Wrath of the Prophets

by Peter David

  Sisko frowned. Apparently, he'd come a long way for a very short conversation. He had only one trump card left, and he played it.

  "You know," he said, "it's too bad."

  Wiping his mouth with the back of his gauntlet again, Kestralnamen grunted. "What's too bad?"

  The human stood up, came around the side of the table, and leaned close to the Orion's ear. "What if I were to tell you I could prepare a bowl of wing slugs that would make your head spin?"

  Kestralnamen looked at him suspiciously. "And how would you do that?"

  Sisko smiled. "My dad is a chef in New Orleans, back on Earth. He taught me all he knew—and he had a hot sauce men would kill for."

  The Orion swallowed with anticipation. "A hot sauce?"

  The human nodded. "That's right. Of course, I don't give out the recipe to just anyone. Only to my friends." He leaned even closer. "My friends tell me what I want to know, Administrator. Are you one of my friends?"

  For a long promising moment, Sisko thought he'd struck paydirt. Then a scowl spread over Kestralnamen's fat ugly face.

  "You try my patience," he snapped. "I told you all there is to tell. Now leave me to my meal, damn you, or I'll—"

  He was interrupted by a commotion from across the room. Someone had opened the door to the gaming room. And the one cry the captain heard over all the others was: "Dabo!"

  What's more, he recognized the voice. It was Quark's. Apparently the Ferengi was playing dabo instead of digging for information.

  I might have known, Sisko mused.

  He turned back to Kestralnamen. "Perhaps you're right," he said. "This isn't the best time to discuss the matter. We can renew our discussion after you've eaten."

  The Orion frowned. "There's nothing more to discuss," he insisted, and left before the captain could argue otherwise.

  Sisko glanced at the open door to the gaming room. Kestralnamen was clearly a dead end—at least for the time being. That meant Quark's role in this mission was looming larger and larger.

  And he wasn't going to get them what they'd come for by playing dabo. Pulling down on the front of his tunic, the captain crossed the dining hall and headed for the gaming room.

  He had a few choice words for his erstwhile partner—and none of them were "dabo."

  It took a while for him to make his way through the crowd. It seemed Quark was on a hot streak, and the onlookers were packed as tight as Solemian sardines. Finally Sisko reached the first rank, just behind the Ferengi.

  Quark was on the verge of spinning the wheel again. It was only the captain's voice in his ear that made him hesitate.

  "This is not why we came here," Sisko grated.

  The Ferengi smiled at the other players around the dabo table. Out of the corner of his mouth, he said, "I'm trying to build a little trust, if you don't mind. Now move along before you wreck everything."

  The captain glared at him. As far as he could tell, all Quark was building was a pile of chips—and a healthy one at that.

  Still, the Ferengi had his own ways of doing things—ways that had apparently worked well for him in the past. And Sisko had promised to extend a little trust.

  For the time being, the captain retreated through the crowd and returned to the dining hall next door. He decided he would give Quark all the latitude he needed—at least for now.

  Mount Kataba was a tough climb. As they approached the foot of it, Kira could see that Ro was beginning to appreciate that fact.

  The Maquis tilted her head back, eyes fixed on the lofty tree-covered crag. "You have got to be kidding," she said.

  "It wouldn't be much of a hidden bunker if it were sitting out in plain sight, now, would it?" Kira demanded.

  Ro looked at her askance. "It's a mountain. It's a damned mountain."

  "I know the paths," the major assured her. "They're steep and treacherous, but they're also handy when you're trying to avoid pursuers." She folded her arms and studied Ro with an unmistakable air of superiority. "What's the matter, Ro? Feel you're not up to it?"

  The Maquis chuckled humorlessly. "I can climb anything you toss at me. I just hope I'm not wasting my time."

  "You signed on with me," Kira reminded her, "so your time is mine to waste."

  "You know," Ro said slowly, "I am getting pretty damned sick of you."

  "Oh, are you?"

