by Various
“Degenerate,” Dal muttered and swallowed another mouthful of hasperat soufflé. Her eyes were watering, but whether from the spicy food or the marital spat, Bashir wasn’t sure.
Taking a deep breath, he set down his Tarkalean tea. “I agree with Lubaar that ethics can’t exist inside a vacuum.” When his wife’s jaw dropped, Bashir waved his hand. “But I agree with Dal that within specified perimeters, ethical standards can be absolute.” When both of his lunch companions glared at him, he scrunched back in his chair. “Let me explain. As a physician, my duty is to heal the sick. The worst criminal imaginable—a perpetrator of genocide—could be my patient, and I’d be honor bound to do everything in my power to make him well.”
“Exactly.” Daintily, Dal wiped her lips, then tossed her napkin onto her plate. “I’m a scientist. If I’m given an investigation, I investigate. I check and double-check my findings. When I reach a valid conclusion, I report it. Period.”
Lubaar stabbed his knife into his uneaten steak. “So . . . if the Cardassians had asked you to evaluate the cognitive effects of that aggression enhancer they developed, you’d have honestly informed them it caused neural damage—lost that chance to see their soldiers attack each other?”
“They didn’t assign me that task, now, did they?”
“Of course not. Because Cardassians favor pragmatism too much to believe any alien would be so simpleminded as to champion scientific validity over their people’s lives. That’s why the Resistance had to infiltrate their computer system and alter the findings themselves. Survival.”
Dal jumped to her feet. “Oh, you like to twist things.”
Lubaar kept his eyes trained on hers. “But you know I’m right.”
Standing guard outside the Starfleet dining room, Odo wasn’t surprised when Dal Cerys stormed out. The couple couldn’t spend five minutes together without fighting. If they weren’t arguing about the metaphysical properties of borhyas, it was the artistic merits of Earth jazz versus Klingon opera.
To address the couple’s volatile relationship, Odo had brought a trusted lieutenant in case they separated. He nodded at him to follow.
Immediately, Dal jerked around as if to see who was behind her. “After all I did for you, Odo, I warrant second-best security? If that’s how it is, I prefer none at all.”
Odo had dedicated so much effort to learning the gestures and sounds that conveyed humanoid reactions, they’d become automatic. Without intending to, he blew out his breath and flicked his eyes upward. Then he beckoned his lieutenant back and strode forward to take his place.
“Thank you,” Dal murmured, then hurried ahead. Suspecting she was crying, he hung back. When she rounded the corner ahead of him, he heard a gasp, but when he rushed to join her, she looked fine. “Muscle twinge.”
When Thebroca exited the sizing chamber after twenty minutes, Garak smiled. At last! A chance for parley with somebody with talent, savvy, and—as a quick review of her recorded measurements confirmed—the perfect figure to carry off his finest fashions. No matter that the last time they’d met he’d tried to eliminate her. What else could an Obsidian Order operative expect after she’d been caught colluding with the Romulan Tal Shiar? But what was past was past. Clearly, Thebroca was back in the Order’s good graces. Why marry Horven except for the access it allowed her to carry out their secret business?
“I have several brocades and damasks that would look marvelous on you,” Garak said, guiding Thebroca past a well-aimed sensor to a blind spot where he’d arranged a pile of textile squares. When he’d positioned her just so, he leaned closer. “And if you’d like any other information, just ask.”
“Like what? The lowdown on everyone’s favorite drink?” Thebroca trained her uncommonly green eyes on him. “Gossip about impending vacations of Starfleet personnel might be of interest.”
The archness in Thebroca’s tone chilled Garak down to the bone plates at the back of his heels. The last time he’d passed on such casual information, Chief O’Brien had been seized to face trumped-up charges on Cardassia Prime—part of a rickety Central Command scheme. When Tain was in power, he’d never have sanctioned it.
