13

A Ferengi without profit is no Ferengi at all.

—RULE OF ACQUISITION #18

“Dabo!”

Quark smiled as he came down the stairs from the upper level. Having just finished conducting a most profitable transaction with Captain Rionoj—a lovely Boslic woman with whom he had done good business and about whom he’d had many good fantasies over the years—he now watched Treir in action.

The winner of this dabo spin was a Kobheerian who was almost out of the game. Winning this spin won him three bars, which meant he would likely stay in for at least another hour. Since he’d been drinking like a fish, and had expensive tastes, this also meant he’d be buying more—in fact, he was signaling Frool for another Tzartak aperitif, the most expensive drink on the menu.

Life, Quark thought, is good.

He also noticed that the other players were shifting uncomfortably in their seats, looking like they were going to leave.

Quark slid next to Treir, slipping an arm around her lovely torso, and asked, “How is everyone doing tonight?”

General affirmative noises came from around the table, most from the Kobheerian.

“Good! You’ll all be happy to know that we have a special tonight—stay at the dabo table from now until 2100 hours, and you get the first half-hour of a holosuite program free.” He leaned forward a bit, taking Treir with him, thus affording the players a better view of that cleavage of hers. “So if you stay for only half an hour, it’s a free holosuite session. Can’t beat that with a stick, can you?”

Several of the players looked pleased at that.

Looking up at Treir, Quark went on. “I’m sure our lovely Treir will see to your every need, won’t you?”

“Of course.” Treir’s voice was in full-on purr mode, and Quark’s lobes just tingled.

Slowly extracting his arm, Quark said, “Enjoy yourselves, folks—we’re here to make sure you have a good time.”

As he worked his way back to the bar, he nodded at assorted customers. He saw Bashir, Tarses, and the rest of the medical staff all sharing a drink. In one corner, Nog was eating a spore pie while conversing with his assistant, the ensign with the unnecessarily long last name, and who looked more than a little nauseated by Nog’s dinner choice. Humans, Quark thought with amusement. No sense of good cuisine, and no idea how to keep nomenclature simple, like Ferengi. I mean, really, who wants to conduct business with someone where it takes half an hour just to say their name?

At the bar, he saw that Frool was making a targ’s ear of the aperitif. “You lobeless idiot,” he said to the waiter. “That mixture is for a Lisspeian. Tzartak aperitifs are tailored to the body temperature of the drinker, and a Kobheerian’s body temperature is five degrees warmer than a Lisspeian’s.”

“Sorry,” Frool muttered, and remixed the drink.

“The cost of the bad drink is coming out of your salary,” Quark said, then moved on to see if anyone sitting at the bar needed another drink. Predictably, Morn wanted another ale, which Quark dutifully provided, making a notation on the Lurian’s rather lengthy tab.

Everything seemed under control, so Quark reached into his pocket, pulled out his padd, entered the security code, then called up his two favorite files.

One was his own current financial profile, which wasn’t as high as he’d have liked, but still not bad. Although the Yridians’ bidding was sufficiently fierce for the forged Grisellan totem icons that the profit margin on that scam was huge, his token investment in Chek Pharmaceuticals—made as a gesture after Chek arranged the meeting in the bar weeks ago—had tanked, the syrup of squill shipment wound up being more expensive than expected thanks to Balancar’s new prime minister’s imposing higher tariffs on exports, and both kanar and yamok sauce had gone up in price again, thanks to the new government, such as it was, on Cardassia. On the other hand, Quark had heard that the new government on Mizar intended to revoke all tariffs, which meant that he’d be able to obtain Mizarian nuggets—a delicacy favored by Klingons, of which there were still an appalling number coming through the station these days. Nuggets were difficult to obtain within the Empire because the High Council refused to trade with a planet that was conquered so often—which Quark thought was just typical of Klingons.

The other file Quark called up was Brunt’s financial profile. The only latinum the ex-liquidator had to his name were the ten bars he won in the baby raffle. He had no other assets, having been banned by the FCA for publicly falsifying a contract.

Quark took an incredible amount of glee from that bit of irony.

He put the padd back in his jacket pocket. Ezri Dax walked in, and joined Nog and his assistant at their table. His right hand brushing against his lobe, Quark recalled that Dax and Bashir had ended their relationship during that nonsense on Trill, which meant that Dax was single again.

“Oh, barkeep? A tarkalian tea, please?”

Turning, Quark saw that Ro was sitting at the bar, and he wondered how long she’d been there without his noticing. Odo used to do that all the time, too—just appear in the bar like a ship decloaking—but he’d chalked that up to his shapeshifting. Maybe it’s something they teach you at security school.

“Coming right up,” he said with a smile.

As he prepared the beverage, Ro said, “Quark, we need to talk.”

“Let me just get the drink—”

“Forget the drink,” she said. “Take a walk with me a minute.”

This sounds serious. Quark didn’t like it when females wanted to have serious talks. They almost always ended badly for the male on the other end of the conversation.

Ro said nothing until they reached the security office. They entered, Ro moving around to her side of the desk and sitting down in her chair while closing the door. “Have a seat,” she said.

“Is this an interrogation?” he asked, not actually sitting down yet.

“I think I figured out why you left Ferenginar, Quark.”

“I thought you liked it there.”

Snorting, Ro said, “No, I just got used to it. Barely. Well, okay, I got used to the humidity, but that’s about it. But I can see why you left. On Ferenginar, it’s just Ferengi trying to screw each other. You’re not like that.”

Putting his hands on the back of the guest chair, Quark said, “I don’t have to stand here and be insulted.”