  "Yes, I am." The Maquis unslung her backpack and tossed it to the ground. "I'm getting sick of your constant whining over how nothing and nobody from your checkered past is as good as you remember. I'm sick of your overbearing overconfidence. I'm sick of the way you look at me …"

  Kira tilted her head. "And how do I look at you, precisely?"

  "Like I'm not good enough to be working with you. Like I'm some … "

  "Some disgraced deserter?"

  Ro's features hardened. "You act as if you have an exclusive right to moral outrage. You shove me into the background and try to run a show that hasn't been running particularly well."

  "You think you can do better?" Kira asked.

  "I think you should stop thinking you're better than me just because you landed on Deep Space Nine ... and I landed in a Starfleet stockade."

  "That's not the reason I think I'm better than you."

  Ro smiled in triumph. "So you admit it."

  "Yes, I admit it," Kira said defiantly. "It's because when I take on a job, and I take an oath, and I take responsibilities, I stick to them. I don't find excuses or look for greener pastures. I do the job."

  "Even when you realize the job has gone sour?"

  Kira shook her head. "Your job never went sour, Ro. You did."

  The Maquis glared at her for a long moment, then started to walk away. Kira called after her. "Quitting again?"

  Ro whirled, looking daggers at Kira, and stooped to reach for her backpack. "I was just going to pick up my pack. Do you mind?"

  "Thank you for clarifying that," Kira said.

  "You're welcome. So let's get to this blasted bunker already."

  Once more, the major led the way. And this time, it was Ro who gave the silent treatment to Kira. The silence suited Kira just fine.

  She moved quickly up the mountain path, surefootedly finding just the right nooks and crevices to give her the occasional finger or toe hold she needed.

  Kira had forgotten how clean the air was up here, how breathtaking the view. To the east, a blanket of overgrown farmland stretched to the horizon, basking in unbroken sunlight. To the west, she could see even bigger peaks than Kataba, shouldering a pile of fleecy clouds.

  But this was no time for sightseeing, she reminded herself. This was business.

  The path wound its way higher and higher. At one point, it branched off. Kira slowed, looking around in momentary uncertainty.

  From behind, Ro said with ill-concealed derision, "What's the matter, pathfinder? Feeling a little lost?"

  "You'll pardon me if, unlike certain people, I give some thought to where I'm going. It's been sixteen years, after all. Wait."

  Kira moved to the right, feeling small standing there with mountains rising on either side of her. She pushed aside some brush, revealing a small mark, a half circle that wouldn't have meant anything to anyone else.

  "I thought so. This way."

  Ro looked concerned. "How do you know?"

  "Because sixteen years ago, I carved this marker into the rock so I'd always know which way to go. As I said … some people actually plan their lives."

  "And some people become overly regimented and dull," her companion retorted.

  They made it up and over a plateau. Kira pointed. "There. Over there."

  "Over where?"

  "Just past there. I know at least two hidden entrances to it. But you can't really see it until you're right on top of it."

  They crossed the plateau. It was eerily silent to Kira. She had no reason to expect it to be noisy, of course, but somehow the silence felt oppressive. Even wrong, for some reason.

  "I don't like t
his," Ro said. "Something stinks. Let's get out of here."

  Kira looked at her contemptuously. "'Let's get out of here'? Spoken like a true deserter."

  "I'm telling you, this is—"

  Ro was interrupted by the unmistakable klak of energy-bolt cartridges being slammed into Yridian blasters.

  Kira estimated there were a half-dozen of them, aimed at her and Ro from different points in the mountainous terrain around them. Ten yards in front of them, there was a whirring of gears and motors, and the ground seemed to rise up. The main entranceway to the bunker, a large gleaming metal cylinder, was now plainly in evidence.

  An Yridian slowly emerged from the main entrance. He was hideously wrinkled, even for someone of his race.

  "You are Manimoujak?" Kira asked.

  He nodded. "And you are Kira." He looked to her companion. "And Ro. You have half-a-dozen power orbs that belong to me."

  "To you?" the major asked. Ro sighed and rolled her eyes.

  "Yes," the Yridian explained. "Benzar Okrin told me you would be delivering them … and yourselves … in due time."

