“Good luck with that,” Ro said, still smiling. “Right now, DS9 is chock-full of refugees from Europa Nova. I doubt there are any quarters available.”
“Oh don’t worry, cousin,” Quark said quickly. “I’d be more than happy to put you up in my quarters for a very reasonable fee.”
Gaila looked up at his cousin for a long time before coming to a realization.
“I hate you, Quark.”
20
EUROPA NOVA
“COMMANDER VAUGHN, the last of the refugees have been evacuated from Europa Nova.”
At Nog’s words, a cheer went up from all around the Defiant bridge. Vaughn did not join in that cheer, but he did smile. There had been several hundred cases of theta-radiation poisoning, but—between the efforts of Bashir and Dr. DeLaCruz on the surface and the sickbays of both the Intrepid and the Gryphon — none of those cases were fatal. The combined efforts of the five Starfleet ships, ten Bajoran ships, one Cardassian ship, one gateway, and the assorted civilian and Europani military vessels had resulted in a complete evacuation of the adult population.
And not a moment too soon, as the regions directly beneath the mouth of the gateway—which included the large cities of Spilimbergo and Chieti and half a dozen smaller towns—were at fatal levels of exposure at this point.
The cheering continued for several seconds. Prynn got up from the conn and gave Nog a hug. When the embrace broke, Prynn found herself looking right at Vaughn in the command chair.
Vaughn was expecting a look of disdain or annoyance, so he was rather surprised when Prynn actually smiled at him and nodded her head.
He returned both the smile and the nod, and with that, she went back to the flight controls. Vaughn had no idea if Prynn was just feeling giddy from the success of their mission or if she was truly softening in her attitude toward him. He hoped for the latter, but he was cynical enough to believe it was more likely the former. Still, he thought, it’s a step. And not a small one, either.
When the din finally quieted enough to speak over, Nog said, “According to Captain Emick, President Silverio was the last person to board the Intrepid.”
Vaughn nodded. Good for her, he thought. The captain should be the last one off the sinking ship. “That’s excellent news, Lieutenant. Open a channel to the entire convoy, please.”
“Yes, sir,” Nog said, returning to his console. “Channel open.”
“This is Commander Vaughn. Excellent work, all. We still have a long way to go, but the most important thing—getting the Europani out of danger—has been accomplished. At this time, we will prepare to bring the last remaining refugees to Bajor and Deep Space
9. Lieutenant Bowers, you and the Rio Grande will remain behind and await any new signals from Colonel Kira or Taran’atar.”
Vaughn hesitated. It galled him that he could do no more than that. It had also galled Nog that the gateways had come back online after only being off for ten minutes. While it did leave the door open, so to speak, for Kira and the Jem’Hadar to return, it also meant that Ensign ch’Thane’s solution was not the cure-all they’d hoped for. He wished he could inform Nog of the eyes-only communiquÈ he’d gotten minutes before from Bill Ross, telling him that the disruption of the gateways had been useful in exposing the “Iconians” for the frauds they truly were. Apparently, the people peddling the gateways—under false pretenses—were known as the Petraw, and their helplessness in the face of the temporary disruption proved their undoing.
At least, when the gateways had come back online, the Euphrates was still there blocking the radiation, keeping the Europa Nova situation from getting even worse. There was still the matter of somehow disposing of all this theta radiation—but that was a solution for more scientifically bent minds than that of Elias Vaughn.
Prynn said, “The convoy is getting into formation for the return voyage, Commander.” A pause. “Except for the Trager.”
They weren’t part of the original convoy, Vaughn thought. “Open a channel to the Trager, ” he said, standing as he faced the viewscreen.
Gul Macet’s image was suddenly looking back at him. “What can I do for you, Commander Vaughn?”
“I merely wish to confirm that you’ll be joining the convoy back to DS9, Gul.”
“Of course, Commander, I simply was not sure where, precisely, to align myself.”
