CHAPTER
13

KIRA AND DAX wore nothing but the bracelets on their wrists and ankles.

They—or rather, their holographic counterparts—were gyrating in front of the two Ferengi. Dax’s long hair hung down past her shoulders, slightly obscuring her breasts; Kira, with her short hair, wasn’t hiding behind anything. Quark and Glav were practically jumping out of their skin with excitement, and Glav was stretching out grasping fingers, almost touching Dax’s swaying body . . . 

And directly behind the Ferengi, a small column of red protoplasmic matter had grown and was taking on shape. A second later the nondescript red-haired Bajoran was standing directly behind them. Neither of them appeared aware of him, their attention rather understandably drawn elsewhere.

The intruder’s hands had disappeared, to be replaced by huge spike-studded mallets. He raised them over his head, ready to bring them smashing down . . . 

And from outside, they heard a voice say firmly, “Emergency medical override on lock. Employ now.” A second later the door hissed open and Bashir entered, saying, “I apologize for barging in, Quark, but there’s something important I have to . . . ”

“Get out!” shrieked Quark, trying to scramble to his feet so that he could block Bashir’s view of the holograms.

Bashir didn’t quite know where to look first.

Naturally the first things he noticed were the naked forms of Dax and Kira, twirling around in ecstasy for the dining and dancing pleasure of the two Ferengi. Since no one had told the program to stop running, the two female figures continued their activities undeterred by the doctor’s advent.

However, this held his attention for only a second—a remarkable display of willpower—before he saw something that didn’t fit into the hologram program at all.

A Bajoran with fists transformed into lethal maces, about to bring them smashing down onto . . . Quark’s skull.

A look of pure hatred flashed across the Bajoran’s face as he realized he’d been spotted.

“Quark! Behind you!” shouted Bashir.

Humans might not have moved at that point. They might have looked in confusion at whoever was shouting, perhaps even demanded clarification of the situation before taking any sort of action. They might have said, “What do you mean?” and actually looked behind them to see what was happening. Such a delay, in this instance, would have proven fatal.

Quark, however, was a Ferengi. A Ferengi proudly possessed the most highly developed sense of self-preservation in the known galaxy. And whenever a warning was hurled his way, a Ferengi ducked first and asked questions later.

Consequently, Quark acted on pure self-preservation reflex. Forgotten was his momentary outrage at Bashir’s intrusion. That could wait. He immediately lunged forward, knocking over a tray of food, getting far away from whatever the hell was behind him before his mind had even fully processed the information that he was in danger.

The action saved his life.

The pseudo-Bajoran’s fists slammed down right where Quark had been. Pillows, given the semblance of reality, were torn to holographic shreds.

Glav emitted a startled shriek and crawled backwards, bumping into the Dax hologram, but not caring the least bit about her lack of clothing. “It’s the shapeshifter!” he squealed.

The metamorph spun in place, snarling, his focus on Quark. And Quark, his voice an octave higher, called out, “Computer! Program XXX-four! Now!”

And in an instant the room was filled with fog. From somewhere in the mist came the sound of female laughter.

Bashir didn’t know where they were or what the hell was happening, but of two things he was certain: they had to get out of there, and they had to leave now.

The exit, he knew, was right behind him. He spun toward it.

But the door had automatically slid shut behind him and returned to its lock program, and he plowed straight into it.

Bashir staggered back and bumped into someone. Both of them let out a yell of fear before Bashir could make out that it was a panic-stricken Quark.

“How do I know it’s you?” demanded Quark.

“How do I know it’s you?” Bashir shot back.

And then he saw it, coming in quickly. The huge, mallet-shaped, spiked weapon that the shapechanger was wielding on the end of his wrist.

He shoved Quark to one side, himself to the other. The weapon smashed forward, tearing through the door. Dim light from the hallway poured into the holosuite.

“Quark!” Glav was screaming. “Quaaarrrkkk!”

“Every Ferengi for himself” Quark shouted back as Bashir dragged him to safety.

Except it was hardly safety, for the shapeshifter—his face twisted with rage—came right after them.

 

Sisko accompanied Odo to Quark’s casino, and Odo shoved the crestfallen Nog in front of him. Sisko’s approval of the relationship Nog was developing with Jake had fallen to a new low. He felt that putting in an appearance would emphasize just how seriously he was taking this matter . . . and serve as a reminder that Nog’s associating with Jake would not be particularly appreciated.

