
they're painful."
    Zar seemed to be groping for something to addm
something that might ease the discomfort a little.
Finally, he could say only: "I've seen some pretty
terrible things myself."
    Kira looked at him. She wondered what he had
experienced that even belonged in the same conversa-
tion with the misery she had endured at the hands of
the Cardassians.
    And then she remembered. The Saratoga. Of
course.
    "Yes," the Bajoran acknowledged. "I guess that was
pretty terrible."
    Zar's eyes took on a faraway look. It was as if he
could see the Borg vessel closing in all over again.
    Suddenly, Kira found herself wanting to ease his
pain as he had tried to ease hers. She selected her
words carefully.
    "I've heard about it," she told him, "but I don't
really know any of the details. Except that you saved
Captain Sisko's life."
    The Bolian shrugged. "It was one of those things.
You don't think. You just act." He winced.
"Jennifer--the captain's wife--was dead already,
along with a lot of other people. The ship was a
smoking vision of hell. And the Borg were homing in
on us, intent on finishing the job they'd started."
  "Destroying the Saratoga," Kira elaborated.
    Zar nodded. "There was damage to the warp core.
It was just a question of what got us first--the enemy
or our own containment failure. If it had been up to
our friend Benjamin, in his numbed and battered
state, he would have stayed behind with his wife. He
would have tugged and pulled at the charred, twisted
wreckage that covered her, until it was too late. And
Jake would have wound up an orphan.
    "Ultimately," he said, "that was what made my
mind up. As you may have noticed, I have a real
affection for Jake. Bad enough his mother was a
victim. I couldn't see him left without a father as
well."
    "So you pulled the captain away from her," Kira
noted.
    "Yes," the Bolian told her, the muscles around his
eyes twitching. Yet his tone remained casual, almost
conversational. "I turned Jake over to a security
officer and gripped my friend with all my strength.
And I dragged him back along the ruined corridor, in
the direction of the escape pods." He shook his head
as he remembered. "Needless to say, he struggled like
a crazy person. He tried to free himself with hands
already burned and bleeding--denying the fact that
his wife was well past his help. And he screamed..."
    Abruptly, Zar paused. When he picked up the story
again, there was a tightness in his voice that hadn't
been there before.
    "He screamed until his throat was raw," said the
Bolian, "pleading for the chance to get Jennifer out of
her entrapment. But I wouldn't give him that chance.
I fought him every inch of the way to the escape pods.
And with the last of my strength, I shoved him
inside."
    Bollaris were stronger than humans, Kira knew. It
was a good thing, too, or Zar might not have accom-
plished his objective.
    Just as she thought that, he turned to her. "Mind
you," he added, "the man saved my life more times
than I can count."
    "I understand," she replied. She put her hand on
his shoulder. "But that doesn't make what you did
any less heroic. Or any less important to those of us
who came to know him later on."
    Gradually Zar smiled. "You're welcome. And
thanks, Major."
 "For what?" she asked.
 His smile deepened. "For listening."
    She shrugged. "Come on," she said, taking his arm.
"I'll show you one of the generators--or what's left of
it. The Cardassians sabotaged the system before they
turned the station over to us."
    And without another word, she ushered him into
the turbolift.

    Odo was sitting at his desk, going over the usual
collection of Starfleet security bulletins, when he saw
someone approaching his office through its transpar-
ent doors. He recognized the man as Aidan Thorn,
one of the captain's colleagues on the Saratoga.
    The shapeshifter frowned. Some of the others on
the station had granted Sisko's request that they show

his friends around. But Odo was too busy for that. He
was a security chief, not a tour guide.
    At the man's approach the doors opened. Perhaps if
I ignore him, Odo mused, he'll go away.
    But it wasn't to be. Thorn walked right up to the
changeling's desk as if he owned the place, then
stooped over to get its owner's attention.
    "Constable?" he said--using a term Odo had come
to accept, but not from the mouths of perfect
strangers.
    Not bothering to stand, he looked up at the human.
"Can I help you?" he asked dryly.
    "I just thought I'd come by," Thorn said, grinning
in his golden brown beard. "After all, we're in the
same line of work, us both being security people. And
I've never met a--" He shrugged. "You know."
    "A changeling," Odo finished for him. "You can say
it. It's not a dirty word--at least, not on this station."
    "I didn't mean to imply that it was," Thorn told
him.
