* * *
The lights in Quark’s drew Ro toward them like a lost ship glimpsing a safe haven for the first time in months. It was quiet inside, late shift, although the lord of the manor himself was still there, counting his takings and chatting to those stalwarts who propped up the bar until late. Why would he be anywhere else? The bar was Quark’s home. You’d have to blow up the station to move him—and even then he’d rebuild. Demonstrably. Whatever shape or form Deep Space 9 took, Quark would be there, selling drinks, making a small but comfortable profit, dreaming of huge riches and never quite achieving them: a quiet small pond to one side of the turbulent Great River.
When Ro sat down, he poured her a drink, handed it over, and leaned on the bar, watching her. “Some days are better than others, eh, Captain?” he said at last.
“Don’t start,” Ro replied.
“At least you’ve found your Tzenkethi.”
Ro eyed him. “Yes, that’s on the profit side, I suppose. Not that we can pin anything on her. Meanwhile I have angry Cardassians, noncommunicative Romulans—”
“Angry Cardassians and noncommunicative Romulans are a fact of life, Laren, particularly for the commanding officer of Deep Space 9. The sooner you learn to roll with that, the better. Besides, Odo’s on the case, isn’t he?”
“Did he tell you about it?”
“Of course not. But I know the sound of Odo on a case. Anyway, this conversation is about making you feel better. So take it from me: Odo might be a walking, talking bundle of shape-shifting misery, but he’s an effective walking, talking bundle of shape-shifting misery. If anyone can calm your Cardassians and get your Romulans talking, it’ll be him.”
“Blackmer doesn’t like him.” Ro lifted a finger from her glass. “Correction: Blackmer is threatened by him.”
“Blackmer’s a big boy and can take care of himself.”
“It’s my responsibility as commanding officer to take care of those serving under me.”
“Is Blackmer’s self-esteem really what’s bothering you?”
“To be honest, no. What’s really bothering me is that we seem to have inadvertently walked straight into the middle of a bitter dispute between two factions of an alien species we encountered for the first time only the other day.”
“The People of the Open Sky and the Chain, yes?” Quark retrieved her glass. “Don’t ask how I know. Assume that I always know and I always will know.”
Ro sighed. “We shouldn’t even be getting involved, but we are involved. I’m worried it’s all going to blow up in our faces—or, more particularly, in the faces of the crew of the Athene Donald.”
Quark plainly struggled at this point. “I can only say it again. Some days are better than others.”
“Some days are downright shocking.”
“That’s the job you took on.” Quark smiled. “Look at it this way—things can only get better.”
Perhaps inevitably, that was when Ro’s combadge chimed. She had a quick exchange with Blackmer and then turned back to Quark. “Things can only get better, eh?”
“Go on, what’s happened?”
“One of the People, Ioile, has been found murdered in their quarters.” Her hands, she noticed, were shaking. “Unpleasant, by all accounts.”
Quark stopped partway through refilling her glass. “I suppose that really was asking for the Great River to throw in an extra whirlpool.”
Eight
Captain’s Log, Personal.
One all too easy mistake is assuming that Federation values are default. And indeed why not? Who could balk at values such as freedom of expression, infinite diversity in infinite combinations, et cetera, et cetera?
A thought experiment. How might the Federation appear to outsiders? How might Starfleet appear? Do our rules and regulations appear officious, lengthy, perhaps even preposterous? Does our habit of color-coding ourselves according to some hierarchical ranking system appear ridiculous? And what about the project of exploration itself, which we all hold so dear? Perhaps this indicates some kind of fundamental sociocultural malaise, arising from the stability of our homeworlds, that some of us willingly seek out dangerous situations, putting our lives at risk? What is it that we are trying to escape? Only a few moments’ thought and we can appear very different. It is sobering to think that we might require as much explanation as anyone else.
With that in mind, then—what reasons might others have for their cultural norms . . . ?
