The woman was the first to speak. She seemed to be slightly the younger of the pair; mid-twenties, tall, with long blond hair tied back in an efficient ponytail. She had a quick, brisk manner that was straight from the textbook. Starfleet, Sisko thought, produced bright young officers like this by the dozen. And was losing them on the front lines pretty quickly these days.
“My name is Lieutenant Chaplin,” she said, “and this is Lieutenant Marlow.” She gestured to her colleague, standing behind. At first glance he seemed nondescript, almost colorless; on closer inspection Sisko could see his watchfulness, and the patience of a much older man. Marlow nodded a greeting to them both, but did not speak.
“Mister Garak,” Chaplin went on, “welcome to Earth. Lieutenant Marlow and I have been assigned to look after you while you’re here.”
“It is very good to meet you, Lieutenant. Both of you.”
Sisko shot him a curious look. No elegant putdowns? Perhaps these two young officers hadn’t been such a bad choice after all.
“Captain Sisko,” Chaplin said, turning to address him directly, and now only just managing to cover what Sisko realized must be excitement, “it really is an honor to meet you, sir.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant,” he said, giving her a broad smile. “I’m glad to have the chance to meet you both.” He nodded at Marlow. “Although I was expecting to see Admiral Ross—”
“The admiral has asked me to pass his regards on to you,” Chaplin said, “and also his apologies for not being here in person to meet you. I understand that something has come up that demanded his attention—”
Sisko frowned. “Nothing serious, I hope.”
“I’m afraid I really can’t say, Captain.” Chaplin gestured at the HQ building, and began to lead them toward it. As they walked, Sisko watched from the corner of his eye as Garak unobtrusively put Chaplin between them, letting him walk on the outside. First point to Garak, he thought.
“Did the admiral say when he was likely to be free?” he asked Chaplin.
She shook her head. “I’m afraid not. He asked me to direct you to your quarters, and said that he’d meet you there as soon as he was able.” She offered him a padd. “He also asked me to prepare and pass on these files.”
Sisko took the padd, and started scrolling through, skim-reading. Chaplin began to give him a quick overview. As she talked, Sisko took another look at Garak, who was taking in their surroundings as they walked. Sisko glanced over his shoulder. Marlow was walking behind, hands clasped behind his back, head down a little. He was aware, Sisko realized, of every move that Garak was making; was watching to see what Garak was watching. Sisko smiled to himself. Second point to the lieutenants. With even just a little closer contact there was no doubting their competence. Maybe it was the war, Sisko thought, regretfully, making them older before their time.
He read through some more of the information on the padd. It was pretty much as Chaplin had described. Details of all the conference sessions. Full files on all of the attendees, from across all the delegations. Very full files, some of them. And, he thought gratefully, what looked to be some excellent summaries.
“Thank you for this, Lieutenant,” he said, smiling up at her, “this is going to be extremely helpful.”
She smiled back brightly, and pointed her finger to one line. Details of the quarters assigned to him. Ross would meet him there.
“Chaplin’s very thorough,” Marlow remarked, from behind, speaking for the first time. Sisko turned to look at him. He was mild and softly-spoken; almost compliant.
Garak answered him without turning to look. “I don’t doubt that for a moment, Lieutenant Marlow.” For the life of him, Sisko could not judge which one of them had taken that point.
“I’ve prepared some background information for you too, Mr. Garak,” Chaplin said, handing him a padd. “Summarizing some of the areas I’d like us to cover in conversation while you’re here.”
“Conversation?” Garak murmured, as he took the padd. “So that’s what we have in mind.” He began reading. “All of this looks really very routine,” he said. “Very much on the lines of what I had to say when I was at Starbase 375.”
“I don’t think any of the officers you spoke to there were specialists,” Marlow said, from the rear. “I have a number of more technically-oriented questions I’d like to ask you.”
“And I’ll endeavor to provide whatever you need.”
“Thank you,” Marlow said, politely.
“And what I have not included in that file,” Chaplin said, “is that there are one or two matters arising from your most recent report that we would like to examine in a little more detail.”
Garak smiled at her. “If you are both of the opinion that something needs a little clarification,” he said, “then I would of course be delighted to help in any way that I can.”
Sisko watched as Chaplin and Marlow exchanged a look. He caught the glimmer of a smile in Marlow’s eyes. It was, he realized, no more than the natural response to spending a little time in Garak’s company. He looked back down at the routines scrolling past on the padd.
They had reached the steps leading up to the HQ building. Sisko glanced at the flags flying above as they passed beneath them. The steps were wide and made a good meeting place coming in and out of the building. Several clumps of people were gathered there, talking, waiting for friends or colleagues, or finishing bits of business before going on to the next meeting or assignment. As they went up toward the entrance, heads turned, and Sisko thought he could catch a little of the questions rising in their wake, thought he caught the whispered word, “Cardassian?” Sisko chewed at the inside of his lower lip. Their arrival was not turning out to be quite as low-profile as he would have liked.
The entrance doors slid back to admit them, and they went inside, into a wide, high atrium. They stopped at the security barrier and, while Sisko was cleared straight away, Chaplin began the more laborious process of getting Garak into the building, and letting him move around it—or some of it, at least. Not too much, Sisko speculated.
He looked out across the atrium. The sunlight was pouring through the glass front, filling the hall—although perhaps, here inside, the light was muted just a little. It was certainly not as warm as it was outside, the temperature regulators keeping everything cool. As he waited for the requirements of the bureaucracy to be fulfilled, Sisko looked out beyond the security gate, at the people hurrying to and fro across the wide hall, at the big green-leafed plants and bits of artwork dotted here and there, at the clear-fronted turbolifts gliding up and down. All so sleek, all running so smoothly.
