Twist of Faith

by S. D. Perry

  That pained expression flew around the table, particularly to Dax and Bashir. Kira looked like she’d been gut-punched. Where the room previously had the crackling tension of a group of trained professionals about to embark on a complex mission, now ops felt almost like a mausoleum.

  For the past two weeks, Deep Space 9 had been coordinating a sector-wide search for Jake Sisko, the son of the former station commander and also, Vaughn knew, a close friend of Nog. Young Mr. Sisko had last been known to be on his way to Earth to visit his grandfather. But when Captain Yates had contacted Earth, Joseph Sisko had professed no knowledge of any visit from his grandson.

  However, as continued searches had turned up negative, the efforts, of necessity, had diminished. The Defiant was needed to set up the communications array, and Nog—who had been at the forefront of the rescue attempts—was needed to assist Shar in the engineering thereof.

  “We haven’t given up anything, Nog. But we’ve done everything that we can do to look for him. We still have an open call to all ships to look out for him, and Ro’s people have been questioning everyone who comes on-station. The authorities on Earth are looking, too. We’ll find him. But right now, we have to give priority to the three million people on Europa Nova.” As she spoke, Kira’s face hardened up again, and by the time she reached the words “Europa Nova” she was back to her firm, commanding self.

  Kira’s words—and, more important, her tone—had an effect. Nog, Dax, Bowers, and Bashir still looked concerned, but the crackling tension of the immediate crisis had returned.

  Turning to Dax, the colonel said, “Lieutenant, you’ll be in charge of the station while we’re gone. Keep coordinating with Lipin and Eran—we’ll need housing set up for the refugees within the next twelve hours or so.”

  Dax nodded.

  “Commander Vaughn, you’ll take the Defiant. I’ll take Ling and the Euphrates. Bowers, you’ll go in the Rio Grande with Roness.” She looked around the table. “Let’s get to work, people. Dismissed.”

  Good thing we haven’t reopened the wormhole for business yet, Vaughn thought. If that had been the case, the station would probably be full to bursting with ships bound for the Gamma Quadrant. Not that they weren’t dealing with considerable traffic as it was, especially with all the relief ships going to and from Cardassia, but all things considered, their position could be much more difficult.

  As the meeting broke, everyone headed for their stations or the lifts. Vaughn followed Kira up the stairs toward her office. They were intercepted by Taran’atar. “Colonel, request permission to join the mission.”

  Kira seemed to size up the Jem’Hadar. “Any particular reason?”

  “I may be of some use.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know. Nor did I know how I might be of use on Dr. Bashir’s mission to Sindorin, yet you yourself said that the mission would have failed without me. For that matter, I’ve yet to comprehend how I may be of use on this station at all, yet Odo said that I would be. It seems reasonable that I continue seeking ways to make myself useful. Your mission to Europa Nova seems like such an opportunity.”

  I guess he’s getting bored standing around ops, Vaughn though bemusedly. But he makes an interesting point. And it might do him some good to see a Federation rescue mission.

  Kira turned to Vaughn with a questioning glance. Vaughn looked in the colonel’s eyes, and saw that Kira had already made up her mind. She wasn’t looking for his approval, just wanting to know if he had any objection. He shook his head slightly.

  “Fine, you’ll come with me on the Euphrates. Commander, see to it that Lieutenant Bowers knows that Ensign Ling is to remain on the station.”

  Vaughn nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  Taran’atar inclined his head. “With your permission, then, Colonel, I will report to runabout pad A and prepare the Euphrates for our journey.”

  Chapter Four

  Farius Prime

  “This is so exciting!”

  Quark tried to ignore the bleating of the blond, scantily-clad Bajoran woman walking alongside him down the corridor of the Orion starship. Why did I ever think taking a dabo girl along for show would be a good idea?

  Then he looked at their two escorts, a pair of tall, burly, green-skinned Orion men who kept their eyes primarily focused on the outfit his companion wasn’t wearing, so to speak, and thought, Oh, right—that’s why. The next time he saw Garak he had to once again thank the Promenade’s erstwhile tailor for his amazing work on the dabo girl outfits—every one a masterpiece of textile engineering, they managed to show everything yet reveal nothing.

