CHAPTER 15

“YOU'RE CRAZY,” Nog said.

Jake shrugged. “My granddad says that's not so bad in a writer.”

“Then may I say your grandfather is crazy, too.”

Jake straightened up from the safety railing on the second level of the Promenade. Years ago, when he and Nog had first met and made the first tentative steps in forging a friendship that would transcend the traditional boundaries of their respective species, they would sit on the deck here, letting their legs swing over the side until Odo or one of his officers told them they should have something better to do and it was time to move along.

But now, Jake realized there had been nothing better for the two of them to be doing than watching the parade of life that had passed by beneath them. Because those long hours of observation, speculation, and just plain talking had helped them become the young men they were today—the writer and the Starfleet officer.

It was from this vantage point by the safety railing that Jake first began noticing the intricate details of people's behavior: how some couples walked close together, some apart; how some people smiled secretly to themselves, while others fought back hidden tears. He'd seen the confidence of the newly arrived visitor, fresh from the shuttle, striding in to face the challenge of Quark's dabo table. Hours later, he'd watched the defeated shuffle of that same person as he crept away with only the clothes he wore.

Nog had learned no less than Jake. He had explained the Great Material River to his hew-mon friend, and how the Promenade was a perfect tributary of that mighty cascade that shaped the universe. On the shores of the Promenade—that is, its shops and kiosks—were pockets of accumulation, areas that had too much of one thing or another. Flowing between those shores were the rushing waters of customers—that is, those who had too little of what the shops had too much of.

On the other side of the equation, the shopkeepers had far too little latinum, and so an endless rebalancing of accounts ensued as the waters lapped at the shores, eroding a little here, building up a little there, always working to achieve a balance that forever remained out of reach.

Jake had been brought up in a Starfleet home and was fascinated by the Ferengi outlook on the universe. Nog, who had been brought up to accept the Great Material River as the only reasonable way to see the universe, had been equally fascinated to learn about Jake's alien perspective. The idea that it was acceptable—even desirable—to accumulate knowledge for no other purpose than to increase understanding, and the entire concept of helping others without any prospect of profit, were staggering to the young Ferengi.

But once both boys got over their initial dismissal of each other's viewpoints and began to truly try to see what the other meant, whole new vistas opened before them.

In Jake was born the need to see how other minds—not just human and Ferengi—viewed the universe, and then to illuminate those views for others through the written word. In Nog, a mad dream was born in which the precision of Ferengi thought could be applied to the romantic altruism of the Federation in order to create a new paradigm of galactic organization, one in which the most extreme imbalances in the Great Material River—meaning those that invariably led to conflict—would be forever eliminated, while still leaving ample opportunity for individuals to profit.

Thus Jake and Nog had set their lives' goals and directions, all in the idle pastimes of children, and all from this one corner of the Promenade.

Not that any of that made it easier for them to reconcile their differences today.

“You know what your problem is?” Nog asked.

“I don't get out enough?” Jake answered.

The Ferengi frowned. “No. It is that you are always trying to understand life in terms of a made-up novel.”

“Nog, that's my job.”

“How can it be a job if you make no money from it? Writing news articles is your job. Writing novels for no money, that is . . . an affliction.”

Jake put an elbow on the safety railing and rested his head on his hand. “Nog, when you were at the Academy, did you make any profit?”

Nog reacted suspiciously to Jake's abrupt change of topic. “No. . . .”

“But someday you expect to profit from your Starfleet experience, don't you?”

Nog appeared to be selecting his words with extreme care. “I would hope that . . . many individuals, commercial concerns, and government agencies will profit from . . . what I will learn during my career in Starfleet.”

Jake pounced as soon as Nog had cornered himself. “So you admit that—”

Nog realized the trap he'd been caught in and wouldn't let Jake finish. He did it himself. “Yes, yes, that I performed certain activities with no chance of immediate profit, but with the expectation of earning profit at a later time.”

Jake's smirk let Nog know who had won this particular argument. “So, as I was saying, from the perspective of a made-up novel, there's something going on here on Deep Space 9. Something that your uncle's involved with. And something that's brought smugglers in from across the quadrant. And it's not what Vash told Dax and Odo.”

“And as I was saying, you're crazy. You're drawing connections where none exist. You're trying to make my uncle into that Fermion character—”

“Higgs. Higgs is based on Quark. Fermion is based on Morn.”

“—that unbelievable character in your novel. And he's not.”

Jake stretched and straightened up again. A wave of new visitors was arriving on the Promenade from the turbolifts and airlocks. Not too many were Bajoran, so Jake decided the commercial cruiser from Sagittarius III had finally arrived. The Sagittarians were neutral in the Dominion War, and as a result their cruisers carried cargo and passengers from most of the nonaligned worlds. Whenever a Sagittarian ship docked at the station, there was always a good chance a rarely seen alien might be on board, and Jake found himself watching the crowd closely, hoping he might catch his first glimpse of a Nanth.

