Now.
“Commander,” O’Brien said, “the breakdowns seem to have different sources. This time the lifts were shut down by power surges that tripped safety systems. But the power in the docking bays went out without any indication of a surge. Under normal circumstances I would say that the two are not even related occurrences.”
“But actually they are,” Sisko said. The puzzle was getting more confounding.
O’Brien glared at his board. “Finding the connection is the problem.” O’Brien stifled a long yawn, took another sip of his coffee, and went back to his work.
Sisko went to the replicator and ordered a coffee for himself. Then he changed the order to a double cappuccino. Caffeine that tasted good. Fatigue dripped off him with the sweat. He changed the order again to an iced cappuccino.
“Commander,” Kira said. She had taken his place at the communications board. The more tired Kira got, the more she worked like a whirlwind. After long shifts, Sisko had seen her collapse in the turbolift. As a commander, he valued that energy. But he also worried that one day Kira would push too hard. “I have a message from the Bajoran planetary defense.”
“On screen,” he said. He took the glass out of the replicator and sipped, letting the chill contrast with the ache of his overheated body. Bajoran planetary defense. Without hearing the message, he knew he would be facing another problem.
Kira was peering at him. She had seen his hesitation. “Sir, maybe I should take this one.”
“On screen, Major Kira.” He would deal with any problem. He had seen Kira’s attempts at diplomacy.
“Sir, they’re not happy—”
He tilted his head and smiled just a little at her. “Major, I have dealt with angry Bajorans before.”
Kira’s lips pursed. O’Brien stifled a laugh and Dax grinned. They were all getting punchy. Normally the crew would not have reacted to that statement. Normally, Sisko wouldn’t have said it.
He set his cappuccino down on the cup holder beside the nearest work station and walked to the front of the operations table. “On screen, Major.”
“Yes, sir,” she said.
The screen flickered for a moment, then the head and shoulders of a Bajoran woman appeared. She was about Sisko’s age, but the weight of her duties had turned the hair near her temples silver. Her eyes and mouth were heavily lined, making her look as if she had shouldered a heavy burden for a long time. Behind her was a window that overlooked the fountains of Bajor and a wall covered with medals. “Commander Benjamin Sisko?”
“Yes,” he said, uncertain to whom he was speaking.
“Captain Litna, Head of Bajoran Planetary Defense. Bajor asked the Federation to provide protection from the Cardassians. You are in charge of providing that protection. You are failing.”
Sisko felt the exhaustion run through him. He was no diplomat, and it became harder to be one when he was tired. “The treaty with the Cardassians—”
“The treaty with the Cardassians, whatever it was, obviously is no longer, Commander.” Litna’s lined face moved closer to the screen. “We have been under attack since last night.”
“So have we,” Sisko said. “But the Cardassians—”
“Good,” Litna said. “Since we are suffering the same fate, I trust you will do something about it.”
She pushed a button and her face winked off the screen. Sisko almost asked Kira to hail Litna again, but then stopped. If he solved the problem for the station, he would solve it for the Bajorans. Then he would contact Captain Litna and talk with her. Only then.
He hoped that would be soon.
“Great diplomacy, Commander,” Kira said. Her hands were clasped behind her back and she stalked him like a cat about to pounce on its prey. “Litna is only the greatest fighter Bajor has ever seen. If we do not take action, she will take matters into her own hands.”
Sisko picked up his iced cappuccino and took three long gulps. The bitterness of the coffee reminded him that he had not ordered sugar, but no matter. The coolness soothed his throat. Maybe Kira was right. Maybe he should soothe the captain’s feelings. “Contact her again, Major,” Sisko said. “Tell her the Cardassians are not at fault. And tell her that we are working on the problem.”
“I could have done that in the first place,” Kira said. Sisko leveled a gaze at her and she had the grace to flush. “Sir.”
She returned to her place at the communications station. Sisko bent over the operations table. Too many lights blinked, revealing the outages all over the station.