    He seemed to get the idea he wasn't welcome here.
It was an encouraging sign, the shapeshifter thought.
Maybe he would take the hint and leave.
    "Look," said Thom, "we seem to have gotten off on
the wrong foot. Perhaps I ought to come back some
other time."
 "Perhaps you should," Odo agreed.
    The big man turned to go. Suddenly he stopped and
looked back over his shoulder. "By the way," he said,
"Tad Posset says hello." Then he headed for the exit.
    Tarl Posset? "Wait a minute," the changeling
snapped.
    Thorn turned around again. His expression was one
big question.
"How do you know Tad Posset?" Odo asked.
The human shrugged. "Tarl and I go way back. All
the way to the academy, I guess, though we didn't
really get to be friends till we served on Butera Five.
You know, the dilithium processing center?"
    "Yes," said Odo, "I've heard him speak of it." He
hesitated a moment. Then he indicated an empty
chair. "Please. Sit down."
 Thorn looked at him. "You sure?"
 The shapeshifter nodded. "Positive."
    The human sat. "Nice place you've got here. I have
to admit, I prefer Federation design to Cardassian.
But still, not half-bad."
    "It works for me," Odo told him. "That's all I really
care about."
    "I can see how you would get along well with Tarl,"
Thorn commented. "He's got the same attitude.
Doesn't matter what it looks like, as long as it's
functional. As long as it helps him do his job."
  "And you?" the shapeshifter inquired.
    The big man smiled. "I have some esthetic require-
ments," he admitted. "Though I'm not as demanding
as, say, Joe Simko."
 Odo grunted. "You know Joe Simko as well?"
    Thorn nodded. "I met him back at the Academy,
too. Except Joe and I, we hit it off right away. I don't
see him as much as I'd like, of course, but we try to
keep in touch."
    The constable settled back into his seat. "If you
know both Tad and Joe, you must also know how
valuable they have been to me. How, when this
station was placed under Federation stewardship, I
attempted to establish contacts with security person-
nel on other stationsmwith little success."
    "So I heard," the big man acknowledged. "They
were the only two who would give you the time of
day--and both of them are now glad of it. From what
they told me, they got more information than they
gave. At least, in the long run."
    Odo harrumphed. "Yes, I suppose they have." He
tilted his head. "And where else have you served, Mr.
Thom? Besides the Gorkon, of course, and the Sarato-
ga? And the dilithium plant on Butera Five?"
    "Several places," Thorn replied. He went on to list
them. "I've probably skipped around more than I
should have, from a career standpoint. But I tend to
wear out my commanding officers rather quickly."
  "Oh?" said the changeling. "And why is that?"
  The human grinned. "I have my little quirks," he
  conceded. "My own ways of doing things. Not every-
  one agrees with them, I suppose. But to my way of
  thinking, the job comes first. If I've kept my ship and
  my crew from harm, I've done my job. To tell with
what anyone thinks of me after that." "I see," Odo responded.
 Perhaps he and Thorn had more in common than
he had first believedú And not just in their choice of
friends.
    They talked some more, about security technology
and Bajor and even Captain Sisko. And the shape-
shifter found he didn't mind it in the least. In fact, it
was rather pleasant.
    "Anyway," said the big man after a while, "I ought
to be moving along now. Nice to make your acquain-
tance, Constable."
 The changeling stood. "Likewise, Mr. Thorn."
 "Aidan," the human insistedú
    "Aidan," said Odo. "And please, er... feel free to
stop in whenever you like."
 Thorn promised he would do that. Then he left.
    The changeling grunted. What was that human
expression he had heard once? Ah, yes.
    You can't judge a book by its cover. He was starting
to see the wisdom in it.

    When Sisko first arrived on Deep Space Nine, he
found himself walking the Promenade almost every
night, sometimes far into the morning. He would
stare out the large, majestic observation ports at the
stars, and try helplessly to imagine what a man like
him might do in a place like this.
    There was no one else around at that time of night.
Not even Odomat least, as far as the captain knew.
And Sisko had been glad of it. After all, he could find
the answers to his questions only in himself.
 In time, of course, the answers came. He estab-
lished an equilibrium here, a sense of purpose. A
feeling that this station, with all its difficulties and all
its dangers, was nonetheless his home.
    And that was the day he stopped haunting the
Promenade.
