Star Trek: Deep Space 9

# 17

Heart Of The Warrior

CHAPTER

        1

STATION LOG, CAPTAIN Benjamin Sisko, Arconina.

    The Valtusian peace conference is scheduled to

begin in two days aboard DS9. The Valtusians

have managed the near impossible through

tireless behind-the-scenes work, persuading not

only representatives of the Cardassian govern-

ment, but Maquis and Federation representatives

to sit down together in the hopes of finally settling

the Maquis problem.

    Complicating logistics will be the loss of three

key station personnel: Major Kira, Lieutenant

Commander Worf, and Security Chief Odo, who

are being dispatched on a high-priority mission

into the Gamma Quadrant one day before the

conference begins...

    Major Kira Nerys leaned forward as far as she

could, gazing out the vast curve of the Promenade's

viewport toward the docking ring. She felt a growing

sense of anticipation as she scanned the ships at-

tached to the space station's outermost section for the

one at Docking Pylon 7. She gazed past a beautiful

new planet-hopper at Docking Pylon 5, past an old

but serviceable Bajoran cargo carrier at Docking

Pylon 6, and then found herself staring at an ancient,

battered-looking transport ship parked just beyond

them.

    The moment she saw it, she thought she'd made a

mistake. That hunk of junk couldn't possibly be their

ship. Quickly she began counting out around the

docking ring, and once again she came to the same

broken-down wreck in Docking Port 7. What was

Quark trying to do, get them all killed? A flash of rage

passed through her, and she struggled to keep her

temper under control. This wasn't anything like the

sleek, fast little starship she'd been led to expect.

    The transport ship had to be at least fifty years old.

Its hull held hundreds if not thousands of pockmarks

from collisions with space debris, and more than a

couple of phaser burns scarred the nacelles, which

hunched over the passenger cabin. One such burn had

been sloppily patched with what looked like scrap

iron. She leaned closer, straining to make out the

details. Not durasteel, she thought, appalled, and not

even regular steel--raw scrap iron.

    I'm going to strangle him, she thought, gripping the

railing as though it were the Ferengi's scrawny little

neck. There's no doubt about it this time. I'm going to

strangle him.

    She felt the hair on the back of her neck bristle with

indignation. She had suspected Quark would try to

pull a fast one, and of course he had. When would

Sisko learn not to deal with him? Trusting a Ferengi to

get a civilian ship for them--it was nothing short of

suicidal.

    She shook her head in disgust and released the

railing. "He can't be serious," she said, turning to

Chief O'Brien beside her. She pointed at the ship.

"Tell me that's not it!"

    O'Brien frowned as he peered at the note in his

hand. "Docking Port 7," he read. "That's her, all

right. Perhaps she's not as bad as she looks."

    "Right." She gave a derisive snort. "It's going to be

ten times worse."

    "We won't know till we look inside," O'Brien went

on. His words sounded forced even to Kira.

    "Come on, then," she said, turning toward the

turbolift. "Let's get it over with so we can start

looking for a real ship."

    She wove her way through the crowds on the

Promenade toward the nearest lift, letting her anger

build to a white-hot fury. The station was packed, and

crowds swelled the Promenade to bursting, but she

noticed that everyone who saw her face or met her

gaze had the good sense to scramble out of her way. I

never was very good at hiding my feelings, she thought.

At least Quark won't mistake my reaction to his ship.

She'd known Quark for quite a few years, and

though he'd always cut comers in his rush to make a

profit, this was the most blatant rip-off she'd ever seen

him try to pull. It bordered on criminal. And he had

nerve to pull it on her--on all the station's command

personnel! Well, he wasn't going to get away with it,

she vowed, quickening her pace. She'd see to that.

    The turbolift doors opened as she approached, and

a pair of Vulcans in dark cloaks strolled out, gazing

around with faintly curious expressions. They had

probably come to monitor the peace conference, she

thought... not that she had much hope for success.

It had taken her people decades to wrest freedom

from Cardassia. How could the Maquis expect suc-

cess practically overnight? She nodded politely to the

Vulcans and entered the turbolift, with O'Brien right

on her heels.

      "Docking ring," she snapped to the computer. The

doors whisked closed, and they rode out in silence.

  "Perhaps..." O'Brien mused.

    Kira glanced at him and was shocked to find an

intrigued look on his face. She'd never been great at

reading people, but there couldn't be any mistaking

his expression.

    "You're thinking of taking that ship, aren't you?"

she demanded.

    "Uh... well, I'd have to have a closer look first, of

course," he said, shifting a little uncomfortably. A

hint of a blush crept into his cheeks. "It's not what's

outside that counts, after all--"

 "Forget it! Just forget it!" Kira said, waving her

arms for emphasis. Had everyone on the station gone

crazy? "It's not going to happen! There's no way I'm

going off to the Gamma Quadrant in that pile of

junk!"

    The lift door opened before O'Brien could answer,

and Kira whirled and strode out angrily into the

bustle of travelers, cargo handlers, and station person-

nel. DS9 never seenled to sleep anymore, she thought,

and with the peace conference coming up, ships were

arriving at a dizzying rate. Every berth on the docking

ring was occupied, and more sat waiting in queue to

disburse passengers and cargo. Dax and half the Ops

staff were busy juggling schedules to make sure every-

one got aboard the station in a timely manner.

    She paused and glanced up and down the broad

curve of the docking ring. Where was that Ferengi

bastard? With so much going on, he had to be here.

    Kira finally spotted Quark and his brother Rom

standing off to one side talking to a pair of Andorians.

The Andorians kept glancing around nervously; they

seemed to be trying to keep a low profile, Kira

thought. Although they wore long, concealing brown

tunics with simple brass-colored belts, their shocks of

white hair, bright blue skins, and antennae stood out

in sharp contrast to everything around them.

    Close by them, she noticed a pair of Bajoran cargo

handlers in one-piece red uniforms lounging incon-

spicuously, as though on break. I know those two, she

realized, and then managed to place their faces. They

were two of Odo's deputies. They had to be keeping

Quark under surveillance, Kira thought with a touch

of glee... leave it to Odo. Even with all the bustle

going on, the constable still had time to keep tabs on

the station's number one suspect.

    Surveillance or not, she had her own problems with

Quark right now, and she wasn't about to wait for him

to finish his business with the Andorians. She stalked

forward. The Andorians spotted her, muttered some-

thing to Quark, and hastily turned and walked farther

up the docking ring. Probably smugglers, Kira

thought with distaste; Quark would deal with anyone

or anything if it meant profit. Still, she would trust

Odo to keep him in check.

    Her thoughts turned to the ship he was trying to

foist off on them, and again her anger boiled up. I can

handle this, she told herself. I will not strangle him.

Yet.

    "Quark--" she began, drawing to a halt in front of

him.

    "Major Kira!" Quark said, grinning happily. "Your

ship has just arrived, exactly as ordered. And what a

beauty, too--the Galactic Queen, a pleasure cruiser

serving the Orjax Cluster until two weeks ago. Why,

she only has fifty million light-years on her warp

engines--"

    Kira clenched her jaw. I'm not going to strangle

him, she told herself again. She opened her mouth to

give an angry retort, but O'Brien interrupted.

    "And I'll bet," O'Brien said from behind her, "that

she hasn't had a single day of regularly scheduled

maintenance. We looked her over from the observa-

tion deck on the Promenade. We couldn't help but

notice all the damage she's sustained over the years."

    "Decades, rather," Kira muttered. Leave it to a

human to try to play peacemaker, she thought. She

gave O'Brien a displeased glance, but he flashed her a

quick grin.

    "A few minor cosmetic blemishes..." Quark be-

gan, giving them both a reassuring smile. "A little

paint and you won't even know the difference. Isn't

that right, Rom?"

    "True, brother," Rom said quickly. "A little paint

is all she needs."

    "There you have it," Quark said with a winning

smile.

    "Paint." Kira folded her arms and contented her-

self with leveling a piercing stare at the little Ferengi.

It seemed to work, she noticed with some satisfaction;

Quark shifted uneasily from foot to foot.

 "You won't find a better ship," he said.

    "Come on," O'Brien said, holding out one hand.

"Let's get it over with. I need the technical specs and

the registration papers."

    "Of course." Quark held out his palm and Rom

slapped a datachip into it. Quark passed the chip over

to O'Brien, then turned and led the way toward

Airlock 7, saying, "She's a Delphi-class transport

ship. As you no doubt already noticed, she is built

using the finest Thelorian construction from human

blueprints, with only fifty million light-years on her

warp engines--"

 "It won't do," Kira said flatly. Quark could talk it

up until his tongue fell out, but it didn't change one

simple fact: The ship was a disaster. "For one thing,

we need an airtight hull."

    "Delphi-class?" O'Brien said, nodding. "I thought

so. I worked on a couple of Delphi-class ships during

the Cardassian war."

    Delphi-class? Was that important? Kira glanced

over at him. O'Brien's forehead had wrinkled in

thought again. What was so great about a Delphi-class

ship? It was just another obsolete model, as far as she

knew. Wasn't it?

    "That's right," Quark said smoothly, "a classic,

isn't that so, Rorn?"

    "Right, brother," Rom said, rubbing his hands

together nervously. "They don't make them like that

anymore."

    Kira gave a snort. "I can see why," she said. "It's a

death trap."

    Reaching the proper airlock, Quark punched an

access code into the hand pad, then stood back as the

huge red door rolled to the side like a cog in some vast

clockwork mechanism.

    Instantly a dank, wet, unpleasant odor flowed out

through the airlock. Kira gagged and took a step back.

    "What the hell is that stink?" she demanded, cover-

ing her nose and mouth with one hand. It had to be

coming from inside the ship, she thought. What was

Quark trying to do, poison them on top of everything

else?

    The smell got worse. Gasping, Kira retreated a

couple of meters. It smelled like rotting meat and raw

sewage mixed together, she thought, fighting down

bile. She'd never smelled anything quite so foul.

    Quark, too, was covering his nose. "Rom?" he

demanded. "What's the meaning of this?"

    "Brother, I think they mentioned a small problem

with the ship's air filtration system," Rom said. "I'm

sure I can fix it."

    "No problem, then," Quark said. He turned back to

O'Brien and gave a nervous little laugh. "Rom can fix

it later tonight. Shall we look inside?"

    "Close it up," O'Brien said, frowning and covering

his own mouth and nose. "I'm not going in there with

anything less than an environment suit!"

    Quark punched in the code again and the door

rolled shut. "Rom will get right on it," he promised.

    "This ship is not even remotely acceptable," Kira

said. She continued to fight down nausea. "You'll

have to do better, Quark, if you expect to make a

deal."

    "It's the only thing on the market!" Quark pro-

tested. "You should see what I turned down to get this

beauty for youm"

    "It'll do," O'Brien said. He was nodding to himself

and smiling faintly.

    Kira gaped at him. "What?" she demanded. She

could barely believe what she'd just heard. "How can

you say that! This is a... a..." Words failed her.

She didn't know where to begin.

 "Prize?" Quark suggested. "Bargain?"

    "It's no prize," O'Brien said, "but it just might do.

If the systems check out, that is," he added hastily.

"I'll get back up here with a team in environment

suits to look everything over in half an hour." He

nodded toward the turbolift. "Come on, Major. Let's

talk to the captain about it."

    Kira set her feet. "Are you insane?" she demanded.

She had no intention of accepting the ship. "It's a

disaster waiting to happen!"

    "Come on, Major," O'Brien said, still softly but

more intensely. He gave a jerk of his head toward the

lift. "Let's see the captain first, okay?"

    She shrugged in despair. What was going through

O'Brien's mind? Either he had a plan or he really had

gone insane, she decided. If it was a plan, it had better

be a damn good one.

"All right," she said. "We'll talk to the captain."

O'Brien started for the lift, and Kira trailed after

him. How he could even suggest accepting this ship

was beyond her. She puzzled over it. More than once

she'd decided all humans were crazy, but there always

seemed to be a method to their madness. Even so,

O'Brien couldn't possibly accept such a pitiful excuse

for a ship... could he? He hadn't even checked out

the interior systems. Didn't he care about them?

Didn't he at least want an airtight hull?

    "Another pair of satisfied customers," Kira over-

heard Quark saying proudly to Rom.

    That did it. She whirled, leveling another piercing

glare at him. "Don't think this is over, Quark," she

called. "Captain Sisko still has to sign off on the

ship." And ifI have my way, she mentally added, Odo

will lock you up in that stinking hull for the rest of

your life for trying to cheat us. Let the punishment fit

the crime!

    She hurried to join O'Brien in the turbolift. The

second the doors shut, she demanded, "Are you

insane? That ship--"

    "Give me ten minutes at a comm station," he said,

"and I'll let you know."

CHAPTER

        2

"Just ONE SMALL adjustment." Dr. Julian Bashir hid

his nervousness behind a studied expression of calm.

He flipped open the back panel of his new DNA

analyzer, which he'd designed and built with the help

of the station's computer. He bent down and peered

inside at the complex tangle of circuits and relays and

power couplings. What was wrong with it? It should

be working. He'd gone over it a hundred times

already, and every circuit checked out perfectly.

    He glanced up at Captain Sisko. His commanding

officer was frowning with impatience. Sisko's new

beard and shaved head only emphasized that expres-

sion. Bashir swallowed. I'd better finish up in a hurry,

he thought. Sisko was a busy man, juggling the

Valtusian peace conference and a mission into the

Gamma Quadrant, and he didn't have time to waste.

    Behind Sisko, Lieutenant Commander Worf and

Security Chief Odo both looked on with bored,

slightly put-upon expressions. Worf sighed audibly

and shifted from foot to foot. I'm losing them, Bashir

thought.

    Nevertheless, he continued to keep his expression a

careful neutral as he examined the delicate micro-

connections inside the scanner. It should be working,

he thought. Why wasn't it? He simply didn't under-

stand the problem.

  "Doctor..." Sisko began.

    "One second more." His training at Starfleet Acad-

emy hadn't just covered biology and medicine.

Bedside--in this case, tableside--manners were just

as important, he knew. Like they said at Starfleet, as

long as you look like you know what you're doing,

your patients will have faith in you. Of course, he'd

have to make sure that faith wasn't misplaced.

    He sucked in a deep breath. The scanner had to

work. Everything from the schematics to the pro-

gramming parameters had checked out perfectly dur-

ing computer-simulated tests. So why wouldn't it

power up now?

    Then he spotted the problem. It was so simple, he

could have slapped himself. One power coupling had

worked its way loose. He must have failed to lock it

into position when he was assembling it, he realized.

Carefully he reached in with two fingers, fitted it into

the proper position, and pushed gently. He felt the

two pieces lock together with a faint snap.

    That should do it, he thought with a mental sigh of

relief. He hoped.

  "Well?" Sisko prompted.

    Bashir smiled with new confidence as he stood up

again. It would work, he told himself. You didn't

graduate second in your class from Starfleet Academy

without learning a thing or two about machines.

  "Ready," he said.

    He closed the DNA analyzer's back panel. Running

one hand nervously through his short brown hair, he

took a deep breath, then for the second time touched

the activation button. Now work, damn it, he mentally

instructed the machine. He willed it to start with

every fiber of his being.

    A low hum spread through the medical bay. Bashir

slowly let out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been

holding. It had powered up, he thought triumphantly.

It was working. The power coupling hadn't been quite

in place, that was all. It had been his own fault, not

the machine's... simple human error.

    "That fixed it," he said. "Sorry about the delay.

Commander, if you wouldn't mind?"

    Worf stepped forward. "What exactly do you want

me to do?" the tall Klingon asked, his voice a low

growl. He sounded a little nervous, Bashir thought.

Klingons were just like human patients in that

respect. They all had to be coddled and encouraged

when it came to visiting sickbay. Sometimes he

thought every intelligent life-form in the galaxy had

an inborn distrust of the medical profession.

 "Simply place your hand on top," he said. He

pushed the gray box toward Worf, giving him a

reassuring smile. Best tableside manner and all that.

"The scanner will do the rest."

    Worf hesitated a second, glancing first at Captain

Sisko, then at Odo. Slowly, tentatively, he reached

out.

    "You won't feel a thing," Bashir said encouragingly.

At this rate it was going to take all afternoon.

    "I am not afraid of pain," Worf said sharply. He

slapped his hand down hard on top of the DNA

scanner. The slap made a sharp crack loud enough to

make a few of the nurses on the other side of the room

jump.

    Bashir winced a bit. Luckily the DNA scanner

didn't seem to have been injured; it continued to hum

along smoothly.

  "Sorry," Worf said a little more meekly.

    "No harm done," Bashir said. "I didn't mean to

imply that you were afraid of pain," he added. One

difference between Klingon and human patients, he

realized, was that most human patients couldn't

break you in half if you got them angry. "I simply

meant that the process is painless."

    The display panel on the side of the DNA scanner

flashed twice. "Reading," it said, its computer voice

faint and tinny. "Subject DNA passed. Subject is

Klingon."

    Worf withdrew his hand. Slowly he flexed his fin-

gers, staring at them as though he thought they might

have been changed. No chance of that, though, Bashir

thought. It had removed a single skin cell with a

microlaser.

    "Very impressive, Doctor," Sisko said. "Now let's

try a human."

    "Shall I?" Bashir asked, starting to pull up his right

sleeve.

  "No. I'd like to try it myself."

    Sisko placed his own hand on the scanner. After a

second's analysis, the computer announced, "Subject

DNA passed. Subject is human."

    Sisko nodded. "Now it's your turn, Doctor," he

said, stepping back and folding his arms.

    Bashir stepped forward. The captain undoubtedly

wanted to confirm that none of the command staff

had been replaced by changelings, and he was happy

to oblige. Bashir g DNA Scanner to the rescue, he

thought. When he published a paper on the device, he

was certain it would rapidly become the de facto

standard in testing for changeling infiltration. A work

of near genius, if I do say so myself he thought with

satisfaction.

    He put his own hand on the scanner, and after a

second it announced that he, too, was human. Of

course.

    That just left Odo. Bashir glanced at the station's

changeling security officer. This, he thought, would be

the real test.

 "Your turn, Constable," Sisko said.

    Without a moment's hesitation, Odo stepped for-

ward and put his hand on top of the box just as the

others had done.

 "Reading," the device said.

    Bashir leaned forward expectantly. Anyone could

detect DNA in carbon-based life-forms. But detecting

a changeling...

    "Subject has no DNA," his DNA analyzer an-

nounced. "Subject is not a carbon-based life-form."

    "Quite true," Odo said. "But what if they try to

sneak aboard by impersonating a life-form that

doesn't use DNA? Wouldn't that fool your device'?"

    "Some variant of DNA appears to be a universal

constant in all carbon-based life-forms," Bashir said.

"The Federation has only encountered a handful of

silicon-based life-forms, like the Hortas, and none of

them are likely to be on the station during these peace

negotiations. Valtusians, Cardassians, Bajorans, all

the races making up the Maquis, and in fact every

carbon-based race that belongs to the Federation has a

DNA signature on file with Starfleet Medical." He

patted the top of the DNA analyzer proudly. "If

changelings have replaced one or more of them, we'll

know it, believe me."

    "And since we're pulling this test as a surprise, they

won't have any chance to prepare any sort of counter-

measure," Sisko said.

    "I doubt that's possible--" Bashir began, but Odo

interrupted.

    "Don't underestimate my people," he said. "Re-

member what they did on Earth."

    Bashir nodded, then swallowed. They had indeed

infiltrated Starfleet Command and the Federation

headquarters, even going so far as blowing up a

conference with the Romulans. Starfleet had lost

many key personnel. The changelings were crafty and

resourceful. In time, they might indeed find some way

around his device... but hopefully not before he

smoked out any spies aboard DS9.

The captain's badge chirped. "Sisko here," he said.

"Benjamin," Lieutenant Jadzia Dax's voice said,

"the Valtusian ambassadors have arrived. I'm routing

them to Docking Pylon Three. I thought you might

want to welcome them aboard."

    "Thank you, Dax," he said. "I'm on my way." He

glanced at Bashir and said, "Doctor, I believe it's time

to field test your DNA scanner."

    "Right," Bashir said with a grin. This was what

he'd been waiting for, after all.

    "And, Constable," Sisko went on, "I think you

should join us as well. And you too, Mr. Worf, if

you're willing."

  "Certainly," Odo said.

 "Agreed," Worf said.

    Bashir picked up his DNA analyzer and tucked it

under his arm. He'd never met a Valtusian before,

though of course he knew their reputation as a race of

tinkerers and philosophers. Few of them left Valtusia,

preferring to live in their own communal villages,

pondering the universe, writing poetry, tinkering with

intricate clockwork mechanisms, and devoting them-

selves to the mysteries of their kind. This should

prove most interesting, he thought.

CHAPTER

        3

As SOON AS Kira and O'Brien were out of sight, Quark

rubbed his hands together with satisfaction. They

were going to buy his ship. He had that tingling

sensation in his lobes that meant a deal was going

perfectly. He smiled, thinking of the latinum to come.

First the ship, then the peace conference. He could

look forward to record profits this month. He chuck-

led. Yes, things were certainly going well.

 "I don't understand--" Rom began.

    "That's why I'm in charge," Quark replied smugly.

"Remember the one hundred and third Rule of Ac-

quisition."

    "'Fill a desperate need with your most expensive

product, then mark it up five hundred percent?'"

Rom's brow furrowed. "I still don't understand,

brother."

    Quark sighed. His brother might be a mechanical

genius, but he still needed someone to hold his hand

during complicated business deals. "You may recall

some pilgrims from Aryanus Six who ended up

stranded here six months ago," he began. "They

came--"

    "In a Delphi-class starship!" Rom finished. Quark

saw the realization in his brother's eyes. "It's still

there, on the seventh Bajoran moon!"

    "If I remembered that fact, I knew Chief O'Brien

would, too," Quark said smugly. "The pilgrims' ship

doesn't have working warp engines, but the passenger

compartment should be fine. It shouldn't take

O'Brien and his men long to assemble one working

ship out of the two. Because it's such a perfect match,

I quadrupled my original asking price for the Galactic

Queen." He patted the airlock affectionately. "A

small fortune, Rom, and it's all mine!"

      "Brilliant," Rom breathed. "But I believe you're

forgetting something." "What?"

    "My cut, brother! In exchange for my technical

help, you promised--"

    "A fortune less five percent is still a fortune,"

Quark said, waving one hand dismissively. Rom nev-

er seemed to grasp such fundamentals of business.

"Come on, let's get back to the bar before the Dabo

girls rob me blind."

    In Ops, Major Kira leaned against one of the

consoles and watched as Chief O'Brien fed a series of

queries into the computer. Maybe humans weren't

crazy after all, she thought, as the information began

to trickle back out.

    The first thing O'Brien looked at was the station's

recording of the Galactic Queen's warp signature as it

entered Bajoran space. It appeared completely nor-

mal, which meant the ship's warp engines worked

within acceptable parameters. It seemed almost mi-

raculous, considering the otherwise deplorable condi-

tion of the Galactic Queen.

    "All right," Kira said, "the engines work. But what

about everything else? What about the hull--that

stench is enough to smother anyone!"

    "I'm getting to that." He punched up a series of

salvage records and began scanning them. Kira shook

her head in bewilderment. They weren't even the

Galactic Queen's records--they belonged to another

ship, this one called the Progress. Crazy, indeed.

    "Just as I thought," O'Brien said suddenly.

"There's still a Delphi-class ship sitting on the sev-

enth Bajoran moon. It hasn't been picked up for

salvage yet."

    "The pilgrims..." Kira said, suddenly remember-

ing the problems that had left them stranded on DS9

with no way back to Arvanus VI six months previ-

ously. That had been one logistical nightmare, all

right. Luckily Captain Sisko had been able to arrange

transport home for them aboard a freighter. She

frowned, thinking back to the incident. What had

been wrong with their ship? It had been their warp

engines, she recalled. They had damaged their warp

core and fried both nacelles.

    She snapped her fingers, suddenly putting two and

two together. "Quark's ship has working engines,"

she said.

    "That's right." O'Brien leaned back in his chair and

laced his fingers behind his head, grinning widely.

"Still think I'm crazy, Major?"

    She could have laughed with relief. "No. But can

you assemble one working ship out of the pair?"

    "If the engines are in decent shape aboard Quark's

ship--and I suspect they are from the warp

signature--I can have them out and fitted aboard the

pilgrims~ Progress in six hours. The Delphi-class is

modular. I've done it before."

    "Then our only problem," Kira said, sliding into

the seat next to O'Brien, "will be acquiring salvage

rights to the pilgrims' ship." She transferred the

salvage claim he'd been studying to her terminal.

"Loran Devys Salvage," she read aloud, "owns the

hull."

    The name sounded familiar. Where did she know

Loran from? Suddenly it came to her. There had been

a fellow named Loran Devys in another cell during

the resistance. She'd worked with him at least once. If

this was the same man, perhaps he'd remember her

and cut her a deal. It was worth a try, anyway.

     "Do you think you can get the rights to it?" O'Brien

 was saying.

 "There's only one way to find out." She opened a

 link to Bajor and called the number on the salvage

 claim.

     A Bajoran woman in a gold and silver one-piece

 suit answered. An intricate earring dangled from her

 right ear. "Loran Devys Salvage," she said, then her

 eyes widened. "Nerys!" she said in surprise.

    Kira forced a smile. "That's right," she said. Who

was this woman? She didn't look familiar.

    "You don't remember me, of course," the woman

said. "I'm Jael--Koratta Jael, from Devys's cell? We

only met once, and it was many years ago. But I've

seen you quite a few times lately on the news reports.

You're making quite a name for yourself. Are you still

stationed on DS9?"

    "Yes," Kira said. Koratta Jael... that name did

sound vaguely familiar, even if her face wasn't. It had

been quite a few years, she reminded herself. People

could change a lot in all that time. She tried to think

back to the others in Devys's cell. "Didn't you used to

have your hair..." she began, sketching vaguely with

her hands.

    Koratta was nodding. "Yes, much longer. You do

remember. It's wonderful to talk to you again, Nerys,

but is this a social call?"

    "I'm afraid it's business," Kira said. "Devys owns

salvage rights to a Delphi-class transport ship on the

seventh Bajoran moon. Perhaps you know the one I'm

talking about."

    "We own a lot of salvage. Wait a second." Jael

punched something up on her computer terminal.

"Yes, I see the one you mean. The Progress, a Delphi-

class transport. We picked it up at auction six weeks

ago. It's scheduled for retrieval next month."

 "I'd like to buy it," Kira said.

    Jael stared at her in surprise. "It's a dead hull," she

said. "No power--"

    "I know," Kira said, and quickly she explained that

they hoped to assemble one whole ship out of two.

"Do you think Devys might be willing to sell it to

me?"

    "I'm sure he would," Koratta said, studying the

records before her. "We have the estimated salvage

value as scrap duranium at twenty-two bars of gold-

pressed latinum. If you'd like to buy it, that would be

the price. Frankly, I'm sure he'd jump at the offer--it

would save us a lot of work."

    "Thanks, Jael," Kira said with a smile she truly felt

this time. The price sounded more than fair to her. At

times like these, she thought the resistance movement

had brought the Bajoran people closer together than

at any other time in history. "Hold the ship for me.

I'll get back to you later today to work out the

details."

    "Of course," Jael said. "I'm happy to help. Take

care of yourself, Nerys." She severed the connection.

    Kira leaned back. "It looks like we've got your

hull," she said a trifle smugly to O'Brien. It was easy,

when you knew the right people.

    O'Brien shook his head. "Is there anyone you don't

know on Bajor?" he asked.

  Kira grinned. Sometimes it felt that way to her, too.

"You forget how big the resistance movement was,

Chiefi"

    He rose suddenly. "I'd better get an environment

suit and take a look at the Galactic Queen's engines,"

he said. "I'll let you know in half an hour whether it's

workable."

    As the airlock cycled and the huge coglike door

rolled to the side, Benjamin Sisko pulled his shirt

smooth and drew himself up straighter. A Starfleet

captain had to maintain an air of dignity at all times,

he knew. The Valtusian delegation had gone to a lot of

trouble to set up these peace negotiations, and Admir-

al Dulev had underlined the importance of success to

him. Fighting the Maquis sapped both Cardassian

and Federation strength, diverting their attention

from a larger threat in the Gamma Quadrant. If there

could be a fair and amicable settlement, they would

jump on it.

    If only the Valtusians' timing had been better. He

didn't relish the idea of having this peace conference

aboard DS9 while Odo, Kira, and Worf were away.

    Their mission to the Gamma Quadrant had come

about three days previously, when Admiral Dulev had

summoned him to Starbase 201. He'd gone aboard

the Defiant with Worf and Dax.

    There, they had been ushered almost at once into

the admiral's meeting room. It had been Spartanly

furnished: a long table, eight chairs, a pitcher of ice

water on a tray with glasses. Sisko surveyed the room

and noticed the three other people already there and

tried to hold in his surprise. The admiral, of course,

sat at the head of the table. She had her brown hair

pulled back in the severe bun that was becoming

popular among high-ranking Starfleet women. To her

right sat her golden boy, Lieutenant Colfax, looking a

little smug in his trim red command uniform. To the

admiral's left sat a humanoid alien covered in pale

yellow fur, with a pronounced snout and eight-

fingered hands... a female Groxxin, he realized.

They were native to the Gamma Quadrant. So what

was this one doing sitting in on Admiral Dulev's

meeting?

    The admiral wasted no time in getting down to

business. "You remember Lieutenant Colfax, of

course," she said. Sisko nodded; Colfax had been the

one to contact him about this meeting. "This is

Zheronn," she said, indicating the alien, "one of our

informants from the Gamma Quadrant."

    Sisko raised his eyebrows slightly, but made no

comment. An informant would have to have big news

to travel this far, he realized. It meant the Groxxin

had abandoned her job, her family, and any cover she

might have established to hide her activities.

    "Zheronn," the admiral went on, leaning forward

slightly, "has made a discovery about the labs which

genetically engineered the Jem'Hadar for the change-

lings. It seems that these 'perfect warriors' are not

quite so perfect as we thought."

    "In what way?" Dax asked, leaning forward with

interest.

The admiral punched something into the terminal

to her right. Instantly a holographic projection ap-

peared over the conference table: a common molecu-

lar sequence, Sisko saw as it revolved: a double-helix

design. It looked almost like human genetic coding.

  "The Jem'Hadar version of DNA?" Dax guessed.

  "That's right," Admiral Dulev said. "The complete

  genetic code for the Jem'Hadar, including the changes

  which created their chemical dependency on the drug

  called Ketracel-white, their inborn respect for the

  Founders, and most important of all, their aggres-

  sively militant natures."

    "Surely we had already had access to this informa-

tion," Sisko said. "We've encountered the Jem'Hadar

often enough to have skin and other cell samples

available for our scientists to analyze."

    "True. What we didn't have was a way to shut off

these Founder-given genetic tweaks."

    "Shut them off..." Sisko echoed, shocked. "You

mean we can change their genetic code?"

    "You're talking about a retrovirus, aren't you?"

Dax asked. Sisko heard the rise of excitement in her

voice. She knew what this meant, too, he thought.

  "I do not follow you," Worf said.

    Dax turned to him. "Retroviruses are small organ-

isms that work on a genetic level. They exist as

parasites in DNA. Your body is full of them, but that's

all right since most of them are harmless. Some of the

more dangerous types can rewrite bits of genetic code,

making changes throughout the body."

    "Like Panzer's Syndrome," Sisko said. His few

medical classes at the Federation started coming back

to him. A retrovirus had invaded the bodies of every

colonist on Galagos VI, and two hundred thousand

humans had suddenly found themselves developing

gills as a dormant genetic code reactivated itself.

    "Exactly," the admiral said. "I'11 let Zheronn ex-

plain." She turned to the yellow-furred Groxxin.

    Zheronn hesitated a second. When she spoke, the

universal translator gave her a soft, sultry voice.

    "My mate and I work at Laboratory Complex

Ileph-B on Daborat V," she said. "We were in charge

of cataloging and filing. One day a computer error

gave us access to a classified section of the cataloging

system, and Orvor found records from the earliest

days of the Dominion including the designs for a

retrovirus that can modify the Jem'Hadar's genetic

code to eliminate their violent tendencies and stop

their dependence on Ketracel-white. In essence, it

returns them to their state before the Founders modi-

fied their bodies."

    "Effectively neutralizing them as a military threat,"

Lieutenant Colfax finished.

    "If that is true," Worf said, "we must obtain that

retrovirus at all costs."

    Sisko steepled his fingers thoughtfully. This

sounded like the solution to their conflict with the

changelings. Without the Jem'Hadar to back them up

with military strength, much of the Dominion's

threat to the Alpha Quadrant would be ended.

    And yet something still bothered him. Why had

they been summoned to this meeting? Where did he

fit into Admiral Dulev's plan?

"Why do I feel there's a catch?" he asked.

Zheronn said, "Only one of us could make it out

with the information, and Orvor chose to send me.

He, however, kept the design specifications for the

retrovirus. You must rescue him from Daborat V to

get it. That is our price for helping you."

    "Impossible," Worf said. "Daborat V is one of the

most heavily guarded Jem'Hadar bases in the Gamma

Quadrant!"

    "It must be done," Zheronn said. "That is our

price."

    "We feel a small group may be able to infiltrate

Daborat V successfully in order to bring Orvor out,"

Admiral Dulev said. "Your people have the most

experience with changelings and the Jem'Hadar, Cap-

tain. I want you to put together an away team for this

mission including your Constable Odo. They will

depart as soon as possible. Time is of the essence."

    Sisko frowned a bit. Rescuing someone from one of

the largest Jem'Hadar bases in the Gamma Quadrant

was a lot to ask, but he knew that with such a big

payoff at stake, they had to take the chance. He said,

 "I'11 need a civilian ship."

    "Requisition whatever you need," Admiral Dulev

said, rising. "I'll leave you and Lieutenant Colfax to

work out the details." She nodded to Zheronn, and

the two of them left together.

    As soon as they were alone, Lieutenant Colfax

smiled his too-smooth smile and said in his too-

smooth voice, "Who do you have in mind for this

mission, Captain?"

    And so Sisko had mentioned Kira and Worf. Worf

had been only too happy to volunteer, as had Major

Kira when he briefed her the following day back at

DS9. Things had fallen quickly into place from there.

If all went well, the three of them--Kira, Worf, and

Odo--would leave tomorrow, and the peace negotia-

tions would continue without pause aboard DS9.

    The airlock door finished opening, and Sisko felt

his ears pop slightly as the Valtusian ship released its

seals and pressures equalized. Suddenly a scent of the

ship's internal atmosphere reached Sisko, and he

found himself breathing deeply. It was a rich, earthy

smell, filled with the tang of nitrogen and ozone, and

it made the skin on the back of his hands and neck

prickle. It smelled just like New Orleans after a

thunderstorm, he thought, enjoying the sensation. It

brought back quite a few pleasant memories, and for

an instant he wished he could visit his father again. I

do need a vacation, he thought. Maybe after every-

thing settles down again.

    He forced his mind back to the here and now as

three Valtusian ambassadors strolled single file

through the airlock. All three had to duck--they

towered over him, each a little more than two and a

half meters in height, but less than half as wide as an

average human. Their elongated gray-green skulls, the

only part of their bodies showing, held two large,

bulbous, unblinking green eyes set on either side of

their heads. Their toothless mouths were oddly tiny,

and they had no noses, only a pair of slits covered by a

fine grayish green membrane that flared open, then

closed, then flared open again as they breathed.

    They had a dislike of physical contact, Sisko re-

called, which probably explained the concealing

robes. Even their hands were covered, he noticed.

That wouldn't make Bashir's job any easier.

    Their feet making faint clicking noises beneath

their robes, they drew to a stop before him. Sisko

swallowed as he gazed up at their leader's face. He

hadn't realized they were so tall, and he tried not to

stare. Of course he knew what they looked like from

pictures, and many years ago he'd seen one on Vulcan

in the distance, but it had not prepared him to meet

three at one time. They were daunting, to say the

least.

    He glanced from one to another. It was impossible

to tell which was their leader. As one, they bowed to

him, their foreheads almost touching the floor.

    Sisko bowed back and noted how Bashir and Odo

did likewise. Worf, to their far left, nodded politely.

They knew their protocols as well as he did.

    "Welcome to Deep Space Nine," he began. "I am

Captain Benjamin Sisko. This is my chief medical

officer, Julian Bashir, and Constable Odo, who is in

charge of security for the peace conference, and

Lieutenant Commander Worf, my military opera-

tions officer. On behalf of the Federation, we wish to

welcome you and extend an invitation to use any of

the facilities aboard the station that you require."

 The three Valtusians bowed again. "I am Ambassa-

dor Zhosh," said the one on the far left. His voice was

high and reedy, almost musical. "My associates are

Gerazh and Senosh."

    "Do you have any special requirements to make

your stay more pleasant?" Sisko asked. "The envi-

ronmental control in your suites can be adjusted

to suit your needs, of course, but if there is anything

else...?"

    "This has been a long and tiring journey," Ambas-

sador Zhosh said. "We would like to rest now."

    "Of course," Sisko said. "We have one small securi-

ty formality, however. We are requiring all conference

attendees to take a DNA screening test. This is

entirely for your own safety, of course," he added.

    "Test?" Ambassador Zhosh said. His solid green

eyes stared unblinkingly at Sisko, and bits of gold

inside them seemed to sparkle with sudden anger.

"We were not informed of any such test."

    "It is a routine security check, to make sure you are

who you say you are," Sisko said quickly. He tried to

keep his voice calm and soothing. He could well

understand the ambassador's reaction; there weren't

supposed to be any surprises in diplomacy. "As I am

sure you're aware, there is the possibility of change-

lings from the Gamma Quadrant trying to infiltrate

and disrupt this peace conference."

    "Yes," said Zhosh distantly. "We do understand the

necessity. You may proceed."

    "Doctor?" he said, moving aside. Bashir had a

soothing manner when dealing with patients, he

knew, and that was what the situation called for. The

Valtusians were an intensely private race, and he did

not want to offend them.

    Bashir stepped forward and held out his DNA

analyzer. "This box will read your DNA and identify

your genetic codes," he said, "then use them to verify

that none of you is a changeling."

    "How does it work?" Ambassador Zhosh asked,

cocking his head to the side and staring down at the

box with one round green eye.

    "Place your hand on top of the device. It will

remove a skin cell and analyze it."

    Zhosh drew back as if horrified by the idea. "Our

hands must not be touched!" he said with a shudder.

There was a note of alarm in his voice. "Our hands

must not be touched!"

    They must have stumbled onto a cultural taboo,

Sisko realized with a mental sigh. Perhaps that was

why the attusians wrapped themselves so thoroughly

in robes. That, or the Valtusians were changelings,

which seemed singularly unlikely, since they had

spearheaded the peace initiative from the beginning.

    Quickly he said, "I'm sure we can work out an

alternative testing method."

    "It doesn't matter what part of the body is used,"

Bashir said hastily. "Arms, elbows, feet--any patch

of skin will do."