  Especially useful when you’re dealing with Orions—after all, they appreciate sexy women.

  The only parts of the outfit he thought were a little much were the four large, round tassels that dangled from the waistband of the pants—two on either hip. Those pants had slits on both sides of each leg, showing a generous display of flesh, with the waistband just below the pelvic bone. To Quark’s mind, the tassels detracted from the effect. Still, I suppose they serve a purpose.

  They had just disembarked from an Orion transport that had taken them from Deep Space 9 to the Clarus system. It had taken no time at all to get from there to Farius Prime. Quark had, in fact, been stunned at how fast the trip had been—it should’ve taken several hours at warp six, but was over in less than five minutes.

  Now they traversed the corridors of a large vessel that appeared to be based on Vulcan designs, albeit with some modifications. Besides, Quark knew the sound of a Vulcan impulse engine—their Cochrane distortion spiked much higher than on any other vessel. That’s the Orions for you, he thought with admiration, always stealing from the best.

  To one of the Orions, he asked, “So how’d we get here so fast, exactly?”

  “You’ll find out soon enough, Ferengi.” The Orion did not take his eyes off the generous display of cleavage that they’d been fixed on since they’d left Deep Space 9 a day earlier. The dabo girl wore a necklace with a Spican flame gem at its center—the necklace acted as an arrow that pointed to her chest, and the flame gem did a marvelous job as that arrow’s rather prominent point.

  The dabo girl grinned widely and said, “I can’t wait to find out. This is so unbelievably amazing!”

  They arrived at a meeting room that was much more lavishly decorated than one would expect on a Vulcan-designed ship. Most of it consisted of low-quality (in Quark’s informed opinion) erotic artwork, ranging from paintings to holosculptures. There was also an impressive display of jewels—including a remarkably good fake of the Zateri emerald—under directed floodlights that cast odd shadows about the room. At the center of the room was a table made of what appeared to be real oak, which couldn’t have been cheap.

  A small, sour-faced, stoop-shouldered, elderly Orion man whom Quark had last seen on the station sat at one end of that table. His name was Malic, and he had been the one to recruit Quark for this particular endeavor.

  His gnarled green fingers moved furiously about the controls of a padd. Said speed was astonishing, given that he wore a ring with a heavy precious stone on each of those fingers. The padd itself was quite impressive, too—its border had an ornate pattern of fighting Aldebaran serpents, and the back had a relief representation of a nude Orion female carved into it. Several more ordinary-looking padds sat on the table in front of him.

  “Ah, Quark,” Malic said without looking up from the padd. “Glad to see you’ve arrived in one piece. We’re almost ready to begin.” Finally, he looked up, and, typically, his eyes went straight to Quark’s companion. “And I see you brought company.”

  Indicating the blond Bajoran with an exaggerated flourish, Quark said, “This is Tamra, one of my finest dabo girls.”

  “You expect to be playing dabo, Quark?” one of the huge Orions said with a laugh.

  “No, but Malic indicated that this might be a protracted negotiation. If I’m going to be away from home this long, I’d like to have some—compa
nionship.” On that last word, his hand brushed across his right lobe.

  The Orions chortled knowingly.

  “Of course,” Quark continued as he walked to the other end of the table, “it would help if I knew just what it is I’m supposed to be negotiating. It’s hard to prepare to do business when I don’t know what the business is.”

  He sat down on the seat opposite Malic. Malic frowned—or, rather, his perpetual frown deepened—at that action. A chair had been set out at the table to Malic’s left, which Quark knew was intended for him. However, he preferred to be on an equal footing—or, in this case, seating—to Malic, so he sat at an equivalent spot rather than the inherently subordinate position that had been set aside. Tamra moved into place behind Quark.