“It’s not an insult. It’s not that you’re not eager for profit—in that, you’re the perfect Ferengi—but you don’t generally screw people over. Or, at least, not in ways that cause permanent harm. I mean, antiquities fraud and price gouging aren’t exactly victimless crimes, but the harm is comparatively minor.”

Now Quark was confused. “What’re you getting at, Laren?”

Ro took a breath. “In a lot of ways, you’re the perfect embodiment of Rom’s new Ferenginar—earning a profit without actually hurting anyone.” Holding up a hand before Quark could interrupt her, Ro said, “Before you interrupt me and say I’m insulting you again, I’m not, really. The main reason why I think you left Ferenginar is that there you’re just another Ferengi. You were never going to be someone like Chek or Nilva or Kain—but out here, in the Bajoran sector, you’re unique. You provide things no one else can.”

Finally, Quark did take a seat, just because he needed to sit in order to conserve energy so he could devote his entire brain to figuring out where the hell Ro was going with this. “Laren—”

“I don’t think that you and I are going to work, Quark.”

Quark felt like he’d been punched in the stomach. “What?”

“I saw your little meeting with that Boslic woman. I saw you putting your arm around Treir. And I saw the way you were looking at Ezri.” She smiled. “When Ezri and Julian broke up, the first thought in your head was how you could get Ezri into the holosuite with you.”

“That’s not true!”

Ro stared at Quark.

“Entirely,” Quark added reluctantly. “Look, I’m a male with active lobes, I can’t help—”

“I know you can’t, Quark. It’s the way you are. You’re incapable of committing to one person because you’re incapable of committing to one of anything. How many dozens of scams do you have going at any given time?”

Quark wasn’t about to answer that definitively, but the fact that he didn’t say anything was probably enough for Ro.

“Oh, by the way,” she said, holding up a padd, “Balancar didn’t raise their tariffs, and the next time you tell someone you raised the price for squill because of it, I’m busting you for fraud.”

This stomach-punch wasn’t quite as bad as the previous one, but it was close. “Laren, I had no idea—truly,” he said, trying desperately to sound sincere. “I was going on secondhand information.” And, he thought suddenly, I can use that. Tell the distributor that I know what he’s trying to pull, and my good friend the DS9 security chief will lock him up on my say-so, so he’d better lower the price. “I’ll take care of it, don’t worry.”

Shaking her head and sighing, Ro said, “I knew it.”

“Knew what?” Quark now was even more confused.

“I just gave you a perfect opportunity to turn in your distributor for those fraud charges. But instead you decided to hold that information to yourself, and wait until it was the best time for you to take advantage of it, secure in the knowledge that the security chief is a friend of yours.”

“I—” Quark found he couldn’t say anything. I love a woman who’s so far ahead of me.

“Quark, I can’t do this. You’re always going to be going after the next big score, whether it’s financial or sexual. It’s the way you are.”

“I can change.” Quark was pleading now. This thing he had with Ro was good, and he liked it, and he didn’t want to lose it.

“No, Quark, you really can’t. And what’s more, I don’t want you to. If you change, if you become wholly monogamous, you won’t be Quark anymore, and I like Quark. I was willing to go off with you to find our fortune when Bajor joined the Federation, and I don’t regret that decision, even though my commission and your diplomatic post solved the problem instead.” She fixed him with her beautiful seola gem-colored eyes. “But here, now, with me as security chief and you as the bartender, I think I’m better off sticking with Quark as a friend and occasional pain in my ass—and that’s it. You okay with that?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Actually—yes.”

Quark blinked. This wasn’t at all what he was expecting. He’d been turned down by females before—he’d practically made a career out of it, mostly by going after females he knew he had absolutely no chance with. Ro actually responded, which was a situation he was almost totally unfamiliar with. Only Natima Lang and Grilka had responded the same way, but those relationships were doomed from the start.

As is this, apparently. Third time’s definitely not the charm. Besides, everything she said is exactly right.

“Then I choose—for us to be friends. If that’s okay with you.”

At last, Quark was favored with Ro’s wonderful, wide smile. “Definitely.”

Smiling back, Quark got up. “How about a celebratory dinner between friends tonight? I’ve got some fresh hasperat just in from Bajor.”

Ro also stood up. “It’s not ‘in’ yet, Quark—the shipmaster of the Fortra hasn’t kept all her licenses current, and until she straightens it out, her cargo doesn’t get unloaded.”

“I don’t suppose I could call upon my friend to—”

“No.”

Quark grinned. “Didn’t think so.” Ro opened the door and Quark turned to head back to the bar. He hesitated as he crossed the threshold. Wait for it….

“Oh, Quark?”

I knew it. He stopped and turned back around. “Yes?”

“If Gash sets foot on this station again, I’m posting a guard on him, understood?”

Making a mental note to put a call in to Gash telling him that they’d have to meet off-station from now on, Quark said, “Understood.”

With that, he went back to his bar. He had a business to run—

—and a dinner date to plan. After all, just because Ro wanted to keep their relationship platonic didn’t mean Quark had to stop trying for more….

“And stay out!”

Brunt stumbled forward onto the wet streets of the capital city, having been physically thrown out of his favorite tongo parlor by the owner—brandishing a rare Minosian rifle—owing to his being banned by the FCA. Rain pelted onto his head, water seeping into his lobes and eyes and nose.

For years, I banned people—never knew how miserable it was for the person being banned. But then, why should he have cared? He was a liquidator, and liquidators only cared about the marketplace, not the people.

That sounds a lot better when you’re the liquidator and not the victim.