Ioile’s body, in the morgue, was a pitiful sight, with livid bruises across the face that were a grotesque counterpoint to the olive markings. A cover, mercifully, hid the worst of the damage, which, according to the report, was to the back of the alien’s head, but what Ro could see was bad enough. She quickly looked away. By the body sat Oioli, holding Ioile’s hand. There were no tears that Ro could see (Could Oioli shed tears? The sorrow was plain enough), just those wide unblinking eyes staring down at the body in gentle but all-consuming grief. Ro found herself very moved by the sight. There had been a playfulness about Oioli throughout all of their encounters that had warmed Ro to the visitor from the outset. Grief sat badly on that face.
Blackmer came across to speak to Ro. “A nasty attack,” he said quietly. “Really nasty. Someone wanted to make very sure that Ioile was dead.”
“Do we have a murder weapon?”
“A sculpture lying on the floor beside the body. We think it’s probably that.” He sighed. “Laren.”
Ro was startled at the use of her personal name. On the whole Blackmer preferred to keep things formal between them. “Something the matter, Jeff?”
He gestured toward the empty pathologist’s office. “Could we have a word in private?”
“Of course.” Ro followed him in, wondering what this could be about.
Blackmer, when they were alone, didn’t waste time. “I want to offer you my resignation.”
“Resignation?” Ro was astonished. “What for?”
Blackmer’s face, generally so stern and controlled, cracked. Only for a split second, but it was awful to see. Ro came around to him quickly, pressing her hand briefly against his arm. “Prophets, Jeff, what’s the matter?”
Blackmer took a deep breath, visibly composing himself. Quietly, he said, “This is the second murder on the station under my watch. I don’t need to remind you of the first.”
Nan Bacco. The president. Assassinated on the new DS9.
“First her,” said Blackmer, “now this. That doesn’t say much for station security under my watch, does it? So I think it’s only appropriate that I offer to resign.”
“I see,” said Ro slowly.
“I’ll remain here for whatever period of time you need to find a suitable replacement, or, if you prefer, I can be gone within the hour.”
“What? This is all moving pretty quickly, isn’t it? What am I supposed to do in the meantime?”
Rather sourly, Blackmer said, “It’s not as if you don’t have another candidate ready to take over, is it?”
Ro looked at him in bewilderment. “You’ve lost me, Jeff.”
“Oh, come on! Who do you think I mean? Who is on board the station right now with exactly the right experience and plenty of ability?”
Odo. He meant Odo.
“He’s on the spot, isn’t he? He even managed to save you from a nasty injury the other day, when my hands were full.”
This, Ro thought, had gone far enough. She said firmly, “I have no intention of replacing my chief security officer. None at all.” She thought about what Blackmer had said, and about the tensions there so often were between them. Perhaps this was a signal of a deeper dissatisfaction—with her, maybe, or the way she ran this station. “Jeff, do you want to leave DS9?”
“Leave?” Blackmer looked shocked. “Of course not! We’re only just back up and running again!”
“Then what are you talking about? Look, we’ve had a run of bad luck, terrible luck. Nobody could have predicted what would happen to the pres
ident, and the Prophets know that many of us—and I’m including myself here—have spent more than a few sleepless nights wondering whether there was something else we could have done. Something more. But there wasn’t anything we could have done. Her murderers were set on committing the crime and that’s exactly what they did. If we’d been doing something differently, they would have found a way around that too—”
Blackmer banged his fist angrily against the desk. “But I should have been on to them!”
“That’s exactly my point!” Ro said. “Nobody was on to them! Not us, not Bacco’s own security people, not anyone! It was a tragedy, and it’s our horrible misfortune that it happened here. If anyone should be resigning, it is me—and I’ve no intention of resigning! I’ve worked hard to get here, and I deserve this post. The same goes for you, Jeff.” She shook her head. “I don’t want to hear any more of this. You’re a first-class security officer and an asset to this station. I know we don’t always agree, but that’s what makes you right for this job. You keep me from bending too many rules, and you’re utterly reliable. I need you here—not Odo, not anyone else. You.”
Slowly, Blackmer nodded.
