4

THE ANDORIAN COUNCILLOR HAD GONE TO SPEAK WITH SHAR, AND GIRANI had left to find Tarses, to organize what research they had. There would be a team meeting in the lab within the hour

but at the moment, Julian was more interested in what was going on with Ezri. She and the Trill general had immediately come together as the meeting broke up, standing close, their voices low and urgent. It was all Julian could do not to eavesdrop, as Kira discussed disregarding a standard report schedule; certainly one of the drawbacks of having enhanced hearing.

Ezri’s body language while watching him speak; the look they exchanged when Kira said that Shakaar had no longer been Shakaar; the way they were acting now. There was a shared knowledge there, Julian was sure of it, but one that neither had felt compelled to express during the meeting. Personal, or related to the parasite infections, or both? He wondered if she would share it with him, too

as close as they’d become, he couldn’t imagine her keeping anything from him, but he didn’t want to assume, either. There were vast stretches of her past that he still knew very little about.

“

and let Girani handle the logs, too,” Kira was saying. “We need your talents full-time.”

“Of course,” Julian said, his attention moving back to Kira. He reflexively assessed the darkness beneath her eyes, the hectic tone of her skin, her uneven breathing pattern. “How long has it been since you’ve slept? For more than twenty minutes?”

She did her best not to look irritated, but it was in her voice. “I’m fine.”

“How long?” Julian asked firmly.

Kira sighed. “Thirty, thirty-two hours.”

Knowing her as he did, Julian added another ten. “You have one more hour to delegate your responsibilities, and then you’re confined to quarters for six hours, minimum. Preferably eight. And I will pull medical discretion if you make an issue of it.”

He half expected her to fight him regardless, but Kira only nodded. “Fine. I’m too tired to argue with you.” She smiled faintly. “I’m glad you’re here, Julian.”

“It’s good to be home,” he said, and meant it. It wasn’t the restful break he’d wanted after so many weeks in the Gamma Quadrant, but it was home. And as horrifying as the details of this parasite infection were, he couldn’t help feeling a pique of professional excitement. If there was a medical solution, he’d find it.

Kira moved to speak with Akaar, and Julian was finally able to turn his full attention to Ezri and Taulin Cyl. He approached them directly, aware that he was probably interrupting but too curious to stay away

and too honest to listen in, much as he might wish to.

“

much did you tell him?” Ezri was saying, her voice hushed.

“Only what he needed to know,” Cyl answered.

“Did you know what was going to happen?”

The general shook his head, started to say something—and then looked up and saw Julian. He straightened, nodding almost casually at the doctor before speaking to Ezri again.

“Tomorrow morning, then,” he said. “I’ll need to speak with Ambassador Gandres again tonight, and I imagine you’ll want to get some rest before we talk to Gard. Perhaps

eight hundred hours, at the security office?”

Ezri followed his gaze, and smiled when she saw Julian, but he could see the strain behind it—not just from the barely perceptible tightening at the corners of her mouth and eyes, but also because he knew and loved her. She was distressed, and at something beyond the news of the parasite infiltration.

“Julian. Ah, Taulin, this is my

very good friend, Julian Bashir. He also knew my predecessor, Jadzia Dax.”

Kira had introduced the general to everyone before the meeting, but Ezri’s introduction obviously carried a more personal meaning. Cyl smiled warmly at Julian, extending one chill hand for him to shake.

“A pleasure,” Cyl said. “And I hope we can meet again in less formal circumstances. But for now, if you’ll both excuse me

“

A slight bow, and he was gone, Ezri watching him intently as he strode for the door.

“Audrid’s daughter,” Julian said mildly, hoping to coax more information. “Weren’t

didn’t you once tell me that Audrid and Neema were estranged for some time?”

Ezri nodded, glancing around at the emptying conference room. “Let’s walk,” she said quietly.

Together, they headed toward the habitat ring, walking closely but not touching. Ezri chewed at her lower lip, troubled, collecting her thoughts. Julian held his peace, knowing that she would tell him when she was ready—and as they neared the lift, she started to speak, her voice low and even.

“A little over a hundred years ago, Audrid Dax was married to a man named Jayvin Vod, another joined Trill,” she said. “She was on the Trill Symbiosis Commission, a doctor and a specialist in symbiont biology, and Jayvin was a professor of xenobiology

. We had two children, Neema and Gran. They were very young when Jayvin died.”

Julian took her hand as they stepped into the lift, holding it lightly, saying nothing. She had slipped into first person without realizing it, something she rarely did anymore.