    Ambassador Zhosh gave another shudder. "We

must discuss this matter privately," he said. "This is a

serious breach of protocol, Captain Sisko. We are not

pleased."

 Turning, he led the other two Valtusians back into

their ship. The airlock door rolled closed with a low

grating sound.

    Sisko swallowed. Had he single-handedly derailed

the peace process? If so, Admiral Dulev would have

his head on a platter--not an event he looked forward

to.

    "I'm afraid they didn't react at all well to my

scanner," Dr. Bashir said uneasily.

  Worf said sharply, "They are hiding something."

  "I felt that, too," Odo said.

    "I don't know very much about them," Sisko

admitted. "However, nothing I've seen here today is

the least bit out of character. They are an intensely

private people, after all, and we may have stumbled

onto one of their taboos. Let's give them a few

minutes to talk things over. After all, we did spring

this on them as a surprise. What do you think,

Constable?"

    "I don't like them," Odo said. "Something about

them makes me distinctly uneasy."

    That was interesting, Sisko thought. Odo very

rarely voiced his inner feelings. He had to be more

than a little uneasy to speak up like this now.

    "Why don't you call for more security," Sisko said,

"in case we need help. Just keep them back. We don't

want an incident if we can avoid one."

    "Agreed." Odo tapped his badge and said, "Bring a

security detachment to Docking Port Three on the

double!"

    Sisko tried to wait patiently. His thoughts bounced

back and forth between the Valtusians, the peace

conference, and the possibility of changelings trying

to disrupt matters. Why weren't things ever easy?

    Four of Odo's security guards arrived, panting a bit

from sprinting, and Odo drew them aside, getting into

position to cover the hatch unobtrusively. Hopefully

it wouldn't be necessary, Sisko thought. Were the

Valtusians ever coming out? How long would it take

them to discuss the matter of being tested?

    Sisko glanced at a chronometer. Only three minutes

had passed, he told himself. That wasn't long to wait.

He had to be patient--diplomats moved at their own

pace, after all, and he didn't want to get off on the

wrong foot by pushing too hard.

    Suddenly the hatch rolled back and the three Valtu-

sians emerged single file once more. Sisko frowned.

What was that faint clicking sound? Ambassador

Zhoshmat least Sisko thought it was Ambassador

Zhosh--addressed him again.

    "We have discussed the matter," Zhosh said, "and

we will allow your device to touch us. It may analyze

our feet, which are among the least sacred parts of our

body."

    Zhosh pulled up the hem of his flowing green robe,

revealing a long, narrow green foot that ended in three

clawed toes. A fourth and much broader claw jutted

from its heel. The Valtusians walked balanced on the

tips of the claws, Sisko realized, which explained the

faint clicking he heard when they moved.

 "That will do nicely," Dr. Bashir said.

    He activated his DNA scanner and set it on the

floor in front of Ambassador Zhosh. Sisko watched

with interest as the Valtusian gave a birdlike hop

forward and placed the flat middle part of its foot

upon the box.

    "Reading," the scanner said. It paused for a long

time--longer than it had with Worf, Dr. Bashir, or

Odo. Sisko took a deep breath... had it broken

down again? If so, Bashir would have a lot of explain-

ing to do.

    But then the lights on its side flashed twice, and it

said, "Subject DNA passed. Subject is Valtusian."

    Sisko smiled to hide his relief, thinking of the time

on Earth when he'd mistaken his own father for a

changeling. His father had refused to take a blood test

being administered to the families of all Federation

officials due to plain old-fashioned stubbornness,

nothing more, and Sisko had learned a lesson that day

about paranoia. You had to have limits. Life wasn't

worth living if you couldn't trust anyone around you.

He nodded a bit. No, there weren't any changelings

here--just the private mysteries of an alien race. Dr.

Bashir wouldn't have these body-taboo problems with

the humans or Cardassians attending the conference,

at least.

    "When are the other representatives scheduled to

arrive?" Ambassador Zhosh asked, as Bashir ran the

other two Valtusians through the test.

    "The Cardassian delegation should be here in a few

hours," Sisko said. "The Maquis and the Federation

ambassadors are scheduled to arrive tomorrow."

    "I have an itinerary prepared. We will begin in two

days, at the ninth bell."

  "The ninth bell?" Sisko repeated.

    "That would be approximately eight-fifteen in the

morning," Dr. Bashir said. The second ambassador

passed the test. "The altusian calendar is quite

interesting," he went on. "Their clocks use musical

tones to indicate the time."

    Sisko felt his eyes starting to glaze over as Dr.

Bashir began one of his endless lectures, this one on

Valtusian clockwork mechanisms. He really shouM

have gone into teaching, Sisko thought. The way he

likes to talk, he wouM have made an excellent instruc-

tor at the Academy. Then he reminded himself that

he'd be losing one of the best doctors in Starfleet. He

can always retire to teaching, he told himself.

    "Quite correct." Zhosh gazed at Bashir with one

eye. "Have you visited altusia, Doctor?"

"No, but my mother owns one of your clocks."

The third Valtusian also passed the test. Odo's

suspicions had proved unfounded, for once. No

changelings here.

    "Ah." Ambassador Zhosh faced Sisko again. "If we

could be shown to our quarters now?"

    "Certainly," he began, and then his badge chirped.

"One second," he told Zhosh. He tapped his badge.

"Sisko here."

    "I have a priority one transmission for you from

Admiral Dulev," Dax said.

    "Thank you," Sisko said. "I'll be right there." He

turned back to Ambassador Zhosh. "Constable Odo

will have to show you to the habitat ring," he said. "If

you need anything, don't hesitate to let him know."

All three Valtusians bowed low to him. He returned

the gesture, then hurried toward the turbolift.

    "This way," Odo said behind him, sounding faintly

irritated that they hadn't turned out to be change-

ling spies after all. "Right now we are in the third

docking pylon," he said, beginning the standard tour

of the station. "Your quarters will be in the habitat

ring . . ."

    "Ops," Sisko said to the computer as he entered the

turbolift. It whisked him down rapidly. Another

transmission from Admiral Dulev... what could she

want?

CHAPTER

       4

"ADMIRAL DULEV," SISKO said as her stern face ap-

peared on his monitor. He couldn't recall ever seeing

her smile.

    "Captain Sisko," she said, as usual cutting through

all formalities, "you are to delay the mission to the

Gamma Quadrant until the Excalibur gets there."

  "If I may ask," Sisko said, "why?"

    "My aide, Lieutenant Colfax, will be aboard the

Excalibur. He will brief you and your people fully

upon his arrival."

    "Very well," Sisko said, puzzled. "When is the

Excalibur due?"

    "Thirty-two hours. If you have any questions,

please address them to Lieutenant Colfax. Dulev

out," she said, and the screen went blank.

 Sisko steepled his fingers thoughtfully. Thirty-two

hours. Starbase 201, where he'd met with the admiral

and Colfax, lay sixteen hours away which meant the

Excalibur either hadn't arrived yet or had another

stop to make before coming to DS9. At least the extra

time would give them a chance to better prepare for

the mission into the Gamma Quadrant. The peace

conference should already be underway by then. Per-

haps it would be less of a juggling act than he thought.

He could certainly use the extra help Odo would

provide when the Cardassian delegation arrived.

    Cardassians on the station always meant trouble, he

knew... not that they themselves posed a threat to

DS9's security. If anything, they tended toward model

behavior while visiting. The problems always came

from Bajorans, with their endless protests and picket-

ing and threats of violence against any and all Cardas-

sians they deemed war criminals.

    He felt a slight headache beginning, and he forced

himself to stretch and focus his eyes on the far wall.

Too much work, too much stress--he'd better not let

Dr. Bashir find out, or he'd find himself in a holosuite

on forced R and R despite the importance of every-

thing going on around him.

    He picked up the baseball he kept on his desk and

gripped it in his strong right hand. The tension of

dealing with two high-priority missions simultane-

ously was starting to get to him, he thought. He

needed to unwind. Perhaps a half hour game of catch

with his son Jake, or in a holosuite with the 2106

Brooklyn Dodgers... a scenario he'd been working

on for some weeks now. The Cardassians weren't due

yet, the Valtusians were safely in their quarters, and

the Excalibur wouldn't arrive for thirty-two hours.

He'd have enough time, wouldn't he?

    The door to his office chirped. Sighing, he put the

baseball back on its little stand. No rest for a weary

captain, he thought. "Come," he called.

    Lieutenant Jadzia Dax stepped in. Behind her he

could see Major Kira and Chief O'Brien. "Benja-

min," Dax said, "if you have a minute..."

    "Of course," he said, leaning back in his chair.

"What is it, Dax? A problem with Quark's ship?"

    "Have you been looking over my shoulder?" she

asked with a faint smile.

    "I expected it, actually," Sisko said. "What do you

think, Chief?. Will it do?"

 "It's a death trap," O'Brien said.

    "That doesn't sound very promising." But probably

what I shouM have expected, he mentally added. They

might have to use a runabout after all.

    "It gets better," Dax said. "Quark has already

billed us for two hundred and fifty bars of gold-

pressed latinum."

    "Outrageous," Sisko agreed, shaking his head. Still,

what could he expect from a Ferengi?

    "But here's the thing, sir," O'Brien said, leaning

forward. "It's a Delphi-class ship, just like the one the

pilgrims from Arvanus Six abandoned on the seventh

Bajoran moon. The pilgrims' ship has already been

claimed for salvage by a Bajoran company, but they

haven't picked it up yet."

 "I've made a few inquiries of my own," Kira added.

"We can have the pilgrim ship's hull for twenty-

two bars of latinum. All it needs are new warp en-

gines..."

  "And Quark's ship has those," O'Brien finished.

    Sisko looked at Dax. "What do you think?" he

asked her.

    She shook her head a fraction. "I think it's risky.

We have one day to put together a working starship.

That would be hard under the best of circumstances.

But I don't see a better alternative."

    "I have good news on that front," Sisko said.

"Admiral Dulev wants the mission delayed until the

Excalibur gets here. That gives us at least thirty-two

hours."

"Is the Excalibur coming with us?" Kira asked.

"The admiral wasn't clear on that point," Sisko

said. "I would assume not, though.~ So, what do you

think, Chief? Can you put together a working ship for

us in thirty-two hours?"

    "Oh, we can do it." O'Brien nodded. "For once,

I've got every system on DS9 functioning within

acceptable parameters. It's taken me three years, but

it's finally happened. I can put every man I have on

refitting the warp engines. Delphi-class ships are

completely modular in design, so it shouldn't be too

hard. My original estimate was six hours, and I still

think it can be done that quickly. The extra time will

give us a chance to make a few shakedown flights and

run full diagnostics."

 "Excellent." Sisko considered the options. If

O'Brien said he could make a working ship out of the

two, Sisko knew he could rely on him to deliver. Their

three years here together had proved his chief engi-

neer's competence time and again. Still, putting to-

gether a fix-up ship had its own risks. You never knew

quite what you were getting with a used starship...

let alone two of them. Systems might fail suddenly, or

there might be slight design variations between them

if they were built in different years.

    Unfortunately, there didn't seem to be much

choice. They needed a civilian ship, and there just

weren't any available through regular channels on

such short notice. He began to nod. It seemed Admir-

al Dulev's delay was in fact a godsend.

    "Very well," he said, "get on it... as soon as I

finish with Quark."

    "Two hundred and fifty bars of gold-pressed

latinum is an outrageous price for a ship in that

condition," Dax said.

    "What's fair?" Sisko asked, looking at O'Brien. He

would know, if anyone did aboard DS9, because he

kept close tabs on the used equipment market. "A

hundred?"

    "I'd say fifty," O'Brien said, "if that. It needs a lot

of work."

    Kira said, "Security has been keeping Quark under

surveillance. Why don't you ask Odo what Quark

paid for it?"

    "An excellent suggestion, Major," Sisko said. I

must be slipping, he thought. I shouM have thought of

that myself He activated the communications console

on his desk, and a second later Odo's smooth, nearly

featureless face appeared on the viewscreen.

    "Yes, Captain?" Odo asked, sounding faintly an-

noyed. Sisko hid his smile. Everything seemed to

faintly annoy Odo.

    "Did you get the Valtusian ambassadors settled

into their suite?" he asked.

    "Yes." He sounded more annoyed than ever. "Was

there anyhing else?"

    "By any chance, can you tell me what Quark paid

for that ship he just bought?"

    "The Galactic Queen--if you can call that mess a

ship?" Odo gave a snort. "He didn't pay anything for

it. Two Andorians paid him to take it off their hands.

Repairs would cost more that it's worth, and the

owners couldn't even afford the station's docking fees.

Quark promised to handle everything for them, in-

cluding the disposal of their ship, for two bars of gold-

pressed latinurn."

    Sisko had to laugh. "Leave it to Quark to try to

make a profit on every side of a deal," he said.

    "I don't find that particularly amusing," Odo said.

"Am I missing something, sir?"

    "Not really. Thank you, Constable. Keep up the

good work." He shut off the viewscreen. "Well," he

said to Dax and the others, "that certainly gives us a

lot of bargaining room."

    Kira folded her arms. "I say we let him keep the

ship. We can still take a runabout."

"I wouldn't object if you weren't going to a planet

with a Jem'Hadar base," Sisko said. "Taking a Feder-

ation vessel is simply too risky. Besides, I think

Quark's ship will work out, as soon as negotiations

are over."

    He turned again to his communications console.

"Quark," he said, and a second later an image ap-

peared on the viewscreen before him: Quark in his

bar, the babble of happy crowds creating a pleasant

background noise. Cheers came from one of the

gambling tables, followed by cries of "Dabo!"

    "Captain Sisko!" Quark said. He was wiping a glass

clean. "This is an unexpected surprise. I take it Chief

O'Brien has relayed the good news about the ship I

found?"

    "It is unacceptable," Sisko said, clipping his words

to emphasize how seriously he took the matter. "We

have had to make other arrangements, Quark. I'm

very disappointed in you."

    "What!" The shock was apparent on Quark's face.

Sisko felt a sudden pang of sympathy, but forced it

down. You had to play hardball with Ferengis during

negotiations, as the old saying went. They'd walk all

over you if you didn't.

    "I'm sorry things didn't work out," he went on. "rll

let you know if we have any more needs." He discon-

nected, and Quark's face disappeared.

    Smiling, Sisko leaned back in his seat and looked at

his officers. "Bets?" he asked, taking a glance at the

chronometer.

 "Ten seconds," O'Brien said instantly.

 "Ten? You're crazy," Kira said. "Eight."

    "It'll take him that long just to stop shaking," Dax

said. "Twelve, at least."

  "I'll take fifteen," Sisko said.

    The seconds ticked away. Eight... ten... and at

twelve seconds exactly the communicator chirped.

    "I believe you three owe me dinner," Dax said

triumphantly.

    Before Sisko could touch the controls, Quark's face

appeared on the viewscreen. Sisko frowned, a trifle

annoyed. The security devices in Ops and his private

office shouldn't let calls through to him like that.

Quark must have a security key. He made a mental

note to have Odo confiscate it.

      "Quark," Sisko said, trying to keep his tone even

and pleasant. "What can I do for you?"  "About this ship--"

  "It won't do. I thought we settled that."

    "If it's a matter of price, I am open to reasonable

counteroffers."

    Sisko shook his head. "As I told you, time is of the

essence here. Chief O'Brien informs me that it will

take all of his people two days working around the

clock to get that ship put back into working order. I

simply cannot spare him at this time, with the peace

conference coming up, so I have been forced to make

other arrangements. Luckily I managed to find an

alternate ship through an old friend of mine. It will

save us a little money, true, but manpower is the

primary factor."

    "Surely we can come to some arrangements?"

Quark said, a bit of a desperate whine creeping into

his voice. "I know this ship is perfect for your needs.

How much would it take to persuade you to use my

ship instead?"

    Sisko tilted his head to the side. "Quark, is that a

bribe you're offering me?"

    "No, no," Quark said hastily, raising both hands.

"What I meant is, how much of a reduction in price

would it take for you to consider my ship instead of

your friend's?"

    Sisko gazed down at the baseball on his desk

thoughtfully. "Forty bars of latinum?" he suggested.

    "Done!" Quark cried. "I'll put through the invoice

at once for two hundred and ten..." His voice

trailed off.

    Sisko was shaking his head. "Forty bars of latinum

total," he said. "Not one bar more."

Quark let out a strangled cry. "You're killing me!"

"It's the best I can do," Sisko said. "And I'll wave

the docking fees your ship has incurred while it's been

here."

    "I'll get back to you," Quark said. Muttering to

himself, he stabbed the disconnect button. Sisko

found himself staring at a blank screen, which was

quickly replaced by the Federation logo of a starfield

and two olive branches on a blue background.

    "Let me guess," Dax said. "Right now he's finding

out how much the hull is worth from salvage dealers."

    "I expect so," Sisko said. "And thanks to Kira, we

have a good idea what that is."

 Kira was grinning. "Right, Captain," she said.

 Half a minute later, Quark called again. "It's a

deal," he said to Sisko. He seemed more subdued

than usual, Sisko thought, and almost sulky. Perhaps

he was mourning the loss of two hundred and ten

undeserved bars of gold-pressed latinurn.

    "Excellent," Sisko said. "If you'll put through your

invoice, I'll see that it receives priority payment

authorization."

"Thank you," Quark said sullenly, disconnecting.

Now, Sisko thought, to see about the wreck on the

Bajoran moon. Then it would all be up to O'Brien and

his people.

CHAPTER

        5

FIVE O'CLOCK IN the morning is too early for delegates

to arrive, Dr. Julian Bashir thought with a yawn as he

strolled down the crossover bridge toward the dock-

ing ring. He hefted the DNA analyzer he was carrying.

It only weighed fourteen kilos, but lugging it with him

across half the station, he found it growing increas-

ingly heavy. He'd have another look at the schematics

later, he thought, and see if he could get the size

trimmed down a little more.

    At this hour, the station seemed oddly still, almost

serene in its emptiness. None of the shops in the

Promenade had opened for the day yet. Even Quark's

bar was closed, and that, he reflected, spoke volumes

about how dead the station became in the early hours

of the morning. He'd only passed two other people so

far, and one of them had been Dax out for her

morning jog. She had waved and called a brief invita-

tion for him to join her before passing by, but he'd

declined. Her energy never ceased to amaze him.

    Ahead, at the end of the crossover bridge, he

spotted a knot of men and women blocking the

passage. Something had to be going on here, he

realized. Their low babble of voices grew steadily

louder and more anxious. If someone was hurt, they'd

need a doctor. Bashir quickened his pace to a near jog.

But if someone was hurt, why hadn't he been called?

    "Kill the Butcher of Belmast!" he suddenly heard a

loud voice shouting.

  "We want justice!" another cried.

    "Bring him back to Bajor for trial!" a third voice

called. "We know how to deal with Cardassians!"

    Bashir groaned inwardly and drew up short. Not

again, he thought. The crowd faced away from him,

but now he recognized them all as Bajorans. The

dangling earrings gave them away, if not their civilian

clothes and anti-Cardassian sentiments. Somehow

they'd found out that the Cardassian delegation had

arrived, and they'd turned out in force as an unofficial

harassment party. It seemed to happen every time a

high-ranking Cardassian boarded the station.

    But who was this "Butcher of Belmast" they were

talking about? He frowned, trying to think back to

where he'd heard of Belmast before. Wasn't it a

remote province on Bajor? Hadn't some war atrocity

been committed there? He shook his head. It wasn't

his concern right now--he had delegates to screen for

the peace conference. If he remembered, he'd ask

Major Kira about it later.

    Taking a deep breath, he started forward with

determination. He'd never liked angry mobs, but he

couldn't see any way around this one--they were

completely blocking the walkway. To get around

them, he'd have to retrace his steps to the Promenade

and take a turbolift. Best to get it over with, he

thought. Besides, they weren't mad at him.

    The crowd seemed a little thinner to the left, so

he eased his way between two women in pink and yel-

low robes. "Excuse me," he murmured. "I need

through--station business."

    "Aren't you Dr. Bashir?" one of the women asked.

She was short and slightly overweight, with long

reddish brown hair tied up behind her head, and her

pale blue eyes held what looked like a fanatical gleam.

    Bashir gulped and tried to remember if they had

ever met before, but couldn't place her sharp features.

"Uh, yes," he admitted. "Do I know you?"

    Instead of replying, she seized his arm and pulled

him forward. "Let us through!" she called. "Let us

through to Werron!"

    Everyone around them turned to look, and Bashir

found himself the center of attention. A little ner-

vously, he forced a small nod and an even smaller

wave. What have I done to deserve this? he wondered.

He was almost certain he'd never met the Bajoran

woman before. And who was Werron?

 The crowd parted, and he rapidly found himself

pulled to the front. There, the Bajorans held placards

in a variety of languages--English, Cardassian, and

Bajoran. He scanned the ones he could read, and they

all talked about "Justice" and "Cardassian War Crim-

inals," as he'd half expected.

    Six of Odo's men in tan and brown security uni-

forms held the line of Bajorans at bay. A couple of

them gave Bashir welcoming nods, and the doctor felt

a little better. They would rescue him if trouble

started. Not that he really expected trouble. Relations

remained good between humans and Bajorans at the

moment, what with them applying for Federation

membership and Captain Sisko being their Emissary

and all.

    "Vedek Werron," the woman said, "this is Julian

Bashir, the station's medical officer."

    A Vedek--no wonder they were so riled up. Bashir

focused on the tall Bajoran wearing gray robes who

turned at her voice. The man might dress simply,

Bashir thought, but he carried himself like someone

important. Vedeks were among the highest religious

positions a Bajoran could attain, he knew, and their

unique authority in Bajoran society allowed them to

incite the masses with their words. Most of the

trouble on DS9 between Bajorans and Cardassians

could be traced to Bajoran religious leaders.

    Vedek Werron had the thin, almost emaciated fea-

tures of one who habitually fasted. His intense green

eyes focused on Bashir, who felt instantly dissected by

that gaze. Like he can see into my soul, Bashir thought

with a shiver. Werron's short brown hair had been

swept back over his scalp, and when he smiled,

showing perfect white teeth, the image that leaped to

Bashir's mind was that of a hungry tiger catching sight

of breakfast.

    "Doctor," Werron said in a low, powerful voice,

stepping forward and taking Bashir's hand. He shook

it in the human fashion. "I am delighted to make your

acquaintance, sir. I have heard good things about

you."

    "And I am delighted to meet you, Vedek," Bashir

said quickly. He extricated his hand as gently as he

could; no sense offending the fellow. The sooner the

niceties of introduction ended, the sooner he could

get back to his work and away from here.

    Vedek Werron searched Bashir's face. "It must be a

great privilege serving with the Emissary," he said.

    "Uh, yes, it is," Bashir said. Was this leading

somewhere? He had a suspicion it was. "Captain

Sisko is a fine commanding officer."

    "I would like the chance to confer with him, but I'm

afraid I haven't been able to reach him."

    Bashir nodded. So that was it; Sisko didn't want to

meet with Vedek Werron. Now Werron hoped to use

him as an intermediary. Bashir felt a flash of triumph

at having figured the man out.

    But Werron merely said, "I am certain we'll be

seeing more of each other, Doctor. It is, after all, a

small universe." He motioned to his people, who

drew back a half meter, leaving him a clear path. "I

believe you were on a business call?" Again his smile

reminded Bashir of a predator's.

    "That's right," Bashir said. He swallowed and

forced his eyes from Werron's face, feeling a cold knot

form in his stomach. This was a dangerous man,

something inside him said. He wished they hadn't

met. And he certainly hoped they wouldn't meet

again. Luckily business called.

    Taking a deep breath, he ducked past Odo's depu-

ties and continued toward the docking ports. He had

to get to the Cardassians and administer his DNA

test.

    Behind him, he heard the Bajorans begin their

chanting again: "Justice for Bajor... Justice for

Bajor... Justice for Bajor..." Vedek Werron's

deep, powerful voice boomed over the others, loud as

a bell on a clear summer day.

    When Bashir glanced back, he found Werron facing

his own people, exhorting them to louder shouts of

protest.

    He forced his attention back to the task at hand.

The Cardassian shuttle had parked at Docking Port 2.

Odo stood just outside the open airlock door with two

more deputies. Half a dozen Cardassians were stand-

ing just inside, out of sight of the Bajoran crowd, and

they did not look happy.

  "You're late, Doctor," Odo said gruffly.

    "Sorry," he said. "I had a little trouble getting

through the crowd."

    Odo glanced back at them. "Yes, I can see how that

might happen."

    Bashir scanned the Cardassians' faces and was a

trifle disappointed not to recognize anyone among

them. The enemy you know and all that, he thought.

Though their people might officially be at peace, he

had seen little to end his distrust of Cardassians

during his time on the station. If anything, he was

more paranoid when dealing with them than ever.

And he felt quite a bit of sympathy for the Bajorans--

Cardassian occupation had nearly destroyed their

world.

    "I am Dr. Bashir," he said to the Cardassian at the

front of the group, who seenled to be in charge. "I'm

the station's chief medical officer."

    "Gul Mekkar," the Cardassian replied. He was

short and heavyset, with a lumpy, grayish face and

thick corded neck. Mekkar folded his arms and

glared. "We are here on a peace mission, Doctor. Why

are we greeted by rioters, detained in our ship's

airlock, and met by underlings instead of diplomats?"

    Bashir wanted to roll his eyes and groan. It was

going to be one of those days. "I'm sorry if we weren't

prepared for you," he said, a trifle archly. "As you

may recall, you arrived three hours early and wouldn't

wait for proper clearance. Captain Sisko is in confer-

ence now and cannot be disturbed. He will join us as

soon as he is able. In the meantime, I am here to

ensure the safety and security of these proceedings.

Anyone who plans to debark your ship will be re-

quired to undergo a DNA test to prove that they are in

fact Cardassian."

    Mekkar snorted. "Who else would we be--

humans, perhaps? Or maybe VulcansT'

Odo said, "As I already told you, we have reason to

believe changelings from the Gamma Quadrant may

try to infiltrate these proceedings. This is a routine

security measure, I assure you."

    "Rubbish," Mekkar sneered. "It's another excuse

for harassment, nothing more. No one mentioned

tests when this conference was arranged."

    Bashir said, "It's a surprise test, to make sure the

changelings have no chance to prepare some way

around it. The Valtusians have already submitted to

the procedure, as has the entire command staff of

DS9. It's fast and painless. I assure you, you won't

feel the slightest discomfort."

    Odo added, "You will not be allowed aboard the

station until you and your entire crew submit to the

screening process."

 "This is an outrage!" Mekkar gestured angrily.

    The Cardassian woman behind him leaned forward

and whispered something in his ear. He listened for a

second, then frowned.

    "Very well," he said coldly to Bashir. "If it will

allow us to get on with our work, you may proceed.

But I warn you, if this is some sort of trick..." He let

the threat hang between them.

    One of those days, indeed. "And the rest of your

people?" Bashir asked.

    Many of the Cardassians behind Mekkar stirred,

muttering to one another. None of them seemed

happy with the idea of being tested.

    Mekkar turned to his people. "They will submit as

well," he said flatly. There were a few grumbles, but

they quickly died down. Mekkar was not a Cardassian

who was used to being argued with, Bashir saw.

    At least it would be over soon. "Please place your

hand on top," he said. He held out the DNA scanner.

    Still glaring, Mekkar did so. The computer voice

promptly announced that he was Cardassian.

    "As you can see," he snarled, "I am who I say I

am."

    Bashir nodded and stepped back. "You may pro-

ceed."

    Mekkar stomped out of the airlock, then turned

and surveyed the mob cordoned off twenty meters

away. His sneer grew, and Bashir heard him mutter,

"Rabble!"

    "That's him!" Bashir heard one of the Bajorans

shout. "That's Mekkar!" Other voices cried, "Cardas-

sian Butched" and "Murderer/"

    Mekkar set his hands on his hips and glared at

them. "On Cardassia," he announced in a loud voice,

"this display would be punishable by death!"

  More jeers came from the Bajorans.

    Bashir sighed. He'd better get this over with

quickly, he thought. The crowd was turning ugly. He

only hoped Odo's people would be able to keep them

in line.

    The Cardassian woman who'd reasoned with Mek-

kar was next, and she placed her hand on the scanner

before he asked. "Proceed," she said. There seemed to

be a trace of amusement in her voice.

  Bashir activated the scanner.

  "What's your name?" he asked.

    "Kloran." She brushed back her long, stringy black

hair with one hand and gave him a brief smile. "I am

Mekkar's second in these negotiations."

    "Subject DNA passes," the computer said. "Sub-

ject is Cardassian." A wave of relief passed through

Bashir. Every time he ran the scanner, he found he

half expected someone to fail.

    "You may proceed," he told her. "And thank you

for your help."

    "It was done in the interest of cooperation." She

gave him a brief smile, then stepped forward and took

Mekkar's arm. More jeers came from the Bajorans.

Bashir glanced over and found Kloran smiling faintly,

almost mockingly, at them, and a chill went through

him. The two Cardassians made a rather daunting

couple, he thought.

    Chief Miles O'Brien felt beads of perspiration start-

ing to form on his brow and shook his head. Damn

space suits. He felt an overpowering urge to wipe his

forehead, but there was no way he could reach inside

through the faceplate. Next time they asked him what

upgrades he wanted for DS9, he was going to ask for a

spacedock.

    For now, though, he'd just have to make do. Grit-

ting his teeth, he raised his heavy cutting phaser,

adjusting the controls to a tighter beam, and began

burning through the final series of power couplings

holding the Galactic Queen's nacelles in place over

the passenger compartment. Durasteel turned red,

then white under the burst of energy, bubbling like

one of Captain Sisko's gumbos. He could feel the heat

even through the insulation in his gloves and space

suit.

    One power relay parted silently, then the second,

then the third. Globules of rapidly cooling durasteel

spiraled off into the darkness. O'Brien felt a drop of

sweat run down the side of his face, then crawl along

the line of his jaw. His faceplate began to fog up ever

so slightly at the edges.

    He shifted the phaser and fired again. Finally the

fourth relay melted; the Galactic Queen's starboard

nacelle now floated freely in space. Only inertia held

it in position.

    O'Brien took a deep breath. The easy part was

done. Clipping the phaser to his side, he took a second

to glance down at his space suit's readouts. Twenty

degrees just isn't coM enough, he thought. He'd set the

controls as cold as they would go, but radiant heat

from the phaser and the fused metal had raised the

internal temperature of his space suit to nearly sixty

degrees centigrade.

    If only we had another couple of days, he thought.

He hated working out in raw vacuum, but didn't see

much choice. Fast and dirty, that was the only way to

get the job done in time.

    The durasteel had cooled back down. O'Brien

turned his back to the ship, planted his feet against

the hull, hooked his fingers under the power coupling

he'd just severed, and heaved with all his strength.

The ship had no weight in space; it was all a matter of

getting its mass moving. Slowly, a fraction of a

millimeter at a time, the nacelle parted from the main

passenger compartment.

    O'Brien let go after fifteen seconds. No sense strain-

ing any more against all that mass, he thought. Age

was catching up to him; he didn't want Bashir doing

an emergency procedure on his back to fix a slipped

disc. He'd never hear the end of it.

    He released the magnetic grips on his space boots

and floated away from Galactic Queen's hull, looking

over his work with a critical eye. The port nacelle,

already cut free, drifted a hundred meters away. He

nodded to himself. Yes, it was coming along right on

schedule.

    "Chief," a tinny-sounding but recognizably female

voice said through a burst of static. "We've got the

dead hull."

    He nudged the transmit bar with his chin. "Great,"

he said. He'd sent Ensign Polatta and her crew off in a

runabout to fetch the Progress from the Bajoran

moon. "How's she look?"

"Good, for scrap. Not so good for a starship."

"Bring her alongside the Galactic Queen. You'll

have to round up the nacelles I just cut loose with

tractor beams. We'll lick her into shape yet."

    Starfleet's diplomatic team arrived just after mid-

night that night, and Sisko found himself standing

outside the docking port, feeling bleary-eyed and

tired.

    Something hissed, and he felt a light touch on his

arm. He jumped, a bit startled.

    Dr. Bashir held up a hypo spray. "Vitamins," he

said. "You're looking a little pale."

    Leave it to Bashir to notice. "You, too, Doctor," he

said.

    "Yes, in my case it's lack of sleep." He stifled a

yawn. "I've been up since four o'clock this morning."

    "I've been meaning to thank you for covering the

Cardassians' arrival for me."

    "No problem," Bashir said. "Glad to help out.

Actually, it was an interesting experience. I almost

wish I could sit in on the negotiations just to see how

everyone interacts."

    "I'm expecting fireworks," Sisko admitted. Federa-

tion, Maquis, Valtusian, and Cardassian diplomats

struck him as about the least compatible bunch

imaginable. Even the Klingons and the Romulans

could be more reasonable than Cardassians.

    The door rolled aside, and a strikingly beautiful

Vulcan woman walked out, looking around curiously.

Her short black hair and pointed, almost elfin ears

loaned her delicately boned face an almost ethereal

quality. Sisko found his gaze moving from her face to

the stunning aqua dress she wore off one shoulder.

Matching blue sandals, studded with gemstones, com-

pleted the outfit.

    "You must be Captain Sisko," she said, her voice

flat and emotionless.

  "That's right," he said. "And you are...?"

    "Ambassador T'Pao." She turned and indicated the

heavyset man with short reddish blond hair following

her. "This is Ambassador DuQuesne, and behind him

is Ambassador Strockman." Strockman, thin to the

point of emaciation, with pinched cheeks and thin-

ning black hair cropped close to his skull, gave a curt

nod.

Sisko smiled politely, then did the introductions.

"We have designed a test to check for changeling

infiltration," he said. "It only takes a minute and is

completely painless."

      He half expected a series of protests, but T'Pao

merely nodded once. "Proceed."  "Doctor?" Sisko said.

    Bashir stepped forward. "If you would place your

hand on the scanner," he said.

    T'Pao did so, and it promptly announced that she

was Vulcan. Then DuQuesne stepped forward and

placed his hand on top.

    "A good idea," T'Pao commented. "One cannot be

too careful in negotiations such as these."

    "Our thoughts exactly," Sisko said. He couldn't

help but grin. At least the Federation ambassadors

understood the necessity of security.

    Both DuQuesne and Strockman passed the DNA

test.

    "Now," T'Pao said, "if you could show us to

our quarters. It has been a long trip, and I believe

my colleagues require rest. They have become

somewhat... irritable."

    "Of course." Sisko turned and led the way toward

the turbolift. "Your suites are on the habitat ring..."

he began.

    "Sir," Ensign McCormick said. "I think I'm pick-

ing up a ship on the extreme limits of sensor range."

    A new ship? Dax crossed to the ensign's console

and studied the readouts over his shoulder. The only

ship she was still expecting belonged to the Maquis

delegates to the peace conference, and if she knew her

Maquis, they'd be playing it very cautiously. After all,

DS9 was a Federation outpost, and technically they

would fall under Federation law the moment they set

foot aboard. Despite all of the assurances Starfleet

and the Valtusians had given them, they must still be a

little paranoid. She didn't blame them.

    On the other hand, it could be a Dominion ship

looking them over from the distance ....

    Dax reached down, channeled extra power to the

sensor relays, and scanned the ship again.

    "Bingo," she said, as the results came up on the

ensign's monitor screen. It was an old Federation

transport ship, probably decommissioned and sold off

to colonists years ago. The station's computer identi-

fied it as the Uganda.

 "Sir? Bingo?" The ensign gazed at her blankly.

 They were getting younger every year, Dax thought.

    "An old Earth expression," she explained. "It

means 'you're right.'"

 "Are they... Jem'Hadar?"

    "Wrong direction." She moved aside so McCor-

mick could see the readouts. "Take a look at that. It's

a Federation ship. Or used to be."

  "Maquis..." the ensign breathed.

    Dax smiled. "A pretty good guess, especially since

we're expecting them." She returned to the science

station. "I'11 take it from here."  "Yes, sir."

    Dax hailed the ship. "This is Lieutenant Com-

mander Jadzia Dax of Deep Space Nine. Maquis ship,

please identify yourself."

    There was no response. Probably still looking us

over, she thought, and who could blame them? It

must have taken a lot on the Valtusians' part to even

get them this far.

    "Maquis ship," she said again, "please identify

yourself."

    "This is the Uganda," a male voice responded

hesitantly a moment later. It was an audio-only signal.

How paranoid were these people? "We are here for

the peace conference."

    "You're early," she said. "Our docking schedule is

full for the next three hours. If you'd care to wait, I'll

fit you in--"

    "We've just picked up a Federation warship ap-

proaching at high warp!" The pitch of his voice rose

half an octave. "You've betrayed us--"

    "Not true," Dax said. Damn, what a time for a

Federation ship to show up! "Hold your position,

Uganda. You have nothing to worry about."

 She punched the new ship up on her console--the

Excalibur, with high-priority clearance. She groaned

inwardly. This was really going to screw up her

docking schedule. Perhaps they'd beam people over

instead of docking...

    She split the screen to monitor both ships at once.

The Maquis vessel had already come about and begun

accelerating away from DS9. She saw that its warp

coil was powering up.

    "Uganda," she said, "the Federation ship is only

here to drop off delegates for the conference. It will

depart as soon as it's done. You have nothing to worry

about."

 "I have your word on that, Commander?"

 "That's right."

    "We will withdraw for now," his voice said. "We'll

return in three hours. Uganda out."

    "DS9 out," Dax said. She nodded. No doubt about

it, they were nervous. At least they were coming back,

though. Hopefully the Excalibur would be gone by

then.

CHAPTER

        6

SISKO WATCHED THE colorful flicker of lights in the

Ops's two-person transporter chamber as a figure

began to materialize. The Excalibur had come to a

stationary position between DS9 and the wormhole,

and now Lieutenant Colfax was in the process of

beaming aboard.

    The hum of the transporter faded away as Colfax

materialized. He carried what appeared to be a cloth

satchel in one hand. It seemed quite heavy, Sisko

noted. Stepping down from the transporter, Colfax

smiled coolly and offered his hand to Sisko.

    Sisko shook it. "Won't you come into my office," he

said.

    "Certainly," Colfax said, shifting the satchel to his

other hand and following.

"We weren't expecting you so soon," Sisko said

over his shoulder. "Admiral Dulev said thirty-two

hours."

    "We made excellent time," Colfax said. "I had the

Excalibur's captain shave every second off the run

that she could. You know how important speed is

here. I'm sorry to have held up your away team this

long, but I believe you'll find it necessary."

 "The admiral didn't say much about it."

    He nodded. "We're taking every precaution possi-

ble, in case the changelings are monitoring our sub-

space communications. Now, I'd appreciate it if

you'd call in your away team. I want to brief them as

quickly as possible."

    "Certainly." He paused in the doorway to his office.

"Dax?"

 "I'll get them here," she called.

