Star Trek - DS9 - Heart Of The Warrior - Book 17

by John Gregory Betancourt

  to join the Maquis when the Federation ceded her

  Homeworld, too, to Cardassia in a peace treaty--that

  bought her a place at the negotiating table.

  The airlocks slowly matched pressure between their

  ship and Deep Space Nine, and then their hatch

  opened. Twofeathers saw a gigantic blood-red cog

  slowly roll to one side. It was the space station's

  hatch, he realized suddenly, disconcerted.

  "You first," Myriam whispered.

  He nodded reassuringly to her, keeping his face

  impassive, then proceeded down the short passage

  and out into the docking ring. There were three

  humanoids waiting to greet them one tall, imposing-

  looking black man in a command uniform, with his

  head shaved and a short beard; a Trill woman, her

  straight black hair tied behind her head, revealing the

  patterning of her spots on her forehead and neck; and

  another human, this one with short wavy black hair.

  "Philip Twofeathers?" the Trill asked.

  "Yes," he said, his voice deep and booming.

  "I am Lieutenant Commander Dax," she said. "We

  spoke earlier."

  "Yes," he said.

  "I am Captain Sisko," the black man said, nodding

  politely. "This is Dr. Bashir. On behalf of the Fed-

  eration, I would like to welcome you aboard DS9,

  Ambassadors."

  "Thank you," Twofeathers said. "This is my associ-

  ate, Myriam Kravitz."

  "Pleased to make your acquaintance, Captain

  Sisko," she said.

  He nodded to her. "We have one security test

  before we admit you to the station," he went on. "A

  DNA test to verify that you are, indeed, who you say

  you are."

  "My DNA patterns are not on file with Starfleet,"

  Twofeathers said. Was this some kind of trick? He

  didn't like the sound of it.

  "It's to make sure you're human and not change-

  lings trying to infiltrate the peace process," Bashir

  said quickly. "Anything which brings stability to this

  quadrant is against their best interests."

  "But what else can you do with my DNA once you

  have it?" Twofeathers said. He shook his head. No,

  this would not do at all. "This is against all diplomat-

  ic protocols as I understand them. I refuse."

  "Then," Sisko said, "you can get right back on your

  ship. Go back to the Maquis. Tell them that you

  single-handedly derailed the entire peace process be-

  cause you didn't want to prove to us that you are

  human."

  "We don't do anything with the DNA except scan it

  to make sure you're human," Bashir said. "Use a tricorder."

  "The changelings can fool even a tricorder," he

  said.

  Twofeathers snorted. Paranoid fools.

  Kravits stepped forward. "My DNA is already on

  file with Starfleet," she said. "Test me."

  Bashir held out the box he was holding. "Place your

  hand on top," he said. "It's painless. You won't feel a

  thing."

  Twofeathers watched, feeling his heart start to beat

  a little faster with concern, as Myriam did what she

  was told.

  "Scanning," the box said. "Subject DNA passes.

  Subject is human."

  Myriam stepped back, flexing her fingers and star-

  ing at her hand. The breath caught in Twofeathers's

  throat--was she all right?

  Suddenly she looked at him and nodded. "Do it,"

  she said. "I don't see any harm."

  The Federation officers looked relieved. Twofeath-

  ers studied them a second, then nodded his assent.

  They had DNA on file from many members of the

  Maquis, he thought, and it had done them little good

  in the past. He didn't see how it could hurt now,

  either.

  "Very well," he said and stretched out his hand. A

  second later the box announced that he, too, was

  human.

  "This way," Sisko said. "Perhaps you'd like a tour

  of the station before we show you to your quarters?"

  "Yes," Twofeathers said. "I have heard of a place

  here called... Quark's?... which a number of

  friends recommend."

  Sisko blanched a bit at that. "Quark's," he said,

  sounding completely nonplussed.

  Twofeathers folded his arms, tilted back his head,

  and stared impassively up at him. "Quark's," he

  repeated.

  Lieutenant Dax smiled. "Why don't you let me

  show them around," she suggested to Sisko.

  "Very well," he said. He smiled briefly at Twofeath-

  ers and Kravitz. "I leave you in Dax's capable hands."

  As he turned to go, Twofeathers overheard him whis-

  per, "Just keep them out of trouble, okay, old man?"

  Old man? Twofeathers frowned in bewilderment.

  What kind of nickname was that for a woman?

  But Dax merely smiled and hooked her arms

  through theirs, leading them toward the turbolift.

  "One of the station's many attractions is Quark's

  Place," she said. "Julian here is an excellent darts

  player--do you know the game?mand I believe he's

  going to be in a tournament tonight."

  "Darts," Twofeathers said. It was a game he'd

  always enjoyed as a boy, though he preferred throwing

  knives these days. "Aren't those similar to tiny ar-

  rows?" he said, trying to sound naive.

  "Very similar, actually," Dr. Bashir said from be-

  hind him. "I'd be glad to give you some pointers, if

  you'd like."