Rom looked up from the gaming table as his son approached . . . and then frowned when he saw who was accompanying Nog, and the looks on the faces of all three. Cutting to the chase, he sighed and said, “All right, what did he do this time?”

“Your son,” said Odo stiffly, “performed a little stunt that could very well have gotten him killed.”

Rom considered that a moment. “Was there any profit in this stunt?”

“None whatsoever,” Sisko told him.

Rom promptly cuffed the boy, drawing a loud yowl from Nog. “Idiot!” he bellowed. “How many times do I have to tell you? Never risk your life if there’s no hope of a payoff!” He shook his head and said discouragedly to Sisko, “Kids. You talk to them and talk to them. And they never listen. You feel like everything you say is automatically tuned out.”

Sisko had to catch himself, for he was starting to nod in agreement. He cleared his throat and said sharply, “Security Chief Odo is quite correct. Your son’s prank could indeed have cost him his life. He poured a substance out of a ceiling plate that he intended to be mistaken for the shapeshifter. If the security men had opened fire on the ceiling instead of waiting for Odo to take charge of the situation—”

“Yes, yes, of course. I see exactly what you mean. Fool!” And again he cuffed the boy. Once again Nog yelped loudly.

But this time Sisko was starting to get uncomfortable. He took Rom by the wrist and said chidingly, “You know, hitting the boy won’t accomplish anything.”

“It’ll make him remember!” Rom retorted.

“It’ll make him remember to fear his father, and not much beyond that.”

Rom looked at Sisko skeptically. “And I suppose you’ll tell me next that you don’t hit your son.”

“Well . . . no. I don’t. And we have a better understanding for it.”

“And where is your son at this moment, may I ask?”

“In his quarters, safe and sound,” said Sisko.

“Really? You know, all humans look alike to me, but . . . isn’t that him over there?”

Sisko turned to see where Rom was pointing . . . and sure enough, at the far end of the Promenade, there was Jake. He was ogling a woman of questionable repute. She was smiling and giving him a very distinct come-hither look.

Rom leaned forward and said helpfully, “Perhaps you should consider hitting him?”

And then, before Sisko could head in Jake’s direction . . . 

All hell broke loose.

“It’s hiimmmmmmm!” came a hysterical voice that was unmistakably Quark’s.

Sisko looked up, and there, on the upper landing of the stairs leading to the holosuites, were Quark and Bashir. They were both running at full speed, and Bashir was in the lead.

And then Sisko saw him.

A Bajoran—red-haired but otherwise unremarkable—coming up behind them. And his right arm lashed out—literally lashed out, becoming a thin, vicious coil that snaked around Quark’s waist. His left arm became another tentacle that snared Quark’s throat, cutting off his air. Within seconds the terrified Ferengi was going to be ripped apart.

The dedicated patrons of Quark’s reacted predictably.

They screamed and ran.

Hysteria filled the Promenade as the crowd became of one mind and started stampeding over each other in a desperate attempt to get away from the now-visible murderer stalking the station.

Bashir spun and saw Quark’s distress. Despite the fact that he was courting certain death, he did not hesitate. He drew back a fist and—insanely, praying that he wouldn’t hurt his hand—lunged forward, slamming a punch into the shapeshifter’s face.

The creature that had called itself Meta saw the blow coming. A hole appeared in Meta’s face, and Bashir’s fist passed right through. Then Meta’s head closed in around Bashir’s arm, imprisoning it.

“Security!” shouted Odo, but he was already moving. He took a step forward, then two, and his body rippled and seemed to shrink. And as it did so, his back started to convulse and erupt, something huge emerging from it.

Then the crowd enveloped him as everyone ran away from the very place that he was trying to get to. Sisko turned, trying to spot Jake, but the boy had been swallowed up in the stampede.

Three steps, four, and then five, and Odo—half the height that he was before—exploded out of the crowd, knocking people aside. The gleaming wings that had sprouted from his back beat the air furiously, and Odo was airborne, soaring across the intervening space.

Bashir pounded at Meta’s head. Meta didn’t seem all that interested in him, perfectly willing to delay killing Bashir until Quark had been disposed of.