“Have your conn officer coordinate with Ensign Tenmei.”
Macet nodded. “Very well.”
Vaughn was about to order the connection cut, then hesitated. Oh what the hell, he thought, you’ve been wanting to ask him since they got here. “If you don’t mind my asking, sir—why are you here?”
At that, Macet threw his head back and chuckled. “Not an unreasonable question under the circumstances, Commander.” His face grew more serious. “Are you familiar with a former Starfleet captain named Benjamin Maxwell?”
In fact, Vaughn had known Ben quite well when the latter was a junior officer, though he’d lost track of him by the time he made captain. The erstwhile commanding officer of the Phoenix had been courtmartialed and imprisoned following his attacks on several Cardassian ships. Maxwell had been convinced that they were carrying weapons, in violation of treaty, and had taken matters into his own hands.
Aloud, Vaughn simply said, “Yes. And to answer your next question, I know why he’s now a former captain.”
“I was assigned by Central Command to work with a Starfleet ship to track Maxwell down when he went rogue. That ship was the Enterprise. ” Macet took a deep breath. “I did as I was told, and we were eventually able to stop Maxwell before he murdered any more citizens of Cardassia. But the strange thing was—Maxwell was right. Those ships were carrying weapons. I did not agree with the actions of Central Command in that case, but I was a good soldier, and said nothing, not even when Captain Picard told me that he knew the truth.
“I learned an important lesson that day, Commander, and that lesson is why I am here today. You see, both Maxwell and Picard knew that we were violating the treaty. But where Maxwell’s reaction was to madly destroy our ships, Picard’s was to work to preserve the peace.”
Macet took another deep breath and folded his arms. “My people have been too much like Maxwell of late. We have worked against the galaxy. At a time when the entire Alpha Quadrant united against a common threat, we alone stood with the threat—well,” he added with a smile, “we and the Breen. We did not realize our mistake until it was too late. Now many of us—including myself—believe that we are better off trying to become part of the quadrant once more. We were a nation to be reckoned with once, Commander. If we are to be so again, we must work with our neighbors to preserve peace, not against them in conflict. You may consider this,” he said, holding his hands outward, as if to encompass the entire convoy, “the first step on that road.”
Vaughn nodded. At worst, it was a good speech. At best, it was an encouraging sign for the future of both Cardassia and the Alpha Quadrant. “Thank you for your candor, Gul Macet.”
“You’re welcome.”
“And perhaps when we arrive back on Deep Space 9, we can discuss future steps on that road of yours.”
“I would like that, Commander. Trager out.”
Macet’s image disappeared. As Vaughn returned to his chair, a voice from his right said, “Weird.”
“What’s ‘weird,’ Lieutenant?” Vaughn asked Nog.
“He looks so much like Dukat. When I first moved to the station as a boy, Dukat was the prefect of Bajor. He was always coming into Uncle Quark’s bar. I used to be scared of him. Later on, I hated him. Seeing someone who reminds me so much of him . . .”
“There’s an old human saying, Nog—don’t judge a book by its cover. You of all people should be aware of that. Give Macet a chance to prove himself.”
Nog nodded. “Oh, I will, sir. But it’s still going to be weird.”
“Convoy is in position, sir,” Prynn said before the conversation could continue.
; “Very well, Ensign. Ahead warp six.”
21
CARDASSIA PRIME
“THIS PRICE IS OUTRAGEOUS, DERU.”
Deru sighed at the face of the Kobheerian on his personal com unit. He’d been going around in circles with him for almost an hour now over the price of the land he and Quark had acquired on Chin’toka IX. He got up from his chair—which was comfortable in theory, but after sitting in it for an hour his back was starting to ache. He paced around the sitting room of his large house, the maroon walls covered with Bajoran paintings he had taken during the Occupation.
Riilampe was an entrepreneur Quark had brought in. He claimed to be looking for landowning opportunities, and was therefore perfect for the operation Deru and Quark had going. The price he had offered was of course three times what Deru and Quark had paid that retired gul for it (they had paid in kanar and taspar eggs).