But he hadn't forgotten his friend, and even as his gaze remained on the lower Promenade level he said, “Nog, if I gave you ten crates of stem bolts, self-sealing or not, your imagination would run wild thinking up new schemes for selling them, or trading them, or . . . somehow turning them into latinum. When it comes to business, you won't accept any limits.”

“Of course not.”

“Then why is it you have no imagination when it comes to how people behave?”

After a few moments of silence, Jake glanced sideways to see that Nog was just staring at him, as if he could think of nothing more to say.

Jake sighed. “Let's try it again.” He held up a finger. “First of all, Quark called in a group of smugglers to take part in the sale of a counterfeit Bajoran artifact.” He held up a second finger. “Then, one of the Andorian smugglers was murdered.” He held up a third finger. “And then, someone tried to murder Vash.” He held up a fourth finger. “And despite Vash explaining the whole thing to Dax and Odo, there are still at least four smugglers on the station—Vash, the Andorian sisters, and that guy, Base.” Jake waved his hand back and forth, trying to emphasize the importance of those facts. “So put all that together, and what do you have?”

“Four fingers.”

Jake closed his eyes. “Nog, use your imagination.”

“All right. I will now imagine the impossible.” Nog put his hand over his eyes, a thumb on one temple, a forefinger on the other. “I am imagining that you are giving up this stupid line of reasoning. I am imagining that . . . that you are buying me lunch at the Replimat. I am imagining that—”

But by then, Jake's laughter had become contagious and Nog began laughing, too.

“I am not buying you lunch,” Jake laughed. “It's your turn.”

“That is why I was using my imagination,” Nog said.

They both began walking toward the closest spiral stairway.

“Anyway,” Jake said, undeterred by his friend's resistance. “I still think I'm right.”

“That the counterfeit Bajoran artifact isn't counterfeit?”

They came to the staircase, and Jake waited for Nog to go first. “If it were all a scam like Vash said, the smugglers would have left by now, right? After all, Odo knows all about it, so what's the point of sticking around?”

“To obtain the counterfeit artifact and take it someplace where potential customers don't know it's counterfeit,” Nog said.

They arrived on the Promenade's main level, and Jake was surprised by the noise and bustle of the new arrivals. Many of them were looking around as if they had never seen a space station before.

“That still doesn't answer the big mystery,” Jake said as he and Nog started for the Replimat. “Why would professional smugglers get involved with murder for a counterfeit artifact? I mean, I understand the idea of trying to make a profit for low risk—”

“I would certainly hope so.”

“—but to commit murder?” Jake said. “That's a high-risk crime. Which means the potential profits have to be equally high. Isn't that one of your rules? The riskier the road, the greater the profit?”

This time when Jake looked at Nog, he could see the Ferengi looking thoughtful.

“All right,” Nog said. “You have a point. A small one. And it probably has nothing at all to do with what's really going on here. But . . . .”

Jake grinned. “But what?”

“It is probably good enough for The Ferengi Correction.”

“Connection. The title is The Ferengi Connection.”

“Whatever.”

Jake stopped Nog by the directory monolith. “Okay. I'm being serious now.”

“When aren't you serious?”

“I mean it, Nog. How am I ever going to be able to convince a reader that a story I write might be true, if I can't even convince you that what we're really seeing go on all around us is a story?”

Now Nog looked worried. “I do not have the slightest idea what you're talking about.”

Jake took a breath, oblivious to the crowds of people passing by. “Given everything that's happened here over the past three days, what do you think is going on?”

“Anything other than what you think is going on.”

“You're doing this on purpose.”

“Jake, be reasonable. Let us say you are right. Let us say that Uncle Fermion—”

“Quark.”

“—Quark is selling a real Bajoran artifact with a value worth killing for. First of all, what kind of an artifact is that valuable? I mean, the rarest Bajoran artifact that I have ever heard of was that icon of the city of B'hala. And nobody was trying to kill to get that. The Cardassians just . . . gave it back to Bajor.”

Jake glanced up at the Promenade's high ceiling. Nog had a point. Even Jake had never heard of an artifact so valuable that—he had it! “Nog! It's an Orb!”

Nog reacted with outraged shock. “An Orb is not an ‘artifact.’ It is . . . an Orb. And my uncle would not be stupid enough to risk buying or selling an Orb, no matter how great the profit.”

“But there would be incredible profit for someone not as . . . lawabiding as Quark? Like a real criminal?”

Nog clearly did not want to be having this conversation. “I suppose.”

“All right. Then that's what it is. Thank you, Nog. You've solved an important story point. Quark—Higgs—is trying to sell an Orb. And since we haven't heard any news about an Orb being stolen, it's got to be one of the Orbs that went missing during the Occupation that the Cardassians haven't returned yet.”

Nog looked disappointed. “So now you are suggesting that either a Cardassian is selling a stolen Orb or that someone with more lobes than brains stole an Orb from the Cardassians.”