    Until now, he thought, as he strolled along the
upper level, gazing at the cold, distant stars. But then,
it came as no surprise to him that he couldn't sleep
this night.
    Tomorrow, he and his former comrades would take
off for the fleet yards orbiting Mars. Once again, he
would be forced to confront his past. And though he
had been glad to see Zar and the others, he still wasn't
certain how he would react to the sight of a brand-new
Saratoga.
 "Captain Sisko?"
    He turned at the sound of his name, spoken by a
feminine voice. He saw, at the far end of the walkway,
the slender figure of Counselor Barnes.
    The woman smiled as she approached. It wasn't a
bad smile, either. Much more appealing than the
poor, perfunctory thing he had seen her exhibit earli-
er, on her arrival.
    "What brings you out here at this hour of the
night?" he inquired.
    Not that he didn't already know the answer. He was
just doing his best to be polite.
    Barnes shrugged. "I felt the urge to roam. To be less
ú.. I don't know. Cooped up, I suppose." She paused.
"And you?"
  "The same," he said, "more or less."
    Her smile faded a little. "You look like you want to
be alone right now. Maybe I should make myself
scarce." She turned to go.
    "No," he replied, without even thinking about it. It
surprised him that he had said the word.
    The counselor turned to look back at him. "Are you
sure?" she asked. "I don't want to intrude."
  Sisko shook his head. "You're not. Really."
    Barnes peered into his eyes for confirmation. "All
right," she said at last. "As long as you're certain?'
    As he resumed his walk, she joined him. For a time,
they strolled in silence, neither of them speaking. And
yet, the captain didn't feel the least bit uncomfortable
about the silence.
    He began to understand why Kyprios valued the
counselor's services so much. Barnes exuded a kind
of calm that he hadn't noticed in her before. She
made one feel at ease--not only with her, but with
oneself.
  "The stars are lovely here," she commented.
    He nodded. "Yes, they are. But then, as I recall,
they're pretty lovely wherever you go."
    She seemed to think about that for a moment. "I
guess they are," she responded, "when you stop to
look at them. But on a ship, you seldom do. You're
always on your way somewhere."
    Sisko saw what she meant. "All you're looking at
are trails of light. Not the stars themselves, really, but
a warp-speed representation of them."
    "Exactly," said the counselor. "When our ancestors
looked up at the heavens, they didn't see light trails,
or warp-speed representations. They saw perfect little
gems."
    He had to admit, he hadn't thought of it that way.
He said so.
    "Neither had I," Barnes admitted. She grinned at
the realization. "At least until now."
    He grinned, too. He couldn't help it. There was
something contagious about the woman's demeanor.
    "So," the counselor resumed finally, "what do you
see in these stars? What kind of future do they hold
for Benjamin Sisko?"
    He looked at her. "What are my aspirations, you
mean?" He drew a breath, then let it out. "I don't
think I've thought that far ahead, really. For the time
being, of course, there's plenty to be done here. I don't
see myself going anywhere else for a good long time."
He paused. "And you?"
    Barnes laughed, as if he had touched on some secret
joke. "If you ask Captain Kyprios, he'll tell you that
I'm not going anywhere--other than where the En-
deavor takes me."
    "But you're not so sure about that," Sisko ob-
served.
      "Not at all," she confirmed. "I just don't feel as if
I've found my place yet in the scheme of things."
  "Oh?" he replied.
     "Don't get me wrong," the counselor told him.
 "Serving on the Endeavor has been a terrific experi-
 ence and all, and I've learned a lot from Captain
 Kyprios. But it's not what I want to do with the rest of
 my life."
     As she looked at him, having so easily opened
 herself up to a perfect stranger, the captain couldn't
 help but admire her courage. And that wasn't all he
 found himself admiring.
    There was a light in her eyes he hadn't noticed
before. It wasn't just a reflection of the starlight
through the observation port, either. It was a light
from within.
    Sisko found himself unexpectedly intrigued by her.
He wasn't sure in what way, thoughmas a friend or a
lover.
    What's more, he wasn't going to allow himself to
find out. He already had a good thing going with
Kasidy Yates, and he wasn't the type of man to flit
from one relationship to another.
    Suddenly, a familiar voice rang out along the Prom-
enade: "Dad?"
    The captain turned and saw his son ascending a
stairway from the lower level. His first reaction was a
fatherly one--to wonder what Jake was still doing up
at this hour.