    "Thanks." Sisko entered his office, then closed the

door behind them. To Colfax he said, "Can I offer you

a drink?"

    "No, thank you," Colfax said. He set his satchel on

a chair, then ran his finger along the seam and peeled

it open. "I'm afraid this is only a brief stopover for

me. I'm here to drop off equipment for your away

team, that's all. I trust they're ready to leave?"

    "Their ship is waiting," Sisko said. That was close

enough to true; it would be a matter of hours now

before the last tests were complete. He perched on the

edge of his desk and folded his arms.  "Good," Colfax said.

 The door chirped. "Come," Sisko said.

    Kira, Odo, and Worf filed in. "You wanted to see

us, sir?" Worf asked, his voice low and gravely.

    Sisko indicated his guest. "This is Lieutenant Col-

fax from Admiral Dulev's office. Apparently he has

additional equipment for you."

    "That's right," Dulev said. He pulled a thick metal-

lic belt from the satchel and turned around to face

them. "This is an experimental device which the

Romulans have loaned us specifically for this mission.

It's called a personal cloaker."

    A personal cloaker? Sisko found himself leaning

forward to study the belt. Surely it couldn't be a

cloaking device; it was far too small. He frowned a

bit, studying a series of silver boxes connected with

mesh links. It had a small control panel on the front,

he noted, which appeared to consist of a simple power

readout and an on/off switch.

  Odo asked, "What exactly does it do?"

    "I'm getting to that." Colfax snapped the belt

around his waist and looked up. "As the name sug-

gests, it's a variant on the cloaking devices which

conceal Romulan ships in space. It creates a distor-

tion wave which surrounds your body, rendering you

effectively invisible to the naked eye. Watch."

    Colfax activated one of the buttons on the belt's

control panel. The air around him rippled for a

second, and then he faded from view.

    Sisko stood bolt upright, shocked. The security

implications were devastating. With one of these,

someone could walk into the most closely guarded

Federation installation undetected.

    A second later Colfax reappeared. "Simple, yes?"

he said.

    "How many of these things are there?" Odo de-

manded.

    "I've brought two for use in your mission," Colfax

said. "The third one must remain with me. Our

people are working with Romulan scientists to perfect

the devices. They may well offer our first counter to

the advantages offered by the changelings' morphing

abilities."

 "How do they work?" Sisko asked.

    "Simplicity itself," Colfax said. He removed the

belt and laid it flat on the desk so everyone could see

the control panel on the front. "There is an on/off

button and a time readout."

 "A time readout?" Worf asked, frowning.

    Colfax hesitated. "There are problems with the

personal cloakers," he admitted. "They use a fantastic

amount of energy. Our most powerful battery can

only run one for eight minutes."

    Odo seemed to relax a little, Sisko saw, and he knew

why: With only eight minutes of power, it would be

difficult for anyone to use them effectively for sabo-

tage.

    "I know it's not a lot of time," Colfax said, "but it's

one extra advantage you didn't have before. It could

well mean the difference between getting caught and

eluding capture."

    "There is almost something cowardly about hiding

behind invisible shields," Worf said, a little stiffly.

 "Commander Worf," Colfax said, rising and facing

him, "the entire Alpha Quadrant risks subjugation

under the changelings. We will not allow this to

happen--whatever the cost. Honor is one of our least

valuable commodities right now. Is that understood?"

    Worf bristled a little, but nodded. Sisko could tell it

troubled him nonetheless.

    "Good," Colfax said. He drew two more belts from

his satchel and handed one to Kira and one to Worf.

"Wear them under your clothes at all times on this

mission," he said. "I know they're bulky, but they're

the best we can do. And one more thing: If you're in

danger of being caught, or if you exhaust the belts'

power supplies, destroy them. They cannot be

allowed to fall into the enemy's hands." He put the

belt he'd used for his demonstration away. "Any

questions?"

    A little to his surprise, Sisko found he didn't have

any, and neither did anyone else. The personal cloak-

ers seemed straight-forward enough.

    "Good." Colfax smiled and sealed up his satchel. "I

wish you all luck and all success. And now, Captain,"

he said to Sisko, "I've got to get back to my ship."

  Sisko rose. "I'll walk you out," he said.

CHAPTER

        7

Two HOURS LATER, Kira found herself standing next to

Worf on the transporter pad in Ops.  "Energize," O'Brien said.

    Kira tensed a little as the two of them beamed over

to the Progress. She didn't know what to expect, but

she had a feeling in the pit of her stomach that she

wouldn't like it.

    The second she materialized, she sniffed the air as

discreetly as she could, but tasted none of the Galactic

Queen's foul odor. That was one mark in this ship's

favor, she thought, ~ancing around. Beside her, Worf

was doing likewise.

    The Progress had a large oval cabin, with seats for

a pilot and copilot in the front, facing a broad

viewport. The middle section of the ship had fifteen

rows of seats that could recline into beds. Behind

them, half screened off by panels, stood the warp

engines and life-support panels. The only thing lack-

ing seemed to be a transporter. Hopefully they

wouldn't need one.

    Right now DS9 hung before them, visible through

the forward viewport, spinning ever so slowly. There

were starships attached to every single port on the

docking ring, Kira noted, and to two of the three tall

docking pylons jutting over the station. She hadn't

seen the station this busy since the Bajor's rogue

moon had passed by several years before. Tourists and

sightseers had flocked aboard to see the spectacle.

    Chief O'Brien and Odo materialized a few meters

away in a shimmer of light. She forced her attention

from DS9 and walked back to join them.

    "All systems check out, Major," O'Brien said with

a broad grin. "She's ready to go. Maximum warp

six-point-two, with a maximum safe range of about

two hundred and fifty light-years."

  "You're sure the nacetles won't fall off?." she said.

    "Major..." His crestfallen expression betrayed his

disappointment in her lack of faith.

    "Okay, okay," she said, laughing a little. "I'm sure

everything's fine. But I'll run my own diagnostics, if

you don't mind."

  "I'd be disappointed if you didn't," he said.

    Kira returned to the pilot's seat and brought the

diagnostic tests online. Quickly she ran them through

their paces and found that O'Brien hadn't

exaggerated--everything did indeed check out at a

hundred percent. There wasn't so much as an uneven

flicker in the power couplings.

    "You're a miracle worker," she said. "I never would

have believed it."

    He blushed a little. "Well, ! had help," he said. "I

put eight people on it."

    Kira began to nod. It would do. For the first time,

she thought this mad plan might actually work. And

with the Romulan personal cloakers... 

"Any questions?" O'Brien asked.

    "None," Kira said. "We'll leave in half an hour.

Just give us time to change into civilian clothes and

we'll be set."

    "Great. I have one more thing to show you all first,

though," he said. "If you'll follow me?" Turning, he

headed aft.

    She accompanied him to the screened off engine

area. There, he paused by the back wall.

    "This is it," he said, indicating battered, stained

durasteel panels.

 "What?" Worf said, wandering closer. "A wall?"

    "No, I see the seams," Odo said, moving forward

and looking closely. "Very ingenious, Chief."

    Worf stepped forward and ran his hands over the

panels. "I see nothing," he said.

    Kira too peered closely at it, but couldn't see much

more than durasteel plating. "Are you sure?" she said

to Odo.

    O'Brien was grinning. "It takes a pro to spot it," he

said.

    Odo snorted. "Or someone who's been watching

Quark too long," he said.

    O'Brien stepped forward, pushed in a hidden catch,

then slid the panel to one side, revealing a compart-

ment large enough to hide a person.

    "In case of trouble," he said, "I put in two secret

compartments. You can hide in them. They're fully

screened, so if someone scans the ship, they won't

pick up life signs."

 "Aren't you forgetting Odo?" Kira said.

    "It's hard for a scanner to pick up a changeling at

the best of times," Odo said. "If I turn myself into

something inanimate, they won't spot me, either."

    She nodded. O'Brien seemed to have thought of

everything. Again she felt a surge of optimism. This

mission really could succeed, she told herself.

    "Then let's move," she said. "The sooner we get

going, the sooner we get back." She tapped her badge.

"Major Kira to DS9. Four to beam over."

    Odo beamed back to DS9 with the others, but while

Kira and Worf went to change into civilian clothes, he

returned to his office. All the security details for the

peace conference had already been set, but he wanted

to take a last look at them. This would be the first

major event on the station that he'd missed in all his

years as head of security, and he didn't want anything

to happen while he was gone. Nobody was indispensa-

ble, of course, but he liked feeling needed. Since he'd

rejected his own kind, it gave him a measure of

comfort knowing there was a place he would always

be welcome. He wouldn't allow anything to jeopar-

dize that. He wanted a home to return to when this

mission ended.

    His door opened, and Captain Sisko stepped in

with a large square box in his hands.

    Odo rose. "Captain," he said. "What brings you

here?"

     "This," Sisko said, indicating the box. Odo looked

it over, but it appeared innocuous. "A bomb?" he asked.

    "A peace initiative," Sisko said. "It contains a

holographic recording inviting the Founders to a

peace conference. If you're caught in the Gamma

Quadrant, it might buy you some extra time. At the

very least it gives you a legitimate excuse to be there."

He smiled a little too thinly, Odo thought. "And, of

course, there is always the chance your people will

choose to take me up on the offer... remote as it

seems now."

    "Very remote," Odo said dryly. He couldn't imag-

ine anything more surprising when it came to the

changelings; they had stated their intention of con-

quering the Alpha Quadrant quite clearly. "But ! will,

of course, pass it on... should the opportunity

arise."

    "That's all I ask." Sisko set the box on the edge of

Odo's desk, then turned toward the door. Almost as

an afterthought, he added, "Take care of them, Odo. I

want my people back alive. And that includes you."

 "Of course," Odo said, straightening a little. Sisko

was depending on him. Sisko needed him. "I'll do my

best."

    Kira studied her reflection in the full-length mirror

next to her closet: a dark blue one-piece suit, with a

stripe of silver across the left shoulder and a splash of

gold at the wrists. The sleeves flared a little more

widely than she liked, allowing two silver bracelets to

show, but she could live with that. What she missed

was her earring; the right side of her head looked odd

without it, and she felt a little off-balance. Imagina-

tion of course, since the earring didn't weigh much,

but still, it didn't look or feel like her, like Major Kira

Nerys the Bajoran, without it.

    She turned to the side and studied her profile. She

looked very different, she decided. Nobody on Bajor

would recognize her now. Not even--

    A loud series of electronic beeps interrupted her

thoughts. "Come in," she called.

    The door whisked open. Captain Sisko stepped in

and did a double take.

    "What do you think?" Kira asked, turning around

once for him.

  "You look quite different, Major," he said.

    "Good different or bad different?" she asked with a

wicked grin. She'd see if he'd fall into that trap.

    "Like a Gamma Quadrant native," he said with a

laugh. "The Maquis ship will be here soon, and I

wanted to wish you luck before you go."

 "Thank you," she said seriously.

  "Is there anything else you want to bring with

you?" he asked. "Any tools or weapons or...

anything?"

    Kira indicated her pack, which sat on the table by

the door. It held everything from emergency food

rations to high-tensor cord to extra power packs for

their phasers. "Worf and I already went through

that," she said. "I think we're set for anything we

come across." I hope, she mentally added.

    "Take care of yourself, Major," he said somberly.

"I'm counting on you to bring everyone else back

alive."

    Kira swallowed. "Yes, sir," she said, and she felt a

sudden flush of pride. He was counting on her. She

knew she couldn't let him down.

 Then he nodded once and left.

    She'd do her best to make sure she lived up to his

expectations. She glanced at the mirror one last time,

picked up her pack, and headed for the transporter in

Ops. Time to get going. The sooner they left, the

sooner they'd be back.

    Worf shouldered his pack and started for the door.

This was just a mission like any other, he told himself.

They would go, get the informant and his data, and

come back. Never mind that he had to dress in a

loose-fitting gray tunic, with a hood that could be

pulled up to cover his head; the importance of the

mission far outweighed his own comfort and fashion

sense. But he'd still take a good uniform any day.

    As his door opened, he stopped short. Captain

Sisko stood outside, poised to knock.

"Captain," he said, stepping back. "Won't you...

come in7"

    "Thank you, Commander," Sisko said, stepping

forward. "I've only known you a short while," he said

as the door closed behind him, "but I've developed a

deep respect for your talents."

    Worf felt his chest puff out a little. "Thank you,

sir," he said. Sisko was not a human given to extrava-

gant praise, he knew, and coming from him, this

meant a lot.

    "Although Major Kira is in charge of this mission,

you're still the ranking Starfleet officer. I wanted you

to know that I'm counting on you to make sure our

interests are fully protected."

    Worf nodded. That much went without saying. He

intended to give one hundred percent of his energy

and attention to making sure they succeeded.

    "And..." Sisko went on. "Good luck. Bring every-

one back alive, Worf."

    "Thank you, sir," Worf said. He'd do his best. Even

if it killed him.

    Sisko accompanied Worf to Ops, then watched as

Dax beamed first the Klingon and Kira, then Odo

over to the Progress using the two-man transporter.

    He had nodded to each of them, and he saw how

each took it personally to heart. Pep talks had never

come easily to him, but this time he'd meant every

word. He was depending on them to make it back.

Succeed or fail, he wanted them home safely.

  Dax joined him and leaned on his shoulder. "You

have the gloomiest expression on your face that I've

ever seen," she said. "They'll be back. Let them do

their jobs while you do yours. Come on, I'll buy you a

drink at Quark's. I hear O'Brien and Bashir are

planning another rematch in their ongoing darts

tournament."

 "Maybe later, old man."

 "It's a date. I'll collect you at six."

    He gazed over at one of the monitors, which

showed the Progress slowly accelerating away from the

station. Suddenly the wormhole opened before the

ship like a dazzling blue whirlpool in space--and just

as suddenly it was gone, the Progress along with it.

 "Stay well, my friends," he murmured. "Stay well."

CHAPTER

       8

AN HOUR LATER, the door to his office beeped. Sisko

sighed and looked up from his computer terminal.

Just as he was starting to get a handle on this week's

reports... just as he was starting to forget that he'd

just sent three of his people on what might turn out to

be a suicide mission by burying himself in routine

work... reality had to intrude.  "Come," he called.

    Dax stuck her head in the office, and Sisko relaxed a

little. It was hard to be annoyed by your best friend.

"Yes, Dax?" he said.

    "I thought you'd want to know, Benjamin," she

said. "The Maquis ship just docked."

    "Thank you," he said, tabbing off the screen and

rising. "Have you told Dr. Bashir yet?"

  "I've already alerted him." Dax matched his stride

as Sisko headed for the turbolift. "He's going to meet

us there."

    "Us?" Sisko shot her a puzzled glance. She hadn't

expressed any interest in meeting the other delegates;

she had to have an ulterior motive. He knew her

symbiont well enough to realize that.

    She smiled. "Well, they were a little nervous about

coming here. This is a Federation base, and when the

Excalibur showed up, it really spooked them. I gave

them my word that this wasn't a trap, so I thought I'd

be there to make sure everything goes smoothly."

    That was more like it. But something still seemed to

be bothering her. As the lift doors shut, he asked, "Is

something else concerning you?"

    "Well, yes, now that you mention it," she said.

"Benjamin, you've looked better, and you seem dis-

tracted. Is there anything I can do to help?"

    Sisko forced a smile. "I'm just feeling a little

overwhelmed. There's too much going on at once."

    "You mean between the mission to the Gamma

Quadrant and the peace conference."

    Those, and a thousand other things, Sisko thought.

He nodded.

    "Don't worry about Kira and Worf. You know they

have a good chance to make it out," Dax said. "Those

personal ctoakers are enough to get them out of

anything. And Odo is a Founder. The Jem'Hadar

practically fall to the floor and worship him whenever

they see him."

    Sisko nodded. "Yes, but I can't help but feel I

should have gone myself."

 "They volunteered."

    "I know--and I know my accompanying them

wouldn't have helped."

    "And you are needed at this peace summit," Dax

went on. "Put your energies where they'll do the most

good."

    "Like here," Sisko said with a quick grin. Some-

how, she always knew what to say to him. Sometimes

he thought she knew him better than he knew himself.

  "Like here," she said firmly.

    "Dax, sometimes I think you should have been a

psychiatrist."

 She made a face. "That's so boring."

    The doors opened. Sisko pulled his dress uniform a

trifle straighter. "Let's get it over with," he said.

    Philip Twofeathers sucked in a deep breath and

tried to hide his growing nervousness. His wide, flat

face with its prominent nose, dark eyes, and deep

reddish brown skin told of his Native American

heritage more than his conservative gray one-piece

suit, and for an instant he almost wished he'd worn

something more comfortable. His people--

descendants of the Cherokee--had settled a frontier

planet called Dorvanto twenty years previously, and

they had gone back to their people's old ways. He

would have felt more comfortable in a leather vest,

breechcloth, and moccasins. It had been many years

since he'd worn such confining clothing. Unlike the

Starfleet vessels, Maquis ships had no stuffy dress

codes.

    Why they had selected him, he still didn't quite

understand. They had said it was because of his

honesty, his dedication, and his commitment. Every

other member of the Maquis felt the same way,

though, he knew. They wouldn't be fighting an impos-

sible guerrilla war against an overwhelmingly superi-

or opponent like Cardassia if they didn't.

    He glanced over at Myriam Kravitz beside him.

She, too, was from the Maquis, but it was her three

years of legal training at Starfleet Academy--she left

to join the Maquis when the Federation ceded her

Homeworld, too, to Cardassia in a peace treaty--that

bought her a place at the negotiating table.

    The airlocks slowly matched pressure between their

ship and Deep Space Nine, and then their hatch

opened. Twofeathers saw a gigantic blood-red cog

slowly roll to one side. It was the space station's

hatch, he realized suddenly, disconcerted.

 "You first," Myriam whispered.

    He nodded reassuringly to her, keeping his face

impassive, then proceeded down the short passage

and out into the docking ring. There were three

humanoids waiting to greet them: one tall, imposing-

looking black man in a command uniform, with his

head shaved and a short beard; a Trill woman, her

straight black hair tied behind her head, revealing the

patterning of her spots on her forehead and neck; and

another human, this one with short wavy black hair.

  "Philip Twofeathers?" the Trill asked.

  "Yes," he said, his voice deep and booming.

    "I am Lieutenant Commander Dax," she said. "We

spoke earlier."

  "Yes," he said.

    "I am Captain Sisko," the black man said, nodding

politely. "This is Dr. Bashir. On behalf of the Fed-

eration, I would like to welcome you aboard DS9,

Ambassadors."

    "Thank you," Twofeathers said. "This is my associ-

ate, Myriam Kravitz."

    "Pleased to make your acquaintance, Captain

Sisko," she said.

    He nodded to her. "We have one security test

before we admit you to the station," he went on. "A

DNA test to verify that you are, indeed, who you say

you are."

    "My DNA patterns are not on file with Starfleet,"

Twofeathers said. Was this some kind of trick? He

didn't like the sound of it.

    "It's to make sure you're human and not change-

lings trying to infiltrate the peace process," Bashir

said quickly. "Anything which brings stability to this

quadrant is against their best interests."

    "But what else can you do with my DNA once you

have it?" Twofeathers said. He shook his head. No,

this would not do at all. "This is against all diplomat-

ic protocols as I understand them. I refuse."

    "Then," Sisko said, "you can get right back on your

ship. Go back to the Maquis. Tell them that you

single-handedly derailed the entire peace process be-

cause you didn't want to prove to us that you are

human."

      "We don't do anything with the DNA except scan it

 to make sure you're human," Bashir said.  "Use a tricorder."

    "The changelings can fool even a tricorder," he

said.

  Twofeathers snorted. Paranoid fools.

    Kravits stepped forward. "My DNA is already on

file with Starfleet," she said. "Test me."

    Bashir held out the box he was holding. "Place your

hand on top," he said. "It's painless. You won't feel a

thing."

    Twofeathers watched, feeling his heart start to beat

a little faster with concern, as Myriam did what she

was told.

    "Scanning," the box said. "Subject DNA passes.

Subject is human."

    Myriam stepped back, flexing her fingers and star-

ing at her hand. The breath caught in Twofeathers's

throat--was she all right?

    Suddenly she looked at him and nodded. "Do it,"

she said. "I don't see any harm."

    The Federation officers looked relieved. Twofeath-

ers studied them a second, then nodded his assent.

They had DNA on file from many members of the

Maquis, he thought, and it had done them little good

in the past. He didn't see how it could hurt now,

either.

    "Very well," he said and stretched out his hand. A

second later the box announced that he, too, was

human.

 "This way," Sisko said. "Perhaps you'd like a tour

of the station before we show you to your quarters?"

  "Yes," Twofeathers said. "I have heard of a place

  here called... Quark's?... which a number of

  friends recommend."

    Sisko blanched a bit at that. "Quark's," he said,

sounding completely nonplussed.

    Twofeathers folded his arms, tilted back his head,

and stared impassively up at him. "Quark's," he

repeated.

    Lieutenant Dax smiled. "Why don't you let me

show them around," she suggested to Sisko.

    "Very well," he said. He smiled briefly at Twofeath-

ers and Kravitz. "I leave you in Dax's capable hands."

As he turned to go, Twofeathers overheard him whis-

per, "Just keep them out of trouble, okay, old man?"

    Old man? Twofeathers frowned in bewilderment.

What kind of nickname was that for a woman?

    But Dax merely smiled and hooked her arms

through theirs, leading them toward the turbolift.

"One of the station's many attractions is Quark's

Place," she said. "Julian here is an excellent darts

player--do you know the game?mand I believe he's

going to be in a tournament tonight."

     "Darts," Twofeathers said. It was a game he'd

 always enjoyed as a boy, though he preferred throwing

 knives these days. "Aren't those similar to tiny ar-

 rows?" he said, trying to sound naive.

     "Very similar, actually," Dr. Bashir said from be-

 hind him. "I'd be glad to give you some pointers, if

 you'd like."

    "I think I would," Twofeathers said. A tournament

might be a good way to make a little money, he

thought. He smiled inwardly. It was rather amusing,

actually, that Federation losses would go straight into

the Maquis war fund.

    But he couldn't let himself forget the other reason

he'd come. There was a lot of war surplus available on

Bajor... arms and equipment the Maquis desper-

ately needed if they were going to win the fight with

Cardassia. Peace negotiations were fine, but knowing

the Cardassians and the Federation, he had little hope

of success. So while he could operate here in the open,

he intended to take advantage of his every opportuni-

ty. Rumor said that Quark could get anything you

wanted, for a price ....

CHAPTER

        9

AFTER ^ BUMPY ride through the wormhole, Kira

brought the Progress into the Gamma Quadrant.

Instantly she ran a long-range scan... and picked

up nothing. Not a sign of a ship, Jem'Hadar or

otherwise. That had always amazed her. If this were

her quadrant, she would have put some kind of

watchers here to monitor traffic through the worm-

hole. But then, if the changelings had a weakness, it

had to be their cocky attitude. They felt they were

born to rule the universe. Present company ex-

cluded, of course.

    "We're safe," she said. "No sign of Jem'Hadar

ships."

  "Excellent," Worf said from behind her.

    Kira punched in the coordinates and set the auto-

pilot. The ship accelerated smoothly on a new

bearing... the Daborat system, fifty-seven light-

years distant.

    "Since there's no sign of trouble," Odo said, 'TII

leave you to your piloting."

    "We'll call you if anything comes up," Kira prom-

ised.

    When she glanced back, she saw Odo transforming

into a shining golden glob. He oozed across the floor,

then one end arched up and fountained into a bucket

sitting on top of one of the padded seats in the

passenger section. She didn't know how he managed

to fit all of himself into such a small space, but

somehow he did.

    "I would never be able to get used to that," Worf

said, dropping into the copilot's seat beside her. "It

looks so--confining."

     She swiveled around to face him. His knobby

forehead was furrowed as he stared back toward Odo.

  "I'm sure he finds it safe and comfortable."

  Worf grunted, then turned around to look at her.

  "Since we're going to be flying for most of the day,"

  she said, "this seems like a good chance to get to know

  one another better. Tell me about yourself, Com-

  mander. What's it like being the first Klingon in

  Starfleet?"

    Worf sighed and rolled his eyes. "That is the

question everyone in the universe seems to ask," he

said.

 "And you're sick of it."

 He nodded.

 "I understand. I can't tell you how many times I've

been asked by Bajorans what it's like to serve under a

Federation captain." "Oh?"

    Kira thought she saw a spark of interest in his eyes.

Perhaps that was the key to winning his friendship,

she thought--finding common ground. But wasn't

that the case with all sentient life-forms throughout

the galaxy? Every life-form except Ferengi, she

thought. They didn't have friends. They had cus-

tomers.

  She shrugged. "It's a living."

    "A living... I will remember that answer," Worf

said. He seemed to relax a bit.

    "I was raised by human parents," Worf said, "so I

grew up with Starfleet. Had my Klingon parents lived,

I would never have joined." He jerked his chin back

the way they had come. "I would probably be with my

brothers now, helping to seize Cardassian territory."

  "You don't sound thrilled with that idea."

  "It is a living."

Kira did a double take. Was that a sense of humor?

"I always used to think I'd make a great farmer,"

she said. "As a child, I dreamed of running through

the fields, smelling the sun-ripened plants, feeling the

sun on my back and the soil between my toes. I

sometimes wonder if that's what I'd be doing today, if

it weren't for the Cardassian occupation. I might be a

mother with four or five children, running my farm,

living off the land..."

    "I cannot picture you as a mother," Worf said. "Or

as a farmer."

Kira sighed. "It's hard, but a part of me still wants

it."

    Then Worf began to tell her of life on the Enterprise

before its destruction, of his son Alexander and his

friends Data and Geordi LaForge and Deanna Troi

and she found herself actually enjoying his company.

Secretly she had been half dreading the long flight

with him. Now it seemed it might be more pleasant

than she would have thought possible.

    Four hours later, as Worf and Kira were comparing

their encounters with the life-form named Q, alarms

began to ring. Instantly Kira swiveled her seat around

and disengaged the autopilot.

    Worf said, "We're being scanned. There's a vessel

approaching quickly from behind."

    "I see it," Kira muttered. Then she looked up. "It's

not on an intercept course. And they're no longer

scanning us." She reached over and switched off the

alarm. Silence flooded through the cabin. Kira found

her heart racing. She took a deep breath to calm

herself. It sounded like a gulp.

    "We do not have weapon systems aboard," Worf

pointed out. "Perhaps we did not register as a threat."

    "Or perhaps they're smugglers watching out for

Jem'Hadar patrols," Kira said. She continued to

watch the ship on the monitor until it left scanner

range. Only then did she return control of the Progress

to the autopilot.

 It was going to be a long trip, she realized.

CHAPTER

      lO

QUARK'S BAR WAS packed. Jammed toe to claw to wing,

O'Brien thought a little gloomily as he surveyed the

hundreds of beings massed around the bar, crowding

the gambling tables, and generally mobbing the place.

He was wedged in at the end of the bar between a pair

of Bajorans who were noisily arguing about some

aspect of the Cardassian occupation and a grizzled

old Taltic whose iridescent blue-green scales stank

from too many months locked aboard a starship. You

could always tell a Harden space traveller spacer by

his odor, O'Brien thought. Half the tramp freighters

working this sector seemed to make DS9 a port of call

these days, and he would have bet that not one of

them carried proper bathing facilities anywhere

aboard. The Taltic, nursing a bottle of Qualian sea-

brandy, was typical. And he didn't seem to be

going anywhere soon. In fact, the only place that

wasn't packed was the dartboard area at the back,

stuck under the walkway to the holosuites.

    O'Brien sucked in an angry breath as one of the

Bajorans accidentally jostled him, almost spilling his

mug of Tirellian stout. Bloody hell, would Bashir

never show up? Had the doctor completely forgotten

their dart game?

    Taking another sip of the stout, he winced and tried

to catch Quark's eye. The stuff was vile, no doubt

about it, and he regretted letting Quark talk him into

trying it. Good old-fashioned lager, that's what he was

in the mood for tonight. "That and a dart game," he

muttered to himself.

    Quark was too busy piling orders onto Rom's tray

to notice O'Brien. Now that Nog was off at Starfleet

Academy, Quark seemed to be perpetually short-

handed, O'Brien thought, and the Ferengi was just too

cheap to hire another waiter. O'Brien took another

sip of the stout. It had a certain afterkick, he decided,

which wasn't half bad. He could get used to it.

    The Bajorans jostled him again, this time spilling

half his stout across the bar.

 "Watch it," he said sharply.

    The Bajoran glanced back at him. "You talking to

me, human?" he demanded.

    "That's right," O'Brien said, standing to face him.

"You knocked my drink over."

    "Maybe you shouldn't sit on top of me," the

Bajoran countered rudely. "Maybe you owe me an

apology, Earther."

    O'Brien sucked in an angry breath. "I'11 have you

know," he began hotly.

    Suddenly Quark was there, patting his arm sooth-

ingly. "Easy there, Chief," he said, leaning forward to

refill O'Brien's mug from a pitcher. "I can't afford any

more murder investigations this month. It cost me a

fortune paying off the families of the two Caxtonians

you killed in that brawl last week."

    O'Brien blinked in puzzlement. Caxtonians were

huge, hairy humanoids with great natural piloting

skills but few social graces. He knew better than

tackling one in a fight. He'd certainly never killed a

pair of them in a brawl.

  "Two... Caxtonians?" the Bajoran said.

    Quark nodded seriously and lowered his voice to a

conspiratorial whisper. "Oh, yes, O'Brien here, he's

an expert in Klingon martial arts. You should have

seen it. Ten seconds after he waded into the fight, he'd

decapitated one and shattered the other's skull with a

flying kick." He shook his head. "I've never seen

anything like it."

    Catching on, O'Brien bared his teeth and snarled a

bit, the way he'd once seen Worf do it when Quark

had pissed him off.

    The Bajoran paled. "My apologies for spilling your

drink," he said quickly. "Put it on my tab," he told

Quark. Then he quickly gathered up his own glass and

hurried off toward the gambling tables with his friend.

    "Thanks," O'Brien said, leaning on the bar, "but I

can take care of myself, Quark."

  "Nothing to do with you," Quark said, setting up a

new batch of glasses. "They were too busy arguing to

drink. I was just clearing space for paying customers."

    A pair of long-necked Igrids, tall and graceful,

almost birdlike creatures covered in blue feathers, but

with six tentacles instead of arms, quickly took the

vacant seats. Quark gave them a hideously toothy but

sincere-seeming smile.

 "What can I get you ladies?" he asked.

 Ladies? O'Brien thought. How could he tell?

     The two Igrids tittered drunkenly, tentacles slap-

ping on the bar's counter. "Mooth!" one said.

 "Make mine a double!" said the other.

 "Mine, too!" said the first.

    "Coming right up," Quark said, and he began

mixing a fluorescent green concoction in a pitcher for

them.

     "Let me know if Julian shows up," O'Brien said,

sliding off his stool. "I'11 be practicing."

 "You got it," Quark said.

    O'Brien headed for the dartboard, weaving his way

between tables. As he went, he became conscious of

the fact that quite a few Bajorans had grown silent

and were staring at him. He swallowed a little nerv-

ously, not liking the attention.

    "He killed five Klingons bare-handed last week!" he

overheard one saying to another. "Five!"

    It seemed the rumor mill had started spreading

Quark's tale. O'Brien shook his head. All he wanted

was a quiet game of darts. He didn't want a reputa-

tion as some kind of Captain Kirk.

"Chiefl" he heard a familiar voice shout.

Glancing toward the door, he spotted Bashir there

along with Dax and a pair of humans he didn't know.

He grinned and waved toward the dartboard, and

Bashir gave him the "okay" sign. Now O'Brien

grinned happily. He had a feeling Bashir's lucky

streak--three winning nights in a row--was about to

come to an end.

    Dax sensed a hesitation in Myriam Kravitz as they

stood in the doorway of Quark's place. A pair of

inebriated Denuvians staggered past them, reeking of

synthale, and Kravitz took a quick step out of their

way. Her face showed distaste.

    "You said you wanted to learn darts," Bashir was

saying to Twofeathers. "O'Brien there is a true master

of the sport. Taught me everything I know, in fact."

  "I would like to meet him, then," Twofeathers said.

    "Follow me." Bashir started forward, then paused.

"Coming, Dax?"

    Dax glanced at Ambassador Kravitz, then shook

her head. "Not tonight. I'd like to find a quieter place.

How about you, Ambassador?" "I'11 join you," she said.

    "Great," Dax said. She gave Bashir a bright smile.

"Next time."

    Turning, she followed the Denuvians out. They

headed up the Promenade toward their crossover

bridge... probably planning to spend the night on

their ship, she decided.

    "Is it always so crowded there?" the ambassador

asked, following her.

    "Quark's? No, not usually. It's busy because of the

negotiations."

 She looked puzzled. "Aren't they private?"

    "Of course. But there are quite a few Bajorans here

to protest the Cardassian ambassador's presence. So

the crews of the ships that brought them are here,

waiting to bring them back. And there are interested

observers from the Federation and, unless I miss my

guess, from quite a few of the Maquis Homeworlds.

Plus there's the normal station traffic. DS9 can get

pretty full when something big is happening."

  "Ah," she said.

    "What kind of food do you want? There's a

Klingon restaurant, but it's not for timid palates."

    "I don't think so," she said. "I've heard about

Klingon meals. I don't think I could eat something

that's still moving. i'm more of a nice matzo ball soup

type."

    "In that case," Dax said, steering her toward the far

side of the Promenade, "may I recommend the public

replicators?"

    Twofeathers deliberately missed the bulls-eye for

the third straight time. He found it almost painful, in

a way, to deliberately lose a contest. It went against

his every instinct.

    "Close," Bashir said. "You're catching on." He

moved forward and removed the darts from the

target.

"I need another drink," Twofeathers said.

"Charge whatever you want to the station's ac-

count," Bashir said. He returned to the throwing line,

took aim, and let fly. The dart struck the tiny red

circle at the center of the target: a perfect bulls-eye.

The engineer--what was his name, O'Brien?--let out

a loud groan.

  "May I bring you something?"

    "I'm still fine," Bashir said, throwing his second

dart. It landed a hairsbreadth to the left of the first:

another perfect shot. The doctor hadn't exaggerated,

Twofeathers thought. He was an excellent dart player.

  "I'm fine, too," O'Brien said, lifting his mug.

  Twofeathers smiled and nodded pleasantly. Now

  was his chance, he thought, to make contact with

  Quark. He'd spotted the Ferengi behind the bar when

  he came in.

    Weaving between the full tables, he reached the bar

and pushed his way up to the front. Quark bustled

over, looking harried.

 "What can I get you?" he asked.

    "Synthale... and a Mark III attack cruiser," Two-

feathers said. "More, if you can get them."

    Quark studied him. "Now where," he said, "would

I get a Mark III attack cruiser?" he said.

    "Bajoran military surplus. I know you have con-

tacts."

    Quark leaned forward. "How do I know you're not

Federation security?" he asked in a voice barely

audible over the background roar of the crowd. Two-

feathers found himself straining to hear.

    "The Grand Nagus's second cousin, Goff, sent me

to you. He thought you might have a line on Bajoran

war surplus. And by the way, he says you still owe him

fourteen strips of gold-pressed tatinum. Plus a ten

percent commission for referring me to you."

    "That sounds like GotT, always kidding." Quark

laughed, but Twofeathers saw the greed in his eyes.

"How long will you be here?" the Ferengi asked.

    "As long as the peace negotiations take." Twofeath-

ers leaned back. "I'm one of the Maquis ambassa-

dors."

    Quark nodded subtly. "Here's your synthale," he

said, putting a mug on the counter and filling it from a

pitcher. "I'll be in touch."

    Twofeathers nodded, accepted his drink, and

headed back for the dart game. Quark was hooked, he

knew. Now it was all a matter of playing everything

out to its all too inevitable conclusion... victory.

 He began to smile.

    Bashir aimed his last dart carefully, threw, and

knew the second he released that it was another

perfect shot. Sure enough, it hit the target dead center.

"Yes!" he cried. "Game, set, and match!"

    O'Brien groaned again. "That's quite a streak you

have going," he complained as he went to retrieve the

darts.

    Bashir smiled. "Your game's off tonight," he said.

"Is something bothering you?"

 "I had a run-in with some Bajorans at the bar," he

said, and then he quickly explained what had hap-

pened. "They've been staring at me ever since."

  "Don't worry, Chief, it'll blow over."

    "I certainly hope so." He handed three darts to

Bashir, then stepped up to the throwing line.

    "You," a low voice growled. "You, the human."

Bashir glanced back and found a Caxtonian ap-

proaching. It had a decidedly unfriendly look on its

face, and he swallowed uneasily. He followed the

alien's gaze... to Chief O'Brien. "Uh, Chief..." he said softly.

 "Not while I'm throwing, Julian," O'Brien said.

 "I really think--" he began.

    The Caxtonian knocked a chair out of the way and

continued its inexorable advance. They weren't the

brightest of beings, Bashir knew, but they made good

pilots. They also never bathed, Bashir realized, as the

smell of this one reached him: a sour-sweet reek of

animal musk and sweat and decades of grime.

    "--that you should look over here," he went on,

still backing away. He tapped his badge. Better call for

help now, he thought, before things got ugly. "Bashir

to security," he said. "There's going to be a riot at

Quark's. Hurry!"

    O'Brien threw his dart. It not only missed the bulls-

eye, it nearly missed the dartboard altogether, hitting

a 5 point area in the outer ring.

    "Look what you made me do!" O'Brien com-

plained, turning. "So what is it, Julian, that's so damn

important--"

  "Human!" The Caxtonian seized O'Brien's tunic,

heaved, and in one motion sent him flying ten meters,

across two tables, and into a knot of humans playing

cards at a table. Poker chips flew in all directions.

Players began to curse and pick themselves up.

    Bashir saw shock on O'Brien's face and winced a bit

in sympathy. That had to hurt, he thought. Luckily

O'Brien didn't seem to have any broken bones.

    "For my dead brothers!" the Caxtonian screamed.

Then he headed for O'Brien again, shoving everyone

and everything out of his way. Men and women began

pushing and shoving one another in their haste to

escape.

    "Revenge!" the Caxtonian roared. "I kill you!"

Clearly, Bashir thought, he had believed Quark's wild

rumor.

    Half a second later, the whole bar exploded with

fists, flying chairs, and angry screams. Bashir saw

O'Brien scrambling out of the Caxtonian's way, then

a Bajoran leaped on the engineer's back. They van-

ished beneath a heap of bodies.

    Bashir dove for cover. No sense getting hurt, he

thought. He ducked as a half-empty bottle of

Romutan ale came flying past and smashed to shards

on the wall behind him. He had a feeling half the

people here would need his medical services soon

enough. How long till security arrived to break things

up?

CHAPTER

      11

AN ALARM SOUNDED aboard the Progress, and Odo

returned to full consciousness with a jolt. What had

happened? Jem 'Hadar?