“The price is commensurate with the value. Think about it, Riilampe—this land is arable. Cardassians all over the union are starving. Replicators can’t handle all of it—farmland is going to be immensely valuable. In fact, I could easily justify charging more, if it weren’t for—”
“If it weren’t for the battle damage,” the Kobheerian interrupted.
Deru sat back down. “And the amount we lowered the price is about what it would cost to restore the scarred topsoil to proper form. I know Quark went over all this with you before, and when you arrive at Deep Space 9—”
“The Ferengi hasn’t gone over anything with me. I haven’t been able to get through to him for a couple of days. I’ve also been turned away from DS9. Some kind of crisis—they’re not letting anyone onstation.”
Frowning, Deru said, “That’s odd. Perhaps—”
“I’ll be on Cardassia Prime in two days, Deru. We’ll finalize the deal then, all right?”
“So you accept this price?”
The Kobheerian hesitated. “Provisionally. Let me look over the deal memo one more time.”
“You won’t regret this, Riilampe. You’re getting in on the ground floor of one of the best land-development deals of the century.”
Laughing, Riilampe said, “You’ve been hanging around that Ferengi too long—now you’re starting to sound like him. Screen off.”
Deru’s com went dark. He then entered some commands into his computer.
Odd, he thought, that he couldn’t get through to Quark. Wonder if it has to do with that emergency. Not to mention all those rumors of strange portals opening up all over the galaxy . . .
Ah, well. Not my concern.
In the middle of his file update, the screen went out. So did the lights, plunging his house into utter darkness.
Damn, another power outage. I thought they’d solved the power problems. That, he supposed, was wishful thinking. The Dominion had inflicted obscene damage onto Cardassia Prime, and even well-to-do citizens like Deru had had to live with this sort of thing. He walked toward the window—
—to see that the other nearby houses all had power.
The emergency power kicked in. It wasn’t enough for him to get his computer back, but at least now there were lights, albeit dim ones, and the doors would work. I can’t believe that just my house had an outage. It’s not like I haven’t kept up with my payments. Somebody’s going to answer for this.
He walked out to the hallway, and thence to the front door.
It opened to reveal the smiling face of a Cardassian that Deru recognized immediately. He’d never met the man, but it was impossible for anyone living on Cardassia not to know him.
Former agent of the Obsidian Order. Living for almost a decade in exile on Terok Nor—or, rather, Deep Space 9. And the man now spearheading the rebuilding of the Cardassian Union.
“Garak.” Deru’s voice sounded hollow to his own ears.
“Good evening, Mr. Deru,” Garak said in a most pleasant, affable tone. “I’ve only just become aware of your charming little enterprise here . . . and I believe we need to have a little chat.”
Deru swallowed hard.
22
DEEP SPACE 9
“EXCUSE ME, but how long am I supposed to stand here?”
Ro Laren rubbed her temples. Never a particularly religious person, right now Ro would happily worship the great god Ho’nig if they would just take this damn Orion woman away from her.
They’d returned to DS9 to find absolute chaos. Intellectually, Ro had expected this—Ychell had received coded updates from Dax on the Europa Nova situation, and Ro had talked with the lieutenant directly when they were en route from Clarus—but she hadn’t been emotionally prepared for the reality of the station being so completely inundated with refugees. From the minute she arrived, all her deputies had questions and Dax had half a dozen tasks that needed Ro’s attention.
Pointedly, none of the Starfleet security people came to her with questions or requests. Most of them treated her with indifference at best, which was to be expected given Ro’s somewhat rocky Starfleet career—and just at the moment, it meant that one less set of people was harassing her.
Unfortunately, every time she looked up, she saw a green torso standing in front of her desk. The Orion woman who dressed in a skimpy outfit carefully tailored to look like rags would not leave her office.