    "I know," the boy told him, as he stopped at the top
of the stairs. "It's past my bedtime." He glanced at
Counselor Barnes. "And believe me, I wouldn't be out
here, if it wasn't for Admiral Pardee."
    Sisko felt the color drain from his face. "Admiral
Pardee," he repeated numbly. He sighed.
    The intelligence report on Dominion trade routes
in the Gamma Quadrant. In all the excitement over
seeing his old friends, he had forgotten all about it--
and he was supposed to have filed it two days ago.
    "The admiral seemed pretty insistent," Jake re-
ported. "He wanted to speak to you directly, but I
told him you were in a part of the station where you
couldn't be reached."
 Sisko nodded appreciatively. "Thanks, Jake-o."
 "Is something wrong?" asked Barnes.
    "Nothing earthshaking," the captain explained.
"Just a bureaucratic detail I've managed to put aside
much too long. And unfortunately, it can't wait until I
get back from Utopia Planitia."
    He shrugged, by way of apology. It seemed their
stroll had come to a rather abrupt end.
    "That's all right," the counselor assured him. "I
was starting to feel a little worn out anyway, and we
do have a long trip ahead of us. Good night, Captain
Sisko."
    Sisko inclined his head. "Good night, Counselor
Barnes."
    He watched her for a moment as she turned around
and walked back the way she came. Then he frowned
and descended the stairs with his son.
"I didn't interrupt anything, did I?" asked the boy.
The captain looked at him. "I have no romantic
designs on the counselor, if that's what you mean.
She's strictly a colleague."
  Jake smiled. "Whatever you say, Dad."
    Sisko wasn't sure, but he thought he heard a note of
skepticism in his son's voice. "What do you mean,
whatever I say?"
  His son shrugged. "Nothing, Dad. Really."
    The captain was about to press the issue, then
thought better of it. If there had been something more
than friendship in the way he looked at Barnes, he
didn't want to know about it.
    Hell, life was complicated enough. The last thing he
needed was to be seeing two women.

CHAPTER
        7

Kmn STOOD IN Ops and watched Sisko enter the lift,
followed closely by O'Brien and Dax. After they were
all inside, the captain turned to her.
 "Have a good time," she told him.
    Sisko gave her a look that told her he would try,
though he had his doubts. Then he tapped the padd
in the lift that gave it its marching orders. A mo-
ment later, the trio began to descend to the docking
level.
    The last thing Kira saw of them was Dax's smile--
the Trill's way of assuring her friend that she would
take care of their commanding officer. But then, the
Bajoran had no doubt of that.
    Once they were no longer in sight, Kira turned
around and assessed her Ops contingent. While none
of the senior staff was on hand except her, they were
 all veterans. She didn't expect any problems from
 them.
     Hell, she didn't expect any problems at all. But it
 didn't hurt to be prepared, so she had her people run
 a level one diagnostic of all major systems. Just in
 case.
     They had barely finished when one of them--a
 Bajoran--raised her head. "The Defiant is ready to
 depart," she reported.
  "Retract docking clamps," Kira responded.
  "Clamps retracted," the woman told her.
  "Release tractor lock," Kira instructed.
  "Tractors released," came the reply.
    Abruptly the Cardassian monitor at the front of the
Ops facility came alive with Sisko's image. The cap-
tain looked serious--much too serious. This was just
a courtesy run, not a suicide mission.
  Sisko frowned. "The station is all yours, Major."
  Kira smiled. "Only until you get back, sir."
    The captain's frown deepened. Without another
word, he ended the transmission. His face was in-
stantly replaced by the sight of the Defiant as it
backed off from its docking pylon and then, applying
thrusters, veered away from the station.
    The Bajoran shook her head. In a way, she was glad
that Sisko had seen fit to leave her behind. Things
were liable to be much more cheerful around here, she
suspected, than alongside the captain.
    Truth to tell, Sisko could have gotten along without
Dax and O'Brien, too. Several of his former comrades
were accomplished pilots, after all. And with Graal
aboard, there would have been no shortage of techni-
cal smarts.
    But the captain had insisted on bringing personnel
who were familiar with the Defiant's idiosyncrasies.
Hence, the presence of Dax and O'Brien. And though
Kira certainly fit that bill as well as the other two, she
was also the first officer--and therefore the person
best qualified to run the station in Sisko's absence.