Chek and Dav had sold him out to the FCA, saying that all of this was Brunt’s idea. Never mind the fact that Dav was the one who brought in that forger, never mind the fact that Chek was the one who recommended Brunt come in—the truth didn’t matter to these people. They just wanted someone to blame, a scapegoat, so they could try to salvage their precious profits.

Well, there’s more to life than profits!

Getting up off the wet ground, Brunt thought, Did I really just think that? By the Divine Exchequer, I think this ban has addled my brain.

He had been spending the last two days trying to find a simple job, but no place would hire him. No bar would hire him as a waiter, no aircar service would hire him as a driver, no rich household would hire him as a servant. He thought he had it made when he read about the waste-disposal business that needed someone who could drive a Federation Sporak—apparently, they bought one with money they claimed to have received directly from the Klingon chancellor himself. Brunt’s first job after his Attainment Ceremony involved driving a Sporak, so he thought that those rare skills would supersede his FCA ban, even if the idea that the Sporak came from Chancellor Martok was patently absurd.

But even the waste-disposal people turned him down.

All wasn’t completely lost. He still had ten bars of latinum. The Grand Nagus, in his infinite stupidity, gave him special dispensation to keep it.

How I hate him. This is all his fault—him and that misbegotten family. Oh, how I long for the good old days of Zek’s rule, when Ferengi were feared and respected. Now we’re a joke, thanks to that wicked woman pouring lies into Zek’s drooping ears, leaving us with her idiot son as a Grand Nagus. Not to mention the rest of them—Quark and his ridiculous bar, Nog and his Starfleet commission. Starfleet! The very idea!

“Down on your luck, Brunt?”

Brunt peered through the frippering at an overhang, which was where the deep voice had come from.

After a moment, he made out the face through the forcefield that kept the area under the overhang completely dry.

Gaila. Another member of that tiresome family.

“What do you want, Gaila?”

“To talk.”

“I have nothing to say to you.”

“Oh, I think you do.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a strip of latinum. He tossed it through the semipermeable forcefield, and it landed in the muck at Brunt’s feet. “Come on in.”

Brunt bent over to pick up the slip without thinking. Even as he did so, he considered just taking the slip and continuing on his merry way. What could I possibly have to say to him?

Then he remembered that Gaila had worked on behalf of Chek and Dav also—he was the one who brought Zek back from Risa. And unlike Chek or Dav, Gaila was actually speaking to him.

I’m willing to at least hear him out.

He put the slip in the receptacle next to the overhang. The forcefield went down for a moment, and Brunt stepped in.

As the forcefield reactivated, Brunt pulled his handkerchief out of his jacket—or, rather, he pulled out the handkerchief he’d snuck into his jacket pocket when the FCA came to take all his assets away—and wiped his head and eyes. “I’m listening. Now what could the cousin of the Grand Nagus possibly have to say to me?”

“Believe me, Brunt, I’ve got no love for my cousin—either of them. But I’m not a part of their insanity. When we first met, you referred to me as a failure—but that’s only because I was foolish enough to bring Quark into my weapons business. Up until then, I was doing so well I was considering retirement.” He smiled. “Now, it seems, you’re the failure—but you don’t have to be.”

Brunt rolled his eyes. “Is this what that slip you gave me buys? Your life story followed by insults?”

“You know the Rules, Brunt—’A wise man can hear profit in the wind.’ “

“Well, you’re certainly creating a lot of it,” Brunt muttered.

Gaila smiled. “I’ll get right to the point, then. I don’t have any connection to Chek or Dav. They just hired me to bring Zek back from Risa. I took the job because they paid me handsomely. Between that, the investments I made after we rescued Ishka, and the fee from some negotiating I did for a race called the Petraw, I’m starting to rebuild my portfolio. And I’ve still got plenty of contacts—but I could use a new partner. There are plenty of opportunities out there—ones that could use an ex-liquidator’s assistance.”

Obviously Gaila suffered from the same mental deficiency as the others in his wretched family. “I’ve been banned by the FCA. You can’t do business with me.”

Gaila shook his head and laughed. “The FCA’s reach doesn’t extend very far beyond the Alliance’s boundaries. And believe me, my business takes me very far beyond the Alliance’s boundaries.”

Brunt stared at Gaila’s tiny eyes and large nose, and thought back to his perusals of the financial records relating to Ishka and her family back when he first investigated her five years earlier. He remembered then that Gaila was a highly successful weapons dealer, working with a now-dead human named Hagath. He wasn’t a close enough relation to gain Brunt’s notice then, nor the other times he investigated Quark and his family of lunatics.

From the sound of it, Gaila has about as much use for Quark and his close relatives as I do. No reason to let his family stand in the way of my opportunity. “Tell me more,” Brunt said.

“Of course—but not here. Let’s go into that tongo parlor—have a few drinks, play a few rounds, and speak as businessmen.”

Brunt’s face fell. “I can’t—the owner just kicked me out.”

“For me, he’ll let you in.” Hitting Brunt a little too hard on the shoulder, Gaila grinned. “Who do you think sold him that Minosian rifle?”

At that, Brunt found himself forced to smile. Then he grinned. Then he laughed.

So did Gaila.

They exited the dryness of the overhang and headed straight for the tongo parlor, Gaila’s arm around Brunt’s shoulder even as they stepped out into the rain.