“Is that the last I’m going to hear of this?” said Ro.
“Yes, sir . . . for the moment,” he replied. “Let me think some more.”
“You don’t need to think more about it. Seriously. Put it out of your mind. I mean that.”
“All right.”
“All right.” Ro took a deep breath. She’d been right when she’d told Quark she was worried about Blackmer—but this one had come from nowhere. She could only hope that she had done enough to allay his worries and that she would hear no more of it. “We’ll all feel better if we can get to the bottom of this murder. So let’s get down to the business at hand. Any thoughts yet on who the killer could be?”
Blackmer sighed. “There’s another puzzle. You’ve visited the People’s quarters, haven’t you?”
“Only once, but it struck me as a very busy place with lots of people coming in and out. So surely we’ve got some eyewitnesses.”
“We do indeed,” Blackmer said. “But you’re not going to like what they have to say.”
“Why did I have the feeling you were going to say that. Go on.”
“Ioile was seen entering one of the bedrooms in their suite to get some sleep at twenty-two nineteen last night. The body was found slightly over two hours later, station time, when Oioli went in to speak to Ioile.”
So Oioli had found the body. Ro sighed. No wonder their visitor was in such a state. Nobody should be confronted with that sight of a friend.
“The bedroom has one entry, leading from a shared living room.” Blackmer put up a floor plan on his padd. He tapped the largest room. “At least eight of the People were here in that shared space during the relevant time period, and every single one of them swears blind that nobody went in or out of Ioile’s room during those two hours.” He almost snarled in frustration. “They were all sitting there, the whole time! Unless they’re all in it together, I can’t see how anyone could have got past them.”
Ro studied the floor plan. Blackmer was right. The bedroom where Ioile’s body had been found had only one entrance. “I hate to ask this,” she said, “not least because I don’t think Oioli is capable of an act of violence like this, but—”
Blackmer shook his head. “Oioli cried out on discovering the body. There wasn’t enough time between Oioli going into Ioile’s room and . . .”
Ro shuddered. “And your idea that they’re all in on it?”
“Nonstarter,” said Blackmer. “Oioli was one of the eight.”
Ro nodded. That chimed with her gut instinct: Ioile’s laughing lightness had seemed popular among the People. “So someone must have gone in by transporter,” she said.
Blackmer sighed in frustration. “But there are no signs of a transporter being used—or none that Chief O’Brien can find.”
“Like the burglary,” Ro said.
Blackmer gave a wry smile. “That’s something, at least. It suggests that the two crimes are surely connected—if we solve one, we’ll have the key to the other.”
“That’s a start,” Ro agreed.
“You’d think so. But of course, if we assume that the crimes are connected, Corazame is out for the burglary.” Blackmer touched the padd, and the image of Corazame, now lying on her bunk with her hands folded across her chest, came up. Blackmer said, “Sensors confirm that she was in her holding cell the entire time of the murder.”
“Hmm.” Ro stared at Corazame. “Although she might still be involved in some way . . .”
“But not directly.”
“I suppose the obvious place to look now is among the People themselves,” Ro said. “We know they’ve got some cloaking capability. Would that let someone get past the group that was sitting in the communal room and into Ioile’s room without being noticed?”
Blackmer didn’t look convinced. “Possibly, if the person was particularly stealthy. There were eight people in the communal room, remember.”
“But we know whoever is responsible is probably a burglar. Stealth comes with the territory.”
Blackmer smiled. “Fair point.”
“I know I’m clutching at straws, Jeff, but we’ve got to start somewhere.” Ro stared again at Corazame. “My hunch is that there’s some history among the People that we don’t know about. Groups like that, traveling together for a long time—it’s easy for hostilities to fester and then suddenly break out into acts of violence.”
“Sounds about right. I guess there’s a reason golden age detective novels take place in country houses,” Blackmer said.
Ro looked at him, puzzled. “What?”
“Forget it. I was agreeing. Small enclosed places, tense relationships, brutal murders. You’re right. They go together.”