“Isn't there some Rule of Acquisition to cover this?” Jake asked. “You know, Profit plus more profit equals temporary insanity for a desperate criminal?”

Nog screwed up his face in concentration. “Perhaps in one of the reform editions. But not in the . . .” He frowned. “You are not being serious. There is no such law.”

“All I'm looking for is a possibility. A willing suspension of disbelief. What's it going to take to convince you?”

“Really?”

“Nog, if I can convince you, I can convince anyone. Now, let me have it. What do you need to believe the story?”

Nog looked around at the milling crowd. “More smugglers. If someone's trying to sell an Orb, there should be a great many more than four smugglers on board DS9. There should be dozens, if not hundreds.”

“Okay, I can live with that. Quark put out the word a few days ago. The closest smugglers arrive in a day or two. With more continuing to arrive. So there will be more by now, we just don't know about them. What else?”

Nog shrugged. “Cardassians.”

“Why Cardassians?”

“They're trying to recover their stolen property.”

That was going too far for Jake. “Nog, there won't be any Cardassians coming to DS9. We're at war with them.”

Nog shook his head. “The Federation is at war with Cardassia. Bajor is not a member of the Federation. Technically, it has been given neutral status by the Dominion. And technically, this station is Bajoran territory.”

“But it's in Federation space.”

Nog held his hands out as if he had nothing more to offer. “You asked what it would take. I answered. Now you really do have to buy me lunch.”

Jake started walking again, with Nog hurrying to keep up. “I don't have to buy you anything. I asked for help. You set up impossible conditions.”

The Replimat was full, every table taken. There was even a line outside. The Sagittarians did not have a reputation for palatable food. Too many of their flavorings were self-organizing slime molds, which often tried to reconstitute themselves and then escape from whatever dish they had been mixed into.

“Not impossible,” Nog insisted. “Necessary. As in necessary for me to accept your premise. Should we try the Klingon Cafe?”

“Impossible, because there's no way anyone will believe that Cardassians will come to DS9. Why don't we try Quark's?”

Nog looked uncomfortable. “That little Base . . . he makes me nervous. Did you know he has hair? On his . . . scalp? Uh, no offense.”

“We'll eat upstairs.”

“All right.” Nog suddenly brightened. “Maybe Leeta will be on duty. Then we can negotiate a family discount!”

The young men left the Replimat and started back toward Quark's. “You have to pay to eat at your uncle's?” Jake asked.

“Exploitation begins at home,” Nog said, as if quoting another of the Ferengi Rules. “And if the Orb is really an Orb and you want your story to be believed, then you have to do something dramatic so the reader will understand the stakes have been raised.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Cardassians on DS9.”

“Forget it. I'm not writing a fantasy. I'm writing a heist novel and there are rules I have to follow. And one of them is . . . .” Jake hesitated. Couldn't quite believe what he saw—whom he saw—stepping through the airlock across from Quark's, beyond the Infirmary.

“Is what?” Nog prompted.

“Cardassians,” Jake said.

Nog sounded as confused as Jake felt. “That's a rule?”

Jake reached out, took Nog's shoulder, and pointed him in the same direction he was looking. “No,” Jake said. “That's your proof.”

Cardassians.

Three of them. Just outside the circular door of the airlock. One was female, the other two male. And one of them was unlike any Cardassian Jake had ever seen before: He was bald.

Jake felt Nog tense, and instantly the Ferengi tapped his communicator badge.

“Nog to Commander Worf. Security breach on the Promenade. Airlock Alpha. Three enemy personnel.”

Jake wheeled to Nog. “Nog, they're not enemy personnel. Look at them—they're civilians. No weapons. No—”

Jake stopped talking as the crowd reacted to five columns of shimmering light that formed around the airlock stairs.

Jake stared in fascination as four Starfleet security officers beamed in with Worf and scattered the crowd. Each of the five had a phaser. Each phaser was aimed at the Cardassians.

“Isn't that a bit of an overreaction?” Jake asked.

“We are at war,” Nog said.

Jake had tried, but he still didn't understand the military mind-set that had become so much a part of Starfleet in the past year. But the one thing he felt he did know was motivation, both in the characters he wrote about and in real life. And he understood the motivation that had led to the scene being played out before him right now.

“Okay, Nog—this proves my point,” Jake said as Worf and his team took the Cardassians into custody. “What possible reason could three Cardassians have for risking a trip into Federation space to set foot on a Starfleet-controlled space station?”

Nog looked up at Jake, and Jake could see that this time his friend knew exactly what he was talking about.

“You said it yourself,” Jake continued. “They want their Orb back. It's the only possible reason they could have for coming here.”

Nog looked grim. “We shall see.” Then he went to offer his assistance to Worf.

Jake remained behind. But as he watched the Cardassians being led away, he was filled with an overpowering sense of just being right.

He was the only person on Deep Space 9 who truly knew what was going on, and it was time to start letting people know it.