“Gaila,” Brunt said as the frippering once again got into his eyes, “this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

Selections From

the Ferengi Rules

of Acquisition

by Grand Nagus Gint

These are excerpts from The Ferengi Rules of Acquisition, published centuries ago by the first Grand Nagus, Gint. A more complete list is available in the book The Ferengi Rules of Acquisition by Quark, as dictated to Ira Steven Behr, and a list with commentary can be found in Legends of the Ferengi, also by Quark, as dictated to Behr & Robert Hewitt Wolfe, both available at finer merchants everywhere.

Each Rule comes with a citation for the chronicles in which the Rule was quoted. “[DS9]” indicates an episode of Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, “[VOY]” indicates an episode of Star Trek: Voyager.

1. Once you have their money, you never give it back. (“The Nagus” [DS9])

6. Never allow family to stand in the way of opportunity. (“The Nagus” [DS9])

7. Keep your ears open. (“In the Hands of the Prophets” [DS9])

9. Opportunity plus instinct equals profit. (“The Storyteller” [DS9])

16. A deal is a deal—until a better one comes along. (“Melora” [DS9], The Ferengi Rules of Acquisition)

17. A contract is a contract is a contract—but only between Ferengi. (“Body Parts” [DS9])

18. A Ferengi without profit is no Ferengi at all. (“Heart of Stone” [DS9], “Ferengi Love Songs” [DS9])

19. Satisfaction is not guaranteed. (The Ferengi Rules of Acquisition)

20. He who dives under the table today lives to profit tomorrow. (Worlds of Star Trek: Deep Space Nine Volume Three—Ferenginar: Satisfaction Is Not Guaranteed)

22. A wise man can hear profit in the wind. (“Rules of Acquisition” [DS9], “False Profits” [VOY])

25. You pay for it, it’s your idea. (Worlds of Star Trek: Deep Space Nine Volume Three—Ferenginar: Satisfaction Is Not Guaranteed)

31. Never make fun of a Ferengi’s mother—insult something he cares about instead. (“The Siege” [DS9], The Ferengi Rules of Acquisition)

33. It never hurts to suck up to the boss. (“Rules of Acquisition” [DS9])

53. Never trust anybody taller than you. (Mission: Gamma Book 1: Twilight)

58. There is no substitute for success. (The Ferengi Rules of Acquisition)

62. The riskier the road, the greater the profit. (“Rules of Acquisition” [DS9], “Little Green Men” [DS9], “Business As Usual” [DS9])

75. Home is where the heart is—but the stars are made of latinum. (“Civil Defense” [DS9])

88. It ain’t over till it’s over. (Worlds of Star Trek: Deep Space Nine Volume Three—Ferenginar: Satisfaction Is Not Guaranteed)

94. Females and finances don’t mix. (The Ferengi Rules of Acquisition, “Ferengi Love Songs” [DS9], “Profit and Lace” [DS9])

95. Expand or die. (“False Profits” [VOY])

97. Enough is never enough. (The Ferengi Rules of Acquisition)

99. Trust is the biggest liability of all. (The Ferengi Rules of Acquisition)

139. Wives serve; brothers inherit. (“Necessary Evil” [DS9])

168. Whisper your way to success. (“Treachery, Faith, and the Great River” [DS9])

190. Hear all, trust nothing. (“Call to Arms” [DS9])

200. A Ferengi chooses no side but his own. (Worlds of Star Trek: Deep Space Nine Volume Three—Ferenginar: Satisfaction Is Not Guaranteed)

208. Sometimes the only thing more dangerous than a question is an answer. (“Ferengi Love Songs” [DS9])

218. Always know what you’re buying. (The Ferengi Rules of Acquisition)

239. Never be afraid to mislabel a product. (“Body Parts” [DS9])

280. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. (Worlds of Star Trek: Deep Space Nine Volume Three—Ferenginar: Satisfaction Is Not Guaranteed)

285. No good deed ever goes unpunished. (“The Collaborator” [DS9], “The Sound of Her Voice” [DS9])

The Dominion

Olympus Descending

David R. George III

About the Author

David R. George III has returned to the ongoing Deep Space Nine saga with Olympus Descending. He previously visited DS9 in the novels The 34th Rule, set during the timeframe of the series, and Twilight, set after the finale. His other Star Trek contributions include a first-season Voyager episode, “Prime Factors,” and one of the Lost Era books, Serpents Among the Ruins, featuring Captain John Harriman and his executive officer, Commander Demora Sulu. David will revisit the latter character in a story to be published in the upcoming Tales from the Captain’s Table anthology. And 2006 will see the release of an original series trilogy he will pen as part of the celebration of the fortieth anniversary of Star Trek.

In his almost-nonexistent spare time, David enjoys trying his hand at new experiences, from skydiving to auditioning—with his lovely wife Karen—for The New Newlywed Game, from hiking a glacier in Alaska to belly dancing in Tunisia, from ocean kayaking in Mexico to having dinner at an actual captain’s table somewhere in the Pacific Ocean. Recently, he performed his first wedding ceremony—which he and Karen also wrote—marrying their friends Jennifer Rasmussen and Ryan Van Riper. David believes that the world is a wide, wondrous place, with exciting adventures waiting around just about every corner.

He remains free on his own recognizance.

To

David R. George

and

John M. Walenista

Two men, both larger than life,

who taught me in ways they knew

and in ways they didn’t,

and who brought me joys

that will remain with me always

Acknowledgments

My thanks must begin with Marco Palmieri. Not only did he invite me to the dance, but he invited me back. Working with him ranks for me as a privilege, both because of the passion and creativity he brings to the table, and because of the professionalism and artistry with which he edits. I am grateful to him for reasons too numerous to detail, not the least of which is that he always improves my writing. Readers of the novels upon which Marco works—myself among those readers—are well served by his efforts.

