I, the Constable

by Paula M. Block

  With the exception of Doctor Bashir, most of your old friends are present and accounted for on the station—even Vic Fontaine. For a while it didn’t look like Nog would ever be able to retrieve him from the simulator, but the good news is that his program has been fully restored and they’ve installed him in one of Quark’s new holosuites. Same old Vic, but with a few minor changes to the holographic infrastructure. Perhaps the next time you visit the station, we can pay him a visit.

  As for Quark—you didn’t think I was going to leave him out, did you? Quark is . . . well, he’s Quark. Or Ambassador Quark, as he refers to himself whenever he thinks it will impress someone. In either case, he’s as annoying as ever. And based on what I just witnessed a few minutes ago, I would say that he’s run smack into some sort of typical Quark problem.

  Ah—Hetik has just informed me that Quark is on his way to Ferenginar. No other details, just that he plans to be away for a few days.

  It may be my imagination, but the atmosphere in the bar has suddenly become much more relaxed . . .

  Chapter 2

  It’s the same dive as always, the shape-shifter thought, a place where a guy can get a drink or a dame, or win or lose a fortune.

  But something about it had changed.

  Odo paused in the entranceway to Quark’s Public House and looked inside curiously. He’d been reading selections from O’Brien’s well-stocked library for three days, and while he would be the first to admit that immersing oneself in pulp fiction tended to give one a rather shady impression of the universe, something strange definitely was going on inside Quark’s. The refreshing calm that had permeated the bar following the barkeep’s departure was long gone. In its place was a pervasive sense of anxiety, as if the whole establishment were teetering on the brink of calamity.

  Or at least the employees were.

  They’re jittery as all get-out, he thought. Discoordinated as a bunch of Teirenian ants that have lost their queen.

  As Odo watched, Quark’s normally well-trained staff of Ferengi waiters hustled back and forth through the crowded main room, narrowly avoiding one another as they delivered drinks to customers. But something was off in their performance. They’d solicit an order, then return with something completely different. Or they’d forget the customer entirely, rushing off to wait on somebody else while the original drink sat unattended at the pickup station.

  It wasn’t just the waitstaff.

  A busboy shot out of the kitchen and promptly dumped a tray of glassware onto the floor with a loud crash that likely would reverberate through his pay for weeks. Horrified, he stepped backward—smack into a serving stand—and knocked over the large pitcher of water that he’d placed there just a few moments earlier.

  Over in the games area, a player won at dabo—just a small payout, nothing unusual. But then, within minutes, a second player won—with an even bigger payout than the first.

  And then a third.

  M’Pella, Quark’s longest-serving dabo girl, gasped in alarm. “Oh . . . uh . . . dabo?” she called out tentatively, reluctantly offering latinum strips to the winners. Odo knew that she was supposed to occasionally let the house lose a round in order to keep up customer morale. But Odo had never seen her lose two in a row, let alone three. M’Pella looked flustered.

  She isn’t paying attention to the game, Odo observed. Strange.

  In the center of the room, Treir, the spectacular Orion bar manager who usually oversaw the Bajoran branch of Quark’s small empire, was a virtual blur of activity as she attempted to fulfill the needs of all the humanoids clustered at the main serving area.

  This, too, was odd. Treir typically was a study in calm, measured efficiency. True, there were quite a few customers tonight, but not enough to—

  He suddenly became aware of Miles O’Brien standing next to him. “Chief,” Odo acknowledged him, adding a perfunctory nod.

  “Odo,” responded the ruddy-faced human. He offered the Changeling a padd he was carrying. “I loaded up a couple more of my favorites,” he said. “Some Chandler and some Hammett. And I completely forgot about . . .” His voice trailed off as his attention was drawn to the same kinetic tableau as Odo. “What the devil is going on in there?” he said.

  “I’m not really sure,” Odo responded. “The employees all seem rather . . . distracted.”

  “ ‘Distracted’?” repeated O’Brien. “That’s an understatement. This place is as charged with chaotic energy as the atmosphere of Galorndon Core.”