“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, but I’m glad we’re on the same wavelength,” Ro said. “So what’s Oioli had to say?”
“It seems cruel to question someone who is so devastated, but I’ve had a quick word. You’ll like this: Oioli insists that the Chain is at fault.” Blackmer shook his head. “But how could someone from the Chain ship be responsible? It would take days for any of them to get here.”
Ro shook her head. “No, that’s not possible. I imagine Oioli’s still angry about the jam on their technologies and is lashing out. Grief can make you do that. No, we’ll find the murderer—and the burglar—among the People.” She sighed. “Whether they’ll make investigating easy or not is another matter. Speak to Crusher. She’s built some bridges with the People, and they have good reasons to trust her.”
“I’ll ask,” said Blackmer. “She might be able to help the forensic team—they’re finding it hard to make sense of the samples they’ve taken from the body.”
“Good.” Ro tapped her fingers against the desk. “I suppose there’s one positive outcome.”
“I’m struggling to think of one,” said Blackmer.
“It’s cold comfort, but at least I’ve now got the excuse I wanted not to hand the People over to the Chain—or, at least, to delay any decision for a while.” She grinned at Blackmer. “We have to investigate this murder properly, don’t we? And the People can’t possibly leave the station until that’s been done thoroughly.”
“As long as Aoi doesn’t insist the Chain has superior jurisdiction and insists that they investigate the murder,” Blackmer said.
Ro, on her way toward the door, shuddered. “Don’t go there.” She glanced back at her chief of security. “If it makes you feel any better, Jeff—you called this one correctly. We should have been keeping a much closer eye on the People. So no more talk about resignation, eh?”
He gave her a gray smile. “Not today.”
* * *
Crusher, approached by Blackmer, agreed to help the forensic team as far as she could.
“But there’s a limit to what we can do,” she said. “I have the
information from the medicals I conducted, but I need to take additional samples from Oiloi and Ailoi, and obviously I won’t do that without their permission.”
As a result, Crusher found herself sitting in on the more formal interview that Blackmer held with Oioli in his office. “I want to reassure you,” Crusher said to Oioli, “that we’re not accusing you or any of the People of anything. But if we’re going to find Ioile’s murderer, we need to know more about you—and about Ioile in particular. We want to understand—”
“Ioile? Ioile? You wish to understand, eh?” Oioli raised long hands upward, as if in supplication to some alien god. For a moment it was as if nobody else was in the room. “Ioile! Ioile!” Oioli cried. “How did I ever fail you?” Tapering fingers covered Oioli’s face, the wide eyes closed at last.
Crusher glanced across at Blackmer. The security officer looked uncomfortable and alarmed—but Crusher knew exactly how to respond to such distress. She reached out, placing her own hand upon Oioli’s, whose long fingers curled around her own. The alien’s flesh was cool, but not unpleasantly so, and Crusher felt the shuddering of grief beneath her grasp. So many things in the universe were relative, she thought, but the sorrow of bereavement must surely bind together most species—or those that lived linearly, at least. We all live in time, she thought. Time makes all things mortal. Makes them finite. And so we all suffer loss—and can offer comfort and compassion.
“I am so sorry,” Crusher said simply. “I lost a husband.” She caught Oioli’s questioning look at the word. “A life partner. A lover. A friend.”
Oioli’s eyes showed comprehension.
“It nearly destroyed me,” Crusher went on. “The pain went away, in time, but I was never the same.”
Oioli gave her a sad smile. “You say you wish to understand. You understand already. We had been friends for many years. We shared the same horizons.” A huge sigh rose up from the depths of Oioli’s thin body. “I found Ioile as a child, cold and lost and hungry. Seeing Ioile there that day was when I reached my limit. I could not stay upon a world that starved some of its children. Where some were rich—so very rich!—but some were left to perish. The weakest too, the sick and old, the children and the babies! I took Ioile in my arms, and we became the People. We left our world—our rotten world—which failed so many of us. Ioile was the first of us. Ioile was the reason.”
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