    He poured himself up from the pail in a golden

stream and allowed himself to coalesce into his usual

humanoid form.

    "What's wrong?" he demanded. He hurried for-

ward to gaze out the front viewport. Stars blurred into

lines around them from the distortion of their warp

field. He didn't see anything out of the ordinary, but

then he was a security officer, not a pilot.

    "We've got trouble," Kira called from the pilot's

seat.

  "What sort of trouble?"

    "Three ships," Worf said from the seat next to

Kira's. He looked up. "Jem'Hadar, from their warp

 signatures. We are already within their sensor range.

 They are altering course to intercept."

     "They're powering up their weapons systems!"

 Kira said. "Going to evasive maneuvers--"

    "No!" Odo said. "Leave the ship on autopilot. Get

into the back and hide. Get ready to activate your

personal cloakers in case they board and search for

you. I'll start the automatic distress call. We can fool

them into leaving us alone."  Kira hesitated.

    "Do it!" he told her. They didn't have time to

argue. Why didn't humanoids ever do things the first

time he asked?

    Nodding, she ducked into the back section of the

ship, and Worf followed. Chief O'Brien had done an

excellent job of camouflaging the hidden compart-

ments, and Odo felt certain they'd pass any

Jem'Hadar inspection.

    He slid into the pilot's seat and activated a low-

powered distress call. The Jem'Hadar would pick it

up, he knew. He was counting on it.

    That only left himself. He flowed up onto one wall

and changed into the shape of a support beam. It felt

good to try a new form. He blended in so completely

that not even the Jem'Hadar would be able to detect

him.

    From that position, he watched and waited with

growing impatience. The largest of the three

Jem'Hadar ships appeared on one of the monitors,

approaching quickly from behind. It looked like an

odd accumulation of spikes and rounded cornpart-

ments placed on a huge boxlike ship. It was a design

he had never encountered before. For a second he

wondered if it could be a different species than the

Jem'Hadar, but then he shook his head. No, it had to

be them. Who else would be policing this sector of

space?

    Suddenly the Progress trembled all over--a tractor

beam had locked onto them, he guessed. Their ship's

engines automatically powered down to keep from

burning out, and the sudden silence that filled the

ship screamed more loudly than words. Suddenly

they dropped out of warp, the stars in the front

viewport changing from streaks of light to slowly

moving dots. Then the Jem'Hadar ship began to pull

them in toward a wide rectangular opening in its

side... a landing bay of some kind, he guessed.

    They passed through a series of force fields which

cast shimmering blue lights across the monitors, and

then they were inside, slowly settled onto what looked

like a broad expanse of durasteel deck. Extruding a

tendril of himself to get a better look through the front

viewport, he saw rows of shuttles and small fighter

ships lined up. There had to be dozens of them in this

one landing bay, he realized. They were aboard some

kind of transport ship. But did that mean well or ill

for their mission?

    Ten seconds after they touched down, he heard the

airlock pop open. Quickly he withdrew his tendril

from the front viewport, once again assuming the

shape of a support beam.

    Below him, a dozen Jem'Hadar troops stormed

aboard, their disruptors held ready. He watched with

interest as they advanced quickly through the cabin,

covering one another, looking for any signs of life.

They didn't discover the hidden compartments, he

saw with relief. O'Brien's shielding held up. As they

milled about, one of them produced a small black box

with readouts on the top... a scanner of some kind,

Odo thought.

    A Jem'Hadar ofifcer boarded last. He looked at the

pilot seats, grunted once, then circled the seats in the

main part of the cabin and peered into the back area.

He frowned in puzzlement.

    "Where are they?" he demanded of the Jem'Hadar

with the scanner.

    "There are faint life signs," the Jem'Hadar with the

scanner reported. Odo felt a flash of panic. The

shielding wasn't completely hiding Worf and Kira, he

realized.

 "Where?" the officer demanded.

 "I cannot get a lock on it, sir."

    The officer struck him backhanded across the face.

"Fool. Give me your scanner."

 The warrior handed it to him silently.

    "They are hidden somewhere aboard," the officer

announced. "Rip the ship apart. Find them."

    "Yes, sir." Two of the warriors sprinted through the

hatch. Probably going for heavy equipment, Odo

thought. He'd have to do something. Even with their

personal cloakers, Kira and Worf wouldn't stand a

chance against a high-powered laser cutting through

the bulkheads in search of hiding places. They'd be

sliced to pieces.

"Is there anything else here?" the officer demanded.

"Just these," another trooper said, bringing out the

message cube Sisko had given Odo back on DS9. He

set it on a chair next to Odo's pail.

    "Find out what it is," the officer ordered, handing

the scanner back to the warrior he'd taken it from. "Is

it a bomb?"

    "No..." the Jem'Hadar said. "It appears to be a

recording device of some kind."

    Odo mentally nodded. Come on, he thought, acti-

vate it--this might be the distraction Kira and Worf

need to get out.

    The officer stepped forward and looked the box

over suspiciously. Then he touched the button on the

top. Instantly a holographic projection of Captain

Sisko in full dress uniform appeared. He was bigger

than life, towering a full half meter over the

Jem'Hadar.

    "I am Captain Benjamin Sisko, a Starfleet officer,"

Sisko's recording said in a booming voice. "This

message is for the leaders of the Dominion. On behalf

of the United Federation of Planets, I wish to invite

the Founders to join us in a peace conference. This

message box contains full instructions for getting a

reply safely back to us, as well as all necessary

diplomatic protocols this conference will require. We

hope to meet with you soon."

    The hologram disappeared as quickly as it ap-

peared. It had been short and to the point, Odo

thought. Hopefully it would be enough to fool the

Jem'Hadar.

    "A Federation trick," the officer sneered. The two

Jem'Hadar who'd left reappeared, lugging what

looked like a heavy-duty welding laser between them.

"Tear the ship apart," the officer said. "Kill anything

that moves. Find the source of those life readings."

    "What about the box?" the Jem'Hadar with the

scanner said.

    "I'll take care of it." Drawing his disruptor, the

officer took careful aim.

    Odo knew this was the time to act. He couldn't let

the message box be destroyed--not yet, anyway.

    Letting his body change and flow like liquid gold,

he dropped from the ceiling, then flowed up before

them into his normal humanoid form. Folding his

arms, he glared with all the strength he could muster.

    The Jem'Hadar dropped to their knees before him.

This, he thought, was a sign of the power the change-

lings wielded in the Gamma Quadrant.

    "Your name," Odo demanded of the officer, trying

to sound imperious.

"Sub-Garn Thok, Founder." He still didn't look up.

"I came personally to deliver this peace summit

invitation, Sub-Garn Thok," Odo told them in the

angriest voice he could muster, "in case anyone felt

like intercepting it. I see my precautions were justi-

fied. Your superiors will hear of this. Leave my ship--

you are forbidden to touch it in any way. I will have

need of it soon enough, when I return to the Alpha

Quadrant."

"Yes, Founder," Thok said, still not looking up.

Moving with a confidence he didn't feel, Odo

picked up Sisko's message box and stalked purpose-

fully down the ramp and out of the ship. If he was

going to be a Founder, he knew he'd better act the

part--blustering, angry, and oh so superior.

    Thok ran to catch up. Odo did not look back, but he

could hear the rest of the Jem'Hadar warriors scram-

bling out the hatch as fast as they could.

    "Sir," Thok said, "we had no idea you were

aboard."

    "Of course you didn't," Odo said. "That was the

idea. I can see that I will have to deliver the peace

summit invitation myself." He paused twenty meters

from the Progress and turned slowly, surveying the

vast landing bay. It had to be three hundred meters

wide and easily fifty meters across. Perhaps as many

as fifty small ships had been parked here. Suddenly he

felt small and lost.

  "Which way?" he asked.

    Thok hurried to take the lead. "Follow me, Found-

er," he said, heading to the left, toward what looked

like a bank of turbolifts on the far side of a pair of

shuttles. "I will take you to a waiting place. Then I

will let the captain know you are on board."

    Odo nodded. That would do, for starters. He

glanced back at the Progress. All of the Jem'Hadar

had vanished, exactly as he'd ordered, and the ship

now sat unguarded with its hatch open. At the very

least he'd bought Worf and Kira some extra time.

    Kira felt herself beginning to breathe again. If not

for Odo, she knew they would have been caught.

    Slowly she eased open the door to her hidden

compartment and crept out. Worf joined her. She

pantomimed looking out the hatch, and he nodded in

agreement. They had to get out of here as fast as

possible; no telling if Odo's orders would be counter-

manded by someone higher up.

    Lowering herself to the floor, she crawled forward

on her belly to the edge of the open hatch. There she

peered out, taking in the long line of small starships

standing between them and the far wall. Fifteen

meters away, half a dozen gaunt, hairless, almost

skeletal aliens with triangular heads appeared to be

doing maintenance work on a small vessel. Then a

line of Jem'Hadar warriors marched into view around

another ship, and she ducked back to avoid being

seen.

    "We're not being guarded," she said in a low voice,

"but there are plenty of people outside."

     "We will never get this ship into space again," Worf

said. "We must find another way to Daborat V."

  "And we have to rescue Odo," Kira added.

  "The mission must come first."

    "I'm not leaving him." That was one thing you

learned in the resistance: You took all your people

with you when you left. She had no intention of

abandoning Odo.

"We may not have that option," Worf pointed out.

Kira paused a heartbeat. One thing at a time, she

told herself. For now, Odo could look after himself.

Considering how the Jem'Hadar treated changelings,

he wouldn't be in any immediate danger. They could

save him later.

    "We must find better cover," Worf said. "The

Jem'Hadar may come back to check for us despite

Odo's orders."

"All right," Kira said. She stood. "I'll go first."

She reached down and activated the cloaker be-

neath her blue dress. The controls were so simple, she

could have operated them in her sleep. Just a little

push and--

    A shimmer of colors enveloped her, then grew clear.

She found herself inside what appeared to be a bubble

about twenty centimeters from her skin. She could see

out, but murkily, as though through a thick glass wall,

and all sounds suddenly took on a muted quality.

    She glanced back and could just make out a dim

form that had to be Worf. At least she could see him:

She'd half expected him to be invisible to her, too.

    "Don't lose me," she said, starting down the ramp.

Eight minutes... that wasn't a long time. They'd

better find a hiding place before then, she thought, or

they were going to be in a great deal of trouble.

    Odo watched the turbolift's readouts. They were

rising rapidly, and when the doors finally opened onto

a long corridor lit by bright overhead panels, he had

counted seventeen decks. This Jem'Hadar spaceship

was more enormous than anything he had ever seen

before, practically a space-going city. Five or six DS9s

would have fit inside with room to spare.

    Thok stepped out ahead of him and ushered him

forward to the sixth door on the left.

    "Please wait here, Founder," he said, touching the

hand pad. "I will inform my superiors of your pres-

ence."

    The door dilated open, and Odo stepped into a tiny,

almost unfurnished room. It had a narrow bunk, a

small table that folded out from the wall, and a hard

metal bench that was welded to the floor. There were

no decorations or personal touches of any kind. He

found it distinctly unpleasant... a cell more than

anything else.

 "What is this room normally used for?" he asked.

    Thok stared at him, looking puzzled. "This is my

cabin, Founder. You can rest comfortably here."

    Odo swallowed and looked around again. He had

always lived a life that others on DS9 considered

austere, but compared to this officer's Spartan exis-

tence, he lived in decadent luxury.

    "It will do," he said gruffly. For all he knew, this

might well be among the nicest cabins on the ship, he

reflected. The Jem'Hadar were notably lacking in

decorator touches.

    The door irised shut and he found himself alone.

He glanced around again, then placed the message

box on the table. Closing his eyes, he allowed himself

to flow freely from one shape to another, mimicking

everything around him... first the bed... then the

table... then the bench...

    Perhaps fifteen minutes later, the door opened

again. Odo pulled himself back up into his humanoid

form and found himself facing a new Jem'Hadar

officer... this one considerably older than the other

one had been.

    "I am Jezrak, Captain of the Sespar's Revenge," he

announced, studying Odo with a calculating expres-

sion. Jezrak carried himself like someone used to

being obeyed, Odo thought.

  "My name is Odo," he said.

    "I know, Founder. I have orders to bring you to the

docking bay." He stood back away from the door.

"This way, Founder. The others are waiting for you."

    Others? What did that mean? Other changelings, a

small voice inside him said. That had to be it. He

swallowed. It didn't take them long to get here. But did

that bode well for him?

    Keeping his expression a careful neutral, Odo

picked up the message box and stepped through the

door. He would keep up his pretense of delivering the

message, he decided, and see what happened.

    Ten Jem'Hadar guards had been waiting outside.

They fell in around him. Probably an honor guard

more than anything else, he decided. They couldn't

hurt him; their genetic programming made that im-

possible. And his own skills as a changeling--small

compared to other members of his race, but huge next

to solids like them--would be more than enough to

save him in any emergency. No, he thought, the real

danger would come from his own kind. He was the

first changeling ever in history to have harmed anoth-

er member of his own race. What if his people

decided he had to be destroyed before he contami-

nated others of their kind?

    He forced those dark thoughts to the back of his

mind. He had no reason to expect trouble, he told

himself. He'd have to see what developed. His main

goal now had to be buying more time for Kira and

Worf so they could carry out their mission. He could

make it back to DS9 on his own later if he had to.

    Jezrak escorted him back to turbolift, and they all

rode back down to the huge open landing bay. As soon

as he stepped out, he deliberately avoided glancing

around for Kira or Worf; if they had any sense, they

would have used their personal cloakers to get away

from their ship and under cover by now, waiting their

own chance to escape. He'd return to help them if he

could, but that possibility seemed more and more

remote.

    "The others are waiting on their ship for you,

Founder," Jezrak said. He started to the left, between

a row of sleek little fighters, and after a half second's

hesitation Odo followed.

    They seemed to be heading for the largest ship

there, a long, sleek white and silver craft. Its side

hatch stood open, and a ramp had telescoped to the

deck. Standing in the opening, waiting for him, were

two changelings dressed in long, pale yellow robes. He

didn't recognize either one.

    Jezrak stopped at the foot of the ramp and folded

his arms. Odo didn't see any other options, so he

marched up to the open hatch with a confidence he

didn't feel--best to play up his role, he thought. He

would be the Federation's messenger. If he didn't act

the part, they might suspect he had come here for

other reasons.

    The two changelings moved back, and he stepped

between them and into the ship. It was nothing like he

had expected. The main cabin was all white, from the

floor to the walls to the ceiling, and two long, curved

benches ran lengthwise down the cabin. It had no

other furnishings. Between the benches, suspended in

midair, hung a large holographic projection of a

planet, which completely filled the center of the room.

It was a beautiful world, Odo thought: deep azure

oceans, four huge continents, tiny polar ice caps, all

wisped with white clouds. Was that the new change-

ling Homeworld? He had no way of finding out, short

of asking, and he wasn't quite prepared to do that yet.

    He glanced forward, into the pilots' compartment.

The four seats there were occupied by Jem'Hadar in

black uniforms--pilots, Odo assumed. They didn't

seem to be paying attention to anything behind them.

     "You are Odo," one of the changelings said. It was a

statement, Odo noticed, rather than a question.

  "Yes," he said.

 "I am Auron and this is Selann."

    Odo gave them a quick nod. "I have come on behalf

of the United Federation of Planets--"

 "To deliver a peace message," Auron finished for

him. "We find it curious," he said, moving forward

and taking the box out of Odo's hands, "that you did

not come through more diplomatic channels, Odo."

    "After the reception given to our last few ships,"

Odo said gruffly, "the Federation thought it prudent

to come in more subtly this time."

  "And to send you."

  "That's right."

    Auron set the message box on the floor, activated it,

and watched impassively as Sisko's image appeared

and repeated the peace initiative. When it ended, the

changeling dismissed it with an idle wave of one hand.

    "The Federation and the other powers in the Alpha

Quadrant know our terms for peace," he said. "We

will gladly take them under our protection. No other

alternative is possible."

 "Surely there must be room for negotiation."

 "None," Auron said.

    The hatch suddenly swung closed with a whump of

displaced air, and Odo felt a sudden vibration run-

ning through the soles of his feet--the pilots had

begun to power up the engines. He had a sudden

sinking feeling inside as he realized Kira and Worf

were about to be stranded here without him.

  "Where are we going?" he demanded.

    "Carnalia VIII," Selenn said. A shiver of sudden

apprehension went through Odo as the changeling

added, "A delightful little world, as you will soon

discover."

CHAPTER

      12

"BREAK IT UP in here/" a loud voice boomed, and a

phaser hummed twice as it struck. A Caxtonian and a

Klingon, arms locked around each other, fell to the

floor.

    That seemed to catch everyone's attention, Bashir

saw. He watched as eight security guards jogged

through the front doors of Quark's bar with phasers

drawn and took up positions around the periphery of

the fight. Although their weapons had undoubtedly

been set for stun, Bashir knew nobody would want to

be hit by them. Spending several hours unconscious,

then waking up in a holding cell, was nobody's idea of

a good shore leave, and most of the fighters looked

like seasoned spacers.

    "Break it up/" the lead security officer's voice

boomed again. He was a Bajoran named ertan,

officially Odo's third in command, but second until

Lieutenant Commander Rodington returned from

leave.

    The rioters had all paused. Bashir saw fists un-

clench, chairs about to be thrown suddenly get low-

ered to the floor, and fallen comrades helped to their

feet. Odo would have been proud of Vertan's work,

Rashir thought.

    "You will disperse!" Vertan called again. "Leave the

bar in an orderly fashion/ Return to your ships/Anyone

still on the station in five minutes will spend the night

in a cell/"

    A few last bottles and glasses crashed to the floor,

shattering, as the crowd headed for the doors. All,

Bajorans, humans, Klingons, and aliens alike, gave

the guards guilty glances as they passed by.

    "Who's going to pay for this damage?" Quark

demanded, appearing from behind the bar. "Arrest

them!"

    A stampede started. Quark could not have said

anything to get them moving more quickly, Bashir

thought. Security followed to make sure new fighting

didn't break out. In ten seconds, only he, Quark,

O'Brien, the Dabo girls, and the unconscious Caxto-

nian and Klingon remained. Then Ambassador Two-

feathers poked his head up from behind the bar,

smiled, and stood up.

 "Most entertaining," he said.

    Quark shot him a dirty look. "That's because you

don't have to clean up the mess." He wandered out

from behind the bar and stood surveying the damage

and shaking his head. "Rom!" he bellowed. "Get a

broom!"

    Grinning, Bashir climbed to his feet, dusted himself

off, and headed for O'Brien. Quark's brother, as

always, would get the short end of the deal. Fortu-

nately Vertan had arrived less than a minute and a

half after the riot had broken out, so nobody had been

seriously injured that he could see. Now, how much

damage had that CaxtonJan done to O'Brien?

    Perched on the edge of a round table, O'Brien was

gingerly feeling his right arm and grimacing a bit. No

blood or broken bones showing, Bashir noted, looking

him over quickly, although he'd have an old-

fashioned black eye in the morning. Bashir pulled out

his medical scanner and passed it over O'Brien's right

arm, face, and chest.

    "Wrenched shoulder," he said, studying the read-

outs. "A few bruises. Just soft tissue damage, nothing

to be concerned about. You'll be right as rain in a day

or two."

 O'Brien groaned loudly.

    "Do you need something for the pain?" Bashit

asked, frowning a bit. It shouldn't hurt all that much,

he thought--had he missed something?

    "I'm groaning," O'Brien said, "because I'm going

to have to forfeit the game to you, Julian! I can't

throw with my arm like this!"

    Bashir grinned in relief, then quickly covered it up.

"You're right," he said with mock seriousness. "But

look at the bright side. Now you'll have an excuse

when you lose to me, Chief."

  O'Brien groaned again.

     Quark scurried over, a stylus in his hand. "Did you

 see who started it?" he demanded. "I'm taking

 names!"

    "Yes," O'Brien said. He slowly worked his shoulder

in a circle. "I was there."

      "Well?" Quark demanded, hand poised to write.

"Who're responsible?"  "You are."

    "Me?" Quark's expression of shock was priceless,

Bashir thought. "I think you hit your head a little too

hard there, Chief."

    "It was that stupid rumor you started about me

killing two Caxtonians!" O'Brien snapped. "When a

real Caxtonian heard it, he decided to avenge his

fallen comrades!"

    Bashir made a tsk-tsk sound. "Sounds like you

stuck it to yourself there, Quark."

    "Everyone knows rumors don't count," the Ferengi

said. "So, it was the Caxtonian..." He glanced over

at the alien's unconscious form where it still lay.

BasMr knew Vertan and his men would be back to

collect the two bodies once they'd seen the other

rioters safely off the station. "I have his ship's credit

account number," Quark said. "They'll be getting a

pretty sharp bill, I can tell you." He glanced around.

"'Six tables," he muttered, writing quickly. "Sew

enteen--no, make that eighteen chairs..." He wan-

dered off, still taking notes of the damage.

    "Tell me," Ambassador Twofeathers said, joining

them, "is it always this exciting here? I joined the

Maquis in part for the adventure, but I have never

seen anything quite like this before."

    "This doesn't happen very often, fortunately,"

Bashir said. He glanced at the chronometer over the

bar, which thankfully hadn't been broken by flying

debris. It was nearly 2300 hours. "Maybe I should

show you to your suite now, Ambassador. It's getting

late, and I don't think much more is going to be

happening here tonight."

    Twofeathers nodded. "Yes... I think I'm done for

now." He shot a quick glance at Quark. "Though I

may be back tomorrow."

    It was going to be a good day, Captain Benjamin

Sisko thought. He awakened from a long, deep sleep

feeling refreshed, almost rejuvenated. Rising, he

showered quickly, shaved around his beard, and put

on a dress uniform. His son, Jake, was still asleep, so

he sat down to have a light breakfast of toast, orange

juice, and strong black coffee. On the computer moni-

tor, he called up the daily reports and flipped through

them quickly.

    A small riot at Quark's, but no injuries... sixteen

ships queued up for docking today... no emergen-

cies, no problems, no disasters. For once, the station

seemed to be running smoothly on its own.

    He wiped his mouth, stood, and put the dishes int›

the recycling bin. With everything going so well, he

wondered briefly if he should tempt fate and stop by

Ops on the way to the peace conference. After a

second he decided he had the time. Besides, with

everything going so well, what could possibly go

wrong?

    He tabbed his dress blouse closed at the throat and

headed out. The second his door opened, he knew it

was a mistake. A crowd at the end of the corridor

spotted him.

    "There he is!" someone shouted. Instantly a dozen

people holding signs and placards rushed toward him.

Bajoran protesters, he realized in dismay. They'd been

staking out the habitat ring waiting for him, and now

they'd found him.

    Holding up both hands, he motioned for silence.

"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded. "Pro-

tests are restricted to the Promenade. Clear this

corridor at once or I will have you removed by

security!"

    A Bajoran man in a brown robe waved his people to

silence. "A thousand apologies for the disturbance,

Emissary," he said. "I am Vedek Werron."

    "This is not the best time, Vedek." Sisko folded his

arms, leveling a stern glare at the Vedek. He would

have to handle this delicately, he thought. Werron

might be an extremist and a reactionary, but he had

quite a few followers.

    "It's always the right time for justice!" Werron said

loudly.

    "Justice for Bajor!" the crowd began to chant.

"Justice for Bajor! .lustice for Bajor!"

    "Vedek, there are channels for this sort of thing,"

he said, turning toward the turbolift at the far end of

the corridor. He'd catch that one to avoid riding with

any of the protesters. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have

work to do."

    "Of course," Werron said, catching up to him. "I'll

just walk with you. I had something important I

needed to tell you."

    "What is that?" Sisko stopped and faced the Vedek

with a sigh. He didn't seem to be taking the hint.

    Vedek Werron drew himself up to his tallest, which

still only came level to Sisko's shoulder. "I must

demand that the Cardassians be put off Deep Space

Nine at once," he said.

    "That's impossible," Sisko said flatly. "We have

delicate negotiations going on right now--"

    "Gul Mekkar is the Butcher of Belmast." He

whirled and addressed his followers. "And what do

we do to Cardassian war criminals?" he shouted.

  "Death!" the crowd roared.

  "What else?" Werron cried.

  "Justice/Justice for Bajor!"

Sisko tapped his badge. "Security," he said.

"Verton here, Captain," a voice said instantly.

"Get some people to the habitat ring," Sisko said.

"Vedek Werron and his followers are staging a protest

outside my cabin."

    "I'11 have people there in thirty seconds," Verton

said. That was as good as Odo could have done, Sisko

thought.

    The crowd began chanting, "Justice for Bajor! Jus-

tice for Bajor!" again.

  Smiling triumphantly, like he'd proved some point,

Vedek Werron turned back to Sisko. "Justice cannot

be denied, Emissary," he said darkly.

    "Of course," Sisko said. Over Werron's shoulder,

he saw the turbolift doors open. Four human security

officers sprinted up the corridor toward him. Verton

had had the good sense to send humans rather than

Bajorans, Sisko noted. Odo had picked the right man

to leave in charge.

    The security officers lined up two on each side of

Sisko. Their hands were on their phasers, but they

didn't draw their weapons yet. The were waiting for

his go-ahead, Sisko realized. Hopefully it wouldn't

come to that.

    Werron's followers had begun to shift nervously,

though. Good: He didn't want them getting too cocky

with their protest. He didn't like being cornered.

    "I'm not unsympathetic to the problem of Cardas-

sian war criminals," Sisko said to Werron. "Many

great injustices were done to your people during the

occupation. Let me work through proper channels to

look into the matter."

 "When?" Werron demanded.

 "How does this afternoon sound?"

    Werron considered for a second, then nodded.

"Thank you, Emissary," he said. "All we want is

justice." Turning to his people, he held up his hands

for silence. Instantly the chanting ceased.

    "Join me for prayers and meditation," he said,

cutting through them and heading for the turbolift.

"The Emissary will help us!"

    A cheer went up, and they followed him down the

corridor.

    Sisko relaxed. "See that they make it to the Prome-

nade," he said to the security guards. "Then post a

guard to make sure they don't hold any more im-

promptu protests on the habitat ring."

    They nodded and followed Werron and his group.

As soon as he was alone, Sisko turned and headed in

the opposite direction. He'd take the other turbolift,

he decided, to avoid any chance of running into any

more of Werron's followers.

     That still left his promise to fulfill. Tapping his

badge, he said, "Sisko to Dax."  "Dax here," she replied.

    Quickly he briefed her. "Find out all you can about

Werron and his movement," he said. He would have

done it himself, but he was going to be wrapped up

with the peace negotiations all day.

    "Easy enough," Dax said. "I'11 tap into the Bajoran

databases and see what they have on him."

    "And see what you can find out about Gul Mek-

kar," Sisko added, "the so-called Butcher of Be!mast.

If Werron has a real grievance, I want to know it."

CHAPTER

      13

KLINGONS WERE NOT meant for sneaking around, Wolf

thought in frustration. Their hands, their bodies--

their very mindsmwere designed for clean, honest,

open combat.

    So what was he doing hiding in a small cleaning

closet just off the landing bay? He rose and paced

the few steps there was room for. There was no honor

in hiding. If only their mission hadn't been so crit-

ical...

    He glanced down at Kira, who was now asleep. She

sat on the floor with her knees pulled up and her head

resting on her arms, snoring softly. He snorted. How

she could rest while being penned in here like some

animalm

    He shook his head. Discipline, he told himself, is the

heart of the warrior. Kira was depending on him, and

the future of the whole Federation might well depend

on the success of their mission. He could wait in a

supply closet for a few more hours.

    At least the supply closet door had a few holes for

ventilation. The air inside, thick with the scents of

cleaning solvents, made him want to sneeze.

    Rubbing his nose, he eased forward and pressed his

eyes close to the top vent just in time to see a line of

Jem'Hadar warriors jog up in formation to the calls of

their superiors. He tensed as they turned and faced

the supply closet, but then they moved into a drill of

some kind.

    Warm-up exercises, Worf thought. What better

place to exercise than the open space of the landing

bay?

    He allowed his breathing to quicken. Martial arts

had always been of keen interest to him, and he had

tried everything from Klingon to human to Romulan

to Doldarian forms of combat.

    Their warm-up done, the lines of Jem'Hadar warri-

ors suddenly broke into groups of four. Instructors

passed among them, passing out wooden sticks about

a meter and a half long. The foursomes began spar-

ring.

    Worf focused on one warrior, a tall Jem'Hadar who

seemed to be single-handedly keeping the other three

in his group at bay. He moved with the lightning

reflexes of a natural athlete. Worf found himself

tensing his own muscles as he sought to emulate what

he was watching. Parry--parry--thrust--kill!

    His breath quickened as he compared their moves

to the Klingon martial arts he practiced. His respect

for the Jem'Hadar as warriors began to increase.

What other similarities to Klingons did they have,

beyond their obvious love of battle?

    He wanted to see more, but just as suddenly as the

fights had begun, they ended. The Jem'Hadar raced

back into formation, then began jogging farther down

the landing bay. He listened, straining to hear, and

heard the fighting beginning again, but he couldn't see

it from the closet.

    Frustrated, he turned and sank down to the floor.

Idly he raised his tunic and glanced down at the

cloaker. The readout said 00:05:14. Not much time

left. He couldn't risk going outside to see... and

anyway, someone might notice the door opening and

sl-.utting by itself.

 "What was that noise?" Kira asked.

    He glanced over and found her awake. "Jem'Hadar

warriors training in the landing bay."

     "Great," she said sarcastically. Opening her pack,

she dug out a protein bar. "Want one?" "Perhaps later," he said.

    She opened it and bit. "I've been thinking," she

said as she chewed. "If this ship follows the

Jem'Hadar flight patterns that the Federation has

been charting, it should enter the Daborat system in a

day or two. That will be our chance to get out and find

Oreor."

 "This ship is too big to land," he said.

 "Shore leave, Worf. Jem'Hadar have to go some-

 where to burn off their energy. I'm willing to bet

 everyone goes down to the planet, leaving a skeleton

 crew watching things. We can sneak aboard a trans-

 port ship and ride down with them."

    "You are forgetting how little time we have left on

our cloakers," he said. He didn't think they'd have

time to sneak aboard a Jem'Hadar ship and hide. And

what if they were caught?

  "Do you have a better plan?"

  He hesitated. "Not yet," he said.

  "Well, you have two days to think of one."

    Worf leaned back and closed his eyes. Might as well

rest, he thought. If he slept, the time would pass more

quickly. And perhaps something would come to him.

    A low rustling noise from his left brought him

sharply back to consciousness. What was that? Kira,

directly across from him, didn't seem to have heard it.

Probably some small scavenger, he thought.

    He turned and tensed. It wasn't some animal. A

panel in the back of the closet was slowly sliding open.

    Silently, Worf rose to his feet, gesturing frantically

to Kira. She paused in midbite.

    Then a small, gnarled-looking alien in a silver tunic

slipped through the opening. Worf reached for his

phaser. Whatever it was, it seemed to be sneaking up

on them.

    It took one look at Kira and Worf, let out an

alarmed squeal, and bolted back into the opening.

    Worf leaped forward and caught the door before it

could slide back into place. He couldn't let the alien

escape, he thought. He forced his shoulder through

the opening, pushed, and managed to squeeze

through.

    He was in some kind of access corridor between the

walls, he realized, taking in the unfinished walls and

the bare metal floor. A few open panels revealed

delicate-looking circuits and other equipmentmkind

of like the Jefferies tubes aboard a starship, Worf

thought, only built to a practical scale.

    The alien had dropped to four legs, sprinting like a

wild hzork. Worf climbed to his feet, tucked down his

chin, and raced in pursuit. Klingons were not known

for speed or long endurance in wind sprints, but now

Worf thanked his grueling workouts on the holodeck

on the Enterprise and more recently in Quark's holo-

suites. He was in top form. He actually started to gain

ground on the alien.

    The alien skidded around a corner and disappeared

from sight. Worf put on a burst of extra speed,

rounded the corner himself, and found the little alien

prying open another access door.

    "Got you!" he snarled, tackling it around the waist,

trying to pin its arms. It bucked and twisted like a

wild animal beneath him, hissing. It was stronger than

it looked, Worf found, and he had trouble holding it

down. Then it suddenly twisted its long, limber neck

and sank its fangs deep into the flesh of his shoulder.

    His whole right arm went numb. What--he

thought, as a fuzzy-headedness spread through his

mind. The alien wriggled out from under him. He

tried to catch himself, but both his arms were com-

pletely numb. They hung like lead weights.

    Distantly, he heard the hum of a phaser. With the

last of his strength, he raised his head. Kira had

stunned the alien, he saw. It fell just beyond him.

    Good, he thought with satisfaction. He'd slowed it

down enough for Kira to catch up with them. That

was important. Now it couldn't betray them to the

Jem'Hadar.

    His vision grew cloudy, and he realized he was

having trouble breathing. The numbness had reached

his chest. He tried to suck in a deep lungful of air, but

nothing happened.

    "Kiram" he tried to say, but nothing came out. He

could only gaze up at her with growing panic.

    Then he felt his arms and legs moving on their own,

shaking crazily, and his whole body began to con-

valse.

    It was a short trip to Camalia VIII, Odo found, and

Auron and Selann made pleasant if innocuous (per-

haps too innocuous, Odo thought darkly) conversa-

tion along the way. He found himself growing a little

bored with their chatter about the weather on planets

he'd never visited and about people he'd never met.

    At last, though, the planet came into sight through

the front viewport. Odo moved forward to see better.

It was the same planet on the hologram in the center

of the cabin, he realized, and he felt a growing sense of

excitement. Was this the new changeling home? If so,

the Federation would need to know its location.

 Almost as if reading his thoughts, Selann came up

behind him and said, "We have a small outpost here,

with few of the comforts of home."

 "And where is home?" Odo said.

    "With us." Selann smiled faintly. "You don't be-

long with the Federation, Odo. You know that deep

inside."

    "Perhaps," he murmured. He wasn't willing to give

them any more encouragement than that, he decided.

If he appeared too eager, they might catch on that he

was hiding something. He'd only been off the

Jem'Hadar ship for a few hours; Kira and Worf

wouldn't have had time to do much of anything yet.

    The pilots brought the ship down to a soft landing.

Auron crossed to the hatch, opened it, and a sudden

flood of deep amber sunlight entered the cabin. Odo

followed Selann down the ramp.

    They had landed in a cleared field, he saw. Thirty or

so small white domes clustered to the far left, amid

twisted treelike plants whose crowns held streamers

of red flowers. A series of broad pebble paths threaded

their way among the domes. He could see a number of

changelings walking about over there, and he sus-

pected that several of the trees might be changelings

as well. He couldn't say what sixth sense told him; he

just knew.

    "Carnalia VIII," Auron said softly from behind

him. "Stay with us here, Odo. Learn to use the power

and influence that is your birthright."

    "It's... tempting," he admitted. And it was.

When he thought about all his people had accore-

 plished, when he thought about the proud place they

 had made for themselves, he couldn't help but won-

 der what it would be like to join them.

    Then he forced himself to back away from those

thoughts. The changelings had accomplished a lot,

but at too high a price, he thought. They had virtually

enslaved an entire quadrant of the galaxy. That went

against everything he knew to be right and good. He

could never be a part of it. Never.

    Selann smiled as they continued down the path to

the domes. "This will be yours," he said, pointing to

the third one.

    The building had no door, Odo saw, just a large

round opening in one side. He ducked through

and caught his breath in amazement as he stared

at the strange assortment of objects before him.

Oddly shaped sculptures... intricate pottery...

weathered stones... pieces of driftwood. No human-

oid would like this dome, he thought, turning slowly

to gaze in wonder at everything around him, but for a

changeling it had a luxurious feel. On some level each

of these objects called to him, asking him to emulate

them.

  "All this for me," he murmured.

    "Yes," Selann said. "All this for you, Odo. You are

one of us. You belong here. Join with me, Odo. Feel

what it is to truly belong."

    He opened his arms to Odo, and Odo came to him.

There was no way back to the Federation from here,

no way to help Worf and Kira for the moment, so why

not? He had joined with changelings before, when

he'd visited their Homeworld, and it had been one of

the most incredible sensations of his life. The nearest

thing he could compare it to was sex among the solids,

but it wasn't like that. It was... spiritual, he decided.

A joining of minds, a melding of thoughts and souls, a

surrender to a larger universe. You lost your individu-

ality and became part of something greater than

yourself.

    As he watched his hands shifting, becoming golden,

luminous, and liquid--as he felt his body merging

with Selann's--his last thoughts were that he had

indeed come home.

CHAPTER

      14

KIRA FLIPPED WORF over onto his back and put her

hands on his chest, trying to push him down. His

whole body strained violently, almost knocking her

off, and his arms and legs thrashed against the floor.

Foam began to pour from his mouth and nostrils, and

a weird pathetic wheeze came from his chest.

    "Easy," she murmured, still pressing him down.

"Easy, Worf."

    His teeth clenched. He gave a low moan and

relaxed, and for a second she thought the worst might

be over. Then he began to buck again, moaning, his

eyes rolling back in his head.

    Finally his convulsions slowed, then stopped com-

pletely. Gasping for air, he lay still. Every few sec-

onds, his legs or arms gave faint spasmodic twitches.

Was he dying? Kira bit her lip, then leaned forward

and put her head to his chest. His massive heart

pounded wildly, but the beat seemed erratic to her.

She sat back on her heels, trying to think. Battlefield

medicine didn't cover situations like this one. If only

Bashir were here. Should she try to get him to drink

something? Or would that only make things worse?

    Suddenly he gasped and opened his eyes. The

pupils were bigger than she'd ever seen them before,

and they were shot through with red lines.

    "Worf?" she said. He didn't seem able to focus on

her, though. "Can you hear me? It's Kira. How do you

feel?"

 "The corridor..." he whispered.

 "What about it?"

 "It is spinning..."

    He raised one hand to his head. For a second he

tried to sit up, but then he slumped to the side. He

couldn't even lift his own weight, Kira realized with

dismay. How was she going to get him down to

Daborat V in this condition?

    Carefully she eased her pack under his head for a

pillow and dabbed at the foam around his mouth. The

best thing she could do for him, she decided, was wait

and hope for the best.

    "Rest," she said softly. "I'm going to reconnoiter

and see what I can find. Just as soon as I take care of

our little friend here, that is."

    Quickly she pulled a length of cord from her pack

and tied up the little alien. He was still unconscious

from the phaser stun, snoring loudly. Up close, he

didn't seem very dangerous looking, but those tiny

needlelike fangs and their venom had certainly done

their work on Worf.

    Was it part of the ship's crew? Searching its pockets,

she found a brass ring, a few datachips, and some

scraps of paper; all were dusty, battered, and looked

like they had been lost for quite a while before being

scavenged. No, she decided, the little alien couldn't

possibly be a crewman... more like a mascot or a

pet. If the Jem'Hadar kept pets, which seemed doubt-

ful. Was it sentient? It had on a simple tunic, but that

didn't mean much. They wouldn't know until it

regained consciousness. Hopefully, whatever it was, it

wouldn't be missed right away.