“The commission was contacted by Starfleet sometime around Stardate 12

something. Hard to remember exactly. They had news about a comet that was headed toward Trill. It was due to pass us in thirty years or so, there wasn’t a danger of collision

but a Starfleet probe had brought back data concerning a unique biosignature located within the comet, a biosignature that closely resembled that of a joined Trill. Starfleet didn’t know that at the time, hardly anyone knew that we were a joined species, then, but they knew that the reading was similar to that of a particular few of us. They asked if we would be interested in joining a scientific investigation of the comet.

“On Trill, the debates about the simultaneous evolution of host and symbiont had been raging for decades by then, so Starfleet’s invitation was accepted with no little enthusiasm

though it was kept quiet. The commission wanted to see what was there before they said or did anything. And between the political connections and the science backgrounds, Jayvin and I were selected as the logical choices to join the landing party.”

The lift had come to a stop, but Ezri hardly seemed to notice as they stepped off, continuing their slow walk, Julian leading them toward his quarters. He noted that there were very few people about, although it wasn’t all that late. Most of them seemed to be in a hurry, too, walking quickly to wherever they were going.

“We were beamed aboard a Federation ship a few days later, and made it to the comet in short order,” Ezri went on. “Myself and Jayvin, as well as four human men, all Starfleet, took a shuttle to the surface—there was kelbonite present, we couldn’t transport—and started to take our readings, following the faint biosignature into the comet’s winding caves.”

Ezri seemed to shiver slightly. “Even in the envirosuits, it was cold,” she said softly. “Cold and dark and airless. There were these veins of bioluminescent ice all throughout the caves, and we—Jayvin and I—detected a symbiont pulse in one of them, an electrical flash that unjoined symbionts discharge when they’re communicating with each other. We were thrilled, though we kept it to ourselves. Like I said, no one outside of Trill knew about the symbionts. We wanted to protect them

and we thought, we hoped that we were about to find one, thirty years from home, coming from some distant world to tell us about ourselves, about our history. We even had a cover story worked out if we found a symbiont, that it was a primitive lifeform from Trill’s ancient past. The Starfleet scientists wouldn’t know that it was intelligent

if I remember correctly, their equipment hadn’t even picked up the communication pulse in the ice floe.”

Julian felt his muscles tensing. “It was a parasite, wasn’t it?”

Ezri looked up at him, her blue gaze far away. “Yes. We made it to a chamber, deep inside the comet, and found what we thought was a symbiont pool, like the Mak’ala pools, only a small one, filled with that greenish glowing ice. Jayvin was so excited when we picked up the life reading inside

not a symbiont, it was smaller, the shape different, but genetically the match was near perfect.”

She looked away, folding her arms tightly. “It tried to communicate with us, with me first, I think, and then with Jayvin. There was this intense pain, like a knife sliding into my head

but it stopped after a second or two. Jayvin was closer to the pool. The alarms in his suit all started to go off, and he leaned over the pool, and

and it broke through the ice and then broke through his face shield, and in a matter of seconds, he wasn’t Jayvin anymore.

“I remember screaming his name. He grabbed one of the men’s phasers and killed three of the Starfleet team, just like that. He injured the team leader, as well, I thought he was dead, too, though he survived—it was Fleet Captain Christopher Pike—but I was already running.”

They’d reached his quarters and stepped inside, Ezri still speaking in a low monotone, remembering. Julian didn’t interrupt to ask about Pike, a legend in Starfleet, though he was amazed anew at how many exceptional people Dax had interacted with through its lifetimes. They moved to the padded seat by the window and sat facing one another, both of them intent on her story.

“It came after me,” she said. “For what seemed like hours, I stumbled through the caves, trying to find a way out

and the creature followed, speaking to me in Jayvin’s voice, saying terrible things, horrible

“

For the first time since she’d started, Ezri seemed to feel what she was saying, her gaze turning wet, her chin trembling. She blinked back tears, looking at Julian but seeing something else.

“I heard him dying. Not Jayvin; I think, I hope he was gone as soon as the parasite took him—but the symbiont, Vod. I heard this thing, this monster ripping its memories to pieces, somehow breaking apart the continuity of Vod’s lifetimes. Finding the anger and pain in each host’s separate voice, and using those feelings, that rage, to express itself.”

“What did it say?” Julian asked gently.

Ezri took a deep breath. “That it was coming. That it was leading the way for its species, to find us, to find Trill

maybe humans, too, I don’t know, but it definitely knew about the Trill. It called us ‘the weak ones’ and said that its kind would obliterate us.”

Julian frowned. “How did it know about you? About the Trill?”

“I don’t know,” Ezri said. “And I was too busy trying to survive to ask it any questions

but it was a nightmare, listening to what was left of my husband spew out that thing’s hatred, in Jayvin’s voice. It seemed to go on forever. Finally, it managed to corner me, I was caught in a dead end

but before it could act, Pike showed up and knocked it out.