I wish to acknowledge and thank Elizabeth Knezo Ragan, who after nearly a century, still left us too soon. In my mind, she will forever remain a strong, vibrant woman, the undisputed matriarch of her family. I can never adequately convey how much the love and support she lavished on Karen meant to me. Baba’s caring and influence can easily be seen in succeeding generations, and will doubtless continue for generations to come.

Thanks as well to Barry J. Berman, who also left the field of play too soon. With the organization of the first Bakersfield baseball tournament, and of all the events that followed from there, Barry impacted my life in amazing ways that neither of us ever could have anticipated. Later, he welcomed me to town with unparalleled magnanimity. On the diamond, his range might never have exceeded his reach, but off the field, among his friends and fellow ballplayers, his reach exceeded everybody’s expectations. I will always remember Barry, as well as the strength and caring of Barry’s love, Kay Lewis.

I also want to thank Steven H. Pilchik, who always believed. Ever since he read a pair of hastily written one-act plays back in the day, his enthusiasm and support have continually encouraged me. I’ve always felt us kindred spirits, from those very first days in the basement of Hood Hall (wildebeests along the way and all), and I treasure his friendship. I am fortunate indeed to know Steve, his lovely wife Cheryl, and their boys Brian and Joshua.

Thanks too to Jason and Lia Costello for their love and encouragement. Their wonderful friendship shines like a beacon in the darkness to me, and their own loving relationship is a delight to behold. Resolute and supportive, they are also big-hearted and fun, and I always enjoy the time I spend with them.

I always seem to be thanking Armin Shimerman for something, and in this case, it’s not only for his friendship and support (and that of his fabulous wife, Kitty Swink), but for the loan of a laptop computer in desperate and difficult circumstances. Armin and Kitty possess a generosity of spirit that constantly warms my heart. The quality of their many talents is surpassed only by the kindness of their souls.

No matter how many times I do it, I can never thank Anita Smith enough. Always there, always supportive, she is a kind and loving person like no other. I admire her courage, strength, and determination, and her presence in my life is a gift.

I can also never thank Jennifer George enough, or laud her enough. A fine woman, filled with bravery and heart, intelligence and wit, and with talents aplenty, she continually impresses me. I could not be more proud of her. Her love and support lift me up.

I also don’t have enough words for Patricia Walenista. She remains the source of all things good in me. Friend, confidante, role model, and more, she provides clarity, wisdom, a moral compass, support, and above all, love. And she’s pretty fun to be around too.

Finally, as always, I want to thank Karen Ann Ragan-George for all that she does and for all that she is. My constant light, my delicate flower, wellspring of belly laughs and of the very best kinds of tears, she is everything to me. Like poetry, Karen is complex, beautiful in form and content, filled with vivid meaning and hidden depths, and on occasion, she even rhymes. Not only would I not want to do any of this without her, but I could not do it without her. I have always loved her, and I always will.

Historian’s Note

This story is set primarily in December, 2376 (Old Calendar), ending approximately thirteen weeks after the conclusion of the Star Trek: Deep Space Nine novel Unity.

Have you not heard of that madman who lit a lantern in the bright morning hours, ran to the market place and cried incessantly: “I seek God! I seek God!”

—FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE, “THE MADMAN,” APHORISM 125, Book III, The Gay Science

Shall we grow old, you and I, and all,

In a universe bereft of light?

—ILOJA OF PRIM, STANZA 1137, FOLIO FIVE, “THOUGHTS ON A HOSTILE COSMOS”

Preamble

The sky had changed.

Odo peered at the irregular burst of light looming unexpectedly above the nameless world of the Founders. Thoughts of Nerys—reminiscences of the past weeks with her, contemplations of their future together—fled as anxiety rose within him, along with the certainty that in his absence some awful event had befallen his people. He stood on the bridge that sat at the core of the Jem’Hadar attack vessel, the monocular headset he wore providing him with a view of surrounding space. As the ship approached the planet, the relentless beat of the impulse drive fell heavily within the compact control center, saturating it without surcease. The voices and movements of the small crew joined the tableau like hasty postscripts, thrown in at the last, to little effect. Odo’s body hummed with the rhythms of the engines, his ever-malleable cells in constant agitation as they reflexively sought to adjust—to quiesce—in response to the proximate activity.

On his headset monitor—a few centimeters wide and half as tall, with two corners on one side of the otherwise rectangular flat “sliced off”—the brilliant addition to the starscape dominated the scene. Surmising—and hoping—that what he saw might simply be a display error, Odo swung his head left. The image on his viewer slewed to port, roving across another section of the firmament, but when he looked back again at the Founders’ world, the luminous patch remained. To the left and above the planet from this vantage, the glowing, blurry-edged circle drew his gaze to it, shining as it did more brightly than any other celestial object in sight…and because it hadn’t been there when last he had been immersed in the Great Link.

“Weyoun,” Odo called, focusing past the translucent eyepiece and across the bridge, to where the Vorta stood amid several Jem’Hadar, most of them operating various stations. Weyoun turned at once from Seventh Rotan’talag, to whom he’d been speaking, and paced quickly over. As he did so, he reached up and flipped his own flickering monitor away from his eye.

“Yes, Founder,” he said, bowing his head for a moment, his hands parting in a patent gesture of subservience. He wore auburn pants, and a darker, patterned jacket atop a sulfur-colored shirt. “How may I be of service to you?”

“I want to know if my people are all right,” Odo said, with more force than he’d intended. His disquiet felt surprisingly strong, and seemed to spring more from intuition than observation.

