Star Trek - DS9 - Heart Of The Warrior - Book 17

  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