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 s
ix 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
Star Trek - DS9 - Heart Of The Warrior - Book 17 Page 15