“Treir, I’m really busy now. Can’t you go somewhere else?”
Indicating the Promenade with one hand, Treir asked, “Where, precisely? I’m not exactly dressed for walking around in public.”
Ro looked up. Treir had a point. Although the outfit did technically conform to Bajoran decency statutes, about seventy percent of the Orion’s green flesh was exposed, and her presence on the Promenade would cause a stir to say the least.
“And,” Treir continued, “I don’t have a change of clothes. In fact, I don’t have much of anything now, thanks to you.”
Ro ran her hands through her increasingly tousled black hair. “If you want to go back and sift through the debris of Malic’s ship for your personal belongings—”
“Very funny. The point is, Lieutenant, I had a life until you hijacked me into your harebrained scheme.”
Aghast, Ro said, “You were a slave!”
“I was well treated, fed four exquisite meals a day, given luxurious quarters, and I was damn good at what I did. Then some Bajoran woman needs a hostage, and my life’s turned upside down.” She put her hands on her hips and glowered at Ro with a stare that reminded the security chief that this woman was almost two heads taller than Ro.
“Look, I’m sorry about that, but—”
Treir snorted. “No you’re not. I know your type, Lieutenant. You think you’ve done me a big favor. Well, you haven’t.”
Throwing up her hands, Ro said, “You’re right, Treir. I should’ve left you on Malic’s ship so you could’ve died when the Petraw blew them up. What was I thinking?”
“Oh, please,” Treir said, rolling her eyes. “You didn’t take me hostage to save my life, you took me hostage because it was the only way you could get off the ship safely. And you knew damn well that I’d be more valuable as a hostage than Alhan. Did you for one second think about what your actions would mean to me?”
During Treir’s tirade, Quark approached the entrance to the security office. “Lovers’ spat?” Quark asked as he entered, smiling lasciviously.
Glowering, Ro said, “Quark, I really don’t have time for—”
“Actually, I have a solution to your problem.”
Indicating the pile of padds on her desk with a sweeping arm gesture, Ro asked, “Which one?”
“This one,” he said, putting his arm around Treir.
That one gesture had a remarkable effect on Treir. Her face transformed from angry to seductive—even though it looked to Ro like all she did was lower her eyelids slightly. She draped herself over Quark, which was no mean feat, since the height differential between her and the Ferengi was even greater than it was with Ro.
“What did you have in mind?” Treir asked. S
he had lowered her voice half an octave, and spoke in a breathy whisper.
Quickly, Ro said, “Quark,” in as menacing a tone as she could manage.
Quark straightened—at least, as much as he could with a two-meter-tall woman hanging all over him. “Calm down, Laren. I actually have a business proposition for you, Treir, if you’re interested.”
As quick as that, Treir extricated herself from Quark’s embrace and took a step back, transforming from a seductress into something more akin to a Federation negotiator. Ro found herself wondering which one was the real Treir, suspecting it might well be something else entirely.
“Go on,” Treir said expectantly.
“Well, as it happens, I haven’t been able to find a decent dabo girl to replace the one who married my brother and moved to Ferenginar. How’d you like a job?”
Ro couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “You want to hire her as a dabo girl?”
“Why not? She’s definitely got sex appeal, which is the only skill she’ll need. She’ll earn her keep. Plus it gets her out of your hair.”
“And you get to fulfill your lifelong dream of having an Orion dabo girl.”
Grinning, Quark said, “Exactly. So everyone wins.”
“Excuse me,” Treir said, “but I haven’t said yes yet.”
“Oh, come on,” Quark said in what Ro was quickly coming to recognize as Quark’s best wheedling tone, “what could possibly be better?”
Treir laughed. The breathy whisper a thing of the past, she said sharply, “Listen to me, you little troll, I was the most respected of Malic’s women. I had my pick of clients, I had the second-best quarters on the ship, I had clothes, jewelry—”
Quark grinned. “No you didn’t. Malic had all those things, and he let you use them.”
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