“They are perfectly fine,” Weyoun said calmly, and Odo’s thoughts veered toward relief. “I scanned the surface of the planet myself as soon as we were within sensor range. The Great Link is as you left it.” The tight line of the Vorta’s lips widened and curled upward slightly at the ends, a familiar smile that readily conveyed a desire to serve, along with a fear of being unable to do so adequately. All of the Weyoun clones Odo had known had worn similar expressions at one time or another, save for perhaps one of them.

“What is that bright object above the planet?” Odo asked, even as he recalled the exception among this Weyoun’s predecessors. The sixth clone to bear the name, who during the war had defected to the Federation, had speculated aloud about whether he’d been faulty, but never had he wavered from the apparent surety of his ability to attend Odo. His death by his own hand—an action taken to prevent Odo from being killed—had been heroic, but not more so than his decision to abscond from the Dominion in an attempt to rescue it from itself.

“An observant question, Founder,” Weyoun said, obsequious as ever. Odo still felt uncomfortable being addressed as “Founder,” but he no longer reproached Weyoun or anybody else for doing so. How could he, when he’d left behind his life in the Alpha Quadrant more than ten months ago, and had come here to live with his people? He’d counted himself among their number ever since, even despite having been away from them for the past fifteen weeks.

“I noticed the object myself,” Weyoun went on. “The seventh”—he never referred to any of the Jem’Hadar by name, at least not in Odo’s presence—”reports that it is likely a distant nova, and that it poses no threat to the Great Link.”

“If Rotan’talag isn’t certain what it is,” Odo questioned, “then how can he conclude that it isn’t a threat?” For some reason, the unanticipated appearance of the intensely shining object stirred a depth of emotion in him that he could not readily identify, feelings that seemed more complicated than mere concern for his people.

“Quite right,” Weyoun agreed without hesitation, as though he had been about to make the same point. “Which is why I’ve ordered the seventh to continue gathering and analyzing readings, so that he can make a complete and accurate report. I’m also going to contact my colleagues on other vessels and speak to them about their observations.” Numerous other ships regularly patrolled the region of space about the Founders’ planet, all crewed by Jem’Hadar soldiers and commanded by Vorta overseers.

“Very good,” Odo said, nodding curtly as he glanced once more at the image on his personal viewer. The rough circle of light burned there like the malevolent eye of some massive spaceborne creature, lying in wait just beyond the planet. “Keep me informed.”

“Of course,” Weyoun said, again bowing his head. He withdrew across the center of the bridge, taking a couple of steps backward before rounding on his heel and walking back over to Rotan’talag. The two conversed briefly, then turned to a nearby console.

Odo watched them through his headset monitor, the duo visible through a glittering sweep of the planet where starlight touched the amorphous form of the Great Link. Both Weyoun and Rotan’talag had served him well these past months, he reflected, though neither had shown any indication yet of growing beyond the bounds established for their respective species by the Founders. He still believed that they could, though, especially given their unusual personal circumstances.

Rotan’talag, during a systematic search of the Dominion ordered by Odo, had been discovered to be one of only four Jem’Hadar not dependent on ketracel-white. He’d been too young—three years old at the time, four now—and too inexperienced to send to the Alpha Quadrant on the mission that Taran’atar had instead taken on, but Odo had chosen to keep him close. Years ago, back on Deep Space 9, Odo had failed to guide a newborn Jem’Hadar away from the martial purpose for which he’d been bred, but that unnamed fighter had been reliant on the white. And while Taran’atar—like Rotan’talag, free of the chemical dependency—appeared to be fulfilling his assigned task of observing and living among the denizens of the Alpha Quadrant, his mindset about himself and his place in the universe hadn’t changed in any significant way. Odo hoped that it would one day be different for Taran’atar, but in the meantime, he would use another tack—frequent personal contact—to try to foster Rotan’talag’s development.

As the nova—or whatever it turned out to be—stared down on his eyepiece at the Founders’ world, Odo’s thoughts shifted to the Vorta who had effectively become his deputy. On Cardassia Prime at the end of the war, the eighth Weyoun had been shot dead by Garak, and the Founder leader had declared him the last in the line—probably because she hadn’t expected anybody to retrieve his transcorder implant so that his knowledge and memories could be downloaded into a subsequent clone. But Odo had recovered the device, aware of its existence and purpose from Dr. Bashir’s autopsy of the Weyoun defector. The implant the doctor had removed had self-destructed when Chief O’Brien had attempted to dump its data, but its function had been evident: it continuously recorded the thoughts and experiences of the clone into whom it had been embedded, automatically uploading it for more secure storage whenever in range of either the Dominion wide-area communications network or a sufficiently equipped vessel.

Knowing that he would return to live with his people in the Gamma Quadrant, and foreseeing that he would strive to transform the bellicose nature of the Dominion, Odo had gone back and removed the transcorder from the corpse of Weyoun Eight. A new clone, he’d reasoned, might develop as the sixth had, with a yearning for peace and a willingness to act on that desire. And as would be the case with Rotan’talag, Odo had intended to do whatever he could to influence the personal growth of the next Weyoun.

Across the bridge, a monitor set into the far bulkhead blinked to life, the face of a woman appearing on it. Odo recognized her as Vannis, one of the Vorta who assisted Weyoun and others in carrying out the will of the Founders. She possessed sharp, angular features, and long, dark locks framed her face. Her pallid complexion contrasted dramatically with both her hair and her vibrant indigo eyes. The jacket she wore matched her eye color, and covered an ivory blouse. As Odo looked on, she opened her mouth and spoke, and Weyoun responded, their voices low, their words indistinct, swallowed up by the cadences of the impulse engines. The Jem’Hadar seventh paid no apparent heed to the conversation, keeping his head down as he worked at an adjacent console.