Quark, struggling at the constriction on his throat, saw Glav emerge from the holosuite. Glav, a look of terror on his face, had adopted a defensive posture—the standard Ferengi cringe.

And then there was a rush of air, and Odo slammed into the shapechanger.

The four of them went down in a tangle. Abruptly realizing the genuine threat that Odo represented, Meta released both Quark and Bashir and turned his attention to the more imminent problem.

They faced each other for the first time. Odo retracted his wings, and the mass rearranged itself into its human configuration. Moments later Odo was at his normal height and was staring eye to eye at the metamorph.

For the first time in his existence, Odo was confronted by someone who might be from his own race. Someone who might hold all the answers to his questions about his own mysterious background.

Someone Odo had been waiting for, praying for, all his life.

He said the only thing he could: “You’re under arrest.”

Meta’s arms fused together, became a spear, and stabbed forward with unnatural speed. Before Odo could move, he was driven backwards, the spear-arms slamming through his chest and out through his back. Within seconds he was pinned against the wall.

And Meta’s head became round and hard, brutal spikes appearing all over its surface. His neck extended like a spring, and his head slammed forward for the purpose of connecting with Odo’s.

Odo wasn’t there when it hit. He went liquid and splattered to the floor just before Meta’s head connected.

Odo didn’t waste a moment. He solidified and, as he did so, lunged forward. His hardening mass connected with Meta’s midsection before the morph could shift into another shape.

The impact knocked Meta clear off the upper landing. For a moment he flailed about in midair, and then, as he started to fall the two stories to the floor, he shifted once more.

Odo looked on in amazement as, with no apparent effort at all, the metamorph transformed itself into a rubber ball. It hit the floor and bounced across the casino floor.

Sisko drew his phaser and fired. But the morph-as-ball bounced effortlessly over the phaser beam and rolled under the Boja table.

Odo sagged against a wall. Bashir said, “Are you all right?”

“Fine. Fine. I just need to rest for a moment.”

The Boja table was knocked clean over, and from underneath it, roaring in defiance, lunged a mugato. Its face was red, and its white apelike body shook as it roared in fury.

“Rest time’s over,” said Odo.

Odo stepped over the still-shaking body of Quark and charged down the stairs. The mugato howled defiantly. Odo came to a halt several steps away and announced, “You’re not impressing anyone!”

Sisko fired his phaser from less than ten feet away. He fired on wide beam, which lessened the overall strength. But it also meant that the creature couldn’t anticipate the blast and morph a hole around it, allowing it to pass harmlessly through.

The mugato staggered but did not come close to falling. Then suddenly the creature shrieked in surprise as Odo thrust his hands into the mugato’s chest. But now it was Odo who had transformed his hands into spears. The impact brought him face to face with the creature.

“Sauce for the goose,” grated Odo.

The mugato brought its head down and speared Odo straight between the eyes with its horn.

Odo staggered, momentarily unable to see. Then eye stalks grew up and around from the rear of his skull so that he literally had eyes in the back of his head.

But the maneuver gave the Mugato enough time to swing its head back and forth. His horn savaged Odo’s cranium, and Odo completely lost orientation.

Desperately he went liquid again. The mugato spun to face Sisko, and the commander brought his phaser up and fired once more.

The mugato skated out of the way, its clawed feet having shifted into wheels.

It sped across the Promenade, which had now emptied of many of its regulars. Sisko fired again, but the mugato darted out of the way . . . and crashed solidly into Jake Sisko.

“Jake!” shouted his father.

In a flash Meta was on his feet, having dropped the mugato configuration. He had reassumed the red-haired human appearance, but he was looking somewhat haggard. The rapid shifting was no less of a strain on him than it was on Odo.

Still, he had enough strength for another partial transmutation, which would buy him a few minutes’ breathing space.

He grabbed Jake Sisko, yanked him to his feet, and brought his right hand up across the boy’s throat. The hand glistened, having become a vicious-looking blade.

“Stay back!” he shouted.

Odo had been coming up on the right, and he froze where he was. Sisko, facing Meta straight on, did likewise. But Sisko had his phaser out and was pointing it straight at the metamorph.

“Both of you . . . stay where you are,” Meta warned.

“You can’t escape,” Odo informed him. “You’re on a space station. Where do you think you can go?”

“Wherever I want,” replied Meta.