  Odo had no frame of reference about Galorndon Core, but he saw no reason to doubt O’Brien’s correlation. He was about to change the subject and ask the chief a question about Raymond Chandler, when Broik rushed in from the Plaza and barged through the knot of customers at the counter. He waved at Treir in a clear attempt to grab her attention, but the Orion shook her head, signaling that she was uninterested in granting him that attention. Undeterred, Broik’s mouth began moving, while Treir continued to ignore him. The bar was too noisy to make out the majority of Broik’s words from across the room, but Odo heard the name “Quark” mentioned several times.

  Spotting Broik, Frool made his way over to the counter and attempted to join in the discussion—or what would have been a discussion if Treir had been responding. Then M’Pella joined their ranks.

  Now Odo could hear some actual phrases: “But nobody in the Hub has heard . . .”; “. . . it’s not like him . . .”; and “. . . shouldn’t we at least try . . .”

  And then there was only Treir’s clear alto voice piercing the din: “I DON’T KNOW AND I DON’T CARE! JUST DO YOUR JOBS OR YOU’LL BE LOOKING FOR NEW ONES!”

  O’Brien whistled softly through his teeth. “And I thought Keiko had a low boiling point,” he murmured sotto voce. “Well, think I’ll skip the nightcap this evening.” And he departed.

  Odo glanced briefly at the list of titles in the newly loaded padd, then morphed a padd-sized “pocket” within the facsimile of a Bajoran tunic that he was wearing. He entered the bar.

  “Good evening, Treir,” he addressed the Orion.

  She looked up from the drink she was mixing. “Good evening, Odo,” she responded evenly.

  “I can’t help noticing that things in here seem a little . . .” He gestured briefly at the nervous employees.

  “A little what?” she inquired.

  “A little . . . off-kilter,” Odo finished.

  “Nothing’s off—” She was interrupted by the sound of a crash from the kitchen area. She sighed, then said, “What can I do for you, Odo?”

  “I just wondered if something was wrong.”

  “Nothing’s wrong,” she said. Then, noticing Broik and Frool hovering nearby, watching her intently, she said it again, louder, for their benefit.

  Odo remained at the counter, waiting for her to continue. And at last she said, “Quark’s just late getting back from Ferenginar, that’s all. No big surprise.”

  “How late?” Odo asked.

  “Couple days,” she said. “Obviously he’s having a great time with His-Brother-the-Nagus and he isn’t in a hurry to get back to us.”

  “Really? That doesn’t sound like Quark.”

  “Oh no?” Treir said, eyes flashing. “I think it sounds just like Quark. Never thinks of anyone other than himself. Can’t be bothered to update people. It’s not like I have a life of my own and a bar to run on Bajor.”

  “So you don’t think something may have happened to detain him?”

  “Like what? An invitation from some pretty girls to go swimming in a big pool of latinum?” She shrugged, the action causing the thin shoulder strap of her formfitting dress to slide down a viridescent shoulder. “Honestly, Odo—I don’t know. And I don’t really care. All I know is that he’s going to pay me plenty of overtime when he finally gets back here.”

  Suddenly she looked past Odo and broke into a ge
nuine smile. “Hi there, Commander Nog,” she said. “Ready for a cold root beer?”

  Odo turned to see the station’s assistant chief engineer hop up onto a barstool. The young Ferengi was blushing slightly. Odo assumed that he found the Orion woman attractive; he knew that most of the males on the station did.

  “Not right now,” Nog responded. “I’m still on duty. I just stopped in to see if you’ve heard anything new about my uncle.”

  Treir shook her head. “Like I’ve been telling everyone: I haven’t heard a peep. I mean, if your dad doesn’t know anything, I don’t know what to tell you.”

  That caught Odo’s attention. He turned to Nog. “Rom doesn’t know where Quark is, either?”

  The engineer shook his head. “He told me that he saw Quark the day that he arrived on Ferenginar,” Nog said. “Quark told him he was going to do some investigating. After that—nothing.”