Garak leaned closer. “I mean in-depth analysis, not trivialities. Our relationships in the quadrant are now guided by treaties, but what do those words really mean to the average Starfleet officer? We were both trained by Enabran Tain. You know the level of intelligence I’m capable of gathering. If you don’t want to collect it, why did you come to my shop?”
“For an evening gown.” Thebroca held up a swatch of black-and-gold jacquard. “Tain trained us both, yet only I carry on his work. But while your espionage abilities have proved disappointing, you do have a reputation for being a good tailor.”
Waiting for Deep Space 9’s part in the First Contact Symposium to begin, Bashir caught Garak eyeing the Cardassian in the shimmery gown. The first time he’d seen a female of that species, he’d found the prominent exoskeleton disturbing. With a more experienced eye, he could appreciate her regal figure, elegant neck, and cascade of silky black hair.
“Doctor, you’ve stopped talking.”
Bashir glanced at Garak. “Because I’m boring you. You’d rather take stock of everyone’s outfits.”
“Can you blame me? I clothed half the crowd here. But I can pay attention to multiple topics. I’m Cardassian, remember?”
With his secret genetic enhancements, Bashir could as well—but he avoided mentioning it.
Garak studied him sidelong. “To summarize: the initial step in first contact evaluation is assessing sentience, then sapience or the likely potential for sapience.”
“Right.” Bashir straightened his shoulders. “I spent the afternoon with Lubaar discussing every aspect of the process, but that’s the gist of the neurocognitive portion. The next step is assessing cultural development. Depending on the mix of factors in the evaluation matrix, a planet may be placed off limits, assigned guardians for discreet observation, allowed monitored interactions, or opened to full access.”
“Splendid,” Garak said, his gaze on the peach chiffon frocks gracing the twins who ran the bakery. “And each outcome would cheer or anger a different vested interest—especially concerning a moon rich with deuterium.”
The doctor shook his head. “The point of the evaluation is what’s best for the newly discovered people, not outside interests.”
Garak’s mouth quirked. “You can’t deny outside interests are the point of all the security Odo has in place. I couldn’t exit my own shop without submitting to a frisk.”
Bashir conceded his cynical friend had a point. “Like you, our constable prefers prevention.”
No sooner had Bashir mentioned Odo than he heard his voice from his combadge. “Doctor, we need you in the infirmary. Immediately.”
Bashir gauged the density of the crowd waiting for the evening’s speakers to show up, then gave Garak a regretful glance, tapped his combadge, and said, “Bashir to ops. Beam me to the infirmary, please.”
A moment later, Bashir felt the tingle of dematerializing, then rematerializing. Without time for his pupils to adjust, he squinted in the bright lights of the surgical suite. Odo and two security officers were standing on the opposite side of the operating table. Atop it lay Dal Cerys. One look, and he could tell that the medical service she required was the one he enjoyed least: an autopsy.
“So . . . Doctor Dal was murdered?”
Odo glared at Garak. “That’s what I brought you here to tell me.”
The Cardassian blinked sleepily. “What reason could I possibly have? I’m just a—”
Anger rose inside Odo, and it rumbled out in his voice. “None of that. I was standing near Shaloza Trestan when he recognized you as the man tasked with interrogating him. Everyone else may be touched you let him go, but I’m not so naïve. That story is verification that yo
u were indeed a member of the Obsidian Order with all the ruthless, vicious training that implies.”
“So you say.” Garak yawned. “But half a dozen witnesses can verify that today, at least, I was a simple tailor. Run my surveillance footage to ease your doubts. I have nothing to hide.”
Odo growled. “That’s what that diplomatic couple said. Am I the only one who finds Cardassians alibiing Cardassians suspicious?”
“Ah . . . Doctor Dal was murdered when Thebroca was occupying me with her new gown.”
Odo glowered. “Murder hasn’t been established. I’m waiting for the autopsy.” But he knew what it would find.
Odo kept Garak in his office three hours past midnight waiting for the autopsy—long enough for him to doze despite his stiff chair and for the constable to glisten from delaying his regenerative cycle. When the good doctor confirmed that Dal’s unnatural death had occurred while Garak was stitching, the news was a relief to both of them.