“Somehow, we carried Jayvin’s body back to the shuttle, and Pike got us back to the Federation ship. We warped for Trill immediately. I wasn’t able to tell much from the Federation’s equipment beyond seeing the parasite itself, clutching at Jayvin’s brain stem

and though I knew it was unlikely, I held out hope that Vod might still be alive and whole.”

Julian nodded. The unexpected loss of a host was a tragedy, of course, but to the people of Trill, the loss of a symbiont was beyond tragic. Lifetimes of memories, gone

.

“When we got home there was a transplant team standing by, and a waiting host. The symbiosis between Jayvin and Vod was lost, both were dying

but knowing what I’d seen and heard on that comet, I couldn’t let Vod be transplanted. I ordered a scan of its neural patterns

“

“

and they had joined,” Julian finished. “The parasite and Vod.”

Ezri nodded, almost angrily. “There was no choice, we had to let it die. We covered it up, of course. Starfleet wasn’t happy with us, either—we immediately sent ships to destroy the comet, and disposed of the parasite and Vod. I didn’t have anything to do with the decision, but I can’t say I was surprised, either. We still had our damn secret to keep, that we were a joined species

and we had another secret to keep from our own people, about a genetic connection between our symbionts and that

that thing. I thought that looking for the connection would become a priority for the Trill, that the other members of the Commission and the government would want to find out what they could, to prevent a future attack

but I was wrong. They buried it, and I went along.”

“What about Pike?” Julian asked. “Didn’t he know what had happened?”

“Yes, and he didn’t approve of Trill’s actions, but he did what he could for us. He had enough pull with his superiors to keep the whole matter classified. We agreed, he and I, to exchange what information we could find, but nothing like that ever came up again.

“I tried to contact him more than once, but he had that accident a year later, and disappeared soon after that

and as far as I’ve known, there’s been no further contact with the parasites since.”

“Except this incident at Starfleet HQ,” Julian said.

Ezri shook her head slightly. “Today’s the first I’ve heard of it. I guess they were determined to keep it quiet, too.”

“And Cyl?”

Ezri actually smiled a little, but there was no humor in it. “Right. That was the point of my story to begin with, wasn’t it? When it happened, I told the children that their father had been killed

but that the Vod symbiont was still living. I thought it would make things easier for them, and maybe it did, for a while—but when she got a little older, Neema found out. She was a smart girl, she got hold of my personal access code and went digging. She discovered that Vod had been allowed to die, at my recommendation.”

“The cause of your estrangement,” Julian said.

“Yes. We didn’t talk for something like eight years, during which time her brother Gran died of an unrelated illness, and Neema was joined to Cyl. I was too guilt-ridden to approach her, guilt that I let turn into self-righteous anger, for her prying into commission business

but when I retired—”

Ezri blinked, seeming almost startled. “When Audrid retired, she wrote a letter to Neema, explaining everything and taking her rightful share of responsibility for the rift between them. Neema accepted Audrid’s apology, and they were actually starting to mend their relationship, by the time Audrid died

“

She looked at Julian. “Dax went on to Torias, and Neema

I never knew what happened to her, or Cyl. But she’s the only person outside the TSC and the governing council who knew the true circumstances, the only one Dax ever told.”

And now me. Julian reached out and touched her soft cheek, feeling a surge of love for her

and more than a trace of fear. If the parasites could take hold so quickly and completely of a joined Trill, she wasn’t safe. No Trill was, but apparently the parasites hadn’t reached Trill, not yet. Ezri would be especially vulnerable.

“Did Cyl tell you how he became involved in all this?” he asked.

“There wasn’t time,” Ezri said. “But he knows more than he’s telling, and I think he’ll talk to me about it tomorrow morning, when we see Gard.”

“May I ask

how is it you know Gard?”

Ezri sighed. She looked worn and weary. She met his eyes and offered up a strange smile, one that he couldn’t remember seeing on her face before.

“He killed me,” she said.

They didn’t speak until they were almost back at Shar’s quarters, Zhavey walking stiff and silent at his side. As they reached the corridor that led to his rooms, she paused, turning to face him.

“Thavanichent and Vindizhei both await our arrival,” she said.

Shar heard the unspoken, that Shathrissía also waited, and didn’t answer. He’d avoided dwelling on it, dreading the mental picture of Dizhei and Anichent expecting him, watching over Thriss’s cold and lifeless form, but he could avoid it no longer. It was Andorian tradition; until the surviving bondmates could mourn together at their fallen member’s side, there would be no death rites.