    As she watched the Defiant shift to impulse power
and recede into the field of stars, the major was
reminded of another departure in which she had an
abiding interest. Unless she was mistaken, Quark's
ship was scheduled to be getting under way pretty
soon.
    Knowing the Ferengi as she did, she resolved to
check with him about it. With so much at stake for
her friends in Karvis, she didn't want to have to worry
about any last-minute mishaps.
    For the next fifteen minutes or so she remained at
her post, making sure there was nothing that required
her attention. Then she headed for Quark's.
    She had barely reached the Promenade when she
ran into Rom. Literally.
    The Ferengi looked up at her, eyes wide with
anxiety, hands clenched into tight little fists. He
looked as if someone had stolen his last bar of gold-
pressed latinum.
     "Major," cried Rom, "I'm so glad to see you.
 Something has happened--something terrible."
     Kira sighed. "What's the matter, Rom? Is there a
 holosuite on the blink? Or maybe you've run out of
 those salty little beer nuts Morn's so partial to?"
     "No," moaned the Ferengi. "It's even worse than
 that. My brother has fallen into a... a coma or
 something."
     Suddenly the Bajoran felt as if someone had phaser-
 blasted her in the stomach. She looked at Rom.
    "I want you to repeat that," Kira said, trying to
keep her emotions in check. "And I want you to
repeat it slowly."
    "It's my brother," Rom whined. "He... he
fainted, just as he was getting ready to leave for his
rendezvous with Fel Jangor. And I can't revive him."
The Ferengi wrung his hands. "You've got to do
something, Major."
    Kira cursed under her breath. It sounded bad.
Tapping her communicator, she looked up instinc-
tively at the station's intercom system.  "Kira to Dr. Bashir."
    The doctor took only a moment to respond. "Yes,
Major. What can I do for you?"
    "It's Quark," the Ferengi interjected, unable to
contain himself. "He's fallen into some kind of
coma."
    "Rom may be jumping to conclusions," the major
commented. "But there does seem to be something
wrong. I'll meet you in Quark's quarters."
  "Acknowledged," said Bashir.
 As Kira headed in that direction, Quark's brother
ran along beside her, trying desperately to match her
longer strides. "Do you think there'll be any perma-
nent damage?" he asked.
    The Bajoran grunted. "Only if he's faking," she
decided.
    It didn't take them long to reach the Ferengi's
quarters. Or, with Rom's participation, to bypass
Quark's multitudinous security systems.
    "Quark's always saying how you can't trust anyone
these days," Rom noted, as the doors opened on his
brother's anteroom. "In fact, according to him, you
never could."
    "Where is he?" asked Kira, ignoring the Ferengi
philosophy.
    "This way," said Rom, scurrying past her toward
the back room that apparently served as Quark's
bedchamber.
    Following the Ferengi, the major caught sight of a
couple of boots strewn on the section of floor framed
in the open doorway. It wasn't until Kira got closer
that she realized Quark's feet were still in them. He
was stretched out as if some irate customer had
leveled him.
    No--there was a difference. If he'd been knocked
out, he wouldn't have had those faint purple splotches
all over his face.
    Turning to her, Rom gasped. "Those marks," he
breathed. "They weren't there before, Major."
    Kneeling beside the unconscious Ferengi, Kira
loosened his brocaded collar. The skin of Quark's face
felt cold and clammy to the touch--though as she
recalled, it pretty much always felt that way. In any
case, he still had a nice strong pulse.
    Peering over her shoulder, Rom grunted. "You
know," he said, "if I didn't know better, I'd say those
were gruw'r spots."
    The major looked back over her shoulder at him.
"Gruw'r spots?" she echoed. "And what in the name
of the Prophets are those?"

"It's very simple, really," Bashir explained.
"Gruw'r spots are what you get when you contract
gruw'r--a childhood disease rather common among
the Ferengi, much as mumps or chicken pox used to
be common on Earth."
    He was examining Quark in the infirmary, having
brought the unconscious Ferengi here with the help of
Kira, Rom, and a couple of station personnel. It
hadn't taken him long to run a few tests--or to figure
out what was wrong.
    "And is that what Quark's got?" Kira inquired.
"This... gruw'r?"
    Casting a glance over his shoulder at his patient, the
doctor nodded. "Yes. Of course, the vast majority of
Ferengi seem to catch it before the age of nine, and
then never a