“Excuse me, Benjamin,” Dax said. “The fact that Bajor is involved brings a whole new dimension to this situation. We haven’t eliminated any possibilities. For all we know the Cardassians may well be involved.”
Sisko stood and rubbed his back. The odd stress had turned into aches all over his body. “They contacted us, Dax, about their ships. I think that something else is going on.”
O’Brien snorted. “Or maybe that was a ruse. I wouldn’t put it past them.” The hatred in his voice was obvious.
Sisko turned and glared at him, but O’Brien never looked up from what he was working on.
“Commander,” Kira said, “Captain Litna is not responding to my signal.”
“Bajoran women,” O’Brien muttered.
Sisko ignored him. “When you do reach her, reassure her that we are doing everything we can to determine what is going on. Try to calm her about the Cardassians so that she doesn’t do anything rash.”
“Yes, sir.” Kira’s hands flew across the communications board.
“Brace yourselves,” Dax said suddenly.
Sisko grabbed the edge of the operations table as the lights flickered. He waited for the accompanying bumps, but none came.
“Power down in the heating systems,” Carter said.
“Communication knocked out,” Kira said.
“A small one again,” Dax said. “No other damage.”
“Except . . . ” O’Brien’s pause sounded ominous.
Sisko let go of the operations table with reluctance. The heat in the room seemed to have gone up, although he knew it couldn’t have. He looked up. O’Brien was frowning at the engineering console. “Except, Mr. O’Brien?”
“Well, sir,” O’Brien said, “I’ve been monitoring the power core since I got up here. This last reduced our power level by two percent. Power was already down five percent when I got here.”
“What are you telling me, Chief?” Sisko asked.
O’Brien looked up and Sisko saw that all trace of exhaustion had gone from his face. Something else had replaced it. Despair? Frustration? Sisko couldn’t tell. “I’m saying, sir, that these fluctuations are affecting the power core. I need to run a few more diagnostics, but based on the evidence, each time the lights flicker, the structural integrity of the core is weakening.”
Sisko glanced at the operations table. There was no warning light blinking on the power core, but a small red number indicated that core output was down almost 10 percent. If it went too low, key systems would quit. “How long before we lose life support?”
“I don’t know if it will go that far, sir,” O’Brien said. “It’s just something we have to watch. Actually I’m more concerned that a big hit could knock out the power core containment fields.”
Sisko nodded. He didn’t have to be told what that meant. If the containment field went down, there would be little left of the station except some hard radiation. “Watch it close, Mr. O’Brien. Keep me posted on any changes.” He walked up the steps to the science console. Dax’s posture was slipping. He could feel the exhaustion radiate from her. “Dax, you had warning this time. Have you got something?”
“Not really,” she said. She gripped the science station with one hand. Her knuckles were white. How many hours had she been on duty? Thirty-six? Forty? “I noticed the subspace fluctuations that we’ve seen before. In the past, though, they have come after the event. This time, they came before. In fact, there doesn’t seem to be a
ny real pattern to them at all.”
“Computer, what’s causing the subspace fluctuation?”
“There are over twenty subspace fluctuations currently noted,” the computer said. “No cause available.”
“I tried that already, Benjamin,” Dax said. “Computers can’t solve everything.” The calmness had left her tone. She had actually snapped at him, in a quiet, Dax-sort of way.
“I am aware of that,” he said, keeping his voice level. He needed his crew as sharp as possible. “You look tired, Dax. How many shifts have you worked in a row?”
“Three,” she said. “I think.”
“Ensign Carter, will you relieve Lieutenant Dax? Dax, show Carter those subspace fluctuations.”
Dax sat up straighter, as if the threat of being relieved of duty gave her extra energy. “Benjamin, I think I should stay.”
“I think you should go, Dax. Rest, and eat. We all will have to take breaks if this continues. Report back in an hour to relieve one of us.”