Assuming that they were still in contact with their offspring, it wasn’t uncommon for one’s own zhavey to attend such things, though Shar had entertained vague hopes of meeting, of mourning with his bondmates alone. His zhavey, however, was not one to withdraw over minor considerations such as privacy

though she also wasn’t one to struggle with words, which she seemed to be doing, standing there, frowning as her gaze wandered in thought. Shar waited.

“I know of your tezha with Shathrissía,” she said finally.

Shar closed his eyes. Of course. Perhaps Thriss had confessed it before she’d died, or perhaps his astute zhavey had drawn her own conclusions after Thriss’s death. It had been one of his most cherished memories, so perfect in his mind’s eye that he brought it out only rarely, afraid that it would lose its tender glow; now the tezha was his true shame, the one shame that he could not deny or rationalize. That his beloved Thriss had killed herself was terrible enough, for all of them; that she had apparently done it because she’d fallen into despair over his choice to leave

that was still something he hadn’t chosen to accept as his own. He’d promised to go back to Andor after the Gamma Quadrant mission, to bond with his three mates and produce offspring as they all wanted, as their society demanded; Thriss could have waited, she could have decided to live.

Except

could she? To have bonded with her privately, to have secretly embraced the physical, chemical, and emotional ties of tezha—that had made them closer to one another than to Diz or Anichent. The ritual was supposed to be performed by all four at their shelthreth, to bind them as mates, but he and Thriss hadn’t waited. If they had, would it have prevented her death? Would she have been better able to cope with his absence? There was no way to tell.

But I was trying to save us all, a part of him protested. I had reason to leave.

Yes, and does it matter, now? His own mind answered, quieting the rational. His self-righteousness had no place in mourning the loss of their zh’yi.

“Do they know?” Shar asked quietly. There was no need to specify who.

His mother looked worn, much more than when he’d last seen her, the lines of her face more defined. For the first time in his memory, she seemed old. “Of course they know, my chei,” she said. “They’ve always known.”

Shar could think of nothing to say. The painful inevitability of his position was what it was. He’d known for weeks that he would have this conversation, that he would have to face his surviving bondmates and his zhavey

and he’d suspected that some, perhaps much of the blame for Thriss’s suicide might be directed toward him. But he could only be sorry, and sad that she was gone. Beyond that, they—Dizhei and Anichent—would have to tell him what he could do to help.

And where can I turn for help? he thought, staring into his zhavey’s eyes, she who bore him, seeing the anger and frustration and pain there, feeling threads of his own. Haven’t I lost anything? He’d loved Thriss, had wanted to stay with her always, and would miss her until the end of his days. Did he not have a right to pain?

Zhavey seemed to be waiting for something, searching his face, but whatever she saw, it wasn’t what she wanted. Her mouth pressed to a thin line, she started for his quarters again. Shar followed, feeling that he could barely carry the weight of his own limbs.

The door slid open, a comforting blast of warm, humid air enveloping them as they stepped inside. Dizhei and Anichent were waiting, seated in the dining area, both draped in the loose robes of ritual mourning. He saw another, folded neatly on the table, and felt heavier, the weight of unhappiness bearing down on him as he looked to his promised mates. Both rose at once, Anichent stepping forward immediately, Dizhei only a step behind.

A welcome shock ran through him as they silently embraced him, both touching his face and hair, accepting him home. The weight lifted a bit, allowing him to breathe, to feel gratitude and some small hope in his sorrow. Shar hadn’t realized how afraid he’d been until then, that they would shun him or turn away, holding him accountable for what had happened to poor Thriss. His feelings of doubt, of self-reproach and fear, were swept away in the caresses of his beloveds.

After too short a time, the embrace ended. His bondmates stepped away, Anichent still holding his hand, Dizhei sitting again. His mother did the same, crossing behind Shar to sit on one of the plain benches of his room. Shar didn’t know what to say, where to start, and so began with the most simple of truths.

“I’m sorry,” he said, struggling to control the depths of feeling that the words inspired. “I am so sorry that she’s gone.”

Anichent held his hand tightly

and Shar could see the bleared glassiness of his gaze, the telltale sign of sedation. “As are we, Thirishar.”

“She couldn’t wait any longer,” Dizhei said, and was there a trace of the accusatory in her voice? “She was afraid that you would stay away. Or that you wouldn’t go with us when you did return.”

“With reason,” Zhavey said. She didn’t sound accusatory, only tired. “His responsibilities to the Federation will keep him here.”

Both of his mates watched him, a dawning expression of hurt on Anichent’s face, a flicker of anger on Dizhei’s.

“Only for a short time,” Shar said. “I said I would return to Andor when I got back, and I mean to, if

” He trailed off, if you’ll still have me dying before it reached his lips.

“When?” Dizhei asked, her voice, always warm and loving, now chill, unknown. “When, exactly?”