  “I see,” Odo said. “I don’t suppose you know what he was investigating?”

  Nog shook his head again. “My dad didn’t say.” He slid off the barstool. “Well, gotta get back to work. I’ll be around later for that root beer,” he called to Treir as he left.

  Odo considered asking the Orion a few more questions, but she’d already moved to the other end of the bar. Clearly their conversation had ended, at least as far as she was concerned.

  He was about to sit down at an unoccupied table, when his combadge warbled. “Hub to Odo.”

  Recognizing the voice of DS9’s executive officer Jefferson Blackmer, Odo responded: “Go ahead, Commander.”

  “Captain Ro would like to speak with you. She’s in her office.”

  “Acknowledged,” Odo responded. He didn’t bother to ask what the topic of discussion was going to be. He suspected he already knew.

  Captain Ro Laren was pacing. “So he hasn’t attempted to contact you?” she said without slowing her pace.

  “No, he hasn’t,” Odo responded. “But truthfully, Captain, don’t you think Quark would be more likely to contact you if he were in trouble?”

  “No, not really,” she said.

  Something in the way she tossed off the remark caught Odo’s attention. Her statement was matter-of-fact, but from his point of view, it came out sounding just a little . . . sad. Before he could decide whether or not to comment, however, Ro resumed talking, her tone now all business.

  “The problem is, he doesn’t seem to have contacted anyone in the past few days. He filed a flight plan for a roundtrip to Ferenginar, and he’s obviously overdue. I spoke to Mister Haeni, the proprietor at Wormhole-Rent-A-Shuttle. Quark rented his transportation there, but he hasn’t bothered to follow up to extend the rental period.” She paused to catch Odo’s gaze. “You know what that means, don’t you?”

  Odo nodded. “Late fees. And Quark despises late fees. Unless he’s the one charging them.”

  “Exactly,” Ro said, mouth set in a frown.

  “Did Haeni bother to ping the shuttle, to see where it is?”

  “He did. But it only confirms that the shuttle Quark rented is parked somewhere in Ferenginar’s capital city. So it would seem that he’s still on the planet.”

  “Or at least the shuttle is,” Odo noted.

  Finally, Ro seated herself at her desk. “I’ve spoken to Rom a couple times. He’s quite worried.”

  Odo shrugged. “Well, that doesn’t mean much. Rom is always worried about something, usually without cause. Knowing Quark, he’s probably just chasing a lead on some questionable boondoggle. I’m sure he’ll turn up soon.”

  The captain’s expression remained calm; her hands, however, betrayed some deeper emotions. Her fingers moved constantly—tapping against the desk, fiddling with a padd stylus, running idly through her dark, shoulder-length hair. Then, suddenly aware that Odo was watching her, she folded her hands together. “I don’t know, Odo,” she admitted. “I just have a weird feeling about this. It really is out of character for him.” She looked up at him, her dark eyes hopeful. “And I wondered . . . since you’re not tied up at the moment . . .”

  “Ah,” he said, catching on. “You’re wondering if you could persuade me to look into it.”

  She smiled tentatively. “I’d consider it a big favor, Odo.”

  He considered the request. She wasn’t the type to ask a favor lightly. And it was true he wasn’t doing anything at the moment. “All right,” he said. “I can fly out there and—”

  “Why don’t you use one of the station runabouts? That way, if his rental is damaged, you’ll have transportation for the two of you. The Rio Grande is available. Docking bay eight.”

  Odo nodded and looked down at his nondescript tunic. “Well, if I’m conducting an official investigation, I suppose I ought to dress for the occasion,” he said. His humanoid form rippled, and suddenly he was standing before the captain wearing his old Bajoran constable’s uniform.

  For the first time, Ro broke into a smile. Odo noted that it looked good on her.

  “Thank you, Odo,” she said. “I know if anyone can find him, you can.”

  “Oh, I’ll find him, all right,” he replied. “The only question is whether he wants to be found.”