  "Delivering ourselves," Kira said. "Nooo … I don't think so. We're not part of any bargain."

  "Oh yes you are," Manimoujak insisted. And that was the last thing Kira heard before something hard slammed into her head, sending her spiraling into unconsciousness.

  Manimoujak stared down at the insensate forms of the two females. He stroked his chin.

  "I wonder how much they'll go for on the Orion trade market," he said out loud.

  One of his lieutenants said, "Benzar warned they could be pretty feisty."

  "Good," Manimoujak said approvingly. "That's the way Orions like their slaves—strong and spirited. Drag them inside … but be sure not to damage them. We wouldn't want them to be in anything other than mint condition."

  A moment later, his men complied.

  CHAPTER

  9

  FOLLOWING O'BRIEN'S ADVICE that she unwind, Dax found herself sitting at a table in Quark's. Despite the proprietor's absence, the service was as quick as ever, and the Scandavian Sunsets just as good.

  The lieutenant liked Quark's. It was a true melting pot of races from throughout the galaxy. When one had lived as many lives as she had, one was more than used to diversity—one reveled in it.

  And, of course, Morn was sitting at the bar, an ongoing part of that diversity. Some things never changed, she mused. Bajor orbited its sun every day and Morn could always be found at Quark's.

  As she sipped her drink, Dax watched Rom, Quark's brother, scurry past her with a large board. Rom was not known for his initiative, but he was still a Ferengi. Ergo, he was up to something.

  When an Andorian rose from his chair, Rom grabbed it and moved it closer to the entrance to the bar. Then he got up on the chair with his board and placed the thing above the door.

  Stepping back on the chair, the Ferengi surveyed his handiwork. Apparently unsatisfied, he moved the board a little to his left. Next, he produced a small cloth from inside his waistcoat and polished a smudge on the board's lower right corner.

  That done, Rom got down off the chair again, crossed to the bar, and grabbed a shimmering sheet that absorbed and reflected the light in golds and yellows. Returning to the board with the sheet under his arm, he hung it over the sign, studied its draping, and then beamed.

  Passing Dax on his way toward the labyrinth of back rooms, Quark's brother was still smiling. Unable to see the front of the board and what it said, the Trill put her hand on the Ferengi's sleeve.

  "Running a special?" she asked.

  Rom looked at her. "Oh, no." He grinned and jerked a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the board. "You know where my brother went …"

  Dax nodded. "Of course."

  "The Orions are a dangerous people," the Ferengi explained. "And they won't like Captain Sisko poking around. I was just being prepared."

  She nodded in understanding. "I hope it won't come to that, Rom."

  The Ferengi made a face. "Well, me, too," he said. "Quark is my brother, after all. But you know the Sixth Rule of Acquisition."

  It took the Trill a moment to recall the specific rule—never easy with 285 of them to sift through—but given the circumstances, she was able to figure it out. "Never allow family to stand in the way of opportunity."

  Rom snorted in nervous laughter and bobbed his head, grinning wider than before. "You see my point, then."

  Dax grunted. "In a way, I suppose I do."

  "Miss your brother?" came a gruff voice.

  The Trill turned at the same time Rom did—to see Odo standing there. It was as if the constable had come out of nowhere, which—in Odo's case—was actually within the realm of possibility.

  The Ferengi cringed a bit. Then he puffed up his chest and announced, "Welcome to Rom's Pleasure Palace. What may I serve you? On the house, of course."

  "That's very generous of you," Odo said, "considering I don't drink—and we both know it." He tilted his head to indicate the entrance. "Interesting new name for the place."

  Rom shuffled a bit. "Do you know our one hundred and Sixty-second Rule of Acquisition?" he asked.

  Odo shook his head. "And what would that be?" he asked disdainfully.

  Rom smiled. "'Even in the worst of times, someone turns a profit.' Now, I may not be a very good businessman, but I'm still a Ferengi."

  The constable grunted. "So you are."

  With nothing left to say, Rom hurried off, snapping out orders to waiters and bartenders—and sounding frighteningly like Quark. Silently wishing the hard-luck Ferengi good fortune, the Trill sipped at her drink again.