Shar felt helpless. “I

don’t know. I’ll leave as soon as I can. I’ll—they need me here now, but I won’t wait for permission to leave. We can decide now, all of us. A matter of days. Perhaps a few weeks. At most.”

Dizhei, his rational, reasonable, forgiving sh’za, looked at Anichent with an expression of vast sorrow

and scorn. Anichent let go of Shar’s hand and shuffled back to his seat, sitting heavily. Had he been sedated since her death? The question wasn’t worth asking; of course he had been. Both had fasted, too, living on injections and water, he could see it in the narrowness of face and frame, had felt it when they’d touched him. It was expected of those in mourning

and as terrible as Shar had felt, he hadn’t needed drugs, hadn’t stopped eating or sleeping, determined to act as a proper Starfleet science officer. Fresh pain unfurled inside of him.

“You see? Zhadi was right,” Dizhei said, nodding toward the Andorian councillor, talking to Anichent. “Even after what’s happened, even now.”

She stared again at Shar, her gaze pleading, her fists clenched at her sides. “There were four of us, and now there are three. Do you care that we wait on your decision? That the waiting drove Thriss to her death? What is there to decide, if you love us as you say?”

He deserved her anger, deserved everything she was saying and more, but he couldn’t stop himself any longer, he had to say something in his defense. “We’re dying, my sh’za. Our people’s solution prolongs the inevitable, you know it as well as I. The pressure on our young to bond and mate, to keep our entire race alive, is too much—”

“You’ve resisted it,” Dizhei interrupted.

Shar ignored her, desperate to make her see, hoping that somehow this time she would see. He’d argued it so many times, and so many times they had tried to understand. “—and Thriss succumbed to that pressure, and still, still, we’ll be extinguished if we don’t change, if we don’t find a better way. You know our only chance is to seek new answers, you know it—and I may have found something.”

Shar turned to Anichent, eager for understanding, for a look of hope in his beloved’s anguished, drugged gaze. “In my travels, I encountered a people called the Yrythny. Their eggs hold a genetic key to creating life, after any pattern that is introduced into the sequence—I can show you, I was given samples and I think there’s a real chance that we can apply the technology to our own biology, that we can overcome the chromosomal flaws that are killing us all

“

At the look on Anichent’s face, Shar trailed off. He saw such great sadness there, such pain

and understanding, the understanding he’d so desperately wanted.

“That’s wonderful,” Anichent said, his words slurring lightly. “I’m proud of you, Shar.”

He was, too, Shar could see it

but he could also see that it didn’t lessen his anguish, not at all. Thriss was gone, she was gone and no matter what possibilities he’d found in the Yrythny sample, she would not be a part of their lives anymore.

Shar felt a sudden, nearly uncontrollable rage, for and at himself, at Thriss, at his zhavey, at any and all who existed apart from him

and let it go, exhaling a deep hiss, his muscles, antennae, his mind gritting against the desire to lash out. His bondmates and zhavey waited as he hissed again, forcing control over his biology, forcing himself not to rip and tear and grind.

His zhavey held her silence until he was past the worst of it, then spoke, saying what had to be said, each word like the end of all hope.

“I’ve spoken to the Eveste Elders,” she said calmly. “And they’ve found three zhen candidates who appear to be suitable

and two chan who would be willing to step in. All have successfully mated within their own bonds at least once but are now free, and still in viable range.”

Shar was chan. The pure shock of what she was suggesting hit him like ice, like dying. He turned to look at her, betrayed, his emotions rising once more—but the look on her face stilled him. There was no malice, no reproach there. She was doing what she could to salvage the lives of his bondmates, what she saw as her responsibility.

“Are you so surprised,” she half asked him, her voice soft. “You resist the ritual. Your career obligations keep you away from home, from your duty and family; you choose to honor these obligations over your obligations to your mates and to your people. Someone will have to take Thriss’s place, and though I know the prospect of mating with another stranger is not ideal, it is better than no mating at all

and you push so hard, Thirishar, you’ve made it so very clear that you will continue to resist

would you have your mates suffer the consequences?”

She met his gaze evenly. If she felt guilt over her proposal, over telling her chei that he was unnecessary, Shar couldn’t see it.

“Perhaps I’ve failed to teach you properly,” she said, standing, her tone defeated. “Or perhaps I’ve simply failed. Whatever the reason, I won’t force your decision. I’ve done what I can. It is for the three of you to decide.”

Without another word, she turned and walked out.