  Perhaps in response to Quark’s symbolic gesture, perhaps just to generally reassert his superior position here, Malic remained hunched over his padd for a full minute. Quark waited patiently, though Tamra shifted her weight from foot to foot. I’ve been stalled by the best, Quark thought with pride at the Orion. I can wait as long as you want.

  Finally, Malic placed the padd in the inner pocket of the lavishly patterned dark green jacket he wore.

  “Have you ever heard of the Iconians, Quark?”

  “Sure. Ancient species, conquered most of this part of the galaxy some two hundred thousand years ago. I’ve auctioned some artifacts and relics of theirs over the years.” Some of them might have even been authentic. “They’re extinct, though.”

  Malic’s wrinkled lips pulled back into a rictus that one could charitably call a smile. The jewel in one of his rear molars twinkled in the glow of one of the floodlights. “Not so extinct, it would seem. The Iconians have returned, Quark, and they want to deal. And they’ve activated all their gateways.”

  “Gateways?” Quark asked.

  “Portals that provide instantaneous transportation from one point in space to another. It’s how the Iconians created and maintained their empire. There are thousands of them throughout the galaxy.”

  Nodding, Quark said, “That’s how we got here from Clarus so fast.”

  “Exactly. There are two types of gateways—the older ones that can move ships across great distances and are usually located in planetary orbits; and the later, smaller ones on planets that can take people from one place to another in the time it takes to step through them.”

  “So they’re like wormholes?”

  “The orbital ones are similar, but they’re completely stable—and I don’t just mean stable the way your wormhole is stable,” Malic said with another of his pseudosmiles. “I mean stable in every sense. And you arrive at your destination with much greater dispatch and less risk.”

  Several possibilities danced through Quark’s head. He thought about the economic boom that had resulted from the opening of the Bajoran wormhole—increased traffic to Deep Space 9 and his bar; new resources to exploit and riches to obtain; more profit for Bajor, which meant more wealthy Bajorans who liked to spend money at his bar; trade with the Dominion, which increased his profit margin, since he was the first to open relations with the Dominion; and so much more. True, the war had upset much of that, but one needed only to remember the Thirty-Fourth Rule of Acquisition: “War is good for business.”

  From what Malic was saying, this was like the opening of the wormhole, but increased by a factor of thousands.

  “Where do I come in?”

  “The Iconians are auctioning off the rights to the gateways to the highest bidder. We’ve been able to secure private negotiations on this ship with one of their mediators.”

  “What are the terms?”

  Malic looked up at one of the two big Orions, who walked to the table, picked up one of the padds, and handed it to Quark.

  Quark took it and thumbed it. It contained three lists.

  “The first list is the initial offer,” Malic said, “followed by the secondary offer—”

  Putting the padd down, Quark finished, “And the third is the last-resort add-ons when the bidding gets fierce, I know. This isn’t my first negotiation, Malic. If it was, you wouldn’t have gone to the trouble of asking for me.” He picked up the padd again and held it screen-out toward Malic. “And this list needs work.”

  Again, Malic’s frown deepened. He removed his fancy padd from his jacket pocket and looked at the screen—presumably he had called the same list onto it that Quark was speaking of. “What do you mean?”

  Looking back down at the list, Quark said, “You’ve got rights to the dilithium mines on Dozaria in the second list. The Iconians are getting rid of a method of instantaneous transportation. Do you really think that dilithium mines are going to be a sweetener for them? It’s just a source of extra profit, but not a compelling offer in and of itself.”

  “It was extremely—difficult to obtain those rights from the Breen,” Malic said. “We’re reluctant to part with them so easily.”

  “Then don’t part with them at all. They’re a minor component of this deal, and if they’re that precious to you, save them for some time when you’ll really need them. On the other hand, the acribyte futures should move to the second list—maybe the third. Acribyte wasn’t discovered until long after the Iconians were last seen in this quadrant, and it only exists in one star system. It’s something brand new to them, and also something immensely profitable. That’s much more compelling to this type of client.”

  Quark suggested other rearrangements of the list before Malic finally said, “Have a care, Ferengi. Don’t presume to—overstep yourself.”

