by S. D. Perry
“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?”
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.