Shar turned and looked at his mates, at the dear faces of those he’d known since childhood, his betrothed since before he was old enough to understand what that meant—Anichent, his first love, his friend and intellectual companion for as long as he could remember; Dizhei, the soul of their union, the bright and responsible peacemaker who had taken care of them all—and they both looked away. They had already been offered freedom from his indecision, it seemed

and were, perhaps, contemplating it. Mating with two strangers might not be so much worse for them than mating with one

might, in fact, be better for them—to have partners who truly wanted to be there, who believed in the sanctity of procreation.

And can I blame them? How could he dare?

Dizhei picked up the folded mourning shroud and handed it to him silently, before turning and walking into his bedchamber. Anichent lingered a few seconds longer.

“Shar,” he said gently, reaching out to take his hand again. “You could

you could come home with us, now. We love you. We could still make it work.”

Shar’s fingers were numb, unable to detect his beloved’s hand in his. Go home, now. Find a replacement for Thriss, the irreplaceable, and watch the lovers he’d broken try to mend themselves. Or stay, and know that he was no longer a part of anything, that his lifelong family had moved on to fulfill their separate destinies

that there would be no child with his features or traits, ever, no proof that their love had ever existed.

He let go of Anichent’s hand, unable to know anything beyond what was required of him now. Thriss, he was to see Thriss once more. He donned his robe and followed Dizhei into the darkness of his room, Anichent shuffling along behind.

Quark knew he complained about it often enough, but this time it was true; business was bad. In the course of a week, he’d gone from successful caterer and proprietor of Quark’s Bar, Grill, Gaming House, and Holosuite Arcade (a wholly owned subsidiary of Quark Enterprises, Inc.) to barely scraping by, practically a charity case, and no one seemed to care. Morn certainly didn’t. The bloated windbag had picked the perfect time to develop a contagious rash, and hadn’t been in for two days; not only was there the loss of revenue to think about, Morn was one of the few patrons willing to listen to the woes of a man on the edge of destitution

probably as penance for his own near constant complaining. Without even his homely face to talk at, Quark was feeling very much alone.

My last days as the owner of Quark’s, he thought wearily, looking out at the empty sea of tables from behind the bar. There were a few customers—a handful of kanar-drinking Cardassians, a couple of Starfleet enlisted men bravely shoveling through the night’s special. Octavian Surprise, Quark called it, because Miscellaneous Leftover Stew just didn’t sound as good. It was a depressing scene, to say the least, and it suited his mood perfectly.

That the Federation was about to drive him out of business was bad enough, those idiots with their lack of economy. Had he despaired? No. He had been prepared to go out with a profitable bang, serving up a celebration feast to the crowds of men and women watching as Shakaar signed Bajor into eternal servitude. Then it was off to the stars with Ro at his side, their ship’s hold full of latinum from his mostly legal business dealings. The food had been prepped, the glasses polished, the servers standing by

and then death, chaos, and a kitchen full of unsalvageable party platters. Since then, Ro wouldn’t return his messages, either, too involved with her job—the job she was leaving, no less—to bother spending time with the man she’d agreed to go away with. Well, tentatively agreed. She hadn’t disagreed. And, yet again, had he despaired? No, he’d tried to look at the bright side, to make what he could of a bad situation. Shakaar’s untimely death was Quark’s reprieve, at least a temporary one—no Federation takeover, no loss of profits—but now everyone was either too preoccupied to drink or too scared to enjoy a night out. Even after the assassin was caught, too; everyone seemed to think there was some kind of conspiracy going on

and conspiracy equaled paranoia, which equaled an unwillingness to take risks—like, say, on a harmless game of dabo. Sure, people were still eating, but profits did not grow by food alone

and watching high-strung worker types come in and bolt down a quick meal before clearing out again was disheartening, a bleak vision of the DS9 to come. Even the holosuites weren’t being booked.

The Federation, he thought, shaking his head. No-fun, dogooding, play-by-the-rules self-righteously dull. For the first time in what seemed like years, there were no dabo tables running, no need for Treir or pretty boy Hetik to come in, and Quark had sent M’Pella home early; as nice as the scenery got when she was around in her dabo number, it wasn’t worth paying to look at. Usually he had between four and six servers on, but with as dead as it had been, only Grimp and Frool were working, and neither had much work to do; he had them back in the kitchen, mucking out the clogged disposal—there was no way he was going to pay for repairs with the end of Quark’s so close—and every few minutes he would stomp loudly behind the bar, making noise as if he were going to go into the kitchen, just in case they were leaning instead of cleaning. It gave him something to do, at least, besides dwell on his own lonely, miserable, practically profitless existence

.

Maybe not lonely, he thought, a slow smile spreading across his face as Ro Laren walked in. Stalked in, really, as she was wont to do, the vaguest hints of both a sneer and a frown on that lovely countenance, an expression that just screamed “Don’t bother me.” Much as he appreciated her gleaming, sarcastic smile, there was nothing as splendidly misanthropic as the look of Ro Laren at rest.