  "Water," Worf said hoarsely.

    She dug out a canteen and gave him a sip. Maybe

that would help.

  "How are you feeling?" she asked.

    "Weak," he said. His voice was barely a whisper.

"Help me sit up."

    She carefully pulled him forward, then had him

lean back against the wall. He had bloodstains on his

tunic, she saw. Peeling it back at the shoulder, she

found the two puncture marks which were still seep-

ing red. Hard to believe, but those two tiny wounds

had almost killed him.

    "It seems he had some nasty venom in his fangs,"

Kira said. She pulled bandages from her pack and

dressed the wounds.

    "Fortunately," Worf said, voice stronger now,

sounding more like his old self, "the effects do not

appear long lasting on Klingons."

    "Then I'll leave you to watch him and rest," Kira

said. "I want to look down some of the tunnels. If

we're going to be trapped here for a while, we're going

to need to know the layout of the ship."

 Worf nodded, wincing a little.

 "I'll be back soon," she promised.

    Rising, she turned and walked quickly back to the

large tunnel that led to the storage closet. It amazed

her how long and high they were. The access corridors

seemed to run through the whole ship.

    She explored, mentally mapping the place in her

mind. Several times she came to ventilation ducts,

and each time she peeked through. Once she saw

several Jem'Hadar lying on rows of hard-looking

bunks. Other times she saw empty rooms, or store-

rooms filled with crates.

    She kept going and eventually came to the ship's

gailey. Through the ventilation holes, she could see

long metal tables and benches. They seemed to be in

the middle of a meal shift now; the benches were

crowded with every species but Jem'Hadar, all eating

what looked like nearly raw meat and some kind of

vegetable stew. The Jem'Hadar didn't eat, she re-

minded herself, so there would be plenty of real food

available. Perhaps they'd be able to sneak in during an

off-shift; fresh supplies would make a good supple-

ment to their protein bars, which they should hold for

emergencies.

    She checked the time. She'd been gone nearly an

hour--time to get back to Worf. She didn't want to

leave him too long in his weakened state in case any

more of those savage little aliens showed up. He'd

lived through one bite, but she didn't want to risk any

more.

    Retracing her steps, she neared to the corridor

where she'd left Worf. Then from ahead she heard

low voices. That could only mean trouble, she

thought, drawing her phaser. If the Jem'Hadar had

found Worf... she didn't want to think what it

would mean. They weren't exactly known for their

mercy or their compassion.

    She crept forward cautiously, placing each foot

carefully. As silent as Death, she peeked around the

corrler.

    It was Worf talking to the little alien, she saw. Woff

had untied their captive, and now the two of them sat

facing each other. She relaxed and felt the tension

drain from her shoulders. It seemed the alien was

sentient after all.

     "Major," Worf said, "I want you to meet Snoct

Sneyd. He'd an Iffalian. Snoct, this is Major Kira."

  "Hello," she said cautiously.

    "Hello, Major Kira," Snoct said back, head cocked

to one side in what might have been an almost

comical manner in different circumstances.

    "It seems I scared him when he stumbled upon us,"

Worf said. "He was part of a cleaning crew the last

time this ship was serviced--"

 "Six long months ago!" Snoct said.

    "--and he fell asleep in our closet after a long shift.

When he woke up, they were already in space."

    "The Jem'Hadar have been trying to catch me ever

since," Snoct said, "only I escaped."

    "What do you mean, trying to catch you?" Kira

asked. That didn't make much sense to her. "How

could you elude the Jem'Hadar aboard their own

ship?"

    "I think it is a game to them," Snoct said. "They

hold hunts for me, using primitive weapons like nets

and spears."

 "Have they never caught you?" Worf demanded.

 "Once," Snoct admitted.

 "What happened?"

 "They let me escape."

    "They let you escape?" Worf's knobby forehead

furrowed.

    "That makes sense," Kira said. "If it's a game to

them, why let the fun end?"

    "Because when the prey is caught, the game is

over," Worf said.

    "Haven't you ever wanted a game to keep going

once it ended?"

    "No," Worf said. "That would defeat the purpose

of a game, which is victory."

    Kira shook her head. Sometimes Worf just didn't

understand. To Snoct, she said, "Do you know when

this ship is due to visit Daborat V again?"

  "I don't know," Snoct said.

  "Can you take a guess?"

    He mewed plaintively. "It could happen any time

now. Today, next week, or six months from now. They

don't confide in me, after all. I just hope it's soon. If

they dock at any space station for servicing, I'll finally

be able to escape!"

    Without warning, a strange sound echoed through

the corridors--a low, almost inaudible drumbeat,

thumping just this side of subsonic. Kira felt the hair

on the back of her neck start to bristle. Then came a

drawn-out wail like the cry of someone being disem-

boweled.

  Snoct let out a low moan.

    "What's that noise?" Worf demanded, leaping to

his feet. He balanced himself against the wall with one

hand. He hadn't completely recovered from the ef-

fects of Snoct's bite, Kira realized.

    "The Jem'Hadar have begun their hunt again," the

little alien said with a shudder. "We must flee!"

CHAPTER

      15

S~^r,~N, Ot)o PULLEt) himself away from Selann and

reassumed his own humanoid form. He had never

known such peace, such tranquillity, as the first time

he had joined with another changeling. It had left him

weak from euphoria, almost giddy.

    But this time it had been different. This time it

hadn't been so novel, and he had been able to sense

Selann's thoughts as they drifted between their collec-

tive consciousness... thoughts that bewildered and

at times enraged him.

Thoughts of peace through conquest.

Thoughts of bending lesser races to his will.

Thoughts of a great destiny for their people and a

vision of the future which Odo did not believe in--or

want to share: nothing less than the conquest of the

entire galaxy.

     He took a step back, then another, then a third.

 All he wanted to do was separate himself from

 Selann, to put as much distance between them as he

 could.

     Selann regarded him solemnly from the other side

 of the room. "Odo--" he said.

     "Leave me!" Odo cried. "I cannot face your

 thoughts!"

    Silently, Selann left the dome. Odo gazed at the

statues and the driftwood, at the rocks and the

pottery assembled around him. He no longer felt

like emulating any of it. He just wanted to go

home.

    He heard a light step behind him and whirled. Had

Selann returned? No, he saw, Auron had appeared in

the doorway.

"Come with me, Odo," the changeling said softly.

Odo didn't know why, but he obeyed. He walked

out with Auron onto the curving pebble path, and

they passed in silence between the domes, through

the trees, then onto a beach covered in glistening

black sand. Low waves lapped at their feet, and the

air held a faint tang of salt and brine. Far across the

water, two huge orange suns sank toward the ho-

rizon.

    "You are still not happy among us," Auron said, as

they gazed into the distance side by side.

    "I'm sorry," Odo said. "I cannot accept what

you're doing. It isn't right--"

"Do not apologize," Auron said. "You are still

young, Odo. You have not seen all the horrors of the

universe. You do not understand why we must stand

united against the solids. But you will, Odo, in time.

We are a very ancient and very patient race. We will

wait for you to change, to see things as we do."

    "It's just that my heart tells me all of this is

wrong," Odo said. "Why can't all sentient life-forms

find nonaggressive ways to live in peace everywhere

in the galaxy?"

    Auron laughed. "That's what we've done. All

changelings live in peace. No changeling but you has

ever harmed another. It's only the solids who are a

threat and must be restrained."

    Odo sighed and shook his head. His people didn't

want to understand, he realized. Perhaps they had

grown too comfortable with their power, or too

drunk on their success. He had to escape. He had to

find some way to return and help Worf and Kira if he

could. But how?

    "Perhaps," he said hesitantly, "if you could show

me more of what you've done here, in the Gamma

Quadrant...?" Maybe he could persuade Auron to

take him to Daborat V, he thought.

    "Of course," he said. "We will take you on a tour

of the nearby worlds so you can see how well every-

thing is run. Perhaps then you will come to under-

stand the magnitude of what we have accomplished

here, and what we will accomplish in the future,

when you rejoin us. The Alpha Quadrant is ripe with

possibilities, Odo, and with your knowledge and

secure position within DS9, you can be of invaluable

aid."

    "Perhaps," Odo said, but he swore to himself that

he would never let that happen.

    "This way," Auron said, heading back toward the

domes. "We will leave at once."

CHAPTER

      16

THE CONFERENCE HAD been scheduled to start

promptly at 09:00 hours. Sisko arrived at the proper

section of the habitat ring fifteen minutes early,

determined to get everything off on the right foot.

His run-in with Vedek Werron had soured his mood,

but whatever coddling the ambassadors needed to

get things rolling, he would provide it. Admiral

Dulev had been more than clear on that subject, and

he planned on taking no chances with these negotia-

tions.

    The four security guards posted in the corridor

outside the conference room snapped to attention the

second they saw him.

    "Status report, Ensign?" he asked the closest, a tall,

fair-haired man whose name he recalled was Dan

Cziraky.

     "None of the ambassadors has arrived yet,"

 Cziraky said. "Security measures are all in place. The

 room hasn't been left unguarded for a second, sir.

 Only Quark has been inside, and I accompanied

 him."

     Sisko frowned. "Quark?" he asked. Now, what

 would the Ferengi want in the negotiation room?

     "He dropped off the refreshments, sir," Cziraky

 said. Sisko nodded. He vaguely remembered signing

 off on the requisition. "I accompanied him the whole

 time. And I screened everything he brought in with a

 tricorder. There were no poisons or listening devices,

 sir."

"Very well," he said. "Keep up the good work."

Punching his access code into the hand pad, he

surveyed the room when the doors slide open. A

square table three meters across had been set up in the

exact center, with place cards indicating assigned

seats. The Federation negotiating team would have

their backs to the door, facing the Maquis members;

to the left would be the Valtusians and to the right the

Cardassians. Sisko would sit in as an observer on the

Federation side of the table whenever he joined them.

Four extra chairs sat against each of the side walls.

    He circled the table, looking everything over one

last time. A small table at the back of the room held

various pitchers of drinks--water, fruit nectars,

juices--and a selection of small pastries, thanks

to Quark. There were plenty of padds for note tak-

ing... in short, everything the ambassadors could

possibly want. He nodded to himself. Everything

seemed perfect. Now, if everyone would only agree on

peace ....

    The doors opened suddenly, and he turned to find

the Cardassian negotiators filing into the room, led by

Gul Mekkar. Mekkar dressed in a slate gray shirt and

pants, with a silver belt and more silver trim on his

sleeves and shoulders. The other two Cardassian

ambassadors--both women--dressed much the

same way.

    Mekkar took one look at the table and sneered,

"This is totally unacceptable."

    Sisko sighed inwardly. "What's wrong?" he asked

in a deliberately even tone. Mekkar's reaction did not

bode well for a timely start to the negotiations, he

thought. "If any changes are needed, of course we will

be happy to comply."

    "We must be seated facing the door, at the head of

the table," Mekkar demanded. "And furthermore--"

    No, Sisko thought, as his head began to throb, it

looked like it was going to be a long opening session.

    Jadzia Dax had always had an affinity for research

work. Perhaps it stemmed from Jadzia's days as a

novice, before she got her symbiont. In her youth, she

had spent most of her studies on computers, locked

away from people, reading and researching. Now that

she had been joined with her symbiont, the part of her

that had been Curzon Dax--adventurer, explorer, and

rogue--she realized how foolish that choice had been.

You had to embrace the wonders of the universe, get

out of your house and off your planet, explore the

 galaxy and experience new things. The joining of

 Jadzia and the Dax symbiont had produced little in

 the way of new research, but she still had her old

 skills, and now it was time to put them to good use.

    Accessing Bajor's computer systems, she began a

global search for anything to do with Vedek Werron's

career. Almost at once a stream of articles began to fill

the computer's memory buffer. She punched up the

most recent and skimmed it quickly. It told of his trip

to DS9 to protest Gul Mekkar's presence. In fact, she

discovered as she read one article after another, all of

the recent stories seemed political in nature--the

Vedek's somewhat controversial interpretations of

prophecies, the protest marches he led in the capital,

that sort of thing. The Prophets could be interpreted

quite a few different ways, she knew, but the Vedek's

take on them seemed rather... militant might be a

good word, she finally decided. It seemed he'd taken a

personal interest in bringing Cardassian war crimi-

nals like Gul Mekkar to justice, and he used the

ancient Bajoran prophecies to justify the often ex-

treme nature of his actions.

    As she continued to work her way back through the

news stories, she found the articles suddenly stopped

about a year previously. It seemed almost as if Mek-

kar had appeared out of nowhere. That threw up

warning flags, so she jumped back to the earliest

article in the buffer and read more deeply into the

story.

    It told how Vedek Werron had emerged from an

extended period of meditation. He claimed to have

had a new series of visions from the Prophets after

spending nearly twenty years--most of his adult

life--in secluded meditations in the Retollan Monas-

tery on Bajor. His sudden emergence and very public

life had caused something of a stir in Bajoran reli-

gious circles. Kai Winn had been particularly critical

of Werron and his visions, but then, Dax reflected,

Winn was critical of anyone whose views didn't

match her own. For all Dax knew, Kira would have

put that down as a mark in Werron's favor.

    Vedek Werron appeared completely on the level

as far as his presence on DS9 was concerned. Dax

rose, crossed to a replicator, and got a glass of prune

juice. She sipped as she sat back down, then grimaced

a bit. Not her favorite among the human fruit juices

by any means, she decided. Still, she'd overheard

Worf claiming it was a drink fit for a warrior, and

she'd always had an interest in the Klingon way of

doing things. She sipped again, a little more deeply,

and this time the flavor didn't seem so bad. In fact,

she thought, it just might begin to grow on her, in

time ....

    She returned to her reading. Now, who exactly was

this "Butcher of Belmast" he claimed to be stalking?

 The negotiating session was not going well.

    Sisko, sitting next to Ambassador T'Pao on the

Federation side of the table, had developed a splitting

headache. If he heard Mekkar whine one more time

about protocols, he thought he'd scream. And the

same went for the Federation ambassador, Harold

DuQuesne. The Maquis and the Valtusian ambassa-

dors sat in near silence, watching with what Sisko

could only assume was amazed shock as questions of

who sat where, who spoke first, and whether the table

was really big enough or the right shape or the right

height were argued back and forth in mind-numbing

detail and at sometimes deafening volumes.

    It was amazing, Sisko thought, that peace had ever

been declared between Cardassia and the Federation.

Heaven save us from diplomats, as his father might

have put it.

    "These matters are irrelevant," one of the Valtu-

sians finally announced, and the three ambassadors

rose as one. "Summon us when you are ready to talk."

    Sisko stood, too. "Ambassador," he began. Zhosh

regarded him with an unblinking green eye. "I will

call you as soon as possible," Sisko said.

    The Maquis ambassadors followed the Valtusians

out. Twofeathers had been shaking his head in dis-

gust. "Fools," Sisko overheard him murmuring to

Ambassador Kravitz, "I told you this would be a

waste of time--" Then the doors closed, leaving the

Federation and the Cardassian ambassadors alone.

  "Can't we wrap this up?" Sisko demanded.

    T'Pao leaned over and whispered in his ear, "The

first side to surrender on a point of protocol loses a

vital edge in negotiations, Captain. Have patience.

We know what we are doing."

    Still the debate raged back and forth. Finally Sisko

recessed for lunch, and when they reconvened an

hour later, nothing had changed.

    At last the Cardassians gave in on the table: The

present height and dimensions would be acceptable.

The Federation gave in on the seating order, and

everyone exchanged places, with the Cardassians now

sitting at what they considered the head of the table,

with the Federation to their left, the Valtusians to the

right, and the Maquis facing them.

    Mekkar seemed to be gloating inwardly about this

supposed victory, Sisko thought. It made him bristle,

and when he glanced at T'Pao, DuQuesne, and

Strockman, none of them seemed entirely comfort-

able... though it was hard to tell with a Vulcan.

 "Agenda next," the Valtusian ambassador said.

 "That's another problem," Mekkar began.

    Sisko sighed again. They really didn't need him for

this, he thought. It was almost time for the session to

end for the day, and he had important duties to attend

to.

    He leaned over to T'Pao and said softly, "Nothing

is going to be accomplished today. Please call me if

you need me."

    "Affirmative, Captain," she said, equally softly.

"However, you are mistaken. In the initial jockeying

for position, we have achieved a minor victory."

    "I'11 take your word for that." Sisko rose. "Good

day," he said, nodding to everyone else in the room.

"Station duties call, but I trust I will hear from you if

you have any comments or suggestions."

 "You can count on that," Mekkar said.

 I'm sure I can, Sisko thought.

    He strode from the room, and the moment the door

closed behind him, he let out a deep sigh and rubbed

his temples. How could T'Pao possibly think they had

accomplished anything? He crossed to the turbolift

and a second later one came.

  "Ops," he said to the computer.

    It whisked him to his destination, and ten seconds

later he stepped out into the familiar bustle of the

nerve-center of Deep Space Nine. He surveyed the

men and women moving about their tasks, monitor-

ing their stations, and generally keeping the business

end of the space station going. There were no argu-

ments or egos at play here; it felt good to be back.

    "Benjamin," Dax called, "I have that information

you wanted."

  "In my office," he said, and he led the way.

    As he settled into his chair, he realized his headache

had vanished. Five minutes away from Gul Mekkar

was all it had taken. If only Bashir could bottle that,

he thought a bit wryly.

 "What have you got for me?" he asked.

    She held up a datachip. "Every news report from

Bajor that mentions edek Werron."

    "Give me the short version." He leaned forward,

interested.

    "He is apparently something of a militant outsider

in Bajoran political and religious circles--if there's a

difference these days--due to a series of rather ex-

traordinary visions he claims to have experienced

during a twenty-year seclusion in a Bajoran monas-

tery."

    "A twenty-year seclusion? That sounds a little

odd," he said.

    "It gets better," she said. "He suddenly emerged

from that seclusion one year ago, when he began a

crusade to capture and punish all Cardassian war

criminals. He has surrounded himself with a band of

militant radicals, and several times Kai Winn has had

to publicly chastise him for his zeal."

    Sisko frowned, considering the facts. Changelings

could disguise themselves as anyone, he knew, and

the Bajorans weren't equipped--mentally or

technologically--to defend themselves against that

possibility. If a changeling wanted to infiltrate DS9,

what better way than through a Bajoran religious

figure? How hard would it be to replace a Vedek who

hadn't been seen in public in twenty years?

    If they had Vedek Werron set up as a "sleeper" of

some kind, what better time to use him than now? If

they could disrupt the peace talks, it might well

prolong the Maquis conflict and keep the Alpha

Quadrant divided and weak and therefore ripe for

attempted invasion and takeover.

 "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" he asked.

    "That he could be a changeling? The possibility did

occur to me."

    "Good, then I'm not paranoid." He tapped his

badge. "Sisko to Bashir, please report to Ops." Sud-

denly he wanted a DNA scan run on Vedek Werron.

  "Right away," came the doctor's response.

    "You know how touchy the Bajorans are about their

religious figures," Dax said.

    Sisko nodded. Bashir couldn't just walk up to one

and demand a cell sample. That would be a good way

to start a riot.

    'Tll just have to rely on the good doctor's wits and

subtlety," he said. He knew Bashir liked to play spy in

Quark's holosuites. He'd heard quite a tale of it from

Garak while the Cardassian tailor was letting out his

uniform a bit the other week. Now was the time for

Bashir to use those finely honed skills in real life.

CHAPTER

      17

"QUIET!" WORF HELD up one hand, straining to hear.

A Klingon's senses were more acute than a human's,

he knew, so he stood a better chance of detecting any

dangers that might lie ahead of them.

    The weird cry came again, echoing through the

corridor like a brush-devil's hunting scream. It sent

shivers of anticipation down Worf's back. He had

only hunted brush-devils once, on the Homeworld

with his brother Kurn, but it had been one of the most

satisfying experiences of his life.

    He glanced back. Kira and Snoct had paused,

hardly moving, hardly breathing. Snoct looked fright-

ened nearly out of his wits. They would have to get to

safety soon, he thought. The corridors seemed to be

rapidly filling up with Jem'Hadar warriors, all giving

hunting cries.

    Worf slowly leaned forward, turning his head ever

so slightly. As he'd thought, below the loud cry he

heard the mutter of voices from just ahead, along with

an odd whisking sound that he couldn't identify.

    He felt Kira tap his arm and, frowning, he glanced

back at her. She pantomimed a broad shrug. Of

course, he thought, with her poor hearing, she wanted

him to tell her what was going on.

    "Jem'Hadar ahead," he breathed, the barest of

whispers. It sounded far too loud to him.

    "Flee!" Snoct whimpered. The little alien turned to

run, but Worf snagged his arm with a lightning move.

    "You will be safe with us," he promised. "Stay." It

was an order, not a suggestion.

    Snoct's limbs were trembling violently, but he man-

aged a nod of assent. Worf released him, feeling a

twinge of disgust. Snoct was a coward, little better

than a spooked herd animal. Although he realized the

little alien couldn't help it--indeed, fleeing in terror

seemed to be his normal reaction to any confronta-

tion or surprise--such a response was so alien to the

Klingon way of life that Worfjust couldn't accept it.

There had to be something Snoct could do to bolster

his nerves. For now, though, it was enough that he

wasn't running down the corridor shrieking in hyster-

ical panic.

    Carefully Worf peeked around the corner. Fifty

meters away, a group of seven Jem'Hadar warriors

was strolling toward him at a leisurely pace, laughing

and joking among themselves. Worf inhaled

sharply--their clothing was anything but standard:

jungle-green kilts and leather sandals with thongs that

laced up their legs. Their chests and faces had been

painted with green geometric shapes. Strangest of all,

for weapons, the Jem'Hadar held what looked like

wooden spears. The whisking noise was them sharp-

ening the tips of those spears with stones as they

walked.

    As he watched, they reached a small side corridor.

There they all paused, and two of their number leaped

down the passage, giving that strange warbling cry. A

second cry answered from farther down that side

corridor. Another hunting party? Worf assumed so.

    A few moments later, the two rejoined their group.

They pantomimed throwing their spears with exagge-

rated hops and bounds, to the hoots and cheers of

their companions. A few Jem'Hadar now pulled small

nets from their belts and began whirling them over-

head until they made a whistling sound. The rest

cheered like it was all some wild, drunken game.

    Suddenly he realized that it was a game to them,

like Kira had said. They were hunting Snoct Sneyd for

sport. But that was only part of it. This was a bonding

ritual, a way for warriors to grow closer to one

another. Everything made sense to him now. It didn't

matter if the hunt succeeded or not--it was the act

itself that they found important.

     They gave another series of hunting calls. The

 noises were designed to spook game animals, Worf

 decided, to send them fleeing in panic. Kurn had done

 that with the brush-devil, driving it toward Worf that

 day on the Homeworld. And it was working just as

 well on Snoct.

    Satisfied he understood, Worf leaned back.

"They're trying to drive us out into the open," he said

to Kira. "They must have set a trap."

  "We can't run into it blindly," Kira said.

    "We must fight them," Worf said. He stretched,

feeling his muscles ripple like liquid durasteel. Only

seven Jem'Hadar and they looked inebriated. How

would they stand up against one sober Klingon warri-

or? Not well, he thought.

    "Not a chance!" Kira said. "That's a fast way to an

early grave."

    "They are only carrying spears and nets," he

pointed out. "We have phasers."

    "If they fail to return, dozens or perhaps hundreds

of Jem'Hadar will come looking for them."

    "I suppose you have a plan," Worf said. He readied

his phaser. "They will be here in a few moments."

    Snoct whimpered again and started edging away.

Kira reached out, grabbed his arm, and hauled him

back. Worf shook his head with distaste; Snoct had

begun shaking in fear again. He had never seen such a

cowardly creature.

    "Damn right, I have a plan," she said. "Since the

Jem'Hadar are in the access tunnels, who's going to be

outside in the ship's main corridors?" "The crew--" Worf began.

    She shook her head. "With this many people hunt-

ing for us, a skeleton crew must be running the ship.

Every off-duty Jem'Hadar is probably in on the

hunt."

    Worf pondered that for a second. It sounded rea-

sonable. Of course they would all want to take part in

the sport and the bonding ritual. He would have felt

the same way if Sisko held similar rituals aboard

DS9--which might be a good idea to suggest once

they got back.

"Where do you think we should go?" he asked.

"Back through the cleaning supply closet, assuming

we can get to it safely, and then out into the landing

bay."

 "Our ship--"

 "It's a possibility."

    "I will go first," Worf said, heading back down the

tunnel. Now that they had a plan, he could act on it.

    Periodically he glanced back to check on Kira, and

each time he found her following, still clutching

Snoct's arm in a vicelike grip. Good; she wasn't taking

any chances in letting him get away.

    At each intersection Worf paused, listening. Any

time he heard sounds of Jem'Hadar hunters, they

skirted them. Once, in a darkened section, he saw

bright lights approaching from the left. He led them

back, crouched in the recess with Kira and Snoct until

a hunting party of six Jem'Hadar passed, then led

them forward once more.

    Finally, after what seemed hours, they reached the

access panel leading to the cleaning supply closet.

Worf pressed his ear to the panel and listened in-

tently. He heard not a whisper of a sound from the

 other side; it had to be empty. Leaning his shoulder to

 the panel, he pushed until it snapped out of position,

 then slid it smoothly to the side.  "Quickly," he said.

     Kira released Snoct who promptly turned and

 bolted blindly up the corridor.

    Worf dove after him and just managed to snag the

back of the little alien's tunic. Snoct whirled, fangs

snapping, and Worf slapped him open-handed across

the face. Hissing, Snoct drew back to strike again, and

this time Worf shook him like a rag doll. He wasn't

taking any chances of getting another bite from the

little alien; once had been more than enough.

    At last Snoct went limp. A series of small sobs

shook his body.

    "It will be all right," Worf said, trying to sound

reassuring. In some ways, Snoct reminded him of his

son Alexander. He could still remember the times on

the Enterprise when Alexander had awakened scream-

ing from nightmares. Comforting his son had been a

new and somewhat awkward experience. But he had

learned the technique from necessity. "It will be all

right," Worf said again. "I will not let them hurt you."

  The warbling cries of the hunters grew louder.

  "Let me go!" Snoct whimpered. "Let me go!"

  "Not a chance," Kira said. Worfnoted idly that her

  voice held far less sympathy than his. She ducked

  through the opening into the cleaning supply closet.

  "Pass him through," she said to Worf.

    Worf, holding Snoct one-handedly by the back of

his tunic, pushed him through the opening, then when

Kira had him safely restrained, Worf climbed through

himself. Turning, he eased the access panel back into

position. When it snapped into place, the cries of the

Jem'Hadar hunters became nearly inaudible. They

were safe, at least for the moment, he decided.

    He glanced around. Nothing had changed in the

supply closet, and he still found the stench of chemi-

cals and cleaning solutions overpowering. He rubbed

his nose and tried to ignore a sudden urge to sneeze.

At least Snoct had stopped shaking, he saw, and now

huddled quietly in the center of the room. The closet

seemed to be something of a safe haven for him.

    Kira crossed to the door into the landing bay and

opened it a crack. A bright blade of light cut across the

room. Worf straightened, listening intently, but noth-

ing more than the low constant thrum of the ship's

engines reached him.

    "It's deserted," Kira said, peeking out, "exactly as

I'd hoped."

    She opened the door fully, and Worf gazed out into

the flight bay. It stretched hugely before them. Not a

single Jem'Hadar was in sight, but a new ship had

docked, he noticed. It was a small, sleek-looking white

craft with three warp nacelles over an ovoid cabin.

He'd never seen anything quite like that design be-

fore. It certainly hadn't been made in the Alpha

Quadrant.

    He noticed Kira eyeing the new ship, too. "What do

you think?" she asked softly.

     "If we can get it out..." he mused. It might be

 exactly the sort of vessel they would need to get to

 Daborat V, he realized. It looked fast. And if the

 changelings had installed one of the cloaking devices

 they'd stolen from the Romulan fleet they'd de-

 stroyed, it could well be the answer to their problems.

   "Shall we take it?" he asked.

     Kira hesitated. "Not yet," she said, "but I think it's

 going to be the safest place to hide."

     "Agreed," Worf said. The last place the Jem'Hadar

 would think to search would be another ship. "What

 about Snoct?" he asked.

    "Bring him," she said. "He wants off this ship as

badly as we do."

    "Thank you? Snoct called, leaping to his feet.

"Thank you!"

    "We will not be able to use our personal cloakers if

there are three of us," Worf pointed out. "It is a long

way across to that ship."

    "I don't think we'll need them. Cover me." Kira

took a hesitant step out from the storage room, looked

up and down the broad expanse of the landing bay,

then turned and walked with calm precision toward

the new ship.

    She reached it unchallenged, entered the open

hatch, and disappeared from sight. Worf strained to

hear. He didn't like not being able to see her.

    Snoct crowded up against him, and he let one hand

drop to the little alien's shoulder. If Snoct tried to flee

again, he'd be ready for it, he thought.

    "Let me go!" Snoct said, sounding like his old self

once more. He had completely stopped shaking.

 "Will you run?" Worf asked.

 "No."

    Worf narrowed his eyes, studying the little alien.

Snoct seemed in complete control of himself now.

How would Deanna have handled it? She would have

analyzed SnocFs motives, he thought. Undoubtedly

she would have concluded that he suffered from a

strong panic-flight impulse. Now that Snoct was no

longer confronted by an immediate threat, his ration-

al mind had resumed control. But how long would it

last? Worf wished he knew. Probably until we encoun-

ter another danger, he thought.

"Let me go, please, friend Worfl" Snoct said again.

"Very well," Worf said a little reluctantly. He

couldn't fight effectively while shepherding the little

alien anyway, and Kira might need him any second

now. "But I will be watching you," he added in his

most menacing growl.

    Kira finally reappeared in the little shuttle's open

hatch and beckoned them forward. She hadn't drawn

her weapon, he noticed, which seemed a good sign.

    "Come," Worf said. Drawing a deep breath, he

jogged away from the storage room door, heading for

the shuttle. Suddenly he realized he didn't hear

Snoct's footsteps behind him and, with a silent groan,

he glanced back.

    Calmly, the little alien was shutting the storage

room's door behind them. Worf could have slapped

himself; he should have thought to do that. When

Snoct finished, he dropped to all fours and sprinted

after Worf.

  Worf made it up the ramp and into the ship. It had

 only been a hundred meters, but he felt his heart

 racing. He would double his workouts when he got

 back to Deep Space Nine, he vowed, to get into better

 shape. A Klingon warrior's heart should be beating

 almost normally after a dash like that.

    A second later Snoct joined him. The alien panted,

long forked tongue flicking in and out between his

fangs.

  "Well?" Worf asked Kira.

    "It's perfect," she said. "This ship has the range to

make it to Daborat V and back to the Alpha Quad-

rant."

    "Do you mean to steal it or to hijack it?" Worf

asked, brow furrowing. Both possibilities had their

advantages, he thought. Hijacking the ship after it

had launched would mean fighting and prisoners. But

trying to steal it from the flight bay might be even

harder. He felt no qualms about taking the ship either

way; the Federation was at war with the Dominion,

and this would be a military action, he reasoned,

rather than theft in the traditional sense.

    "I'm not sure which would be easier," she admit-

ted. "We'll have to see what opportunities present

themselves. Our first goal remains getting safely to

Daborat V. We still have to meet Orvor there. For

now, I think we should stow away here and see what

develops."

    "By the time this ship is launched, we might be

halfway across the Gamma Quadrant!"

    "I think it's a chance we should take," Kira said.

"We can't guarantee that any Jem'Hadar ship will

land on Daborat V, but given the size and proximity

of that base, I think it's a good possibility."

    Worf considered that. True, Daborat V was an

important world in the Dominion, and it held the

largest Jem'Hadar base in this sector. Logically, it

might well be the little ship's next destination.

    "But if it is not the destination..." he began,

looking at her sharply.

    "If it's not," she said, "we'll take the ship on a little

detour. By force, if we have to."

Worf nodded. It was a good plan, he decided.

Kira led the way toward the rear of the ship. It had

been divided into three compartments, Worf saw.

Four seats occupied the smaller front compartment,

facing control panels and the broad curved viewports.

The second compartment held two long slightly

curved benches, separated by a wide aisle; the walls

were white and made of some sound-dampening

material, as were the floors and ceiling. The third

compartment held storage lockers, the warp drive,

and controls for all of the ship's other systems.

    The lockers, he saw at once, offered the most cover.

He opened the nearest one and peered inside, sniffing.

A faint odor of mold greeted him, and something had

left a greasy stain on the floor. Other than that, it was

empty. At least it was tall enough that he could

probably squeeze inside with a minimum of trouble,

he thought.

    He eased his right shoulder in, tucked down his

head, and crammed himself in as best he could. Kira

pushed until the door shut and the latch clicked. He

could see out a little bit through the narrow ventila-

tion grills cut into the metal. "How is it?" she asked.

    "Bearable," he said. He wouldn't want to spend

much time locked in here, though.

    Suddenly Snoct Sneyd dashed into the rear of the

shuttle. "They're coming!" he shouted in near hyster-

ia. "They're coming!"

 "Who?" Worf demanded through the locker.

 "Jem'Hadar!"

    "Stay inside, Worf," Kira said to him. 'Tll get

Snoct out of sight and hide myself. This could be it!"

    "Hurry," he told her. He dropped his hand to his

phaser. If she couldn't get under cover in time, he

would leap out to help defend her.

    He watched through the vents as she forced Snoct

into another empty locker, then climbed into one

herself and shut the door.

    She barely made it in time. Worf discovered he

could see about half of the passenger section and a

third of the cabin where the pilots sat, if he pushed

himself all the way back against the far wall of the

locker. He felt the metal start to bend beneath him

and forced himself to relax. This was going to be a

long trip, he told himself. He wasn't looking forward

to it. Already his muscles had begun to ache from

confinement.

    One by one he began to tense his muscles, going

through an ancient Klingon exercise designed to keep

his body from stiffening up. It was the only thing he

could think of that might keep him fighting fit while

crammed in such a tight space.

    From her locker, Kira had a clear view all the way

to the front of the little ship. She watched with

growing uneasiness as first one, then another, then a

third Jem'Hadar entered. Two slipped at once into the

pilot and copilot seats. The third turned to gaze

outside at whoever was coming up the ramp next.

    Great, she thought, it looks like we're going to have a

large traveling party. Had she been insane, suggesting

they try to hijack this ship?

    But instead of more Jem'Hadar, a pair of change-

lings climbed aboard... and the second one, she was

shocked to find, was Odo.

CHAPTER

      18

AT ~530 HOURS, Captain Sisko walked into the negoti-

ation room again. Ambassador T'Pao had called him

in his office and asked him to join them once more.

"All matters of protocol have been settled," she had

reported.

     "Excellent," he had said. "I take it the Valtusian

and Maquis ambassadors have also been notified?"

  "Of course."

 "I'll be right there."

    When he walked into the room, Ambassador Zhosh

was speaking. Sisko felt a brief stab of disappoint-

ment that they hadn't waited for him, but just as

quickly he realized how silly that was. He had no

official standing here; they didn't have to wait for

him. Sliding into his chair, he gave T'Pao a brief nod.

  "--will create a self-governing buffer zone for the

disputed worlds," Ambassador Zhosh was saying.

"Neither the Federation nor the Cardassians will have

jurisdiction here. The Maquis will be transformed

from a military agency to a political one, under the

supervision of both the Federation and Cardassia,

with duties that include policing their own worlds."

    "A bold idea," Harold Strockman said from the

Federation side of the table.

    "Indeed," Gul Mekkar said, "but I fail to see why

Cardassia should be the only one to give up anything

in such negotiations. These are our worlds, in an area

of space which is under Cardassian rule."

    "They are our worlds!" Ambassador Twofeathers

cried, leaping to his feet. "We never asked for Cardas-

sian rule!"

    "But," said Mekkar, a trifle smugly Sisko thought,

"you are Cardassian citizens now."

    "Please." Ambassador Zhosh looked at each side

with one eye. "Resume your seats. We have not yet

finished."

    Reluctantly, it seemed, both Mekkar and Twofeath-

ers sat. There was no love lost between that pair, Sisko

thought. Both of them glared across the table at each

other.

    "Observe," Zhosh said. He touched the terminal in

front of him with one claw, and a holographic map of

the Maquis worlds appeared over the center of the

table. "This is the disputed territory," the ambassa-

dor said, and a section of space took on a pink glow: a

long ribbon encompassing perhaps a hundred star

systems. "In the greater scheme of things, it is a minor

amount of territory to either the Federation or the

Cardassian empire. We are proposing that the Federa-

tion also cede the following territory." Another rib-

bon, colored blue and of approximately equal size to

the pink territories already marked, appeared along-

side the Maquis space. "As you can see, both the

Federation and Cardassia would be surrendering

equal territory to create this independent buffer

state."

    Sisko glanced at the Federation ambassadors. No

emotions showed on T'Pao's face, but disapproval

was plain on Strockman's and DuQuesne's faces. This

was a surprise to them, he realized. It had never

occurred to them that the Valtusians might ask the

Federation to give up yet more territory in the name

of peace.

    "An interesting idea," Mekkar said loudly, "but

one cannot help but wonder what this buffer state

would do once its independence is granted. What

would stop them from joining the Federation? And

what would prevent the Federation from simply an-

nexing them again? No, it seems to me that there are

many problems to work out."

    "I'm not sure the Federation would be willing to

grant additional territory to this buffer state,"

DuQuesne said. "The problems--"

    "Are solvable," Ambassador Zhosh said. "Let us

proceed under the assumption that both the Federa-

tion and Cardassia are willing to create this buffer

state."

  "A large assumption," Strockman grumbled.

 "But you may proceed," T'Pao said.

    Zhosh bowed to her. "The Maquis worlds will gain

independence," he went on, "but in return will sign

military alliance treaties with both Cardassia and the

Federation. If either side attacks or encroaches on-

to their space, the other side will retaliate. They will

be free to trade with both sides. In fact, they will be

free... period."

"I like it," Twofeathers said softly. "It could work."

Sisko found himself nodding. It just might be the

solution to all of their problems, he thought. The

Maquis drained resources that were badly needed

elsewhere, and the Klingons posed a much bigger

threat to Cardassia right now. If the Depta Council,

Cardassia's ruling civilian government, could see fit

to surrender the territory--and having the Federa-

tion surrender a comparable adjacent territory was a

stroke of genius--then he saw no obstacle to finally

bringing peace to the Maquis worlds.

    Julian Bashir trailed Vedek Werron through the

bustle of the Promenade. Weaving around a pair of

Andorians, darting past a group of Klingons window-

shopping at a store selling swords and knives, he kept

his target in sight at all times. He felt like a spy

shadowing a suspect in one of the holosuite programs

he often enjoyed at Quark's. They had been good

training. for his present mission, he decided. Luckily

the Promenade was crowded; he had no trouble

ducking out of sight every time Werron paused or

glanced around.