Dax shook her head. “Benjamin—”
He held up a hand to stop her. He knew what she was going to say. She had the most experience with odd phenomena. If they were going to solve the problem scientifically, then chances were she would find the answer. Right now, that argument wasn’t good enough.
Sisko smiled at her. “Old man,” he said. “You might get some insight if you sleep. Having you rest will benefit all of us. Now go.”
She sighed, and as the air left her body, it wilted. Her face was ashen, the brown patches on her skin standing out in sharp relief. “Yes, sir.”
Carter made her way to the science station. Sisko walked over to the engineering station. O’Brien looked tired too, but he hadn’t worked as long as Dax.
“Chief,” Sisko said, “make sure the power core containment is as solid as you can get it, then focus on the environmental controls. Get those back up as quickly as possible. Kira, you work on the communications until O’Brien is free. And Kira?”
She stopped and looked up at him.
“As soon as you get communications back on-line, get in touch with Starfleet. Explain our situation. Ask if they have any information as to what is going on.”
Kira gave him a look that chilled him. She liked to solve things on her own. But if the problems extended from Cardassian space to Bajor, then something big was going on.
He had to find out what it was.
CHAPTER 10
GARAK MOVED the silk lingerie closer to the front door. The lingerie wasn’t very valuable, but it did attract the eye. He didn’t want his most expensive clothing on display while he was out of the shop. If he had his druthers, he would have put all the clothing in the back and covered the windows. But he didn’t have the time or the storage space.
He took the green and gold loose weave cloaks, perfumed with a salty, rainlike scent, and moved them to the back. He had already placed the Tharethian evening gowns into the dressing rooms, and his specialty, the long-waisted, seventh-century-cut Cardassian suit (which could fit any humanoid body form with just a bit of tinkering—and look good on all) behind his desk.
Then he scanned the shop. The paintings added a bit of color, as did the red dressing room curtains. The mirrors reflected the dullest of his creations, left out only so that the passersby would know that a clothier remained on Deep Space Nine.
He smiled. For the next day at least, he would not be a clothier. He would be a gambler. He hadn’t played since his comrades left the station. Ferengi and humans rarely played poker with the kind of cutthroat perfection he preferred. He had watched a back room game at Quark’s once and decided that it wasn’t worth his time. But he had overheard Quark listing some of the luminaries who would attend this tournament and he wanted to test his skill against theirs. He was considered the best Cardassian poker player in the region but had rarely played against others with reputations as good as his.
For months he had thought of this game, going over plays in his mind. He even rented a holosuite (disgusting place) and replaced Quark’s program with his own: a series of games against the best poker players in the last two centuries. He had done very well, but somehow playing against three-dimensional imagery lacked the excitement of the real thing.
He grabbed his special CLOSED sign and was about to paste it to the doors when they slid open. Two Klingon women swung in, their long hair flowing down their backs. He had always admired Klingon dress: the strength of armor with the diamond cut between the breasts to suggest femininity. Someday he would do a line of Klingon clothing.
Although he knew these two would never buy. B’Etor and Lursa, renegade Klingons from the House of Duras. They had tried to take over the Klingon High Council a few years back and failed. Since then they had been trying to raise enough money to build a new army. So far nothing had worked.
Obviously, they hadn’t realized his part in defeating their last attempt.
“Ladies,” he said, bowing slightly at the waist. “I am afraid I am closed today.”
Lursa grabbed a silk teddy and crumpled it before tossing it to the ground. “We are not interested in such trifles.”
“Really?” Garak said. “I know of no other reason to visit a clothier.”
“Do not mock us, Cardassian,” B’Etor said.
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Garak bowed again. “How may I help you?”
Lursa stalked toward his desk, her slit skirts revealing her muscular legs. He cringed as she pushed aside the rack holding three Cardassian suits. Then she leaned on his desk. He followed, B’Etor behind him.