Sisko kept his phaser aimed unwaveringly at the shapeshifter. “Let the boy go,” he thundered.

“I don’t think so.” Meta was as calm as Sisko was angry. “And I suggest, Commander, that you point that elsewhere. Otherwise this little human gets to be number four.”

“Why are you doing this?” Sisko demanded.

“It’s what I do,” replied Meta.

He pressed the blade closer to the boy’s throat, and Jake yelped. A thin trickle of blood started running from just under his chin.

“Point . . . the phaser . . . elsewhere,” said Meta. “Better yet . . . drop it.”

Sisko suspected that the shapeshifter was tired and was trying to buy time. A phaser beam at this point—particularly a full-strength pinpoint blast—might actually do it damage, especially if the creature couldn’t morph a hole around the beam fast enough.

But he was holding Jake in front of him, giving Sisko no room to maneuver.

Odo was off to the side and had a better angle . . . but Odo never carried a phaser. Sisko cursed that inwardly and glanced Odo’s way.

And Odo was transforming himself, rearranging his molecules once more . . . into . . . 

Sisko blinked, not believing what he was seeing. Odo had changed himself into a full-length mirror.

The question as to what possible reason the security officer could have for doing that was quickly followed by the answer.

Ohhhh, my God . . . thought Sisko.

But even as Sisko’s mind recoiled at the plan, he was already putting it into action.

He thumbed the control on the phaser as he said, “All right. I’m holding my weapon away from you, and I’m going to put it down. Okay? Just don’t hurt the boy.”

Slowly, ever so slowly, Sisko kept his arm straight but pointed the phaser away from Meta. Meta was concentrating on watching Sisko and so wasn’t really looking at where the commander was aiming. Nor was he aware that Sisko had just reconfigured the blast into a narrow beam.

Sisko was now aiming the phaser straight at Odo.

Some inner instinct—a sixth sense, something—started to warn Meta. He turned to glance at where Sisko was now pointing the phaser.

Breathing a prayer to a God that he had been somewhat on the outs with as of late, Sisko fired.

The beam stabbed out, struck Odo’s mirrored surface, and ricocheted.

Meta’s head exploded as the beam smashed right through it. Where his head had been, there was now a red mass, a stump that was his neck, oozing and seething.

Jake shoved as hard as he could, knocking the metamorph back, and then he dropped to the floor.

Sisko fired again before the metamorph could pull himself together. Meta was knocked clear off his feet, hitting the floor hard and dissolving.

He made straight for a floor vent and started pouring down it as fast as it could.

“No!” shouted Odo, half-phased out of his mirror form. But his voice was ragged, exhausted, and he staggered forward and fell. Angry, frustrated, he tried to pull himself forward with his arms, to reach the escaping Meta.

Too slow, and too late. The metamorph vanished down the floor vent.

“Constable, don’t!” Sisko called out even as he went to Jake to make sure the boy was all right. “The vents branch out in all directions under there! You’ll never find him . . . and even if you do, you’ll be too tired to get him.”

“He has to be stopped, Sisko!”

Sisko had never seen Odo so frustrated, so angry. “He will be, Constable. We’ll get him.”

Odo allowed a nod, and transformed the last parts of him that had been the freestanding mirror.

At that moment several of Odo’s security people came charging in belatedly. The massive exodus had slowed down their response time by a tremendous margin.

Odo thumped the floor in frustration. “We have to find some way to seal off all crawl spaces with forcefields, just as we’ve done with the hallways,” he raged. “It never seemed necessary before, but who could have predicted this? No . . . I should have predicted this. I should have seen this as a possibility.”

Anxious to raise the spirits of his thwarted security chief, Sisko said, “That was quick thinking by the way, Constable. That mirror business. I owe you my son’s life.”

Shaken from the experience but recovering quickly, Jake said, “Hey, you were no slouch, Dad. That was great shooting.”

“Didn’t you hear?” said Odo, managing to recapture some of his sardonic tone of voice. “When your father was in the Academy, they called him Dead-Eye. I have to admit, Sisko . . . I was banking on the hope that you were telling the truth about that. I was concerned that maybe you’d been exaggerating—about your marksmanship, I mean.”

“Yeah, well . . . I was,” admitted Sisko. “In fact, I was lying through my teeth.” He paused and then added, “Good move, though.”