    He herted the package he carried inconspicuously

under one arm. The real trick would be getting a

sample cell from the Vedek without him noticing.

    Two Bajorans suddenly joined Werron, and they

paused to talk in the middle of the Promenade. Bashir

ducked into the nearest doorway--Garak's tailor

shop, as it turned out. He almost bumped into Garak

in his haste. The Cardassian was just locking the

doors.

    "Why, Julian," Garak said. "I didn't see you there.

Won't you come in?"

    "Uh, certainly," Bashir said, peering around the

corner. Three more Bajorans had joined Werron, and

the six of them were talking animatedly among them-

selves. What were they saying? He tried to read their

lips, but couldn't make out more than a few syllables.

    "I just got in a shipment of the most delightful

Oslan silks," Garak said. "I hadn't realized word

would spread so quickly. That is what brings you here

on such a fine day, isn't it? And who are those people

you're watching?"

    "Every day is like any other day on a space station,"

Bashir said, only half listening. He had to keep his

mind on his mission, he reminded himself; Garak

might well play a mild-mannered tailor, but he was a

veteran of the Obsidian Order. "The environmental

controls don't change much, remember?"

    "It's a fine day," Garak said expansively, "because

I've had a sudden influx of Cardassian customers, all

with fresh gossip from home. Business is so good, in

fact, that I'm closing early. I'm only going to stay open

for paying customers. I believe you said you were

interested in a new suit made of Oslan silks?"

    "Huh?" What was Garak nattering on about?

Bashir forced his attention back to the Cardassian. "A

new suit?"

    Garak indicated a headless mannequin just inside

the door. It had on a gaudy green tunic with large and

rather revealing holes sewn in the front and sides. It

looked like nothing so much as a gigantic green Swiss

cheese, Bashit thought.

 "It's perfect for a doctor," Garak said with a smile.

 "It's so... revealing," Bashir said.

    "All your patients will see how healthy you are,

which in turn will give them greater faith in your

medical abilities."

    "Uh... I'll have to think about it." He leaned

forward and glanced up the Promenade. Werron was

gazing in his direction. Gulping, Bashit ducked back

out of sight. What would a real spy do in a situation

like this?

    Garak folded his arms. "We don't allow loitering in

this shop," he said a little sternly. "I'm afraid you're

going to have to leave if you're not shopping, Doctor.

I do want to close up."

  "I, uh, just wanted to talk," Bashir said.

    "That's different, of course. Perhaps you'd care to

join me in Quark's for a drink?"

    Bashir risked another glance around the corner.

Werron and the other Bajorans were heading into

Quark's, he saw. He'd have to follow them, and Garak

might provide him with the perfect cover.

    "Good idea," he said. "I could use a drink just

now."

    "Excellent." Garak locked his shop's door, then set

off for the bar with Bashir. "What's in the package.9"

he asked idly, trying to peek in.

    Bashir shifted it to his other arm. "A present for my

mother," he said.

  "It looks heavy."

  "Not really."

    "Exotic Bajoran spices?" he guessed. "Or Selusian

Bakkao?"

    Bashir sighed. Would Garak's questions never

cease?

    "If you must know," he said, "it's really a DNA

scanner. It's supposed to be a secret. I'm writing a

paper on it."

    "If you don't want me prying into your secrets,

Doctor," Garak said, grinning a little too widely, 'TU

back off. But you can tell me, is it something Quark

got for you? Something, perhaps, Romulan in or-

igin?"

    Bashir sighed. He'd told the truth and Garak still

didn't believe him. Well, there wasn't anything he

could do about it now.

    He led the way into Quark's. This early in the day,

the place was only half full. As he gazed about, Bashir

saw no sign of last night's brawl. All the tables and

chairs had returned to their normal places, and as

always patrons sat or stood at the bar or crossed the

walkway overhead to the holosuites.

 Werron sat at a round table in the center of the

room with the five other Bajorans. As Bashir watched,

another Bajoran joined them. They seemed to be

earnestly discussing something. Probably plotting to

disrupt the negotiations, he thought.

    "Your mother wouldn't happen to be visiting the

Bajorans at that table, would she?" Garak asked

pointedly.

    Bashit blushed; he was being too obvious, he real-

ized. He selected a nearby table and sat, dropping the

package on the chair next to him.

    Rom hurried over. "What can I get you today?" he

asked.

  "Apple juice," Bashir said.

    "Oh, Doctor," Garak said. "One might almost

think you were working. Synthale for me, Rom."

    "Coming right up," Rom said, and he hurried to

the bar.

    "What would you do," Bashir asked Garak, "if you

needed to get a cell sample from someone without

their knowing it? Theoretically, of course," he added

hastily. No sense giving anything away, after all.

  "Theoretically? And just one cell?"

  "That's all I need."

      "Hmm." Garak leaned back, considering. "It's not

a subject a tailor would know a lot about, of course."

  "Of course."

    "But I'd say get the Bajoran's glass when he's done

with it. He may well leave a skin cell on it. I assume

you'd rather do that than break into his quarters and

look for stray hair follicles."

  "Uh, yes," Bashir said. He glanced over at Werron,

who was drinking something from a large silver

goblet. As he watched, the Vedek drained the goblet

and called for more. One of the Dabo girls, working

the tables as a waitress, hurried to get it for him.

  Rom arrived with their drinks.

  "Can you do me a favor?" Bashir asked him.

    "Yes," Rom said. "And I can get it wholesale, the

same as Quark."

    Wholesale? Bashir shook his head, suddenly realiz-

ing what the Ferengi meant. "Not a new holosuite

program," he said. "I want the Vedek's glass from that

table over there."

  "Vedek Werron?" Rom asked in a loud voice.

  Bashir winced. "Keep it down!" he whispered.

    "Oh, sorry," Rom said in softer tones. "Do you

want to buy it? Or just rent it?"

    "Uh, rent it, I guess." He shot Garak a quick

glance, but the Cardassian's eyes were on the gam-

bling tables just then.

    "I'11 put it on your tab." Rom headed for Werron's

table.

    Bashir watched from the corner of his eye as Rom

collected all the empties. Bashir winced a bit as the

Ferengi touched the Vedek's goblet. It shouldn't make

any difference, he told himself. His scanner could tell

Ferengi from Bajoran DNA easily enough. Then to his

surprise Rom carried the tray of glasses toward the

bar.

    Twisting around in his seat, Bashir watched Rom's

progress. He dumped all the empties except Werron's

into the sanitizer. Calmly, he rinsed and then wiped

clean the Vedek's goblet before putting it on a new

tray and carrying it triumphantly out to Bashir.

    Bashir groaned. "You weren't supposed to wash it!"

he said as Rom set it before him.

    "You wanted a dirty goblet?" Rom protested. "You

never said you wanted a dirty goblet!"

    "Yes, well, don't worry about it," Bashir said. "Just

take it away!"

 "What about the fee?"

 "You can still add it to my tab."

    Scooping up the goblet, Rom hurried off to take

another table's order. "Crazy hu-mans!" Bashir heard

him muttering.

 "So much for that idea," Garak said.

    "I have another one, though." Bashir raised his

hand and motioned to Rom again, and in a couple of

seconds the Ferengi returned.

    "What is it this time, Doctor?" Rom asked, bob-

bing his head nervously. "Another goblet? This one

dirty?"

    "What are the Bajorans at the Vedek's table drink-

ing?" he asked.

      Rom glanced over at Werron and his group.

"Bajoran spiced ale," he said.  "Thanks," he said.

    Standing, he pulled out his medical tricorder, ad-

justed the settings to give a contaminated readout of

whatever it scanned, and headed for the Vedek's table.

    "Excuse me," he said, "but are you drinking

Bajoran spiced ale, by any chance? There's been some

trouble with it here."

    "What kind of trouble?" one of the Bajorans said.

He had a half-empty glass in front of him.

    "Some slight chance of contamination," Bashir

said quickly. "Nothing to be concerned about, of

course, if proper precautions are taken--"

    Two of the Bajorans leaped to their feet. One

grabbed Rom by the front of his shirt and lifted him

halfa meter off the floor. "What's this about bad ale?"

he demanded.

    "It's from a replicator!" Rom cried. "It's not bad!

There's nothing wrong with it!"

    "That's not what my tricorder says," Bashir said,

raising it slightly.

    "What's all this?" Quark demanded, hurrying over

from the bar.

    "You're serving bad ale!" another of the Bajorans

roared. He shook his fist in Quark's face. "What's the

idea, you Ferengi worm?"

     "I don't know what you're talking about," Quark

snapped back. "Who started this unfounded rumor?"

  "Him!" They all pointed at Bashir.

    Bashir swallowed and looked around. An unnatural

silence had settled over the bar. Everyone in the place

had turned to stare at him. He looked at Garak

helplessly, but the Cardassian wore an amused ex-

pression.

    Bashir scanned the nearest goblet of Bajoran spiced

ale, then turned the readouts so Quark could see

them. They blinked bright red, warning of contamina-

tion.

 "My tricorderm" Bashir began.

    Quark snatched it from his hand. "--is malfunc-

tioning," he said. He gave a nervous laugh as he

passed it to Rom.

    "It's set wrong," Rom said. He adjusted the con-

trols, scanned the ale again, and passed it to the

Bajoran who had been threatening him.

    The Bajoran nodded. "There's nothing wrong with

it," he admitted.

    "False alarm!" Quark shouted so everyone in the

room could hear. Bashir glanced around. Everyone

seemed to be relaxing again. "Nothing's wrong with

the ale! To celebrate, we'll take five percent off the

price of all drinks for the next ten minutes!"

    People began calling orders to Rom, and Quark

hurried back to the bar to fill them. Bashir couldn't

miss the dirty look the little Ferengi shot him.

    "Thank you for your concern, Doctor," edek

Werron said. "I appreciate the warning you tried to

give."

    "Of course," Bashir said. "I'm sorry for the, uh,

mistake." He hurried back to his table. His cheeks

were burning. If he were a dog, he thought, his tail

would be firmly between his legs.

    "My plan didn't work," he said to Garak as he slid

into his seat. He stared down at his apple juice,

brooding on the problem. }low was he going to get a

cell or a sample of Werron's blood now?

    "Don't look," Garak said, "but your Bajorans are

leaving the bar."

    "What!" Bashir glanced up. Sure enough, the seven

of them had risen from their table and begun settling

their bill. Perhaps he'd put a scare into them, he

thought. Damn it, he'd have to act before they got

away. At least Werron brought up the rear.

    "May I suggest a more direct approach?" Garak

said.

  "What do you mean?"

    "If it were me, I'd simply walk up to him on some

pretext and take a sample of his blood."

    "Brilliant," Bashir breathed. The utter simplicity of

it all. It could actually work. Just do it, part of him

said. What could Vedek Werron do after the fact?

    "Excuse me," he said, sliding from his seat. He

drew a hypo, cut across the room, and reached the

door just as Werron was leaving.

    He bumped Werron hard from behind, taking his

sample from the Bajoran's arm. The hypo made the

faintest of hisses.

    "Excuse me," Bashir said. "Very sorry, Vedek." He

tried to tuck the hypo up his sleeve. Hopefully the

Bajoran hadn't felt the tiny, almost unnoticeable little

sting from taking the blood sample.

 Werron whirled and caught Bashir's hand.

    "What by the Prophets do you think you're doing?"

he demanded. "What did you just inject me with,

Doctor?"

    "Inject... no, I took a sample of blood!" Bashir

said. He'd put his foot in it now, he realized. The

Vedek thought he was trying to assassinate him.

  "Why?" Werron demanded, eyes hard.

    "Uh... testing for Xolon poisoning?" Bashir sug-

gested. He held the hypo up and swirled it gently. The

blood inside remained a dark red which meant Wer-

ron wasn't a changeling. I was so sure, he thought.

    He met the Vedek's gaze. Rage had contorted

Werron's face, and those piercing green eyes seemed

to bore into Bashir.

    "What's wrong?" the other Bajorans were saying,

gathering around the Vedek.

    "He," Werron said, pointing, "stabbed me with a

needle and took a sample of my blood!"

    "There are no needles in hyposprays," Bashir said,

swallowing frantically. He began to back into the bar

and suddenly found himself trodding on toes.

     "What's going on?" another Bajoran voice asked.

"Vedek? Are you all right?" "No," Werron said.

    Strong hands seized Bashir's arms from behind.

Bashir tried to wrench free, but couldn't. The circle

around him was closing in. Gulping, he felt a surge of

panic. He should have known better than to listen to

Garak's mad plan. How was he going to get out of

this?

CHAPTER

      19

WATCHING FROM THE safety of her locker, Kira didn't

know what to do. Odo's presence complicated things.

Worst of all, he appeared to be cooperating com-

pletely with the changeling and the Jem'Hadar. Had

he gone over to the other side? They'd only been apart

for a day. She didn't think so, but it had to remain a

possibility. It might explain the hunt for them in the

access corridors.

    No sense getting paranoid, she told herself. Snoct

said those hunts happened all the time. Our presence is

just a coincidence.

    Finally she decided to trust her instincts. Odo had

always been a friend. He wouldn't betray them.

    The ship's engines powered up, and she felt them

lift from the landing bay's deck. She watched the

Jem'Hadar pilots bring them around, then fly out,

passing through the series of force fields that served as

the giant landing bay's airlock. Then they were out-

side, and as soon as they were a safe distance out, they

went to warp. She saw stars streaking past on the

forward viewscreen.

    Odo continued to stand in front with the changeling

and the Jem'Hadar pilots. He was chatting with them,

but she couldn't make out the words. If only he'd face

her for a minute.

    Finally he turned. None of the others were

looking--this was her chance.

    Opening the locker, she leaned out and waved. He

must have seen her, she thought, but he gave no sign

of it. Which meant he hadn't betrayed them.

    A few minutes later, he wandered toward the back

of the ship with the other changeling.

    "This is an interesting vessel," she heard him

saying. "I've never seen anything like it. What kind is

it?"

    "The first of the new Jakar-class," the changeling

said. "It's a prototype from the shipyards in orbit

around Octyne III. We'll stop there, if you like."

    "If you don't mind, I would like to examine the

engines more closely."

    The changeling gestured magnanimously. "Of

course, Odo. Your own people have no secrets from

you."

    "I'm sure," Odo said dryly. Turning, he headed into

the aft compartment. Kira watched through the venti-

lation slits in the storage compartment. Fortunately,

the other changeling didn't follow.

    Odo approached the warp engines. He seemed

completely fascinated by them, Kira thought, study-

ing them like an engineer on an inspection circuit.

    Finally Kira decided he was close enough to risk

trying to talk with him. She pressed her lips close to

the air vents and whispered, "Odo, it's me, Kira."

    "I saw you," he whispered back. "Is Worf aboard,

too?"

    "Yes," she said. "When are we going to land on

Daborat V?"

    "It's our second stop," Odo said, "after the energy

conversion complex at Skovar VI. Have patience. I'll

do the best I can to get you out safely when we reach

the planet."

  "All right," Kira said.

    She sank back as Odo, finishing his inspection,

returned to the front of the ship. This was going to be

a long journey, she thought. Already her muscles were

starting to tense up a bit from being in such a confined

space. She shifted uncomfortably. It had to be ten

times worse for Worf because of his size. She just

hoped he and Snoct Sneyd could hold out until they

made planetfall. Still, perhaps they'd have a chance to

stretch when they landed on Skovar VI.

    Kira spent the next few hours dozing, trying to

make the time pass more quickly. When the tenor of

the engines changed suddenly, though, she snapped

awake. Something had happened, she realized.

 She lowered her head and peered out the air vents.

Through the forward viewports she could just make

out a planet. They must have arrived, she realized.

    She twisted a little, trying to relieve her aching

muscles, and bumped the locker's door hard with her

left knee. The thump sounded loud in the confined

space, but neither the Jem'Hadar nor the changeling

turned around.

    They entered the atmosphere. It was a class-M

planet, Kira rapidly realized, as they pierced the

dense layer of clouds covering the surface and tower-

ing green forests appeared.

    When buildings appeared on the horizon, they

landed smoothly, and the side hatch popped open.

She heard the ramp extending to the ground outside.

    A sudden banging sound close by startled her.

Worf? No, she realized, as Snoct Sneyd burst into

view, it was the little alien. He made a mad dash for

the hatch.

    One of the Jem'Hadar leaped forward and seized

Snoct by the back of the neck. Snoct whipped around

and tried to sink his fangs into the warrior's arm, but

the Jem'Hadar hit him twice with a rocklike fist.

Snoct sagged a little, hissing.

"What is this creature?" the changeling asked.

"An Iffalian," said one of the pilots. He told briefly

how the little alien had sneaked onto their ship. "We

have been hunting it for several months for sport," he

concluded.

 "Dispose of it," said the changeling.

    The Jem'Hadar holding Snoct reached down and

drew his sidearm.

    When Snoct Sneyd let out a plaintive whimper, the

breath caught in Kira's throat. How could the change-

ling order a murder so callously? Snoct was sentient.

They couldn't just shoot him.

    Instinctively she reached for her phaser. She wasn't

going to sit here while someone she knew was butch-

ered. Not when she could do something about it.

    "Wait!" cried Odo, gazing from the changeling to

Snoct Sneyd. "You can't kill an intelligent creature

like that!"

    Kira relaxed a little. Maybe she wouldn't have to

act, she thought.

    "Intelligent?" the changeling said with a sneer. "A

truly intelligent being would have escaped long ago.

No, Odo, you need to learn how we do things in the

Gamma Quadrant." He nodded to the Jem'Hadar.

"Proceed."

  The Jem'Hadar raised their weapons to fire.

    Time to act. Kira burst from her locker, phaser

firing. She liked the little fellow too much to stand by

and let him be executed.

CHAPTER

      2O

As THE CIRCLE of angry Bajorans closed around him,

Basbir realized he only had one defense--the truth.

    "I needed a sample of your blood," he blurted out

to Werron, "to verify that you were not a changeling

infiltrating the station from the Gamma Quadrant."

He held up the vial. "You've just been cleared; you're

Bajoran."

    Werron paused and held up one hand for the vial.

Bashir felt a quick wave of relief as the Vedek's

followers released him. He handed the vial over.

    "I fail to understand," Werron said slowly, staring

at his blood, "why you'd think I might be a changeling

infiltrator."

    "You appeared suddenly a year ago as a public

figure after twenty years of near invisibility."

 "It was the will of the Prophets."

    "And then there were your attacks on Gul

Mekkar--"

    Werron's face twisted with rage. "Those are right-

eous attacks! He is the Butcher of Belmast! We must

be avenged!"

    "That may be," Bashir said quickly. No sense

upsetting him more. "But we think the changelings

want this conference stopped. What better way than

to have one of the chief negotiators removed?"

    "A better way," Werron said, "would be to infiltrate

one of the negotiating teams."

  "We already thought of that," Bashir said.

    "It all makes sense," Werron said slowly. He turned

to his followers, and Bashir thought he saw a vengeful

gleam in the Vedek's eye as he loudly announced,

"The Cardassian war criminal Gul Mekkar, the

Butcher of Belmast, is a changeling!"

    "But I tested Mekkar's blood!" Bashit protested

from behind him. There wasn't any possibility of the

Cardassian being a changeling.

    "But," said Werron, turning back to him, "is there

any way to tell if the results might have somehow been

faked? Can you say in all certainty that he couldn't

have found some way around your little test?"

    Bashir drew himself up. "I designed the DNA

scanner myself," he said. "I tested everyone in the

Cardassian delegation. They all passed. Just as the

altusians, the Maquis, and the Federation ambassa-

dors passed."

  "But couldn't they have found a way to fool your

screening method?" Werron prodded. "Couldn't they

have found some trick to get around it?"

    Bashir hesitated. He couldn't think of a way, but

that didn't mean one didn't exist... did it? Even if it

was a slender possibility.

 "Perhaps," he admitted.

    Werron smiled serenely. "That," he said, "is all I

wanted to know."

    Benjamin Sisko sighed. He wished he could cover

his ears to shut out the noise, but he knew everyone in

the room--Cardassians, Humans, and Valtusians

alike--would take affront at the gesture. He wanted

them united but not united against him.

    "Paragraph one, subsection three," Gul Mekkar

said in a loud voice and for the fourth time, "remains

utterly unacceptable."

    They were going through the Valtusian peace pro-

posal line by line now, arguing over language, inter-

pretation, and consequences. In short, they were

bickering.

    "I suppose you'd like to simply clear out all the

human settlers," the Maquis representative said with

a sneer. "Just ship us off to work camps, like you did

with Bajoran troublemakers, while you rape our

worlds, too!"

    "Bajor got what it deserved!" Mekkar roared, plac-

ing his fists on the table and half rising from his seat.

"The only way to deal with terrorists is with total,

ruthless, merciless force! The old ways handled trou-

blemakers just fine!"

    Sisko leaped to his feet. "Enough!" he cried. He had

never seen such a pack of spoiled children. "Let's take

a half hour break to cool our heads. This meeting is

recessed."

    Sisko stalked from the room. He wanted to pound

the walls with his fists. Of all the obstructionist, petty,

and stupid things that had been going on throughout

these negotiations, Gul Mekkar's latest demands took

top prize. How could he even hope for peace with such

inflexible demands? And the Federation negotiators

weren't much better.

    He turned and headed for the turbolift. An hour...

it wouldn't be nearly enough time, he thought, for

them to get over their petty, demanding ways. At this

rate, it would take years to settle the Maquis problem.

    The turbolift doors opened; he got in. "Ops," he

said.

    He rode in silence, reflecting on everything that had

happened. Hopefully Kira, Worf, and Odo were hav-

ing better luck, he thought. If their mission succeeded,

the urgency of settling the Maquis problem would be

over, and then the Cardassians could stop trying to

use it as an edge in the negotiating process.

    When the lift doors opened, he stepped out and

surveyed Ops with an experienced eye. Everything

seemed normal here, he thought. All the stations were

manned, and nobody seemed to be running around in

a panic. He nodded. At least he could count on his

people to keep things running in times like these,

when he was too occupied to keep up on DS9's day-

by-day operations.

    Dax spotted him and hurried over. She had a half

smile on her face that Sisko recognized as trouble. He

gave an inward groan. What now?

    "What is it, Dax?" he asked. "Riots on the Prome-

nade? Bajoran terrorists threatening to blow up Gul

Mekkar and his delegation?"

    "Worse," she said. "Vedek Werron and Dr. Bashir

are waiting for you in your office."

    It was, Sisko decided, one of those days where

nothing went right. He'd hoped to avoid meeting with

Werron; his fanatical politics went beyond even Kai

Winn's.

 "Thanks," he said. "Any other bad news?"

    "No," she said with another smile. "But I'U let you

know."

    Shaking his head, he headed for his office. As the

door opened, he found Bashir perched on the corner

of his desk talking to Werron, who sat in one of the

two chairs. Bashir leaped to his feet, looking guilty.

Good, Sisko thought, but he didn't let that show.

    "It's nice to meet with you again, Vedek Werron,"

Sisko said, nodding politely to the Bajoran.

 "I feet the same way, Emissary," Werron said.

    "I am afraid I have a very hectic schedule. I am still

looking into Gul Mekkar's history, so I have nothing

to report on that front, if that's why you're here."

  "It's not," Werron said.

    Sisko nodded. He'd suspected as much. "Very

well," he said. "I can only spare you a few minutes,

however. Do you mind if we dispense with formalities

and come right to the point?"

    Werron frowned a little, and for a second Sisko

thought he might have offended him. But then Wer-

ron too nodded.

  "I think that may be best," he said.

    Sisko listened intently as Werron argued that Mek-

kar must be a changeling infiltrator. Sisko didn't

believe it for an instant himself, considering how all

the ambassadors had passed Bashir's surprise DNA

scans, but he allowed himself to accept the idea for an

instant. If Mekkar had been replaced, might that not

explain his constant delays and incessant demands?

Several times now they had almost thrown the negoti-

ations off track.

    "It occurred to me," Bashir said, "that one or more

of the ambassadors might have been replaced after we

scanned them."

    "They've been under such close supervision," Sisko

began, shaking his head, "that I find the possibility

difficult to believe."

    "Then explain this to me," Werron said. "Why

would a notorious war criminal like Mekkar return to

Bajoran space? The real Mekkar would never have

dared such a thing. The real Mekkar would have

known we would find some way to bring him to

justice."

    That argument did make a certain amount of sense,

Sisko thought. He reflected for a moment on the

possibility and had to admit that, remote as it

seemed, it still worried him. He frowned. Perhaps he

could turn it to his advantage, though. Werron

seemed determined that Gul Mekkar had to be guilty

of something.

  "You're certain he is a changeling?" Sisko said.

    "Yes," Werron said firmly. "I would stake my

reputation on it."

    "You just have," Sisko finally said. "We will test

Gut Mekkar. However," he added, "if Mekkar and

the other Cardassian delegates turn out to be real

Cardassians, I will ask you and your followers to leave

the station until the negotiations are over."

"And if they're changelings?" Werron demanded.

"If they're changelings, you'll be a hero," Sisko

said. Playing to a Vedek's vanity had often worked for

him in the past. "You'll be the one who uncovered the

plot, when all of Starfleet couldn't."

Werron mulled that over. "Agreed," he finally said.

Sisko rose. "Very well. If you'll leave Dr. Bashir

with me to make the arrangements, we'll contact you

as soon as we're ready to begin. You do, I trust, want

to be present when the tests are carried out."

    "Yes." Werron turned and strode purposefully from

the room. Sisko thought he detected a bit of a strut in

the Bajoran's walk.

    "Are you sure this is a good idea?" Bashir asked as

soon as they were alone.

    "You tell me, Doctor," Sisko said. "You brought

Werron here, remember?"

    Bashir sighed and shook his head a little ruefully.

"He had me half believing Gul Mekkar had somehow

slipped past my DNA scan," he admitted. "I kept

trying to picture ways the delegates might have fooled

my equipment."

    "And did they?" Sisko asked. He wanted to know

the truth, no matter how painful to Bashir.

    "I just don't know anymore," the doctor said with a

helpless shrug. "Are you really going to test Mekkar

again? Singling him out may simply enrage him

further."

    "I realize that. Which is why I intend to test all the

delegates again." Sisko leaned back. "And this time,"

he went on, "you're going to take blood tests as well as

DNA tests, just to make certain. And when none of

them turns out to be a changeling, I'll have Werron--

and all the other Bajoran troublemakersmoff this

station for the duration of the peace conference,

which will be a load off of everyone's mind."

CHAPTER

      21

WORF BURST FROM his locker the moment he heard

the changeling give the order for Snoct's execution.

Blood roaring in his ears, he dove forward, phaser

firing.

    Some distant and more primitive part of him

thought, this was what a Klingon lived for, the

may'boq--the battle fever that came with fighting. It

sent his emotions soaring and filled his body with an

almost electric energy.

    His first shot hit the Jem'Hadar holding Snoct by

the back of the neck.

    The universe seemed to be slowing down around

him, Worf thought. He felt the thudding rhythm of his

heart pumping blood in his chest. Colors blared with

vibrant energy as his sight narrowed to the targets

ahead of him.

    He fired his phaser a second time, jagging to the

side. The second Jem'Hadar warrior began to crum-

ple. Then Worf fired at the copilot, who dodged,

drawing his own weapon. As the pilot started to aim,

Worf dove toward the floor. If he could get under his

guard long enough to fire a second shot...

    The changeling began to shimmer with a strange

golden light, body rippling like wind on a lake. He was

shape-shifting, Worf realized. He hesitated a fraction

of an instant, torn between two targets. Go for the

Jem'Hadar, a voice inside him said.

    A phaser blast from behind Worf struck the copilot

in the chest, throwing him back against the bulkhead

with a thud. That shot had come from Kira, Worf

realized.

    Worf turned his dive into a forward roll, coming up

in a kneeling position. He snapped off his third shot,

striking the changeling, but it didn't seem to have any

effect. He would be a more difficult target, Worf

realized, climbing to his feet.

    The changeling returned to humanoid form and

folded his arms. He regarded Worf with an expression

of intense curiosity.

"A Klingon," he heard it murmur. "Superb."

The may'boq began to pass, and the room dropped

back into normal focus again. Worf frowned, trying to

think. It was hard after the battle fever. He still heard

a faint murmur of blood in his ears, and it left him

charged for combat.

    "Thank you!" Snoct Sneyd called in a shrill voice.

"Good friends!"

    "Idiot," Kira snapped at the little alien. She stalked

forward and pushed the pilot's body out of the way,

then slid into his seat. Worfkept his phaser trained on

the changeling, covering her. She began taking read-

ings off the instruments.

    The changeling didn't seem to be making any

hostile moves, so Worf took a final cleansing breath

and walked forward as normally as he could. It felt

good to have stretched his battle muscles, but the

changeling represented a huge problem for him. What

would Captain Picard have done? Better still, what

would Captain Sisko do?

    Delegate, he thought with a mental cry of triumph.

Both captains had different strengths, but one trait

they shared was the ability to let others pitch in and

help.

    "Odo," Worf said, "what do you recommend we do

with the prisoners?"

    "There's only one who matters," Odo said, looking

at the changeling next to him.

    "Then you have learned something from our time

together," the changeling said smoothly. "There are

only two of them, Odo. Help me capture them. The

Alpha Quadrant can be yours, too."

    The changeling began to shapeshift, and Worf

snapped up his phaser, thumbing the controls to a

lethal setting. Would it be enough?

 Then Odo stepped between them.

    "No," he said to the changeling. "I have rejected all

you stand for. These are my friends. I won't betray

them."

    The changeling slowly returned to his normal hu-

manoid form. "You are still young, Odo, but you will

only have so many chances to rejoin your people."

  'Tve made my decision," Odo said firmly.

  "Perhaps you will regret it." Worf thought he heard

  a note of disapproval mixed with disappointment in

  that smooth, alien voice. "No true changeling has ever

  harmed another. I will not fight you over two solids.

  You are truly not one of us, Odo. Perhaps something

  will be done about that."

    Odo seemed to relax a little. "You will not be

injured," Odo promised.

    "Unless you try to fight or escape," Worf added. No

sense making their intentions unclear, he thought.

Odo might have qualms about hurting a fellow

changeling, but he didn't. He was more than ready to

meet any danger this one posed.

    The changeling inclined his head slightly. "Then I

will rest." He swirled into a new shape, a gracefully

sculpted mound with the faintest hint of head and

arms, and solidified in that form.

    Worf stared at him distrustfully for a second. How

could you guard against something like that sneaking

up on you? You couldn't, he realized. He'd have to

rely on Odo to keep the changeling under control.

    But that still left the three unconscious Jem'Hadar

to worry about. They, at least, offered no real threat at

the moment. But they would be regaining conscious-

ness soon, and he wanted to be ready.

    "I have cord in my pack," he said to Snoct Sneyd.

"Get it and we will tie them up."

    "Gladly!" the little alien said. It scampered to the

back of the shuttle on all fours.

    Worf seized the first Jem'Hadar he'd shot and

dragged him into the middle section of the ship. In a

moment Snoct Sneyd rejoined him with a coil of light

rope. Worf drew his knife, cut a length, and began

binding the warrior's hands behind his back.

    Kira lifted the ship from the spaceport and headed

east at top speed. They couldn't very well take the

Jem'Hadar or the changeling with them to Daborat V,

she thought, so they'd have to dump them somewhere

out of the way.

    Calling up the planetary survey on the ship's com-

puter, she studied the information. The colonization

of Skovar IV hadn't been completed, she saw; the

large southern continent on the other side of the

planet hadn't been settled yet. That should do nicely.

What better place to leave them? The changeling

would, of course, make it back to civilization in less

than a week. All he had to do was turn into a fish and

swim or a bird and fly. But that would give them all

the time they needed to get to Daborat V and finish

their mission.

    She punched in the destination coordinates and

activated the autopilot. Now, she thought, rising and

heading aft, to see about helping Worf...

    Half an hour later, the great southern continent

came up below them. Kira took back control and

slowed the ship, scanning the shoreline for a suitable

landing place. She didn't see one. Huge waves

pounded against jagged black rocks, and tall obsidian

cliffs topped by dense jungle rose from the ocean.

    Well, nobody said stranding captives had to be easy,

she thought. She headed inland, over the tush, ver-

dant green jungle filled with exotic life-forms. Bird-

like animals with bright red and yellow wings flitted

among the trees, and she could see several enormous

creatures with six legs crashing about, their bulbous

red heads jutting above the tops of the trees as they

nibbled leaves from upper branches. They reminded

her for an instant of the extinct giant reptiles of

Bajor's past.

    The jungle wouldn't be a safe place to leave their

prisoners, she decided, so on she flew until the jungles

gave way to sprawling yellowish green grasslands

threaded by blue streams and rivers. More leathery-

winged birds flapped out of the way as she brought the

ship down, and smaller reptiles with six legs bounded

away in herds.

    "This is it," she called back. "We'll leave them

here."

    Abruptly the changeling shifted into his humanoid

form. He stared out the viewport, then looked at Kira.

She felt uncomfortable under his gaze, as though he

were dissecting her with his eyes.

    "This is little more than an inconvenience to me,"

he said.

    "I know," Kira answered, "but it's better than

killing you, which is the alternative."

He smiled thinly. "I don't think you could do that."

    "Unlike Starfleet officers, I have no qualms about

killing when it's necessary."

    "I don't doubt your ethics," he said in a voice that

chilled her. "I doubt your ability." Turning, he strode

quickly into the passenger compartment. Odo fol-

lowed, and after a second's hesitation, Kira did, too.

Somehow, she believed the changeling. She'd seen

enough people try to kill Odo over the years. What

must a fully mature changeling be capable of?.

    Snoct and Worf were carrying the unconscious

Jem'Hadar down the ramp and laying them out on the

grass. The changeling stood nearby, watching without

a trace of emotion. He might have been supervising

the unloading of bags of grain, for all he cared, Kira

thought.

 "Auron," Odo said. "Will you be all right?"

    He sneered a little. "Of course. Nothing here can

harm me."

    Odo nodded once. When they had off-loaded the

last Jem'Hadar, Worf and Snoct returned to the ship.

Kira followed, then lastly Odo. He didn't like strand-

ing the other changeling here, she realized as she

closed and sealed the hatch.

 "Don't worry about him," she said.

 "I'm not."

    Kira returned to her seat, strapped herself in, took

the controls, and lifted off smoothly. She circled

around once to see what the changeling--Auron, Odo

had called himmwould do. She could see him staring

up at her, with the three Jem'Hadar lying on the

ground just behind him.

    Suddenly he changed form, becoming a huge

winged beast. He flapped his leathery wings until he

caught an updraft, then soared high into the sky.

Banking, he headed east for the other continent and

civilization.

    The least he could have done was untie the

Jem'Hadar first, Kira thought. Knowing them, they

would doubtless be able to work their way free in a

few hours, but nonetheless, it showed how little he

thought of "solids," as they called other life-forms.

They were disposable in his philosophy.

    She shook her head. Not her problem now. They

still had their mission to finish.

    She punched in the course for Daborat V, and as

they left the planet's gravitational field, they went to

warp.

    Twelve hours later, they entered the Daborat ~

system. Kira shut off the autopilot and resumed

manual control.

    The planet grew rapidly in the viewport. It looked

like a beautiful class-M world, with deep blue oceans,

three major land masses, and large polar ice caps.

White clouds dotted the atmosphere. Bajor, she

thought, would look like this again someday.

    A second later, a light series of tones sounded.

"Daborat V spaceport control to unidentified ship," a

voice said. "Please identify."  "Odo!" she called.

  He jogged into the cockpit. "What is it, Major?"

  "They're hailing us."

  "Put them on. I'll take care of it."

    "I sure hope this works," she muttered to herself.

They had almost literally bet everything on Odo's

being able to get them past the security checkpoints. If

not, they would have to run, come back later, and try

to sneak a landing.

    She activated the viewscreen, and a Jem'Hadar

warrior in a black uniform different from the others

she'd seen appeared. Probably a local official, she

thought.

    He took one look at Odo and saluted. "Founder!"

he said.

    Odo leveled his gaze at the officer. "I want clear-

ance to land," he said in his most authoritative voice.

Kira glanced sideways at him. She'd heard that same

overbearing tone in the changeling whom they'd

stranded on Skovar IV.

     "Immediately." The officer punched something

into his console, then gave landing coordinates.

 Odo nodded, then severed the connection.

 "That was easy," Kira said.

    "Too easy," Worf said. He had come up behind

them while they were getting landing clearance. Now

he glowered a bit at Odo. "Almost as if they were

expecting us."

    "Are you implying that this is a trap?" Odo de-

manded.

    "I am not implying anything," Worf said. "It

seemed too easy to me."

    Kira sighed and leaned back in her seat. Odo and

Worf had been working at odds with one another

almost since they'd met, it sometimes seemed. The

Klingon didn't know Odo as well as she knew him,

she told herself. At first he always seemed a little off-

putting, but now that she knew his quirks, she would

have trusted him with her life. On this mission, in

fact, she already had.

    "I'm willing to take this at face value," she said to

Worf.

  "Thank you, Major," Odo said.

    "Now let's get back to business at hand, shall we?"

She turned back to the controls and locked in the

landing coordinates she'd been given, activating the

autopilot. The ship nosed down and began its descent.

    A bit of turbulence shook the ship suddenly. It was

always a little bumpy when you entered a planer's

atmosphere, she knew, so that didn't worry her. Odo

steadied himself against the back of her chair, and

Worf slid into the copilot's seat.

    The planet grew before them. Kira stared at the

huge landing field now appearing through the clouds

below. It was immense, she realized, easily twice the

size of the largest city on Bajor. Hundreds if not

thousands of ships were parked here, ranging in size

from tiny starships like their own to behemoths nearly

as big as the Enterprise had been.

  A series of bleeps greeted them.

    "We're being hailed," Worf said beside her. "It's

ground control. They want us to slave the controls

over to them. Major?"

     "I'm taking care of it." She didn't like losing

 control of the ship, but she didn't see any alternative.

She didn't want to attract attention to herself by

refusing what might well be a routine landing proce-

dure here. As she activated the automatic landing

sequencers, the ship's controls suddenly locked her

out.

    She slid from her chair as the turbulence eased,

using the break to check her phaser and personal

cloaker. You could never be too careful, she thought.

Everything seemed in working order. Now that they'd

reached Daborat V and the end was in sight, they'd

have to move quickly to make up for lost time. Worf

too was checking his weapons, she noted. Odo merely

stood with his arms folded, watching out the front

viewport as they passed over hundreds of parked

ships.

    Snoct began making a happy chittering sound from

the passenger cabin. At least one of us is home, she

thought.

    They angled down toward a less crowded area of

the landing field, approaching an open spot between

two small Jem'Hadar fighter ships. The shuttle

slowed, moved to one side, then settled to the ground.

Kira felt a slight bump when they touched down, then

the engines powered down. The sudden silence was

deafening.