Perhaps they did know that he had betrayed them to the Federation the last time they were on Deep Space Nine. He had cost them a small fortune in gold-pressed latinum. Women like this carried a grudge.
“We understand,” B’Etor said, “that you are playing in the poker tournament.”
Garak nodded, not pleased that he had to practice his poker face so early. His day would have gone better if these Klingons had not arrived.
“Your shop must be quite profitable for you to afford the hundred bars of gold-pressed latinum entry,” Lursa said.
“I am a clothier, madam,” Garak said, allowing his voice to rise just a bit in protest. “Not a simple garment seller.”
B’Etor laughed, a hard, cackling sound. “Small people are so easy to offend.”
“We have a proposition for you,” Lursa said.
“A business proposition,” B’Etor added.
“I’m always interested in business.” Garak clasped his hands. He would wait them out. Odd that they would come to him after the last deal. But then he was their only contact on the station. Either that or they were going to make him pay for betraying them.
“We thought you might be interested in business.” Without the slightest hint of movement a deck of cards appeared in Lursa’s hands. She shuffled them twice and then placed them on his desk.
“Smooth,” he said. He started to reach for the deck but B’Etor stopped him. Her arm, brushing against his, was cold. For a moment he thought she was going to grab him. Instead she reached forward and cut the cards, then nodded for Lursa to deal.
“This deck,” B’Etor said, “assumes six players. We will have decks for five and seven players if the table allows.”
Garak’s throat was dry. The shop was cool compared to the rest of the station, but with the environmental controls out of order, the air had become stale.
Lursa dealt six hands, two cards each, facedown on the counter. She poked her finger at the hand two to the left of the dealer. “This hand will be the best in the six-player deck. In a five-player deck, the best hand will be the one immediately to the dealer’s right. The best hand, in a seven-player deck, will be the one three from the dealer on the right.”
Garak nodded when Lursa looked at him. He said nothing, not sure yet what they expected of him.
“All the other hands,” B’Etor said, “will be strong to keep the bets high. But we will know the winning
hand.”
Lursa dealt the three flop cards and then the remaining two up cards. Garak reached across and turned up the winning hand. When the women said nothing, he smiled, knowing something was expected of him. “This is all a very old trick. Even if you think Quark will let you get away with somehow switching decks on the dealer, you’ll need me because he won’t let both of you play at the same table. Right?”
“The dealers are not your concern,” Lursa said.
“We control three of the ten,” B’Etor added. “But we do need the help at the table.”
Garak watched them. He still didn’t know why they had come to him. “I assume I’m the only one you have talked to?”
B’Etor glanced over at Lursa, which answered his question. They had already contacted a number of players and were looking for another. The more players, the better the chance of having one sitting in the right position. This kind of stunt could wipe out three or four innocent players at a table, if done correctly.
Garak picked up a few of the other two card hands and studied them. All of them were good hands. All of them would be worth betting a stake on. But none of them were as good as the winning hand. “What’s in it for me?”
“If you use one of these decks and then go all the way, we get twenty percent of the total.”
Finally, he was beginning to understand. “Let me see. Eighty players at 100 bars of gold-pressed latinum entry fee. That’s 8,000 bars total. Take out Quark’s five percent and that leaves 7,600 bars. Twenty percent of that is 1,520 bars. Not bad, even after expenses.”
Lursa nodded.
“Well?” B’Etor demanded.
“A generous offer.” Garak pretended to consider it. “But I think I will decline.”
Both women stepped back. “You Cardassian dog!” Lursa said. “The deal is generous. You win a huge hand and—”
“If I am sitting in the right place,” Garak said, “I could win over 5,000 bars of gold-pressed latinum in that one hand, and any other day I would be glad to participate. But when it comes to poker, ladies, I am a gambler, not a cheat. I play by skill and I have a reputation to maintain. If anyone saw us together, they would suspect something, and I cannot afford the suspicion.”
THE BIG GAME Page 6