At the eighth hour, Garak was waiting in his shop for Shaloza Trestan. After all, a promise is a promise. When the ninth hour rolled around with no ex-urchin interviewer in sight, he headed for Quark’s.
There he saw the good doctor undergoing full-on Quark badgering.
“Come now, Bashir. What does ‘unnatural’ mean? She slipped in the bathtub? She choked on a grape? Or”—the Ferengi boosted himself half on the counter to lean closer—“she suffered a fate requiring further investigation?”
Bashir drained his teacup, set it on the bar, and waved for Quark to stop. “Not my place to say.”
Quark lowered himself to the floor. “You Starfleet types are annoying.”
Garak chuckled. “I’m not in uniform and not bound by discretion. I can tell you, beyond a doubt, she was murdered.”
Quark rubbed his hands. “The Manhunt Pool is open for business.”
The Womanhunt Pool, you mean, Garak said to himself. Thebroca Horven murdered Dal Cerys—of that he was certain. But how she’d done it and why—or how long it would take him to make Odo aware without implicating himself as the source—that he didn’t know. “Put me down for three days.”
As Garak handed over his stake, he saw Bashir fold his arms. “Has anyone ever told you that running a pool on when a murderer will be caught is ghoulish?”
“You have,” Quark answered, “every time that’s the crime in question. But I’ve yet to see you miss a wager.”
The doctor shifted his weight. “Okay. One day.”
Odo wasn’t good at all humanoid expressions, but he hoped his combination of stare, jutting jaw, and grunt communicated his exasperation. Just in case, he slammed his fist on his desk. “If you won’t tell me Dal’s conclusions concerning the tribe that inhabits the moon of Tasadae, how can I determine which interest had the most reason to kill her?”
Clutching his arms, Lubaar pressed back in his chair. “That was Cerys’s last project. Out of respect—”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Odo snorted. “If you truly respected your wife, you’d make her announcement yourself. But you’re too cowardly.”
“Who are you to talk to me that way!”
Lubaar’s outburst was so offensive, Odo almost lost his shape. “I’m civil law enforcement on this station. You’re a material witness. I have the right to talk to you any way that serves my purpose: justice.”
“You’ve changed,” Doctor Lubaar muttered.
“No,” Odo said softly, “I haven’t. I required an arduous education in the ways of humanoids to reach this position, but I was always me. You just didn’t have the insight to realize it.”
Lubaar stared as if seeing him for the first time. “Nevertheless, you can’t make me tell you.”
“Regretfully, no. But I can have Dal’s padds and any other devices used in her research removed from your quarters for analysis.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“It’s being done as we speak.”
Lubaar sprang to his feet. “They can’t take my material without a warrant. I’m returning to my quarters to make sure they don’t.”
“Certainly. Your security detail will escort you.”
“Much good that did Cerys.”
Out of all the rude things Lubaar had said since their interview began, this was the first Odo acknowledged. “I’m sorry. If it will make you feel safer, I’ll accompany them.”
“Don’t bother.”
Rising from his chair, Odo followed anyway. He paused in the security office entrance and watched Lubaar, two guards in front and two in back, cross the Promenade toward the turbolift. That’s when he noticed that out of the seven workers dismantling the stage, one had stopped to stare. When the man reached inside his jacket, Odo sprang.
The shapeshifter couldn’t actually teleport, but the stuff he was made of was capable of an astounding range of activity. With his second leap, he tackled the man. Briefly, he formed two additional arms to help subdue him. Then Odo heard a shriek.
Whipping around, he saw that in the commotion, Lubaar’s detail had rushed forward to aid him. Behind them, their charge lay crumpled on the deck.
Hastily, Odo scanned the area. A worker had disappeared—and not the one handcuffed beneath him. Chagrined, he released the lock, then raced to Lubaar.