  "I think I would," Twofeathers said. A tournament

  might be a good way to make a little money, he

  thought. He smiled inwardly. It was rather amusing,

  actually, that Federation losses would go straight into

  the Maquis war fund.

  But he couldn't let himself forget the other reason

  he'd come. There was a lot of war surplus available on

  Bajor... arms and equipment the Maquis desper-

  ately needed if they were going to win the fight with

  Cardassia. Peace negotiations were fine, but knowing

  the Cardassians and the Federation, he had little hope

  of success. So while he could operate here in the open,

  he intended to take advantage of his every opportuni-

  ty. Rumor said that Quark could get anything you

  wanted, for a price ....

  CHAPTER

  9

  AFTER ^ BUMPY ride through the wormhole, Kira

  brought the Progress into the Gamma Quadrant.

  Instantly she ran a long-range scan... and picked

  up nothing. Not a sign of a ship, Jem'Hadar or

  otherwise. That had always amazed her. If this were

  her quadrant, she would have put some kind of

  watchers here to monitor traffic through the worm-

  hole. But then, if the changelings had a weakness, it

  had to be their cocky attitude. They felt they were

  born to rule the universe. Present company ex-

  cluded, of course.

  "We're safe," she said. "No sign of Jem'Hadar

  ships."

  "Excellent," Worf said from behind her.

  Kira punched in the coordinates and set the auto-

  pilot. The ship accelerated smoothly on a new

  beari
ng... the Daborat system, fifty-seven light-

  years distant.

  "Since there's no sign of trouble," Odo said, 'TII

  leave you to your piloting."

  "We'll call you if anything comes up," Kira prom-

  ised.

  When she glanced back, she saw Odo transforming

  into a shining golden glob. He oozed across the floor,

  then one end arched up and fountained into a bucket

  sitting on top of one of the padded seats in the

  passenger section. She didn't know how he managed

  to fit all of himself into such a small space, but

  somehow he did.

  "I would never be able to get used to that," Worf

  said, dropping into the copilot's seat beside her. "It

  looks so--confining."

  She swiveled around to face him. His knobby

  forehead was furrowed as he stared back toward Odo.

  "I'm sure he finds it safe and comfortable."

  Worf grunted, then turned around to look at her.

  "Since we're going to be flying for most of the day,"

  she said, "this seems like a good chance to get to know

  one another better. Tell me about yourself, Com-

  mander. What's it like being the first Klingon in

  Starfleet?"

  Worf sighed and rolled his eyes. "That is the

  question everyone in the universe seems to ask," he

  said.

  "And you're sick of it."

  He nodded.

  "I understand. I can't tell you how many times I've

  been asked by Bajorans what it's like to serve under a

  Federation captain." "Oh?"

  Kira thought she saw a spark of interest in his eyes.

  Perhaps that was the key to winning his friendship,

  she thought--finding common ground. But wasn't

  that the case with all sentient life-forms throughout

  the galaxy? Every life-form except Ferengi, she

  thought. They didn't have friends. They had cus-

  tomers.

  She shrugged. "It's a living."

  "A living... I will remember that answer," Worf

  said. He seemed to relax a bit.

  "I was raised by human parents," Worf said, "so I

  grew up with Starfleet. Had my Klingon parents lived,

  I would never have joined." He jerked his chin back

  the way they had come. "I would probably be with my

  brothers now, helping to seize Cardassian territory."

  "You don't sound thrilled with that idea."

  "It is a living."

  Kira did a double take. Was that a sense of humor?

  "I always used to think I'd make a great farmer,"

  she said. "As a child, I dreamed of running through

  the fields, smelling the sun-ripened plants, feeling the

  sun on my back and the soil between my toes. I

  sometimes wonder if that's what I'd be doing today, if

  it weren't for the Cardassian occupation. I might be a

  mother with four or five children, running my farm,

  living off the land..."

  "I cannot picture you as a mother," Worf said. "Or

  as a farmer."

  Kira sighed. "It's hard, but a part of me still wants

  it."

  Then Worf began to tell her of life on the Enterprise

  before its destruction, of his son Alexander and his

  friends Data and Geordi LaForge and Deanna Troi

  and she found herself actually enjoying his company.

  Secretly she had been half dreading the long flight

  with him. Now it seemed it might be more pleasant

  than she would have thought possible.

  Four hours later, as Worf and Kira were comparing

  their encounters with the life-form named Q, alarms

  began to ring. Instantly Kira swiveled her seat around

  and disengaged the autopilot.

  Worf said, "We're being scanned. There's a vessel

  approaching quickly from behind."

  "I see it," Kira muttered. Then she looked up. "It's

  not on an intercept course. And they're no longer

  scanning us." She reached over and switched off the

  alarm. Silence flooded through the cabin. Kira found

  her heart racing. She took a deep breath to calm

  herself. It sounded like a gulp.

  "We do not have weapon systems aboard," Worf

  pointed out. "Perhaps we did not register as a threat."