  “I’m just trying to complete my task, Malic,” Quark said, opening his arms wide.

  “Your task is to negotiate with the Iconians.”

  “On your behalf,” Quark added, “and in order to do that, I need to negotiate from the best possible position. Now if you don’t want my advice, why bring me here?”

  Malic said nothing.

  “Fine, I’ll answer my own question, then. You need me.”

  “The Orion Syndicate needs no one.”

  Quark made a “tchah” noise. “Posturing now? C’mon, Malic, I expected better from you than that.” He leaned back in his chair. Have to play this carefully. The fact of the matter was, the syndicate could crush him like a tube grub, and Quark knew it. The Orions had their grubby green fingers in most of the illegal activity across half the quadrant—and a decent amount of the legal activity, too. They’d stayed one step ahead of Starfleet Intelligence, the Tal Shiar, the Obsidian Order, Klingon Imperial Intelligence, and the Ferengi Commerce Authority for decades.

  Taking a breath, Quark continued. “Look, I freely admit that I owe you for not exposing my little scheme back on the station. It’s true, you’ve done me a favor—but you’re not doing me any favors, if you know what I mean. I can turn right around and walk out of here and take my chances back on Deep Space 9.” The two guards moved forward menacingly. “Metaphorically speaking, of course,” Quark added hastily. “The point is, I can handle Starfleet, and I can handle the Cardassians. Been doing it for years.”

  “Really? Shall we test that theory?” Malic asked nastily. “All it will take is a simple command on this padd, and all the details will be transferred to a Commander Ju’les L’ullho on Starbase 96 and to certain individuals on Cardassia Prime.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Quark said quickly. “What I’m trying to say here is that—well, no offense, but, you’re pirates. You’re used to taking what you want, not asking for it. That’s why you need me—I know how to get you a bargain. So are you going to take advantage of my skills—which were the whole reason why you talked me into coming here in the first place—or are you going to guarantee that you’ll lose the gateways before I ever even walk into the negotiating room?”

  Malic glowered at Quark for several seconds. Quark didn’t move, didn’t even blink. I’ve sat through Odo’s interrogations, I can sit through this old slug’s stare.

  Finally, Malic looked down at his padd and said, “W
hat other changes would you like to make?”

  Smiling, Quark proceeded to continue with his suggested changes to the list.

  Once they’d gotten everything to a satisfactory level, Malic said, without looking up, “Bring some tube grubs for our negotiator—and see if there are any Bajoran hors d’oeuvres left for his companion.” One of the two Orion landmasses moved toward the door.

  Quark inclined his head toward Malic. “I admire a man who knows how to treat the hired help.”

  Another Orion entered the room. “The Iconians have arrived, along with their mediator. I’ve installed them in the conference room.”

  “Good.” Malic looked up at Quark. “Do well for us, Quark. The syndicate does not tolerate failure.”

  The implication came through quite clearly: if the Orions did not wind up with control of the gateways, Quark would be held responsible. Never mind exposing his scam on Cardassia—Quark suspected that the syndicate’s ideas of retribution would get a good deal more unpleasant.

  The oversized Orions stood on either side of Quark. “Let’s go,” one of them said.

  “Don’t I get my tube grubs?” Quark asked, looking up at one of the Orions—who was actually staring at Tamra as he spoke.

  “We’ll bring ’em to the table. Move.”

  “Fine.”

  Quark got up, and he and Tamra followed the Orion out the door, then down a corridor to another conference room.

  This one was somewhat larger than the previous room, and much more tastefully decorated. No erotica here, but an impressive array of paintings lined the walls, including the best fake of T’Nare of Vulcan’s ShiKahr Sunrise Quark had ever seen. If I’d had fakes that good when I was selling that alleged lot of T’Nare’s work, I wouldn’t have had to pay that fine. This table also appeared to be made of oak, but Quark’s practiced eye recognized it as an Ordek transformer table, which could take on different appearances. At its center was a pair of opaque pitchers and two mugs.