His old handler, advocate, and friend smiled weakly. Relieved, Odo tapped the combadge affixed to his mock uniform. “Two to beam to the infirmary.”
Bashir had faced the ethical tug-of-war between the needs of medicine versus crime fighting so often with Odo, that he answered the constable’s question before he finished it: “When I deem it medically safe, you can interrogate Lubaar about the attack—and not a second sooner.”
“That’s—that’s not why I want to talk to him. Not my primary reason, anyway.” Odo gazed at Bashir’s unconscious patient. “I just want to know . . . will he make it?”
Catching the constable’s genuine concern, Bashir said more gently, “With the antidote I gave him, no reason he shouldn’t. Funny thing. He received the same toxin that killed his wife, except her autopsy also showed traces of a massive sedative. That agent slowed her bodily functions enough that the toxin didn’t take effect until she was in her room.”
Odo sighed. “That’s why nobody had realized anything was wrong until her husband went to scold her for being late.”
“Lubaar received a larger volume—through some kind of dart—but the concentration was a million times less. That’s what saved him.”
Odo nodded, then paused. “Do you mind if I finish my reports here—by his bedside?”
“Please do.” Bashir left the constable huddling over his padd while he attended to other duties. When he returned, he found Odo advising Commander Sisko of the situation. Seeing the commander’s confident face boosted the doctor’s spirits. He had the urge to wave but didn’t.
“Autopsy found a stinger in Dal’s back, smaller than a Terran bee’s. Forensic examination of the hall outside her room revealed residue of metals often used in self-destruct hunter probes. I’m reviewing security footage for anyone possibly operating a probe at the time Dal felt a muscle twinge.”
“And Lubaar?”
“Use of the same poison suggests the same perpetrator but the dosage and method were completely different. Instead of a remote-controlled probe, a fake worker shot a poison dart and fled. We found a biosynthetic mask and overalls discarded nearby.”
Commander Sisko’s forehead furrowed. “As you said, motive is the key. Doctor Bashir spent several hours with Lubaar yesterday. Ask him to assist you in analyzing his wife’s notes.”
Bashir brightened. He loved challenges.
“Luckily, the second attempt failed,” the commander continued. “If we let on that the victim’s alive but critical, the assassin’s likely to stay on the station to try again.”
While Odo signed off his report to Commander Sisko, Garak lifted his gaze from his viewscreen to stare at the ceiling. Then he tapped in the series of ones and zeroes that were Pup’s equivalent of a tummy tickling and gave the command to watch for more data. The constable preferred relying on his own logic and memory, so Garak didn’t expect many computer entries, but what there were, Pup would catch. Chief O’Brien had inadvertently uploaded the electromagnetic entity two years ago. Once the engineer had intuited that the resulting system malfunctions were just barks for attention, he’d lured it into the computer equivalent of a doghouse. After overhearing him boast about how well he’d trained the entity to fetch information, Garak had decided to become friends. It hadn’t been difficult. Pup loved showing off its tricks.
After a moment’s reflection on the implications of the failed attempt on Doctor Lubaar’s life, Garak rose from his stool. Time to confront the man who sold physical pets.
Leaving his shop, the Cardassian walked in the direction he’d avoided the day before, diagonally across the Promenade and through the entrance of The Only Love Latinum Can Buy.
Inside, Garak marveled at how quickly the Shalozas had set up. Not only were the fixtures assembled, but half the enclosures already housed cute, furry beasts. He noted Earth cats, Rafalian mice, and Denobulan lemurs. Then he caught sight of a sleek animal running a wheel in a cage atop the counter and felt a pinch in his chest.
The older brother emerged from the back room, then stiffened. “We’re not open.”
Garak put on his most ingratiating smile. As he’d predicted, Trestan was nowhere to be seen. “I’m your neighbor—the tailor from across—”
“I know who you are.”
Same here. “I came to welcome you and offer my assistance—”
“Don’t need it.”
“Apparently not. The young man I saw—your brother—he’s quite the hard worker. Perhaps I could ask him to—”