  "Or perhaps they're smugglers watching out for

  Jem'Hadar patrols," Kira said. She continued to

  watch the ship on the monitor until it left scanner

  range. Only then did she return control of the Progress

  to the autopilot.

  It was going to be a long trip, she realized.

  CHAPTER

  lO

  QUARK'S BAR WAS packed. Jammed toe to claw to wing,

  O'Brien thought a little gloomily as he surveyed the

  hundreds of beings massed around the bar, crowding

  the gambling tables, and generally mobbing the place.

  He was wedged in at the end of the bar between a pair

  of Bajorans who wer e noisily arguing about some

  aspect of the Cardassian occupation and a grizzled

  old Taltic whose iridescent blue-green scales stank

  from too many months locked aboard a starship. You

  could always tell a Harden space traveller spacer by

  his odor, O'Brien thought. Half the tramp freighters

  working this sector seemed to make DS9 a port of call

  these days, and he would have bet that not one of

  them carried proper bathing facilities anywhere

  aboard. The Taltic, nursing a bottle of Qualian sea-

  brandy, was typical. And he didn't seem to be

  going anywhere soon. In fact, the only place that

  wasn't packed was the dartboard area at the back,

  stuck under the walkway to the holosuites.

  O'Brien sucked in an angry breath as one of the

  Bajorans accidentally jostled him, almost spilling his

  mug of Tirellian stout. Bloody hell, would Bashir

  never show up? Had the doctor completely forgotten

  their dart game?

  Taking another sip of the stout, he winced and tried

  to catch Quark's eye. The stuff was vile, no doubt

  about it, and he regretted letting Quark talk him into

  trying it. Good old-fashioned lager, that's what he was

  in the mood for tonight. "That and a dart game," he

  muttered to himself.

  Quark was too busy piling orders onto Rom's tray

  to notice O'Brien. Now that Nog was off at Starfleet

  Academy, Quark seemed to be perpetually short-

  handed, O'Brien thought, and the Ferengi was just too

  cheap to hire another waiter. O'Brien took another

  sip of the stout. It had a certain afterkick, he decided,

  which wasn't half bad. He could get used to it.

  The Bajorans jostled him again, this time spilling

  half his stout across the bar.

  "Watch it," he said sharply.

  The Bajoran glanced back at him. "You talking to

  me, human?" he demanded.

  "That's right," O'Brien said, standing to face him.

  "You knocked my drink over."

  "Maybe you shouldn't sit on top of me," the

  Bajoran countered rudely. "Maybe you owe me an

  apology, Earther."

  O'Brien sucked in an angry breath. "I'11 have you

  know," he began hotly.

  Suddenly Quark was there, patting his arm sooth-

  ingly. "Easy there, Chief," he said, l
eaning forward to

  refill O'Brien's mug from a pitcher. "I can't afford any

  more murder investigations this month. It cost me a

  fortune paying off the families of the two Caxtonians

  you killed in that brawl last week."

  O'Brien blinked in puzzlement. Caxtonians were

  huge, hairy humanoids with great natural piloting

  skills but few social graces. He knew better than

  tackling one in a fight. He'd certainly never killed a

  pair of them in a brawl.

  "Two... Caxtonians?" the Bajoran said.

  Quark nodded seriously and lowered his voice to a

  conspiratorial whisper. "Oh, yes, O'Brien here, he's

  an expert in Klingon martial arts. You should have

  seen it. Ten seconds after he waded into the fight, he'd

  decapitated one and shattered the other's skull with a

  flying kick." He shook his head. "I've never seen

  anything like it."

  Catching on, O'Brien bared his teeth and snarled a

  bit, the way he'd once seen Worf do it when Quark

  had pissed him off.

  The Bajoran paled. "My apologies for spilling your

  drink," he said quickly. "Put it on my tab," he told

  Quark. Then he quickly gathered up his own glass and

  hurried off toward the gambling tables with his friend.

  "Thanks," O'Brien said, leaning on the bar, "but I

  can take care of myself, Quark."

  "Nothing to do with you," Quark said, setting up a

  new batch of glasses. "They were too busy arguing to

  drink. I was just clearing space for paying customers."

  A pair of long-necked Igrids, tall and graceful,

  almost birdlike creatures covered in blue feathers, but

  with six tentacles instead of arms, quickly took the

  vacant seats. Quark gave them a hideously toothy but

  sincere-seeming smile.

  "What can I get you ladies?" he asked.

  Ladies? O'Brien thought. How could he tell?

  The two Igrids tittered drunkenly, tentacles slap-

  ping on the bar's counter. "Mooth!" one said.

  "Make mine a double!" said the other.

  "Mine, too!" said the first.

  "Coming right up," Quark said, and he began

  mixing a fluorescent green concoction in a pitcher for

  them.

  "Let me know if Julian shows up," O'Brien said,

  sliding off his stool. "I'11 be practicing."

  "You got it," Quark said.

  O'Brien headed for the dartboard, weaving his way

  between tables. As he went, he became conscious of

  the fact that quite a few Bajorans had grown silent