    Odo strode to the hatch. Kira drew here weapon

and followed him. After a second's hesitation, Worf

did the same. The hatch popped open, admitting a

stale, dry breeze scented with machine oils, exhaust

fumes, and sun-baked duracrete, and the ramp tele-

scoped down to the pavement.

    Kira went first, then Odo, then Worf. The landing

field looked deserted: no signs of people at all, just

parked ships in all directions. Everyone had probably

gone to the city proper on leave. She clipped the

phaser back onto her belt.

    Worf turned in a complete circle as he reached the

pavement, taking everything in, then put away his

own phaser. He seemed almost disappointed in their

reception, Kira thought.

    "A hundred million thanks," Snoct said, bounding

out the open hatch excitedly. "I am home! I am

home!"

  Kira told him, "We're glad to have helped."

    "If I can ever be of service, let me know," he

promised. "Just ask any of the maintenance people at

the spaceport for Snoct Sneyd. They all know me!"

    "There is one more small thing you can do right

now," Odo said.

 "Name it!" Snoct said.

 "We need directions."

    That's right, Kira thought. Leave it to Odo to

remember.

    "We're looking for a bar called the Empty Coffin,"

she said. "Do you know it?"

    Snoct shuddered. "A horrible place," he said. "It's

in Old Town. The scum of Daborat V go there. Stay

away, stay away!"

    "We cannot," Worf said. "We need to meet some-

one there."

    Snoct shuddered again. "Then yes, I know how to

get there." He pointed down a row of shuttlecraft.

"Go that way. When the landing field ends, you will

see the city. Look for a small, filthy street named

Jork's End. That's where you will find the Empty

Coffin."

 "How will we know it?"

 "It's the only bar there."

 "Thank you," Kira said.

    "Happy to help!" Snoct said. Then, dropping to all

fours, he dashed in the opposite direction.

    At least some good had come of the mission so far,

Kira thought. They'd rescued one small alien and

brought him home. She drew herself up and took a

deep breath. Now to see about rescuing Orvor and

retrieving the retrovirus.

    They set out down the row of spaceships. Once a

pair of ground vehicles glided silently past, suspended

a few centimeters off the ground by antigravity skids,

and though a few Jem'Hadar troops sat aboard, they

didn't slow down for a second. Kira forced herself to

untense. It really did seem as though Odo's presence

guaranteed them free passage throughout the Domin-

ion, she reflected.

    Still they walked, and it began to grow dark. Fi-

nally, as dusk swept across the spaceport, huge lights

came on, flooding the duracrete pavement with a

harsh white illumination.

    Fifteen minutes later they came to the edge of the

spaceport. The duracrete simply ended and the city

itself began. Here, this close to the landing field, the

buildings appeared small, dark, and run-down look-

ing. The street lamps had all been smashed, and the

only illumination was a grayish glow spilling over

from the spaceport. Empty doors and windows gaped

like the eye sockets of alien skulls, Kira thought

with a shiver.

    This couldn't be the best neighborhood, she real-

ized, glancing around uneasily. It was exactly the sort

of place she'd expect to find a dive called the Empty

Coffin. No wonder Snoct Sneyd had warned them to

stay away.

    Sudden scuttling movement caught her eye. She

whirled, phaser ready.

  "Worf..." she began.

    "I saw it." He drew his own phaser, squinting into

the dark. "A figure--"

    "Just a homeless scavenger of some kind, I'm sure,"

Odo said. "This way." He started up the street, taking

the lead, and Kira followed. Now, as they walked, she

saw furtive movements all around them in the dark.

She longed for a torch of some sort. Light would have

made her feel safer.

    The buildings began to grow larger and better kept.

A few now had doors and windows, she noticed, and

finally they came to a series of working street lamps.

A scattering of humanoidsmsome with tall, narrow

skulls, some with broad lumpy faces, all dressed in

what looked like worn black animal leathermlounged

beneath the lights, watching them. Their eyes were

hungry, she thought. Ahead, a scattering of buildings

glowed with light.

 Odo strode up to one of the aliens without a

moment's hesitation. "I'm looking for the Empty

Coffin," he announced.

    The atien--bipedal, humanoid, but with a head

that was almost completely flat on top--grunted

once, then pulled a knife. "Money," he said.

    Odo's left arm suddenly extended an extra meter,

wrapping around the alien's knife hand. Odo

squeezed, and Kira heard the pop of joints dislocat-

ing. The knife clattered on the ground, and the alien

began to whimper.

 "I'm looking for the Empty Coffin," Odo repeated.

    With its one good hand, the alien pointed up the

street.

 "Thank you," Odo said, and he continued on.

    Kira caught up with him. "Why did you do that?"

she demanded.

    "To show we weren't afraid of them," he said. "We

are being followed--no, don't look back--and I want

them to know we're not going to be easy prey."

    Kira swallowed. She'd been watching everything

around them carefully, but couldn't see anyone fol-

lowing them. Odo had keener senses than she did, she

reminded herself, plus he had security training. Drop-

ping back half a meter, she matched Worf's stride.

  "Do you see them?" she said.

 "Yes," he said warily. "I counted fifteen."

    Then, ahead, she spotted a building that glowed

with soft pastel lights. There were flickering neon

signs in front, she saw, written in the local dialect.

Unfortunately, she couldn't read them, but she recog-

nized the blinking coffin shape over the door. This

had to be the bar they were looking for.

    Odo held back, looking into the darkness, as she

went up the worn steps to the front door. It slid aside

soundlessly for her. Taking a deep breath, she stepped

in and surveyed the room.

    A long bar stretched across the back, and aliens of

various sizes and descriptions lounged there sipping

drinks. Booths lined the walls to her left and right,

and a handful of tables sat in the middle of the room.

Weird atonal music came from hidden speakers in the

corners. As she'd expected, there were no Jem'Hadar

present.

    Every eye in the place had focused on her. The

people standing at the bar turned to face her. Several

of them began picking their teeth with long, rapierlike

knives.

    Worf and Odo entered behind her. As they stepped

in, every being in the room suddenly whipped out

disruptors. She surveyed the alien faces and found

emotions ranging from anger to outrage to disgust.

    "Hands up!" the bartender sneered, coming out

from around the bar. His piggish gray snout curled

back to reveal a mouth full of needle-sharp teeth. He

held a huge disruptor rifle in his four arms.

  "Better do as he says," Odo murmured.

  Dismayed, Kira raised her arms over her head.

  Behind her, she sensed Odo and Worf doing the same.

  This rescue, she thought, was not going very well.

CHAPTER

      22

GLANCING AT WERRON, Bashir, and the four security

guards, Sisko stepped up to the conference room

door. This wasn't going to be pretty, he knew.

He punched his access code into the hand pad. All

the ambassadors had given them so much trouble

over the initial DNA scans, he could only imagine

their reaction when he asked for actual blood sam-

ples.

    Bashit looked as nervous as Sisko felt. The doctor

had his arms full with the DNA scanner, medical

tricorder, hypo, and a small case of glass vials. Each of

the eleven ambassadors would have his or her own

sample neatly taken, labeled, and set in the center of

the conference room table. This time there would be

no mistakes, no possibilities of an error, and no

question of changeling subterfuge.

    "Ready, Doctor?" he asked, keying in the final

digit.

    Bashir nodded, all business now. It was nice to see

how he had matured into his post, Sisko reflected.

Three years ago, he thought, Bashir would have

giggled nervously and made a joke.  "Then let's do it," Sisko said.

    The door whisked open. He'd timed their arrival

perfectly, and sure enough everyone else already sat

in their seats. His gaze swept across the round table,

taking in the Valtusians, the Federation negotiators,

the Cardassians, and lastly the two Maquis.

    Their argument had broken off the second the door

whisked open. They stared in surprise at him.

    "May I have your attention, please," he began in a

loud voice. "Thanks to Vedek Werron, we have reason

to believe that the changelings have indeed managed

to infiltrate this conference."

    "We already passed your screening tests," Gul

Mekkar said in a gravely voice.

    "For security reasons, we must administer new

tests. To make sure there is no question of faking the

results, we will also draw blood samples. No one will

be exempted, including myself. Doctor?"

    "Put your hand here," Bashir said, offering his

scanner.

Sisko did so. It promptly announced he was human.

"Now the blood test, Doctor," Sisko said. Keeping

his gaze locked with Mekkar's, he rolled up his sleeve

and offered his arm to Bashir. He felt a brief cold

 prickling sensation, then a second later Bashir re-

 leased him.

  "We'll know in a second," Bashir said.

    Sisko glanced over. The doctor held a small vial up

to the light, swirling it gently in a counterclockwise

direction. The deep crimson blood in the container

remained unchanged.

  "He's human," Bashir announced.

    "The process," Sisko went on, "only requires a few

seconds. I trust you will all cooperate so we may

proceed with the more important business at hand."

  "If not...?" Mekkar demanded.

    "You will be detained in a cell for the next twenty-

four hours, under close observation. Periodically,

changelings must revert to a liquid state. If you

remain unchanged after twenty-four hours, you will

be released to resume your negotiations. However,"

and Sisko let his voice drop an octave, "I trust that

detention will not be necessary."

 "This is preposterous--" Mekkar began.

    "We will begin," Sisko went on, ignoring him,

"with the Federation negotiators."

    DuQuesne leaped to his feet. "Absurd!" he cried.

"You can't do this! It violates every civil right we've

won over the last six centuries!"

    "Be quiet," T'Pao said. She rose and circled the

table to where Bashir waited. "I will go first. In

matters of security, there can be no politics. Remem-

ber the conference on Earth with the Romulans."

 She placed her hand on the DNA scanner.

 "Subject is Vulcan," it announced.

     Next T'Pao bared her arm. Bashir drew a sample of

her green blood, swirled it, held it up to the light.

  "She's Vulcan," he said.

    "Logically," she said, "we are all interested in

peace. Why not permit this painless examination,

which will then allow us to continue with our work,

rather than waste more precious time?" Leave it to a

Vulcan to cut through the red tape, Sisko thought.

T'Pao reclaimed her seat. "You are next, Ambassa-

dor," she said to DuQuesne.

    His face revealed his anger. "Very well," he said

with ill-concealed fury. He circled the table, rolling up

his sleeve for Dr. Bashir.

  "Human," both the DNA scanner and Bashir said.

    "Hah," DuQuesne said to Sisko. Sulkily, he sat

next to T'Pao again, folding his arms and glaring.

    Strockman went next. Bashir quickly pronounced

him human as well.

    "As we already knew," DuQuesne said. "This is a

waste of time, and I promise you," he said pointedly

to Sisko, "that formal complaints will be lodged

against you for this outrage. We didn't come here for

daily blood tests, and you've interrupted our negotia-

tions at a critical juncture."

    "That's a risk I'm willing to take," Sisko said. After

everything that had happened so far, he knew Admir-

al Dulev would back him. He nodded to Bashir. "The

Maquis ambassadors next, if you please, Doctor."

  Ambassador Twofeathers went first and passed, as

 did Ambassador Kravits. Sisko nodded; he'd ex-

 pected no less. Now would come the real test.

   "Now the Cardassians, if you please."

    "I feel the same way your own negotiating team

does," Gul Mekkar said, rising. "However, I bow to

the inevitable. Begin your tests, Doctor."

    Mekkar placed his hand on the scanner. Sisko

leaned forward in anticipation.

    "Subject DNA passes," the scanner announced.

"Subject is Cardassian."

    Sisko relaxed even as Bashir took Mekkar's blood

sample. He isn't a changeling. Now I can be rid of

Werron once and for all. At least something good had

come of it, he thought.

    He glanced over at Vedek Werron, who had

watched all this impassively. The Vedek's face showed

not a flicker of emotion. Nevertheless Sisko knew it

had to hurt. He'd staked his reputation on it, after all,

and now he'd be deported from DS9 like a common

troublemaker. I'm sure he'll manage to put a good spin

on it, though, Sisko thought. He'll just declare his

mission a success and leave. That'll be the end of it.

    Only the Valtusians remained, but testing was little

more than a formality. The whole conference had

been their idea, after all, and they had been the ones

working toward peace.

"Now the Valtusian ambassadors," he said.

Ambassador Zhosh and the others rose. But rather

than argue as Sisko expected, Zhosh removed a small

tube from a hidden pocket in his robes, twisted it

once, and suddenly the hum of a transporter beam

filled the room.

Sisko whirled. "Stop them!" he cried to the guards.

It was too late, he realized a millisecond later. They

were already dematerializing. In the transporter

beam, he saw them starting to shimmer and turn gold.

They were reverting to their changeling forms.

    "Dax to Sisko," his communicator said with a

chirp. "We just picked up a small Jem'Hadar ship on

our scanners. It was hiding on a Bajoran moon. Now

it's heading for the wormhole at high speed. Do you

want the Defiant to give chase?"

    Sisko tapped his badge, frowning. "No, Dax," he

said. "it's too late. We can't possibly catch them."

And what wouM we do with them once we caught

them? he wondered.

    "But at least another changeling plot has been

stopped," Bashir said. "That's the important thing."

    "Thanks to me, "Vedek Werron said, puffing out his

chest,

    Sisko shot a glare at him, and the Vedek shut up

suddenly. They both knew he'd only accused Mekkar

as an excuse to harass the Cardassians. Now leave it

to the Vedek to claim he'd seen the whole thing--

probably in a vision based on one of the ancient

Bajoran prophecies, Sisko thought.

    All the other ambassadors were staring at him in

shock. Even DuQuesne and Mekkar had run out of

insults for once.

     "What happened with your DNA scanner?" Sisko

 asked Bashir. He'd watched the Valtusians pass the

 test on the docking ring. How had they fooled the

 computer?

    Bashir hesitated. "They must have had real Valtu-

sians aboard their ship," he said. "When they left us

to confer--"

    "They must have gone inside and taken skin sam-

ples," Sisko finished. He nodded; it all made sense

now. Like his father had said, they would find a way

around any security measures the Federation came up

with. It had only taken them ten minutes. So much for

any technological advantage a DNA scanner might

give them.

    "Skin samples... or worse." Bashir swallowed

visibly, and Sisko realized he must be thinking of

severed limbs. "I'd better get over to their ship. I

think it's still docked." Turning, he sprinted for the

door, calling for medical backup to meet him there.

Sisko knew he'd get a full report later. Hopefully there

weren't injured or maimed Valtusians being held

prisoner aboard the changelings' ship.

    Now, though, he had the ruins of the peace confer-

ence to deal with. Admiral Dulev would definitely not

be pleased, he thought.

    "I'm sorry," DuQuesne said to him, sounding

sincerely apologetic. "It seems we were on the verge of

giving the changelings exactly what they wanted."

    "The Maquis buffer state might have given the

changelings a toehold in the Alpha Quadrant," T'Pao

mused. "They might have taken over and used it as a

base to launch their invasion of the rest of the Alpha

Quadrant."

 "It's possible," Sisko said.

    Gul Mekkar looked at the other negotiators. "I

move for an adjournment for today," he said. "We

can reconvene tomorrow to finish up. Not," he added

hastily, "that we can use the Valtusian--rather, the

changeling--plan now, of course. But we can offi-

cially dismiss their plan. And perhaps something new

will occur to us."

    Sisko nodded. "I think that's wise." Although noth-

ing was likely to come of these talks now, the negotia-

tors could still wrap things up nicely. At least they

hadn't made a terrible mistake.

    Mekkar rose, picking up his files, and nodded to the

other Cardassian negotiators. They joined him, head-

ing for the door.

    Suddenly an explosion rocked the station. As the

floor bucked and heaved beneath him, Sisko rolled

with it as best he could, ignoring the panicked

screams and shouts from the ambassadors. Alarms

began to blare.

    "Keep calm!" he shouted over the noise. "Hold on

to something and try to stay where you are!"

    Was it an attack? Had the Jem'Hadar ship returned

and opened fire on them? If so, why hadn't Dax

warned him?

    Desperately he gripped the edge of the table to keep

his balance, then tapped his badge. Smoke began to

fill the room. Then everything went dark as power

failed. A second later, red emergency lights flickered

to life.

 "Dax!" he cried. "Status report!"

    A second explosion hit, and the force of it knocked

him flying backward. He tried to grab hold of some-

thing for support. Smoke and red flames leaped

everywhere.

 "Dax?" he screamed. "Dax?"

CHAPTER

      23

mIRA SWALLOWED HARD, feeling like she'd just walked

into a nest of pit spiders. Her every instinct made her

want to grab her phaser and duck for cover, but she

knew she'd be dead before she made it two steps.

    "My name is Kira Nerys," she said. "I'm looking

for a Groxxin named Orvor. Has anyone here seen

him?"

    "What do you want with him?" one of the aliens

called from the bar. She couldn't see which one, but

she thought the voice came from a green glob with

three eyes and five or six bony ridges on its broad

face.

    "Our business is with him alone," she said. "We're

not here to start trouble."

    "Dead, you won't," another voice called. There

were chuckles all around.

     "Let me handle this," Worf said to her in a low

voice. "I am a trained security officer, after all."

 "By all means," Kira said.

    Worf stepped forward. "l speak for my companions

and myself," he said. "We offer you no threat. Put

down your weapons."

    Nobody answered. Kira scanned the hard faces

looking at them and thought they were getting ready

to open fire. She'd better do something fast, she

thought, or they'd all end up little piles of ashes.

    "You have five seconds to live," the bartender said.

"Any last words?"

    Worf frowned and opened his mouth, but before he

could speak, Kira stepped forward.

 "Just... hyperspace links lead us all together."

    It was the password phrase they had been given so

they'd know the real Orvor when they met him. There

didn't seem to be much choice but to use it now.

Hopefully the Groxxin was somewhere in the room,

and hopefully he'd act to save them. It was a long

shot, she knew, but she didn't have a better idea.

    Instead of one person stepping forward, everyone

in the Empty Coffin seemed to relax a little, almost as

though she'd passed some test. Did they all know that

password? She felt a wave of confusion.

     "What about that one?" the bartender demanded,

nodding toward OdD. "Isn't he...?" "A changeling, yes," Kira said.

    "I am OdD, not 'that one,'" OdD said. "I was

brought up in the Alpha Quadrant, and I have re-

nounced the Founders and their philosophy."

    "I've never seen a Founder before," the bartender

said, lowering his disruptor rifle, "but we all know

enough to fear them and their evil ways."

      "They are powerful," Odo said. "Determined, yes.

Wrong, yes. And certainly stubborn. But not evil."

  "So you're defending them--"

  "No, I'm saying they're wrong."

  "But..."

    Quietly, Kira drifted toward the back of the bar,

searching for a Groxxin. Most of the patrons had put

their disruptors away. Half of them were following the

bartender's argument with Odo, but the other half

had resumed their own conversations.

    Kira spotted an alien with dense yellow fur sitting

alone in one of the booths. She slid in opposite him,

noting his snoutlike mouth and eight-fingered hands.

A Groxxin... but was he the one they wanted?

  "Orvor?" she asked.

    The Groxxin shook his head. "He was picked up by

the Jem'Hadar last night."

  "Picked up? What do you mean?"

    "They took him on the street outside." He jerked

his head toward the door. "It had to be something

important. The Jem'Hadar never come to Old Town

unless they have to." He chuckled. "Snipers killed six

of 'em on their way out."

  "Where would they take him?"

  "Probably one of the interrogation centers."

  "We have to get him out."

    The Groxxin laughed bitterly. "Nobody escapes

from the Jem'Hadar. He's probably dead already."

    Then we've come all this way for nothing. Kira

shook her head. "I can't accept that," she said. "If

there's a chance he's still alive, we have to try. Where

would he be?"

    "Try their central interrogation center; it's located

on Peace Street." Quickly he gave her directions.

    "Thank you," Kira said. She slid out of the booth

and rejoined Worf and Odo by the door. Odo's

argument with the bartender was still going strong.

  "Did you find him?" Worf asked in a low voice.

    She shook her head. "He's not here. The Jem'Hadar

picked him up."

    "It's not their nature to be evil," she heard Odo

saying a trifle hotly, "just as there is no species or race

that is evil. It's a matter of environment and circum-

stances. I personally am proof of that, as you can

see--"

    "I hate to break up this fascinating argument," Kira

said, taking Odo by the arm, "but we have to go." She

pulled him out the door and onto the street, turned

left, and began to walk at a brisk pace. Quickly she

told them what the Groxxin had said about Orvor

being captured by the Jem'Hadar.

    Odo stopped suddenly, looking pained. "I must be

the reason," he said.

    Kira and Worf stopped, too. "What do you mean?"

Worf demanded.

    "I mingled with one of the changelings. Just as I felt

Selann's thoughts, he must have felt mine as well. He

could easily have discovered you were on the

Jem'Hadar ship and learned about Orvor from me. I

feel like a fool," he added bitterly.

    "That's all right, Odo," Kira said quickly. She

knew he would never had consciously given them

away. "You couldn't help it. It's not your fault. We

wouldn't have made it this far without you. Besides,

maybe it's a coincidence. The Jem'Hadar never tried

to find us aboard their ship, after all."

    "Perhaps," Worf suggested, glowering a bit at Odo,

"that's what the hunt was supposed to do. Only we

escaped before the net could close in on us."

    Kira nodded slowly. Of course, the hunt. She'd

been assuming it was aimed at Snoct. Perhaps they

had been lucky to get off the Jem'Hadar ship after all.

    "But that still leaves our informant," she said,

starting forward again. "The Groxxin in the bar

seemed to think he would be dead. If so, that's the end

of our mission."

    "He might still be alive," Odo said. "He would

make good bait if they wanted to capture us."

    "That's what I was thinking," Worf said. "It smells

like a trap."

    "I know," Kira said. "But I don't see any alterna-

tive other than trying to rescue him. Without him, our

whole mission is a waste." And, she mentally added,

he and his mate risked their lives to contact us. The

least we can do is try.

    The streets had been growing steadily nicer as they

walked. Fifteen minutes from Old Town and the

Empty Coffin, the first few pedestrians appeared,

busting about on unimaginable errands. Now, turning

left at a huge apartment complex, Kira abruptly

found herself on a broad street lined with open-air

shops. Tall spreading trees with razorlike yellow

leaves canopied the pavement, and ample street

lamps cast a pleasant golden glow over everything.

Hundreds, perhaps thousands of peoplemsome

Groxxin, some Jem'Hadar, even a few Iffalians like

Snoct--moved among the shops, browsing, haggling

with merchants, picking up orders. Farther up, a few

hovercars glided down the center of the street on

antigrav skids.

    "Two more blocks," Kira said, eyes searching the

buildings ahead. Finally she spotted their target, eight

stories tall and built like a prison. "It's that tall stone

building--see it?"

 "Yes," Worf said.

    "There's an alley just ahead," Odo said. "Turn in

there."

    "Right." Kira ducked into the narrow passageway

between two shops selling exotic-looking fruits and

vegetables. It was little more than a deep doorway, she

realized quickly. They had no real cover here.

    There, Odo shapeshifted into a smaller figure with a

cloak and a hood that left his face in shadow. He

gazed out at Kira.

     "Shop close by the building," he said. "I'11 go in

alone first to make sure it's safe." "But--"

    He shook his head. "I'11 be all right, Major," he

said. "Nothing can happen to me. You just take care

of yourselves for now."

 "We'll keep you covered," she promised.

    "Keep your weapons hidden," he said. "The last

thing I want is to be caught in the middle of a

firefight."

    He strolled quickly out of the deep doorway,

turned, and headed for the interrogation center. Kira

watched with trepidation. She had a bad feeling about

this whole setup. Now that the changelings knew their

plan, what else might they have guessed? Perhaps

Auron hasn't made it back to civilization yet, she

thought, remembering how far they'd stranded him

from the Jem'Hadar base on Skovar VI.

    She paused at a fruit stand and picked up what

looked like a bright purple melon of some kind. When

she shook it, it rattled faintly... a dried gourd with

seeds inside? She passed it to Worf, who smelled it,

made a face, and passed it back. Not to his taste

either, she thought. She put it back on the stand.

    From the comer of her eye, she watched Odo reach

the interrogation center. As he climbed the broad

steps to the front doors, Jem'Hadar suddenly stormed

in from all directions, surrounding Odo with drawn

weapons.

CHAPTER

      24

MEKKAR DOVE FOR the floor when the first explosion

rocked the conference room. It was those damn

Bajoran terrorists, he knew. He'd been warned about

them by half of his friends before he left Cardassia.

Never turn your back on a Bajoran, they'd said. You 7l

find a dagger in it if you do.

    Close by, someone screamed in agony, and alarm

klaxons began to sound. A surge of anger ran through

him. Sisko hadn't heard the last of this, he thought.

    Smoke roiled around him, thick and choking. Hold-

ing his breath, he rose to his knees and peered to the

left, trying to spot Kloran or Etkar or any of DS9's

security guards. If he only had a disruptor, he

thought, they'd stand a chance of making it out of

here alive.

  His eyes began to sting, and suddenly everything

turned blurry. lt~ the smoke. He blinked at his tears

and felt his lungs start to burn. Dropping down as

close to the floor as he could, he sucked in a breath of

foul-tasting air. At least there didn't seem to be any

fire, but that was small consolation.

    He began to crawl toward the door, and suddenly

he found heavy boots blocking his way. He glanced up

and found a phaser pointed at his head. Behind the

phaser, wreathed in swirls of smoke, stood a Bajoran

with a respirator over his mouth and nose. Hard,

angry, fanatically crazy eyes glared down at him.

    "Butcher!" the Bajoran cried. He pulled back his

leg and kicked with all his strength.

    Hardly able to breathe, hardly able to see it coming,

Mekkar couldn't dodge in time. The kick caught him

in the side of the head, stunning him for a second. He

fell, gasping. The Bajoran kicked him a second time,

in the side, and he felt ribs crack. Sharp, raw pain

blossomed in his side.

    Whimpering, he doubled up. What had he done to

deserve this? he thought. Why did they keep calling

him "Butcher"?

    "Up!" the Bajoran called, nudging him with the toe

of his boot. "On your feet, Mekkar! Up/"

    Mekkar tried to rise but couldn't get his legs under

him. Pain stabbed through his stomach and ribs. He

couldn't hold his breath anymore. He sucked in a

lungful of smoke and began to cough and wheeze.

    Two more Bajorans in respirators joined the first.

They seized Mekkar's arms and hauled him forward,

through the smoke, to a hole in the wall. They'd

blown it open with a bomb of some kind, Mekkar

realized. They really were insane. They could have

depressurized the entire station and killed everyone

aboard!

    At least the air on the other side tasted better, he

thought, wheezing and gasping. If he could just get his

breath, maybe he could try to grab a phaser from one

of them.

    Suddenly someone grabbed his hair and forced his

head back. Mekkar found himself staring up at Vedek

Werron's hard, cold face.

"Justice," the Vedek said, "will be served."

Turning, the Vedek strode to the door, then out into

the corridor. The alarm klaxons were still ringing.

People were screaming and running everywhere.

Mekkar thought he was going to vomit.

    The three Bajorans dragged him down one of the

small crossover bridges to the station's core, then up

to the Promenade. There, men and women clustered

along the huge viewports, trying to see what was going

on. The alarms sounded far-off here. Probably more

than a few blast doors had already closed, Mekkar

thought.

    "Help!" he tried to shout. "Help!" What came out

was a wracking cough that shook his whole body.

They would pay for this, he vowed, as soon as he had

his strength back.

    Vedek Werron strode into a huge bar like he owned

the place. He now had a phaser in each hand, and he

fired them both at the ceiling. Mekkar winced, certain

they were all going to die from explosive decompres-

sion, but the phasers must have been set on stun since

nothing happened but bright lights and a whining

sound.

    Inside, the effect was devastating: Men and woman

shrieked and dove for cover.

    "Everyone out!" Mekkar ordered. "This place is

closed!"

    "You can't do that!" a Ferengi called from behind

the long bar against the wall.

In answer, Vedek Werron fired both phasers at him.

"Don't shoot! You can do it! You can do ifi" the

Ferengi called.

    Men and women stampeded for the exits, shouting

and jostling one another in their haste. As the bar

cleared out, the two Bajorans holding Mekkar's arms

dragged him to a round table, threw him on top of it,

and began tying him spread-eagle across it.

    For a second he struggled, but the one on the right

turned and punched him in the head as hard as he

could. Darkness swept over him.

    Quark motioned for Rom to stay down, then

peeked around the end of the bar. Two of the Bajorans

were tying down their prisoner. Another had taken up

a position by the front door. Vedek Werron seated

himself at a nearby table, putting both phasers before

him. From a pocket he drew a white candle, which he

lit and set down before him. He stared at the flame as

though in a trance.

    They were out of their minds, Quark thought. Did

they think they could possibly get away with kidnap-

ping a Cardassian and holing up here? As soon as

security arrived, it would be all over. He eased back

out of sight.

    "What are they doing, brother?" Rom asked in a

whisper. Quark didn't think he'd ever seen Rom

looking so frightened. Nothing like a true emergency

to bring out the coward in someone, he thought.

    "Not much," Quark said. He was concerned him-

self, but most important, he wondered how he could

possibly turn things to his own advantage. After all, as

the Ninth Rule of Acquisition said, "Opportunity

plus instinct equals profit." And his every instinct

said he was looking at a latinum-plated opportunity.

    Sisko watched as Dax used the station's internal

sensors to locate Mekkar. "He's in Quark's," she said.

    "Quark's?' Sisko said. He frowned. If Mekkar had

run out for a drink instead of being kidnapped...

    "I'm picking up seven life-forms there," Dax went

on. "One Cardassian, four Bajorans, and two Ferengi.

WaitmI lost them!" She looked up. "They've acti-

vated a scrambler of some kind."

    Sisko moved to the transporter controls. Maybe

that one brief lock had been enough, he thought. He

fed the readings from Dax's console to the transporter

and tried to get a lock on Mekkar.

Nothing. "I can't beam Mekkar out," Sisko asked.

"It's a subspace distortion field," Dax went on. "I

might be able to punch through it in time, but I

couldn't guarantee getting a lock on any of them."

 Sisko nodded slowly. "I see." They also might kill

Mekkar at the first sign of trouble, he thought. "I

guess we'll have to see what their demands are."

    He opened a comm link to Quark's, and a second

later Quark's face appeared on the screen.

    "Captain Sisko!" Quark said, looking anxious. "I

insist you do something at once! There are Bajoran

terrorists here--"

    A fist flashed in front of the monitor, and Quark

gave a pained cry. Everything blurred, and then the

monitor swiveled around and Sisko found himself

gazing at Vedek Werron's face. Werron smiled se-

renely.

    "Captain Sisko," he said, "the Bajoran people have

spoken. War crimes must be atoned for."

    Sisko leaned forward, the muscles in his jaw clench-

ing. He had seldom been this angry. It nearly left him

speechless.

    "Werron," he said, deliberately keeping his words

short and clipped. "Put down your weapons, bring

Gul Mekkar out, and I promise you that we will get to

the bottom of this matter."

    "You had your chance, Captain," Werron said.

"Here are my demands. You will make a runabout

available to me immediately. We will transport the

Butcher down to Bajor for a fair trial. After his

execution, your peace negotiations can continue."

  "And the alternative?" Sisko asked.

    "I will convene a military trial here, with myself as

judge, jury, and executioner," he said.

    "That is unacceptable," Sisko said. Either way, he

knew Mekkar would be killed.

    "It's your only choice. Think about it." Werron

severed the transmission.

    "But I've never even been to Bajor before!" Gul

Mekkar continued to protest. "This is insane! I was

busy fighting the Federation during the Bajoran occu-

pation--"

    "Lies!" Werron hissed. His face twisted with rage.

"Shut up, Butcher, or I'll kill you here myself?'

    Mekkar shut up. Pain speared his side from the

broken ribs again, and he twisted in agony on the

table. Somehow, he managed to keep from screaming.

He wouldn't give Werron the satisfaction.

    Quark nursed his bruised cheek. He thought Vedek

Werron had loosened a tooth, and he probed carefully

with his tongue, tasting blood. So much for reasoning

with him, he thought, glaring from across the room.

  "Are you all right, brother?" Rom whispered.

  "Yes," Quark said, "so far."

    "Do yourself a favor... leave them alone! It's

none of our business what they do to the Cardassian!"

    "You're right," Quark said. "It's none of our busi-

ness. But I'm not going to let him treat me this way in

my own bar!"

    He slid off his stool and stalked forward. Rom

grabbed his arm, pleading silently with him for rea-

son, but Quark shrugged him away.

    "Vedek," he said, "there's no reason to let our

misunderstanding get in the way of business. Would

you like to run a tab while you're staying here?"

    Werron stared coldly at him. "So you can poison

me?" he demanded.

    That was the general idea, Quark thought. "No, of

course not!" he said magnanimously. "Corpses are

bad for business. I'm just trying to make an honest

living, that's all."

 "Water," Werron said.

    "That's it?" Quark asked. "Would you like it

scented, perhaps? Or flavored with Jonja? Or per-

haps--"

    "Water," Werron said. "Pure, unadulterated

water."

    "Coming up," Quark said. Turning, he headed for

the bar. He could feel Werron's sharp gaze boring into

the back of his head, and he shivered a little. No

chance of drugging the Vedek's water, he thought, but

if he could win his trust, maybe he'd try some Bajoran

spiced ale later. You could hide some pretty potent

solutions in that, and he'd never know until it hit

him ....

    Sisko bit his lip and considered the problem from

every angle. It seemed to come down to two choices,

neither of which appealed to him: Let Werron and his

people kill Mekkar on the station or let them trans-

port Mekkar down to Bajor for trial and execution.

He had no doubt that an armed attack on Quark's bar

would result in Mekkar's immediate execution, and it

might also cost the lives of some of the Bajorans and

his own security forces. This would have been a

perfect job for Odo, he reflected.

    He'd scarcely had time to think about the mission

to the Gamma Quadrant, he realized a bit guiltily.

Too much had been going on here. He prayed they

were having better luck than he was.

    Now he had to focus on the present problem,

however. What options did he have?

    What if I let them take Mekkar to Bajor? he

wondered. That would at least buy us more time. And

if he~ guilty of war crimes, perhaps he should be

punished... but through the proper channels.

    He realized suddenly that he didn't know whether

Mekkar really was this so-called Butcher of Belmast,

as all the Bajorans seemed to believe. Dax hadn't had

time to give him her full report.

    "What about Mekkar?" he asked her. "Is he guilty

of war crimes?"

    "No," she said. "Gul Rel Mekkar--our Mekkar--

is innocent. He had never even been in Bajoran space

before these peace negotiations, which is why the

Detepa Council sent him. They had hoped to avoid

any problems with the Bajorans. According to

Bajoran records I was able to access, Gul Ren

Mekkar--similar name, similar appearance, perhaps

a relative of our Mekkar--was the one the Bajorans

called the Butcher of Belmast."

    "It seems a pretty clear case of mistaken identity,"

he said. "How could Werron have made such a

mistake?"

    "He wants to believe Mekkar is the Butcher of

Belmast," Dax said. "Everything I've read about him

leads me to believe he's not stable. He thinks he has a

divine responsibility to bring all Cardassians to jus-

tice. This hostage taking..." She shook her head.

"He's a dangerous man, and nothing's going to con-

vince him he's wrong. Not even the facts."

 "1 have to try," Sisko said.

    He called Quark's bar again, and this time Werron

answered himself.

    "I've had a chance to review the facts of the

Belmast case," Sisko said, "and I agree that it's an

outrage, and appropriate steps should be taken to

punish the guilty parties."

    "Excellent," Werron said. "Then you'll provide a

transport for us to Bajor."

    "I said the guilty parties, Vedek. Gul Rel Mekkar

isn't the Butcher of Belmast. He's never even been to

Bajor. You're looking for Gul Ren Mekkar--"

  "Lies!" Werron screamed. "All lies!"

    Slowly Sisko shook his head. "Facts don't lie,

Vedek. If you don't believe me, I'll be glad to supply

you with the appropriate files so you can check for

yourself--"

    "Get me that runabout," Mekkar said. His eyes

were wild, dangerous, Sisko thought. "You have one

hour."

 He severed the connection.

    "He's a fanatic," Dax said. "There's no reasoning

with him."

     Sisko sighed. "I'm starting to think you're right,"

he said. 'Tll have to seek a higher authority."

  "Admiral Dulev?"

  "Kai Winn," he said. As the religious leader of

Bajor, she might have enough influence with Werron

to talk sense into him, he thought. "Try to keep an eye

on Werron," he said. "Let me know if anything

happens."

 "You got it," she said.

    Sisko went into his office and shut the door. He

didn't particularly like Kai Winn, but he understood

her. Although she had a ruthless--and sometimes

senseless--drive for power, hers was an honest greed

compared to Werron's.

    He put through the call. Would she speak to him?

Would she be available on such short notice? After a

few tense moments of waiting, her face appeared on

the monitor.

    "Hello, Emissary," she said, smiling broadly. She

did beatific well, he thought. "As always, it is a

pleasure to speak with you."

    "And it's a pleasure to see you looking so well," he

said. "I have a problem with Vedek Werron, however,

and I was hoping you might be able to give me the

benefit of your counsel."

    She all but preened herself in satisfaction. Nothing

worked quite so well as playing up to her, he thought.

    Quickly he outlined the situation. "Vedek Werron

seems unwilling to listen to reason--or the truth."

    Kai Winn sighed. "Werron has always been some-

thing of a problem for us," she said. "If Mekkar is not

the Butcher, he should be released at once. We don't

want another Cardassian incident; this is an age of

healing. We must move on and put the scars of the

past behind us."

    "Exactly," Sisko said. "Then you'll speak to him

for us."

    "He would never listen to me," she said. "He has

somehow built me up in his mind as his enemy. He

thinks he sees plots of my spinning behind every bush

and every tree."

  "Then what do you suggest?"

    "Send him to Bajor. We will have a fair trial for Gul

Mekkar, and I will personally expedite it. We will

have him declared innocent and released, if that is the

case, within a single day."

    Sisko smiled. "Thank you, Kai," he said. That

sounded like an altogether satisfactory solution.

CHAPTER

      25

THE SECOND THE Jem'Hadar surrounded him, Odo let

his body loose its rigid form, morphing back into his

normal humanoid shape. The change served no real

purpose except to show them that he could

shapeshift--that he was, in fact, a changeling. Hope-

fully that would be enough.

    "Founder," the leader of the Jem'Hadar squad said,

dropping to his knees.

    Odo turned slowly. Every one of his attackers had

bowed down before him, he saw. They were no

different than the other Jem'Hadar he'd encountered.

They had been genetically programmed to feel awe,

respect, and dedication bordering on devotion to any

changeling they encountered. Well, he thought, if they

wanted a Founder, he'd play the part.

 "What is the meaning of this attack?" he de-

manded, trying to sound as irritated as possible. Now

that he thought back to their joining, he remembered

Selann's memories of dealing with Jem'Hadar. The

changeling always used this same tone.

    "Sir," the leader said, meeting his gaze. "This is a

trap to find and capture the Federation spies--"

    "Enough," Odo said, waving one hand curtly.