She spotted him and walked to the bar, Quark setting aside his inspired thoughts for a blank face as she approached. He’d seen her twice in the last week, and both times had been strictly business, trouble in the bar or on the Promenade, not even a personal aside. She’d been avoiding him, or at least ignoring him, but he still had his pride

that, and a deep, abiding fear of commitment. Ro Laren was an incredible woman, but then, he wasn’t exactly diced sleark gut

and romance aside, was he actually prepared to go into business with her? The thought made him giddy and vaguely ill, in no particular order. The situation was complicated.

“Lieutenant,” he said airily, as she swung one long, limber leg over a barstool and sat in front of him. “How nice of you to drop by. I mean, that you could be bothered to stop in at all. Truly an honor.”

Ro smiled, that very same sarcastic twist that always melted his insides. “Come on, Quark. You know I’ve been busy.”

“Busy slaving away at a job you’re about to quit,” Quark scoffed. “That makes a lot of sense. And excuse me, but didn’t you already catch the assassin, that charming Mr. Gard?” Heavy on the sarcasm; Ro had obviously found Gard somewhat attractive, before he’d turned slavering hit man.

Ro shrugged, lowering her voice slightly. “I already told you. There’s evidence of a conspiracy to keep Bajor out of the Federation. Gard is only one of them. We have to find out who else is involved, and who’s next on their list.”

“Don’t hurry on my account,” Quark said, scowling. “I still have to pack. Though you could let people know that the bar is safe. Until Bajor gets into the Federation, this is still an operational business

contrary to how it looks.”

He nodded toward the group of Cardassians, quietly drinking. “Wouldn’t hurt to get rid of them, either.”

“They’re who volunteered,” Ro said. “You know Starfleet is still spread too thin to drop everything and come running.”

Quark snorted. “Yeah, but the Cardassians?” He opened his eyes wide and tried to look stupid. “Hey, Bajor’s First Minister has been assassinated? Let’s invite Bajor’s former oppressors to help out! That’ll give the citizens a sense of security, don’tcha think?”

He shook his head, dropping back to a scowl. “Just because they finally gave the Orbs back doesn’t make them anyone’s best friend.”

“I know, I know,” Ro said, sighing. “Wasn’t my decision.” She leaned in, her lanky upper body resting across the bar. “What are people saying about all this, anyway? Anything I should know about?”

It was Quark’s turn to shrug. “What you’d expect; paranoia and grudge theories. The Cardassians are responsible, they brought back the Orbs as a distraction

ah, Hiziki Gard is a spy for the Dominion, they want to start another war

Asarem Wadeen is actually on the verge of a psychotic breakdown, the Federation is exploiting her

Starfleet is just putting on a big show to cover up their own bumbling incompetence for letting Shakaar—”

At the sudden tightening of her fine mouth, Quark cut himself off. Ro had organized station security for the induction ceremony. Hiziki Gard had been one of the Trill ambassador’s people, she couldn’t have known that he was an assassin

but she was a name and a face that could be blamed, and there were plenty willing to do so.

“Sorry,” he said, and actually was.

“I know.” She offered another half smile, though she dropped her gaze to the bar’s polished surface. “Maybe that’s why I’ve been working so hard. Trying to make up for not stopping it. Not that there’s anything I can do

I don’t know. I’ll just be glad when this is all over.”

It was as emotional as Ro got, at least around him, and it was obviously a struggle for her. It made him feel kind of

well, good. He saw that her hand was on the bar, and briefly considered touching it—but she sat back, the opportunity gone before he’d made up his mind. He wanted to say something, to ask her about leaving the station with him, but suddenly he wasn’t so sure he wanted to hear the answer. They’d only talked about it once, and she had been drinking at the time, they both had

.

Opportunity plus instinct equals profit, the Ninth Rule. He’d already passed up the chance to touch her, and profit didn’t always mean latinum. Just usually.

“Laren, when this is all over

” he started, hesitated, then took the plunge. “Are you still interested in the two of us, ah, working together? Investing together, I mean? In business, and, ah, traveling, and all that?”

“I’ve been thinking about that,” she said, meeting his gaze again, and Quark felt a twitter in the general vicinity of his heart. “And I don’t know, Quark. I’m still interested, don’t get me wrong, but we’re

it seems like a big commitment, don’t you think?”

Quark wasn’t sure if he should be insulted or relieved, feeling an odd mixture of both. They’d only been on a few dates, after all. And except for holding hands once or twice, they hadn’t explored any real romantic aspects of their companionable relationship. What did she want? What did he want?