  Odo turned to her. "Any luck?" he asked.

  Dax shook her head. "Not yet."

  The shapeshifter didn't comment any further. Maybe he knew how many people had inquired about the doctor's progress in the last several hours. Or maybe he just sensed when to go easy. In any case, Dax found herself grateful for the respite.

  Suddenly a bizarre and unfamiliar sound intruded on them—a sound that reminded the Trill too much of someone choking. Rising, she took a quick look around the place—and saw Morn slumping against the bar, his wrinkled dark skin starting to turn pale, tears streaming down his long face. His right hand trembled a bit, just enough to slosh liquid over the edge of his glass.

  He wasn't in danger of choking, as she first thought. But there was definitely something wrong with him.

  Tapping her combadge immediately, Dax called for medical assistance. Rom backed away from the bar, allowing a tray full of drinks to slip from his grasp and crash to the floor. The other patrons gave Morn a wide berth.

  Within moments, Bashir arrived with a nurse, both of them carrying medkits. A security team arrived as well.

  Odo kept everyone in the bar back—hardly a difficult task under the circumstances. Also, he signaled for his people to assemble near the entrance, so no one else could get in.

  The doctor worked rapidly over Morn, taking readings and analyzing them on his tricorder. The nurse took readings of the glass Morn had used. Then Bashir glanced at Dax, looking a little pale himself.

  Not a good sign, the Trill told herself. Not a good sign at all.

  "Julian?" she prompted.

  Bashir frowned. "We have a new problem, I'm afraid. Morn has the disease. It's on the station."

  Worse, Morn wasn't a Bajoran—which meant that, for the first time, the Wrath of the Prophets was crossing species. And that, thought Dax, was the worst sign of all.

  She was still thinking it when the lights went out.

  As soon as Calculanthra entered the gaming den, he sought out the Ferengi with his eyes. It turned out not to be an easy task.

  He turned to Nodogascur, his second cousin on his mother's side. "Where is the little slug?"

  Nodogascur pointed to a crowd that had assembled around the dabo table. "Over there," he said. "You can't see him, but he's in there—believe me."

  Loath to believe anyth
ing, even when it came from his second cousin on his mother's side, Calculanthra made his way through the gaming den. Most of the gamers recognized him and gave way. Those who didn't were shoved aside.

  After all, Calculanthra was large and powerful, even for an Orion. One didn't have to know him to know it was prudent to avoid him.

  Just as he arrived on the perimeter of the crowd surrounding the dabo table, he heard a cry go up. It was a familiar one, though perhaps not as familiar to Calculanthra personally as he would have liked.

  "Dabo!"

  "Don't be shy," came a distinctly Ferengi voice. "Step up and make your side bets. I may be on an unbelievable roll, but everyone's bound to fall sometime—am I right?"

  There was a chorus of agreement, followed by a flurry of eager betting. Calculanthra pushed in closer, until he could see the Ferengi at the center of it all. Nodogascur was right behind him.

  "Is that him?" Calculanthra asked.

  His cousin nodded. "That's him, all right. His name is Quark."

  Calculanthra sized up the Ferengi—a moment's work. He was just as small and slimy-looking as the rest of his race.

  "And you say he's the one who's been asking about the replicators? The ones we sold to that Bajoran?"

  Nodogascur nodded again. "That's right. And since we last spoke, I've discovered something more about him. Remember those slave women you wanted? The ones who were bought off the block by the Moborite?"

  Maintaining his scrutiny of the Ferengi, Calculanthra grunted. "I remember them too well."

  It was no secret how much he had wanted those women, the pick of a wealthy family that had fallen on hard times. The fact that their father had been his rival would have made the acquisition that much sweeter.

  "What of it?" he asked Nodogascur.

  "It seems," said his cousin, "the Moborites were only a front. This Ferengi was the one who really acquired them. He runs a drinking establishment on a space station, and he wanted some Orions to spice up his business."

  Calculanthra felt the anger building inside him. "Then he was the one who deprived me of my prize."