Odo had arranged for the assignments of Weyoun and Rotan’talag to this ship. Known simply as Jem’Hadar Attack Vessel 971, it was initially stationed in orbit about the Founders’ planet, one of those delegated to safeguard the Great Link. Not long after Odo first left the Alpha Quadrant and rejoined his people, he started spending brief periods away from them, on the tiny island where he’d said his good-byes to Nerys. He needed separation so that he could consider things in the manner to which he’d become accustomed, and also so that he could mark time, the experience of which felt very different within the Link.

Shortly after that, Odo had begun transporting up to the ship, weekly at first, and then daily. Wanting to more fully understand the forces that defined and drove the Dominion, he studied the security reports continually compiled by the numerous Vorta acting as agents of the Founders. Once he posted Weyoun to the ship, and then Rotan’talag, the repeated visits also allowed him to maintain regular contact with them.

Although no attempt had been made to stop him in those endeavors, a sense of disapproval permeated the Link. Odo’s ongoing interest in the minutiae of life among the solids was deemed an unhealthy fixation. The Founders, he quickly learned, did not concern themselves with everyday events beyond their world. The genetically programmed fealty of the Vorta and the Jem’Hadar had long ago obviated the need for the changelings to involve themselves directly in such matters. The Founders ruled by proxy, and unless they felt endangered, essentially isolated themselves from the rest of the galaxy. Consequently, they regarded Odo’s attention to security reports, his recurring contact with Vorta and Jem’Hadar, and his particular interest in Weyoun and Rotan’talag, as efforts to cling to the life he’d led in the Alpha Quadrant, among solids. Although he had abandoned that life and returned to the Link, they believed him unwilling to free himself completely from an existence that, in their collective judgment, defined his infancy.

For Odo, such opinions betrayed the intransigence of his people. The irony did not escape him that a species so physically fluid could also be so mentally and emotionally inflexible. Back on Bajor and DS9, he had himself endured characterizations of his own rigidity, his own obduracy. Seeing the same traits reflected in the amber ocean of his own kind was sobering. He tried to help the Link see that their refusal to consider themselves connected to other, non-changeling life-forms, and their rejection of the possibilities afforded by amity rather than distrust, should be regarded as antithetical to a species that exulted in self-change. The Founders seemed capable of any transformation, he maintained, but in their own view of the universe.

Odo peered over again at Weyoun and Rotan’talag. The image of the female Vorta winked off of the monitor there, replaced an instant later by the green-and-purple symbol that represented the Dominion. Weyoun turned and addressed Rotan’talag, who looked up from the console he’d been working. As Odo watched them, he wondered if he would ever succeed in altering anyone’s perspectives here. Perhaps he had set himself impossible tasks: bringing tolerance and openness to the Great Link; setting the Vorta and Jem’Hadar onto different paths that would lead them away from their genetic encoding; reshaping the often brutal policies and actions of the Dominion into something benign. Even working from within, how could he realistically expect to foment such radical alterations in such well-defined and long-standing cultures?

Still, even during the relatively short span he’d spent back among his people, change had occurred. Over time, the Founders’ concerns about Odo’s trips up to the Jem’Hadar vessel had abated. They remained unconvinced of the wisdom of his actions and intentions, but they at least stopped summarily dismissing what he did and thought. His people seemed now to take in what he tried to communicate to them, and perhaps even to consider the merits of his convictions. That marked a beginning, Odo thought, one upon which he hoped to build once he transported down to the planet and slipped back into the Great Link.

And yet he also felt compelled to admit that, in some ways, the Founders had been right. Not about their resistance to peaceful relations with non-changelings, but about Odo’s daily scrutiny of Dominion security reports, about his regular contact with Weyoun and Rotan’talag. Whatever his asserted aims, Odo had found himself enjoying the routine, one not all that far removed from how he’d spent his days back on DS9. More than that, he had allowed his curiosity and his predilection for investigation to lead him away from his people.

Nearly four months ago, Odo had set out in Attack Vessel 971 for the open port of Ee, so that he could explore rumors of a healer and theologue whose adherents supposedly included a number of Ennis. The descriptions of this religious figure and her followers had entwined with memories of stories that Nerys had related to him through the years, and had brought him to the possibility that the healer might somehow be Opaka Sulan, former kai of Bajor. However unlikely a prospect it might have been, Odo had needed to find out for sure.

There had also been another reason he’d wanted to locate the healer: she’d purportedly had contact with a member of the Ascendants, a mysterious nomadic species long absent from the region of the galaxy now occupied by the Dominion. The Ascendants’ time in this part of space antedated the rise of the Founders’ empire, and few details remained of their society. Vague, sometimes contradictory accounts painted them as fanatically pious crusaders, merciless zealots who had ravaged entire worlds on a quest to join with their gods. The fossil records on several planets in the Gamma Quadrant revealed mass extinctions that had taken place around the time the Ascendants had allegedly swarmed through this area of space, but evidence of such catastrophes existed even in the other quadrants of the galaxy, and had been ascribed to numerous other causes. Still, if the Ascendants had not died out, and if the possibility of their return existed, Odo wanted to know about it.

In truth, though, Odo had doubted that he would find evidence of either Opaka or the Ascendants. But the mere possibility, however remote, of reconnecting with some aspect of Nerys’s life had provided him with an irresistible motivation. In the end, he’d done just that—reconnected with her—in ways that he had never anticipated.