“We should both keep thinking about it,” she continued, still staring into his eyes, her own sharp and true. “Or at least, I should

and I hope you will. Right now, though, there’s too much going on for me to give your proposal the time it deserves.”

“I didn’t propose,” Quark said hastily.

Ro grinned. “The proposed transaction,” she said. “Is that all right with you?”

Relief won out, killing the instinct to offer up a glib response. “I

Yes, that’s all right with me.”

“Good.” She sat back slightly, effectively ending the personal conversation. She glanced around the near empty bar, then down at the padds she was carrying. “So, any of those rumors going around seem reasonable to you?”

She needed work on her subtlety. “What are you looking for, exactly?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she said. “Really. I’m just trying to keep an eye on things. Hoping to avoid trouble, you know.”

Quark’s eyes narrowed. There was something more to it than that, but

“Has Nog contacted you yet?” Ro asked.

Quark blinked. “Was he supposed to?”

Ro arched one exquisite eyebrow. “The Defiant got in about an hour ago.”

Quark was shocked, and more than slightly embarrassed. On DS9, he was the man in the know; he’d built his reputation on it. He had contacts, he had a line into ops and sensors at all the docking portals; how had he missed this? Maybe the communications block was actually as solid as the Federation was purporting

which suggested a much more serious situation than they were letting on. Even during the war, he’d never had difficulty getting through one of their standard blocks before.

“The, ah, debriefing just broke up, though,” Ro added quickly, apparently mistaking his shame for hurt, that Nog hadn’t come by yet. As sharp as she was, he wasn’t an open book

and he still had a few resources she hadn’t managed to shut down, though at the moment the thought made his head hurt; he was still paying off the portal sensors, which were evidently useless.

“Right,” Quark said, forcing a grin. “That’s fine, he’s probably

right over there.”

His wayward nephew had just stepped inside, and had stopped to talk to some passing stranger in the corridor, a short, gray girl with long white hair. The girl looked at Quark with no expression, said something; Quark strained to catch it, but only heard the words “seems quiet.” Nog laughed and shrugged, then walked on, heading toward Quark and Ro with a gleaming grin. The girl looked into the bar for a few seconds, then turned and wandered off down the Promenade, apparently uninterested in patronizing such an unpopular establishment.

“Uncle!” Nog said happily, nodding at Ro as he sat at the bar. “How have you been?”

“Terrible, as if you couldn’t tell,” Quark said, motioning at the empty tables. “Thanks to your Federation and their grand plans to turn me out. Who was that girl, anyway? What were you laughing about? Did you bring me anything?”

“It’s nice to see you, too, Uncle,” Nog said, still grinning, a vaguely forced affair. Quark saw with some disdain that he’d neglected his tooth filing since he’d been gone, the tips beginning to blunt.

“I’ll leave you two to catch up,” Ro said, standing.

“You don’t have to,” Quark said, putting on his practiced winning smile. “You just got here. I’ll—I’ll buy you a drink. Anything you like.”

Nog gasped audibly, but Ro didn’t seem to catch it.

“I’d like to, but I’ve got about a thousand things to do before I can call it a night,” she said. “I don’t expect I’ll have much free time coming up, but I’ll try to stop in for lunch or dinner, soon

and I’m glad we talked.”

She smiled at Nog. “Welcome back, by the way,” she said, and with a final nod at both of them, she walked, stalked out. Quark gazed dreamily after her, thinking that he was also glad. They hadn’t resolved anything, but knowing that she was as hesitant as he was to firm up plans made him feel much better, about everything. That, and she said she’d been thinking about it

maybe while she was showering

He was a romantic, to be sure, but his lobes weren’t dead.

“I had no idea it had gotten so serious,” Nog breathed, staring at Quark. “Even Grilka had to pay for that cask of bloodwine.”

Quark sighed, remembering his last great affair. “You know how much a Klingon can drink. I did give her a discount, though

.”

He shook himself, turning his attention to his nephew, his thoughts about Ro Laren and business and the Federation moving from the forefront of his mind

except for that nagging, shameful detail, that he hadn’t known the Defiant was back. Contacts ran dry, but the failure of his docking information system, and his hardwire line to ops

they were top-of-the-line. Both had been working fine last week, and could only be bypassed by a full channel switch, a complete reprogram, something the station had never done before. Exactly how serious was this so-called conspiracy? And why didn’t he know more about it?

Nog ordered food and Quark started questioning him about possible business ventures in the Gamma Quadrant, setting aside the concern until he had a chance to review the data privately. Maybe there was something big going on, something the Federation was keeping under wraps

and if there was, a man with good business sense and a big set of lobes would be just the man to find and exploit the opportunity there, one way or another.

He grinned at Nog while the boy ate, feeling hope again.