  Chapter 3

  My dear Nerys,

  You’ll be happy to hear that the residents of DS9 have found something for me to do in my “spare time.”

  Quark is missing. I have been dispatched to Ferenginar to look for him.

  I’m not sure what I’ll find when I arrive. Since the subject is Quark, I anticipate encountering some sort of illicit activity.

  Beyond that, I hesitate to speculate.

  At the moment, my runabout is on autopilot. I have spent a good portion of this commute reading selections from O’Brien’s library. I am once again struck by the language employed by these literary protagonists, and the forthright way in which they conduct their affairs. How nice it would be to deal with suspects in any manner I chose, the way that those characters do, with no thought as to consequences or retribution.

  Foolish as it may sound, I can’t help thinking that these fictional investigators—dicks, detectives, and what-have-you—lead a far more colorful, and perhaps more satisfying, life than I ever experienced when I was still a constable.

  The moment Odo stepped into the gilt-laden Nagal Residence, Rom and Leeta set upon him like a pair of hungry swamp salamanders spotting a fat slug. He knew they were only looking for information, but he didn’t like being boxed in. They’re standing so close that I could easily discern what they had for lunch. That is, assuming I possessed a sense of smell . . .

  Odo took a small step backward. He was about to suggest that they all relax and take a seat somewhere, when Ishka, the matriarch of the family, burst into the room.

  “I came as soon as I heard you were here,” the elder female said, pushing her son and daughter-in-law out of the way to stand toe-to-toe with the Changeling. “Well, as soon as I could get Zekkie down for his nap,” she corrected herself with a fond chuckle. Laying her wrinkled hand on Odo’s arm, she looked up into his eyes. “Have you figured out where he is yet?”

  Odo took a larger step back, effectively severing physical contact with Ishka. “As I was just telling the nagus, I haven’t had an opportunity to investigate yet,” he said. “All I’ve managed to do so far is check the location of Quark’s rented shuttle. It’s in the parking structure across the plaza from here. I presume that’s where he left it three days ago. Now, what I need to know from you is the reason why Quark came here in the first place.”

  The occupants of the Residence all began talking at once—even Ishka, although Rom already had mentioned that she hadn’t been present when Quark arrived. The former constable pointed at Rom and said—loudly—“Please let the nagus tell me.”

  And Rom began talking. But he’d barely gotten out a sentence when the two women began again. Mike Ham
mer never has this problem, Odo thought as he refrained from shouting at them. But then, I do have some compensatory skills.

  And with that, he inconspicuously modified his ears, reshaping their internal structure into organs identical to those of a Baneriam hawk, a creature known for its preternaturally keen sense of hearing. It allowed him to sort through the jumble of voices and comprehend what each person in the room was saying.

  An extremely rich relative had died, an uncle named Frin, brother to Ishka’s deceased husband, Keldar. Quark, being Quark, was more interested in the line of inheritance than in mourning. At Quark’s suggestion, Rom began to dig into Frin’s fiduciary footprint. That’s when the brothers discovered that the old man had died with three wives.

  As Odo listened to the trio’s three discrete through lines, a scenario began to coalesce within his mind, depicting the scene as it had played out a few days earlier.

  “You see?” Rom said, pointing out the information on the monitor. “Here they are—three active marital contracts. And none of them were terminated prior to his death!”

  “Three?” Leeta commented. “Is that even legal?”

  Rom and Quark shrugged. “It’s not very common,” Quark remarked, leaning toward the screen. “I mean, who would want to listen to more than one wife?”

  “No one I know,” Rom mumbled, followed by a loud “Ow!” as Leeta punched his shoulder.

  “But is it legal?” she repeated.

  “Well, bigamy per se isn’t illegal on Ferenginar,” Rom stated, “since there’s always some way to skirt traditional prohibitions—if one is good enough at contracts, that is. See this document? Frin has defined each of his three marital contracts as ‘a limited partnership, with all the expected duties and responsibilities of what is otherwise defined as a spouse, but with ultimate recompense apportioned by the ultimate number of participants in said partnership.’ ”