Disguised as a Trelian, Odo had unexpectedly encountered Jake Sisko on Ee, and then they’d found the healer, who had indeed turned out to be Opaka. Together, the three had traveled with acquaintances of Jake’s to the Idran system—they’d been on hand for the shocking developments there—and then the trio had continued on to Deep Space 9. Odo had maintained the fiction of his Trelian identity during the parasite crisis on the station, ultimately making his true presence known when Nerys had needed assistance in combating the invaders.

After the situation had been resolved, Odo had prepared to return immediately to the Great Link. Weyoun had shadowed him aboard Attack Vessel 971, waiting by the Gamma Quadrant terminus of the wormhole to ferry him back to the Dominion. But Odo’s first hours alone with Nerys had brought him a peace and happiness that he hadn’t known since he’d bid her farewell almost a year ago. He hadn’t realized until then just how much he’d missed her presence in his life. He’d allowed their time together to stretch into days, and then into weeks. He’d rationalized his sojourn in the Alpha Quadrant by accepting an invitation from First Minister Asarem to represent the Dominion at the ceremony in which Bajor would formally join the Federation. Even after the ceremony, though, he’d stayed a couple of days more, unwilling to part with Nerys just yet.

While Odo would not have characterized his actions as clinging to the life he’d lived among solids, did such a distinction really matter? His people believed that he hadn’t yet given himself over to them completely, and though he denied that charge, he could not deny that he’d found reasons to leave them, if only temporarily. When Odo had first joined with the Great Link, it had fulfilled him in ways that he never could have imagined, and that he thought could never be surpassed. And yet if that were true, he had to ask himself, then how could he have left, and how could he have stayed away for so long?

Movement caught Odo’s attention, pulling him from his thoughts. Weyoun marched toward him, a smile decorating his features, a smile different from the partially fearful countenance he’d worn earlier. His lips had parted, his squarish white teeth visible between them, the corners of his eyes wrinkling slightly. His eyepiece monitor still sat swung upward and away from his face.

“Founder,” he said as he stopped before Odo. “I’ve received a report on the object from a Vorta aboard another vessel, and the seventh has now independently confirmed the information I was given.” He paused expectantly, looking up at Odo as though wanting encouragement or validation before continuing.

“Go on,” Odo said simply, not wishing to buttress the Vorta’s insecurities.

“The object is indeed a nova,” Weyoun said. “It became visible in the sky here just three days ago, increasing steadily in brightness during that time. But it is located at a far enough remove from the Founders’ world that it will not cause any danger to the Great Link.”

Odo felt himself relax, the tension he’d been feeling dissolving away like ice under a hot sun. “Very good,” he said, relieved that his concerns had been misplaced. “How long before we’re in transporter range?”

Weyoun raised his hand to his viewer and repositioned it in front of his eye. After a moment, he said, “Less than three minutes from now.”

Odo nodded once and said, “I’d like to beam down as soon as possible.” He pulled off his headset and held it out toward Weyoun.

“Of course,” the Vorta said, taking the headset. “It is always a pleasure to serve you.”

Odo moved off to the right, a quarter of the way around the bridge, to where an alcove sat tucked into a bulkhead. He stepped inside, onto a transporter pad. Weyoun followed, and stood before a neighboring control panel. They waited in silence as the ship neared the Founders’ world.

Finally, Weyoun announced, “We are within range.” He worked the transporter controls, which responded with clicks and muted tones. Before he finished, though, Odo stopped him with a question.

“How far, Weyoun?” he asked. “How far away is the nova?”

Weyoun reported the distance, and then added, “It lies just beyond the edge of the Omarion Nebula.”

The information jolted Odo, as though a surge of electricity had passed through his body. “The Omarion Nebula?” he echoed, a note of wonder slipping into his voice as he pronounced the name of the place the Founders had formerly called home. Years ago, Odo had been drawn to the nebula when he’d first seen it, a response fixed in him—in all of the Hundred—by his people, so that he—and the others—would one day return to them. Now, faced with his original reaction to the nova, juxtaposed with the revelation of its location near the Omarion Nebula, Odo’s thoughts swirled as he attempted to make sense of it all.

“Founder?” Weyoun said into the ensuing silence.

“Yes,” Odo said absently, and then he looked up and gestured for Weyoun to continue working the panel. Seconds later, a hum rose in the alcove. Odo’s vision clouded for an instant, as though a draft of opaque smoke had wafted past his eyes. Then, just as quickly as the whirr of the transporter had escalated, it diminished.

The Jem’Hadar ship had gone, replaced underfoot by a sea-girt islet. All around spread the brassy, swelling surface of the Great Link. Odo paced forward, then lifted his head and gazed into the dusky sky. Seeing nothing but the normal stars, he slowly turned in a circle where he stood, until just past the pair of peaked, ten-meter-high rock formations that ascended on one side of the islet, he spied the nova. It appeared larger than any of the other lights adorning the empyrean, and shined with an intensity far greater.

Suddenly, Odo understood that he’d mistaken feelings of awe for those of concern. Now, something far more powerful replaced his ebbing fears: hope. The brilliant, flaring star captured his psyche in much the same way the Omarion Nebula once had. All at once, the nova seemed a harbinger of a bright future for his people, an augury of peace and joy for the Founders in the days ahead.

Only later, when Odo stood here again, in the same spot, and stared out over the planet’s cold, empty landscape, would he recall this moment and realize how wrong he had been.