"Send your men back to their positions. If your real

targets show up, I trust you'll do a better job of

capturing them."

    "Yes, Founder." He saluted, then rose and sent his

men back to their hiding places.

    Odo watched expressionlessly as the Jem'Hadar

fitted themselves into the shadows, behind market

stands, and down in recessed doorways. If he hadn't

known they were there, he never would have spotted

them, he realized. Only the officer remained out of

position, next to him.

    The trap also confirmed his worst fears, Odo

thought: Selann had indeed picked up on the details

of their mission while they had been joined. He'd

have to watch out for that in the future, he knew.

    Turning, he strolled up the steps toward the interro-

gation center's front doors. He felt a flash of appre-

hension as the officer kept pace with him.

    "Is there anything I can do for you?" the officer

asked.

 "I am here to interrogate the prisoner," Odo said.

 "Which one?"

  Which one? There's more than one? He'd better

bluff, he thought. No--he had a better idea. What

would Selann have done in this situation?

    He whirled and glared down at the Jem'Hadar.

"You forget your place, Soldier. When you need

information, you will be provided with it."

    The officer's face fell. Odo strode forward alone. It

had worked, he thought triumphantly.

    The huge door slid aside for him, and he found

himself in a long, high chamber. The walls and floor,

made of some amber-colored stone, had been pol-

ished to mirror smoothness. Except for a single guard

fifty meters ahead, the place seemed deserted.

    His footsteps echoed loudly as he moved forward.

The guard snapped to attention, staring at Odo.

    "Where are prisoners held?" Odo demanded as he

neared.

    "Level three, Founder," the guard said without

hesitation.

    Odo gave a nod, then stepped up to one of the

turbolifts. The doors slid open for him. He entered

without a backward glance. Let them think he knew

what he was doing, he thought.  "Level three," he said.

    Instead of heading up, though, the lift headed

down. When the doors opened again, this time onto a

narrow corridor, two more Jem'Hadar guards

snapped to attention. Odo strode past them without

so much as acknowledging their existence. Selann

should see me now, he thought. The changeling had

inadvertently provided him with better training to

infiltrate this Jem'Hadar prison than he would ever

have expected.

    The corridor opened onto the interrogation center's

holding area. It was odd, Odo noted, how uniform

prisons seemed to be across the galaxy. They fell into

two categories. If you came from a high technology,

you used force fields. If you came from a low technol-

ogy, you used metal bars.

    This prison was of the 1ow-tech variety. Each cell

had been cut into solid bedrock. Durasteel bars ran

from the floor to the ceiling along the front wall.

There had to be hundreds of cells on this level, he

thought, moving forward between rows of cells. Some

prisoners stared sullenly out at him. Others lay with

their faces turned to the stone wall. Several wept

openly. Odo felt a wave of sympathy and wished he

could do more. Although the cells looked clean

enough, there was an atmosphere of doom about the

place. No wonder the Groxxin in the Empty Coffin

had said nobody ever escaped from the interrogation

center.

    Finally he came to a cell with a yellow-furred

Groxxin inside. He lay on his bench staring up into

infinity with large round eyes. Manacles held his

wrists to the wall. Half-healed burn wounds covered

his arms. Odo felt a rush of anger at seeing a prisoner

treated in such a manner. He couldn't stand the idea

of torture--he found the concept criminal.

    "You are Orvor?" he said, trying to sound authori-

tative.

"What of it?" The Groxxin sneered openly at him.

The prisoner's spirit hadn't been broken yet, Odo

saw. That had to be a good sign. Perhaps he hadn't

talked yet. He still might have the retrovirus that

would unlock the Jem'Hadar's DNA.

    Odo risked a sidelong glance up the corridor. The

two guards hadn't moved. They were muttering qui-

etly between each other and watching him, though.

What would be the best way to handle the situation?

What would a real Founder do if he wanted to remove

a prisoner?

    "You," he called loudly to one of the guards.

"Come here."

    The Jem'Hadar hurried over. "Yes, Founder," he

said.

 "Who is this one?" Odo demanded.

 "A Groxxin terrorist."

 "Has he talked yet?"

 "Not yet, Founder."

 "What are you doing about that?"

    "Standard procedure. He will be interrogated again

tomorrow, and if he still proves uncooperative, he

will be terminated."

     Odo nodded. He didn't have much time left. "I

wish to interrogate this one myself," he said.

  "Sir?"

     Odo whirled and struck him across the face. "Do

not question me! Move.r'  "Yes, Founder."

  Quickly the guard unlocked the cell door, stepped

in, and released Orvor's manacles from their magnet-

ic clamps to the wall. Orvor rose with a sigh and

shuffled out, his chains rattling.  "I won't talk," he said.

    "We'll see about that," Odo countered. He looked

at the Jem'Hadar. "The keys to his restraints?"

    Silently the guard passed them over. Then, pulling

Orvor along by his manacles, Odo turned and led him

down the corridor and into the turbolift. 

The doors closed, and they started up.

    "Pause," Odo said to the computer. "Lock access to

this turbolift."

"What are you doing?" Orvor demanded.

"Hyperspace links lead us all together," Odo said,

unlocking the manacles and pulling them off of

Orvor's wrists and ankles.  "But you're--"

    "Yes," Odo said. "I don't have time to explain. I'm

here with two others to get you out." He pushed the

manacles into the corner, where they couldn't be seen

from outside the turbolift. It would have to do, he

decided.

 Standing, he said, "Resume. Surface level."

 The lift started upward once more.

    When the doors opened, Odo half expected to see

changelings and more Jem'Hadar waiting for him, but

the one guard still stood there. He snapped to atten-

tion again as Odo and Orvor walked past him.

    Together, side by side, they walked out the front

door and down the steps. Odo felt the eyes of the

hidden Jem'Hadar on him, but he didn't acknowledge

their presence in any way. He simply walked out to

the middle of the street, turned left, and kept going.

    He spotted Kira and Worfat one of the fruit stands.

They saw him, then followed at a leisurely pace, as

though they were casual shoppers moving on to a

different stand.

    Six blocks from the interrogation center, Odo be-

gan to think they might get away with it. Twenty

blocks later, as the crowds thinned out, he knew they

had. He turned down a side alley and paused, and a

few seconds later Kira and Worf joined them.

    "This is Orvor," Odo said, and he made the intro-

ductions.

    "We did it!" Kira grinned and slapped him on the

back. Worf nodded solemnly.

    "All we have to do is get back to our ship," Odo

said.

 "Tell me... my wife?" Orvor began.

    "She's safe," Kira said. "You'll be back with her in

three days, maybe sooner if the debriefing goes well."

    Orvor shook his head. "There won't be any debrief-

ing," he said.

 Odo tensed. "Why?"

    "The retrovirus--they took the files when they

arrested me. I'm afraid you've come for nothing."

    "We'll discuss that later," Odo said. "Right now

we've got to get out of here. As soon as they discover

you're gone, this place is going to be crawling with

Jem'Hadar looking for us."

    He nodded. "You're right. Which way to your

ship?"

    Odo took the lead. Once more they passed through

Old Town, and once more he glimpsed furtive figures

paralleling them, trying to gauge their strength, trying

to work up their courage to attack. Kira and Worf

drew their phasers and carried them openly. That

seemed to turn the trick, Odo saw. They made it to

the spaceport's landing field unscathed.

    As soon as they stepped onto the duracrete, into the

brightness of the landing field's lights, Odo felt almost

safe. They headed up the row of shuttles. He began

counting, so he'd know exactly where they'd left their

ship.

    When they got there, though, he stopped in shock.

Their berth between the two Jem'Hadar warships lay

empty.

 Their ship had vanished.

CHAPTER

      26

SISKO TOOK A second runabout to Bajor with Dax and

Dr. Bashir aboard, following the ship he'd loaned to

Vedek Werron. Sisko kept a careful eye on the sensors.

For all he knew, Werron might throw Mekkar out an

airlock along the way.

    But it seemed Vedek Werron truly did intend to

turn Mekkar over to the authorities. The Vedek

landed his ship in a field just outside the small

southern city of Belmast--the site where Mekkar had

supposedly committed his atrocities--and Sisko

brought his own runabout down there, too.

    Thousands of Bajorans had turned out to meet the

runabouts, Sisko saw, and lines of Bajoran security

guards held them back a safe distance. Some of the

crowd held up placards saluting Werron. Others held

signs in various languages screaming for justice and

death for the Butcher of Belmast. News reporters

swarmed everywhere with cameras.

    "It looks like quite a welcoming committee," Dax

commented.

  "A circus is more like it," Sisko said.

 Bashir said, "Let's hope they're friendly."

    "I didn't allow Mekkar to be brought here only to

have him lynched," Sisko said. Rising, he opened the

hatch and hopped to the ground.

    The noise was incredible, Sisko thought, staring out

at the thousands of Bajorans being held back by a line

of security guards. They all seemed to be screaming

insults directed at Mekkar. Dax joined him, then

Bashit. Dax shouted something to him, but he

couldn't make out the words; he tapped to his ears

and shook his head. She nodded and pointed to the

other runabout.

    Sisko turned. The hatch had opened and now Vedek

Werron climbed out. He r~.ised both arms in saluta-

tion, and the crowd went wild. Sisko had to cover

his ears. Next, following him, came two of the Vedek's

followers, and they dragged a limp Gul Mek-

kar between them. Mekkar appeared unconscious--

or so Sisko hoped. That was infinitely better than

dead.

    A few people in the crowd began throwing stones.

One struck Mekkar on the cheek, opening a jagged

wound. Dark blood flowed out.

    Bajoran security officers hurried forward, seized

Mekkar's arms, and hustled him to a waiting vehicle.

It looked heavily armored, Sisko saw. The guards

locked themselves inside, then the vehicle took off,

flying low over the crowd. A few more rocks struck its

sides, then it accelerated toward the city and rapidly

vanished from sight.

    The security officers let down their crowd-control

barriers, and the mob surged forward, beading for

Werron and his men. They lifted the Vedek into the

air and began parading him forward. Grinning, Wet-

ton waved to everyone around him.

    He's quite the hero now, Sisko thought. But what

would the Bajorans think when they found out the

truth?

    Spontaneously most of the crowd began to sing a

battle hymn Sisko had never heard before. Still sing-

ing, they bore Werron and his followers off toward the

center of the city. Five minutes later, they were alone.

    Bashir was shaking his head. "I've never seen

anything like that," he said. "It was... incredible."

    "I think we'd better see the local authorities," Sisko

said, "before this thing gets any more out of control."

He glanced at Dax. As soon as they'd learned Vedek

Werron's destination, she'd looked up the city on the

ship's database. "Which way?"

    "That tall building with the spires," she said,

pointing to the left, "is the Hall of Justice."

    Three hours and ten meetings later, Sisko had a bad

feeling in his stomach. True to her word, Kai Winn

had expedited proceedings. Unfortunately, she'd

failed to tell anyone that Mekkar wasn't the Butcher

of Belmast. Every official who met with Sisko insisted

Mekkar would get a fair trial--"All of Bajor is

watching, after all! "--and then went on to say that his

execution had been scheduled for the following week.

    They weren't taking him seriously, Sisko realized.

They all wanted Mekkar to be guilty. Like Vedek

Werron, they saw what they wanted to see and noth-

ing else.

    At one point he saw a photograph of the real

Butcher of Belmast. The moment he did, he realized

where the mistake had come from. The two Cardas-

sians looked enough alike to be identical twins. But

that doesn't help our Gul Mekkar, he thought.

    Worst of all, Kai Winn suddenly made herself

unavailable to talk whenever Sisko called. He began

to grow frustrated. He started to think he'd been

duped by her. She hadn't believed him and had used

him to bring Mekkar to Bajor for trial. Gul Mekkar

really was going to be tried and, Sisko assumed, found

guilty and executed for crimes he did not commit.

    "Nobody here will speak on the Butcher's behalf,"

a frustrated magistrate finally snapped at Sisko after a

long argument about due process. "Since you think

the Butcher's innocent, why don't you have yourself

appointed as his Speaker?"

    Dax leaned close and whispered, "That might not

be a bad idea, Benjamin. As I understand the judicial

system in Belmast, it will give you a lot more leeway

to present Mekkar's case."

    That made sense. "Is there a downside?" he asked

her.

    "If you plead his case and lose, it's bound to affect

your standing as the Emissary."

    "That's a chance I'm willing to take." Sisko nodded

to the magistrate. "Very well. What do I need to do to

become Mekkar's Speaker?"

    "I have the forms... Yes! Here we are." He

handed Sisko a set of pages.

    Sisko signed everywhere he indicated. "That's it?'

he asked as he finished.

    "Yes," the magistrate said. "The trial begins at first

light tomorrow. Be here an hour beforehand to see the

Butcher."

 "I want to see him now."

 "Impossible."

    Sisko barely managed to keep his anger in check.

This wasn't a trial, it was murder. He'd never run into

so many roadblocks before. They didn't want justice,

he realized, they wanted blood. Mekkar's blood.

    Dax took his arm and pulled him from the magis-

trate's office. "I know that look," she said. "You were

going to do something you'd regret."

    He sighed. "You're probably right. What do you

suggest?"

    "Let's find Julian and get back to the runabout.

We're going to have a lot of work to do to get ready for

that trial tomorrow."

    He tapped his badge. "Sisko to Bashir. Where are

you, Doctor?"

 "I've just been to see Gul Mekkar," Bashir replied.

    "What? How?" Sisko could barely believe it. They

hadn't let him anywhere near Mekkar's cell.

    "I explained that he was hurt and I was his personal

physician. They want him in top health for his execu-

tion, it seems."

 "How is he?"

    "Two broken ribs, some cuts and bruises, a slight

case of shock. I've done as much for him as I could, all

things considered. I'd really like to get him back to

DS9. How are you coming?"

    "Not well," Sisko said. "The trial begins to-

morrow."

    Sisko spent the rest of the night cramming through

Bajoran legal precedents. Bleary-eyed, he finally

allowed Dr. Bashir to give him a light stimulant to

keep him awake. Mekkar's life was in danger; he knew

he had to be sharp for the trial. The Bajorans seemed

to think it wouldn't last more than one or possibly

two days at the most. He had no intention of letting

them railroad Mekkar into a punishment he didn't

deserve.

    Dax and Bashir pursued other lines of inquiry. Dax

was trying to get information on the real Butcher of

Belmast From Cardassia, but kept running into road-

blocks. Bashir was looking for medical reasons to

postpone the trial. Neither made fast progress.

    The night passed all too quickly. Finally it was

nearly time to head to the Hall of Justice. Sisko sighed

and tabbed off the computer monitor, rubbing his

eyes. What he really needed, he thought, was a team

of crack Federation legal experts, six months to pre-

pare for the trial, and some Bajoran advisors to help

him over the rough spots. Nevertheless, he would

have to make do and trust in the truth to win out.

    After cleaning himself up as best he could in the

runabout, he headed for the courtroom, Dax at his

side. Bashir was still at work.

    "I'll catch up," he promised, "as soon as I have

something."

    "It had better be fast," Sisko said. "I have a feeling

this is going to be a very quick trial, if we're not

careful."

    "Right." Swallowing, Bashir threw himself back

into his work.

    It was a twenty-minute walk to the center of Bel-

mast. By the time Sisko and Dax arrived, a huge

crowd had already gathered outside. He had to push

his way through. It seemed most of the city had

turned out to wait for the guilty verdict, Sisko

thought. It was a shame he had to disappoint them.

    Inside, a guard ushered them into a huge, cavernous

room where the trial would take place. Security

seemed tight. At the far end of the room, on a raised

dais, sat the three magistrates who would hear the

case. One of them, he saw, was the Bajoran who'd

suggested he act as Mekkar's Speaker. For a second he

considered asking the man to remove himself from

the case--after all, he'd already made up his mind

that Mekkar was guilty, but then Sisko thought better

of it. All three magistrates undoubtedly felt the same

way. Trying to remove one might aggravate matters.

No, he would have to win them over.

    "Over here," the guard said, leading them to one

side. A table had been set up for them.

    "Thank you," Sisko said. He glanced to the right,

where another table sat: probably for the prosecution.

The two Bajorans there ignored him.

    The magistrates signaled their readiness. Mekkar,

in chains but walking--no doubt thanks to Bashir,

Sisko thought--was escorted in. He sat in the center

of the hall, facing the three magistrates. Sisko sat

behind Mekkar and to the left; the Prosecutor sat to

the right.

    The magistrate in the center rose. "This trial is

open," he said loudly, and his voice echoed through

the vast Hall of Justice. "Read the charges."

    The Prosecutor rose. "Gul Mekkar, known as the

Butcher of Belmast, is accused of the following crimes

against Bajor. First, that he did knowingly and will-

fully order the death of two thousand three hundred

and twelve mine-workers following the Ten Day

Strike. Second, that he did knowingly and willfully

order the executions of four hundred and sixty-five

Bajorans following a food riot in Belmast. Third--"

    The list of crimes went on and on. Sisko listened,

and as he did his horror grew. The real Mekkar had

been a bloodthirsty monster, he realized, drunk on

power. No wonder everyone on Bajor wanted him

brought to justice.

    Nearly two hours later, the Prosecutor finished his

list of crimes.

    "How say you to these charges?" the magistrate

asked.

    Sisko rose slowly. When he turned, it was to address

not only the magistrates, but the Prosecutor and all

the Bajorans who had assembled inside the Hall of

Justice.

    "I am Captain Benjamin Sisko," he said, "the

commanding officer of Deep Space Nine. You all know

who I am, and believe me, no one has more sympathy

for the Bajoran people than I do. Kai Opara pro-

claimed me your Emissary, and ! have walked in the

wormhole with the beings you call Prophets.

    "You all suffered tremendously under the Cardas-

sian occupation. But this is now a time for healing

and reconciliation. Cardassians are not your enemies.

They are a people like any other--some good, some

bad."

    "Is there a point to this?" the Prosecutor asked

dryly.

    "Yes." Sisko took a deep breath and scanned the

faces around him. "Mekkar is an innocent man. He

was not here during the Cardassian occupation. True,

there is a similarity in names, and true, there is a

similarity in appearance. He is a distant relative of the

so-called Butcher of Belmast. You cannot convict him

for crimes he did not commit!"

    "You have evidence of this, of course," said the

magistrate on the left.

 "Yes. If I may present it?"

 "Proceed."

 "My science officer, Lieutenant Commander Dax,

has gathered the following information from the

Cardassian government." Sisko nodded to Dax.

    Dax picked up a set of folders from the Speaker's

table and carried them forward. She handed one to

each of the magistrates, one to the Prosecutor, and

one to Sisko.

 "Thank you, Dax," he said.

 She smiled and returned to her seat.

    Sisko opened the folder. The first page held two

pictures side by side, one of the real Gul Mekkar as he

had been during the occupation--and the similarity

to their Mekkar was striking--and one as the real Gul

Mekkar was today.

    "Here you see these two different Cardassians," he

began.

    "I see no difference," the Prosecutor said. "These

photos are of the same person."

  "They are different--" Sisko began.

    The magistrate cut him off. "What proof do you

have?" he asked. "Photos and documents can be

faked."

    "Proof?." Sisko said. He'd been afraid they would

say something like that. Dax had been trying to get

through to Cardassia to get direct confirmation all

night without success. At the moment, they had only

his word, which might not be enough. "Look at the

pictures. They have Starfleet authentication. You have

my word as the Emissary and as a Starfleet officer.

Mekkar is not guilty of these crimes."

    The three magistrates conferred briefly. Sisko

watched anxiously as they compared the two photo-

graphs, studied the two Mekkars' identifications, life

histories, and war records. They frowned, then

nodded.

    Sisko's badge chirped. He tapped it as subtly as he

could. "Yes?" he whispered.

    "It's Bashir," he heard the doctor say. "I've finally

reached Cardassia--"

  "Hold that thought, Doctor," he said.

    An undercurrent of talking had swept through the

Hall of Justice while the magistrates studied Sisko's

evidence. The magistrate in the middle looked up

suddenly.

  "Silence!" he roared.

    "This evidence is not conclusive," the magistrate to

his left said. "We took nearly three hundred sworn

testimonies yesterday identifying this Cardassian as

the Butcher of Belmast. Since you are unable to

produce concrete evidence--"

    "Wait!" Sisko cried. "Did you hear that, Doctor?"

ne said. "Do you have someone on line now who can

clear our Mekkar?"

    "I think so," Bashir said. "Is there a monitor there?

I can relay the signal through."

    Sisko looked up at the magistrates, who gave a brief

nod.

    "Do so," Sisko said. He swallowed. Whatever

Bashir had found, it had better be good, he thought.

    A clerk activated a holographic projector, and a

huge image flickered to life on one side of the Hall of

Justice. It was Bashir.

 "This image is being sent to us directly from

Cardassia PMMR," Bashir said. "It's not the highest

quality signal, considering the distances involved. But

I think it will do."

 He touched a button before them.

    Static flickered on the screen, and then an older

Cardassian appeared. He looked like Gul Mekkar,

only a long thin scar puckered the left side of his

mouth.

    "I am," the Cardassian said in a low, powerful

voice, "Gul Ren Mekkar, whom Bajoran terrorists

branded the Butcher of Belmast nearly twenty years

ago." He scanned the faces of the magistrates, and a

faint sneer crept into his voice. "Bajorans are a little

people," he said, "hardly worth the attention of a

proud and great race like the Cardassians. I spat on

you then, and I spit on you now."

    The magistrate on the right stood. "YouJ" he said,

voice hoarse. "You killed my father and my grandfa-

ther."

    Mekkar sneered, "And I'd kill you too, given half

the chance. If it were up to me, I'd put Bajor back

under Cardassian rule tomorrow. We should never

have left before we broke your spirits. Youre"

    "I think that's quite enough," Bashir said, inter-

rupting the tirade. He gazed at the magistrates from

the viewscreen. "Or do you want to hear more from

him?"

    "No ... no," said the magistrate, sitting. His face

was ashen, Sisko saw. He now realized what a mistake

they had almost made.

    "I want all charges against Gul Mekkar dropped,"

Sisko said loudly. "He is innocent."

    The three magistrates conferred for a minute, then

nodded. "Agreed," the high magistrate said. "Release

the prisoner," he told the clerk.

    Sisko and Dax hurried forward to help Mekkar

stand as the clerk unlocked the chains on his arms and

legs. Mekkar seemed to be in a state of shock, Sisko

thought. Little wonder, considering what he'd just

been through. Best to get him back to Bashir and DS9

as quickly as possible.

    He put one of Mekkar's arms around his shoulders

and Dax did the same. Together, they helped the

Cardassian down the long aisle, past the benches filled

with silent Bajorans, and outside.

    "Thank you," Sisko heard Mekkar whispering.

"Thank you."

 "That's what I'm here for," he said.

    Julian Bashir watched them set Gul Mekkar free,

then cut off his transmission to the Hall of Justice. So

much for that, he thought. His plan had worked

perfectly.

    He flipped back to the signal from DS9. It was

completely secure, he knew, coming in on a scram-

bled channel. He found the face of the Butcher of

Betmast grinning at him.

 "How did I do?" Garak asked behind his makeup.

    "Fine," Bashir said. "I think you just saved the day.

See you when we get back. I owe you a drink."

 "You owe me more than that," Garak said. "I have

an Oslan silk suit here with your name on it, Doctor."

  Bashir groaned a bit, but didn't complain. It was

  worth it.

    He severed the connection and smiled. There was a

certain irony in the solution, he thought. The Bajor-

ans refused to believe the truth, no matter how it had

been presented to them. But they'd been only too

eager to believe a lie.

CHAPTER

      27

"WHERE IS IT.9" Kira demanded. A ship didn't just

vanish. Someone had moved it... or taken it back,

she realized with growing panic.

    She glanced around. None of the other shuttles

seemed to be in use, but she didn't think they'd have

sufficient range to make it back to DS9. But they

might give the others a place to hide while she looked

around.

    Then she remembered Snoct Sneyd. He said he'd

help them if they ever needed it. Well, she thought,

they certainly needed it now.

    "Get them over to one of the shuttles and keep

them there," she said to Worf. "I'm going to see if I

can find Snoct. Maybe he can help us find a new

ship."

 Worf nodded. "Agreed." He turned to Odo and

Orvor. "This way, quickly," he said, striking out for

the nearest shuttle.

    Kira hesitated. Where would she find an Iffalian

maintenance crew? Probably near the center of the

field, she decided. That way they could be quickly

dispatched to any ship that needed them.

She took her bearings and started walking.

Twenty minutes later, she saw movement ahead: a

small car on antigray skids. It was filled with

Jem'Hadar and was headed straight for her. Turning

to the side like she had business at one particular ship,

she ducked out of sight.

    "You'd better work again," she murmured, activat-

ing her cloaker. Instantly the air around her shim-

mered, and then she seemed to be looking out at the

world through a thick glass wall. Everything became

muted and distant.

    The Jem'Hadar turned where she'd turned and

passed not two meters from where she stood. They

slowed down, peering this way and that, obviously

searching for her. Their starship had been deliberately

moved, Kira realized, to prevent them from escaping.

The changelings knew what they were up to.

    Biting her lip, she turned and sprinted up the

landing field, trying to put as much distance between

herself and the Jem'Hadar as she could. She only had

a few minutes left on her cloaker, she reminded

herself. Site began to count the seconds.

    She put a good half kilometer and ten rows of

parked ships between herself and the Jem'Hadar.

That ought to be enough for now, she decided,

slowing down and ducking behind another ship, this

one a small fighter craft of some sort. She shut off the

cloaker and crouched there, panting, until she caught

her wind.

    Then, carefully, she continued to jog forward. If

anything came up, she still had a little time left on the

cloaker, she thought. She wished she'd brought Worf's

as well. She had a strange feeling she'd need all the

help she could get.

    A large cluster of buildings appeared on the hori-

zon. That had to be the central complex, she decided.

The Iffalians had better be there.

    Then she saw movement ahead on the landing

field--more Jem'Hadar, she realized. She glanced

around in panic. She was a good fifty meters from the

nearest cover. She'd never make it before being seen.

    She activated her cloaker again, hoping they hadn't

spotted her yet. Turning, she jogged quickly to the

side, cutting across, and just as quickly she stopped

short. A pair of Jem'Hadar warriors were patrolling

this area on foot, their disruptors held ready. Beyond

them lay a couple of low buildings--little more than

storage sheds, really. Maybe she could find cover

there.

    Suddenly colors flickered all around her. The cloak-

er had begun running low on power, she realized. Its

distortion field shimmered brightly for an instant, like

a beacon in the darkness, then returned to normal.

She checked its readouts. Less than a minute left, she

thought with dismay.

"There!" one of Jem'Hadar began to shout, point-

ing in her direction.

    Kira glanced down. The cloaker failed again, and

for the second time a sheet of colored light rippled

over her body. She stood out like a burning torch, she

realized. Suddenly it failed altogether, and she found

herself standing completely exposed.

    The two Jem'Hadar fired just as she dived to the

side, and their energy bolts sizzled past, just missing

her. She ducked around the nearest ship, tucked down

her head, and sprinted toward the buildings. Maybe

she could lose them there, she thought.

    She risked a glance back. The two Jem'Hadar

sprinted after her, about twenty yards behind. Gradu-

ally they began to close the gap. It would be close,

Kira thought, but she'd beat them.

    She rounded the first low building, spotted a stack

of wooden crates, and skidded behind them without a

second's hesitation. The two Jem'Hadar pounded

past. One of them glanced her way but didn't spot her

in the shadows.

    For once, her luck was holding, Kira thought. As

soon as they passed by, she got up and took a closer

look at the shed. The door lay on the other side, she

saw, but there were a few high windows for ventila-

tion on this side. It would be a tight fit, but she

thought she could get through.

    Climbing onto the crates, she opened the window

and glanced inside. It seemed to be a storage depot for

heavy cleaning equipment of some kind, she thought.

 Grunting a little, she pulled herself in, then lowered

 herself to the floor.

    She heard the patrol returning, more slowly this

time. She eased back farther into the darkness. A

heartbeat later, a face appeared at the ventilation

window she'd climbed through. The Jem'Hadar

peered this way and that, but didn't spot her. He tried

'squeezing inside himself, but rapidly gave up. With

his muscles, he'd never fit.

    Someone outside shouted something, and he pulled

back.

    Kira drifted forward like a ghost. Standing on

tiptoe, she could just see out the window. More

Jem'Hadar had appeared, including two of the cars on

antigrav skids, and they began to mill about outside,

talking among themselves.

    Kira sighed and slumped to the floor, her back to

the wall.

It looked like it was going to be a long night, she

thought.

    Forty minutes later, the Jem'Hadar still hadn't left.

They kept wandering by in little groups, as if hoping

she'd magically reappear. Perhaps they were waiting

for daylight to track her, she thought.

    Then she spotted a group of Iffalians walking

toward the storage sheds on foot. They looked a lot

like Snoct Sneyd, she thought, only they wore drab

gray uniforms. She hesitated. Was it worth trying to

get them to help her?

    They opened the doors of the storage shed next to

hers and began wheeling out equipment. They were

only twenty meters away. But they were in the open,

and if that patrol spotted her, she wouldn't have a

prayer of escape.

    There had to be some way to attract the Iffalians'

attention, she finally decided. She looked around the

shed, but in the semidarkness nothing stood out

among the large hulking machines. She didn't see a

single thing she could use to attract their attention.

    She felt her own pockets and also came up empty--

just her phaser and the personal ctoaker.

    Well, valuable or not, she needed to use it. Since it

wasn't working, she took the cloaker off, opened up its

control panel, and started breaking off little pieces of

delicate circuitry. She began stacking them on the

floor in front of her.

    When she had a little pile of them, she slowly

pushed open the ventilation window and threw the

first piece toward the Iffalians as hard as she could. It

fell a little short; they didn't even look up. Taking a

deep breath, she threw the second piece. This one

traveled a little farther and came to rest a few meters

to the left of one of the workers. He didn't look up,

either, though.

    "What do I have to do," Kira muttered to herself,

"hit you in the head?"

    She threw the third piece, and this time her aim

came closer. It fell short by a few meters, but skittered

forward and tapped one of the workers' boots.

  He glanced down, saw the piece of rubbish, and

bent to pick it up curiously. Kira didn't wait, but

threw two more pieces in quick succession. She didn't

want to lose him now that she had his interest.

    The other pieces must have caught his eye. He

turned and stared toward her shed. Come on, she

thought, just a little bit closer...

     He didn't take so much as a step in her direction.

    , "Psst!" Kira said as loudly as she dared. "Psst!

Come over here, quick!"

    The alien muttered something to his companions,

then picked up a broom and dustpan. He pretended to

sweep up bits of rubbish and quickly worked his way

over to Kira.

    "Who are you?" he demanded in a whisper, not

looking in her direction.

    "A friend," Kira said. "Do you know Snoct

Sneyd?"

 "The one who was trapped in the Jem'Hadar ship?"

 "Yes. Can you get him for me? I need his help."

 "Why?"

    "Because I'm trapped here, the Jem'Hadar are

looking for me, and he said he owed me a favor. I got

him off that ship and saved his life, after all."

     "That was you?" The Iffalian looked up at her, an

expression of awe and wonder on his face.

  "Yes," Kira said. "Can you help me?"

  "Wait here."

    He worked his way back to the others and con-

versed briefly with them. Kira watched expectantly,

but they did nothing to acknowledge her presence.

Instead, they quickly finished unloading their clean-

ing equipment and rolled it away.

    She sat back. Was that a good sign? Had they

decided to turn her in, in case there was a reward? She

didn't know. If only Snoct Sneyd had been there, she

thought, things would have been much simpler.

    She gazed out the window again, straining to see

both left and right. There was no sign of the patrol.

Perhaps she should make a break for it, she thought,

and try to steal a ship on her own. If the Jem'Hadar

surrounded her shed, she knew she wouldn't have a

chance of escaping.

    She had just about decided to strike out again on

her own when she spotted the maintenance crew

returning, this time with a vehicle. The little transport

had a square storage compartment mounted over the

rear antigrav skids, she saw. And there were more

Iffalians this time. And was that Snoct Sneyd...?

Yes, she thought. Itk him. Relief flooded through her.

He'd come to help.

     They opened the doors to her shed and backed the

transport up. Snoct darted inside.  "Major Kira!" he said.

    "Thanks for coming," she said. "They took our

shipm"

    "I know," he said. "The Founders ordered it. We're

cleaning it for them now."

  "Can you take me there?"

    "Of course!" he said. He crossed to the storage

compartment on the transport and opened the cover.

"Climb in!"

    "First we need to get Worf and the others," she

said.

    Snoct Sneyd drove the transport back to where

she'd left Worf, Odo, and Orvor. Fortunately, the

Jem'Hadar hadn't found them yet. Kira realized she'd

probably served as a distraction. They'd concentrated

all their efforts on trying to find her.

    After a brief reunion, Snoct hustled everyone into

the storage bin and drove across the landing field. It

was a tight fit, but nobody complained. Odo trans-

formed himself into a cushion to take up less room.

They all sat on him.

    Kira weathered the bumpy ride in silence, as did

the others. She didn't tell them how close she'd come

to being captured, or that her personal cloaker had

failed at a crucial moment, when it should have lasted

another thirty seconds. She'd have something to say

about that to Lieutenant Colfax when they got back to

DS9.

    Finally the ride ended. She felt the transport swing

around, then back up. A second later the motor shut

off.

    Snoct opened the cargo bin. They'd pulled up by

the hatch of the ship they'd taken to get here, Kira

saw, exactly as he'd promised. She could have kissed

him.

 "It's ready to go!" Snoct said.

 Odo and Worf hustled Orvor aboard.

    "Thank you," Kira said. "I won't forget this, Snoct.

If you ever make it to the Alpha Quadrant--"

    "No, no!" he piped. "I will never leave Daborat V

again!"

    She laughed, then turned and dashed up the ramp.

They'd spent too long here, she thought. She wanted

to get home. Although the mission hadn't been a

complete success, at least they'd rescued Orvor. That

had to count for something. As they said during the

Bajoran Resistance, any mission you came back from

was a success.

    She slid into the pilot's seat and powered up the

engines. When Worf closed the hatch, she lifted off

smoothly. The ship handled as well as ever, she found.

They could be home in two days.

     Suddenly the communicator gave a series of beeps.

Ground control was hailing them. "Odo!" she called.

    "Right here," he said, appearing beside her. He

activated the monitor.

    "You are not cleared for takeoff," a Jem'Hadar

warrior said.

"I'm leaving," Odo said. "Do nothing to stop me."

The Jem'Hadar opened his mouth, but nothing

came out. He seemed to be struggling with an inner

conflict. Probably the orders another changeling gave

him, Kira realized with a grin. By the time he got it all

sorted out, they'd be long gone.

    She cleared the atmosphere and laid in a course for

the wormhole. Forty-one hours, she thought, going to

warp, and she'd be safe in her own bed.

  She couldn't wait.

CHAPTER

      28

As THEY EMERGED into the Alpha Quadrant through

the wormhole, Major Kira saw that DS9 looked much

the same as when she'd left. It hung before them,

spinning slowly, its docking ring packed with ships.

The Excalibur sat half a kilometer off from the sta-

tion... probably waiting to take Orvor aboard, she

thought. The Federation would doubtless be disap-

pointed when they learned he hadn't managed to

escape with the retrovirus, but she knew they'd get

whatever he could remember from him. Perhaps it

would provide a clue toward   defeatingthe

Jem'Hadar.

"Ten minutes," she called back.

 Orvor grinned. "Thank you, Major."

    In the two days since his rescue, he'd made an

almost miraculous recovery, she thought. His burns

had almost entirely healed, his yellow fur had taken

on a rich luster, and his snout had turned a healthy

pink. He didn't look like the same pathetic prisoner

they'd rescued.

    "DS9 to unidentified ship," Kira heard a familiar

voice say over the subspace radio, "please identify

yourself."

    "This is Major Kira, Dax," she said. "We're coming

home) Clear a berth for us."

    "Docking Pylon three," Dax said. "Welcome home,

Nerys)"

 "Thanks," Kira said.

Sisko studied Kira and Worf, who both stood at

attention before him.

    All told, it had been quite a week, Sisko thought. An

hour after Kira docked, Orvor had been bundled off

aboard the Excalibur for a reunion with his mate. The

Excalibur then put the captured Jem'Hadar ship in a

tractor beam and towed it off for further study.

Admiral Dulev would be a little disappointed about

the retrovirus, but still, things could have gone much

worse. The Excalibur had already taken the Valtusian

ship aboard one of its docking bays. Although the

changelings hadn't made many modifications to the

ship beside adding tissue culture banks in which they

had grown Valtusian skin--the same skin they'd used

to fool Bashir's DNA scanner--Starfleet scientists

would go over every inch of it. You never knew what

might prove useful.

    "Sir," Worf said, offering his report. Sisko accepted

it, then took Kira's.

    'Tll read them tomorrow," he promised. "Now, I

think I'd like to buy you both drinks. From what I

hear, you deserve them."

    "If you don't mind my saying so," Kira said, "so do

you. I hear you make quite an impressive Speaker,

Captain."

    "Well..." Sisko made a deprecating gesture. "One

does what one must."

    Grinning, he led the way out into Ops. Dax was just

coming off her shift, he saw, so he invited her to join

them, and she gladly accepted.

    By the time they reached Quark's, their party had

swelled to include Dr. Bashir, O'Brien, and Odo.

Hopefully they'd find a table, Sisko thought, noting

the time.

    When he led the way inside, though, he found

business decidedly slow. Half a dozen people sat at

the Dabo tables, and only Morn sat at the bar nursing

a drink. Other than that, the place was deserted.

  Quark wandered over, looking a bit sour.

    "What's wrong?" Sisko asked, looking around.

"Where is everybody?"

    "That's what I'd like to know," Quark grumbled.

"You have one brawl, one terrorist attack, and one

rumor of contaminated Bajoran spice ale--" Sisko

noted the dark look Quark shot at Bashir, who shifted

uneasily and didn't meet the Ferengi's gaze. There

had to be a story there, Sisko thought. They'd worm it

out of Bashir after he'd had a few drinks. "--and all

of a sudden nobody wants to drink here anymore."

  "They'll be back," Bashir said.

    "They'd better," Quark said. "And don't think

Vedek Werron isn't getting the bill for my lost busi-

Bess!"

 "We need a table," Sisko said.

    "Here," Quark said, leading them to a large one by

the door. "Maybe people will notice you sitting here

and come in."

    Everyone began calling their orders. Quark hurried

to fill them.

    Yes, Sisko thought, it had been quite a week. A

changeling plot had been foiled. An innocent Cardas-

sian had been saved. And best of all, a Federation

informant had been rescued, though Sisko had no

idea if Orvor's information would prove useful. But

best of all, his friends were alive and well and with

him now.

  "Drinks," he announced, "are on me."

    He grinned. All in all, it had been a very good week,

he thought.