“That’s it,” said Chaplin. “You’re in.”
They went past the barriers, farther into the bright hall. “Mister Garak,” Chaplin said, still efficient, still brisk, and obviously wanting to waste no time, “if you’re willing, I think we ought to begin straight away.”
“Well, I’m quite certain,” Garak replied, “that I have no other immediately pressing engagements.”
“Then we should get started.” She turned to Sisko, and nodded goodbye. “It was an honor to meet you, sir. I’m sure we’ll see each other again over the next few days.”
“No doubt,” Sisko said, and lifted the padd. “Thank you for this.”
“My pleasure.” Chaplin turned to go, motioning to Garak which way they were heading. Marlow gave Sisko a quiet smile.
“Very good to meet you, sir,” he said and then, smoothly, he put himself in position so that Garak was between him and Chaplin. Yet another point to the lieutenants, Sisko thought with a smile. As the three of them headed off together across the hall toward the turbolifts, Garak glanced back over his shoulder at Sisko, and gave him one last, very careful stare. His meaning wasn’t exactly unclear.
Don’t do anything I’ll regret.
It seemed to Odo that Brixhta was stopping at every possible point around the Promenade. It made it somewhat difficult to follow him in a wholly inconspicuous mann
er. The florist had been bewildered at Odo’s apparent and sudden interest in Bajoran esani. And at least two people had called out to remark how unusual it was to see him make another round so early in the day.
Brixhta passed under the balcony and, in the relative shelter of one of the stairspirals, Odo contacted ops. “Odo to Lieutenant Commander Dax,” he murmured.
Dax’s voice came out clear. “Odo?” she said. “Are you whispering—?”
Odo looked hurriedly at Brixhta, making slow progress ahead of him. “Could you check for me, please, Commander,” he said, “whether a ship has recently arrived from Hamexi space?”
“It came in to docking port three earlier.”
“Any cargo?” Odo said quickly. “What’s on the manifest?”
“Wait just a moment….”
Odo tapped his fingers impatiently against his sleeve. Brixhta was disappearing around the bend of the station.
“Several crates unloaded into the cargo bay. Described as ‘historical artifacts.’ Something going on I need to tell the major about, Odo?”
“No,” Odo said firmly, “I’m well able to handle this. Thank you, Commander.”
He hurried on along the Promenade, just in time to see Brixhta go into the bar. Everything, Odo thought, eventually led to Quark’s.
Quark took one look at his new customer and decided not to bother trying to work out how to shake hands. “You’re a new…face around here,” he said. “Welcome to DS9.”
“Thank you.”
Quark wiped the glass he was holding nonchalantly, put it down, and then made his standard opening gambit. “You here on business?”
He edged in a little as he spoke; he liked to be up close when he asked this question, to see how people’s faces changed when he asked it. Some would look hungry, others desperate, others just smug. In this case, however, Quark wasn’t entirely sure what he was meant to be watching.
“As a matter of fact—I am,” the man replied. He reached inside his jacket and flicked out a small piece of plastic; it was a gaudy shade of pink and the writing on it was gold, ornately curled, and embossed. Quark took it, taking a little care not to touch the hand that was offering it, and as much care not to be too obvious about it. No need to give offense.
“My name’s Brixhta,” the alien said. “I deal in antiques.”
Quark set all cross-cultural concerns aside. This was familiar territory—the real universal translator. “Buying,” he said, “or selling?” He examined the card. Brixhta, it said. Antiques. Strange custom, Quark thought, turning the card over. It was blank on the back. Pretty, though. And an interesting idea. Maybe he could get a few made—it might catch on. Bashir. Doctor. Or Odo. Persecution.
“That depends on where I am,” Brixhta replied. “But here—selling.”
“Antiques?” Quark said, thinking hard, and leaning on the bar.
A finger stretched out and tapped the word on the card. “Antiques,” Brixhta confirmed.
Quark put the piece of plastic down carefully in front of him. “Well, that covers a lot of possibilities, Mr. Brixhta—”
“If you’d like to hear more,” Brixhta said, “I have plenty of time. And I do so enjoy talking about my work.”
“Why don’t you take a seat there?” Quark said, gesturing at one of the stools. Not too close to Morn, of course—he didn’t want them to be interrupted. “And what are you having to drink?”
“Tonic water. Bolian. And I prefer to stand,” Brixhta said. “It reminds me of my corporeality.”
“Okay…” Quark pulled himself up from his elbows and drew back just a little. Some things always got lost in translation. “Well, why don’t you just…take a stand there, then, and I’ll get you your drink.”
Quark turned away, thinking a little brandy might help him in the negotiations he was about to open. Above the clink of the glasses he retrieved and the splash of the drinks he poured, he was tuned in to the ambient noise—the satisfying chink of latinum at the dabo table, the constant drone from Morn’s end of the bar…and then he heard another all-too-familiar sound, one he had made quite sure he never missed. It was very quiet, but unique—a very particular ooze….
“Ah, Odo…” Brixhta said, elongating the word. His voice had acquired a slight edge, Quark thought, as he turned back to the bar. It sounded like a piece of velvet—wrapped around a switchblade. “I was wondering how long it would be before you came to say hello.”
Quark put down the glasses. Brixhta was looking Odo up and down, and his eyes were glittering beneath the brim of his hat. “You know, Odo,” Brixhta said, “you haven’t changed a bit.”
Odo folded his arms. “I sincerely hope, Mr. Brixhta,” he rasped, “that the same cannot be said for you.” Quark whistled under his breath. That was the tone of voice Odo usually reserved for more colorful residents of the station—Garak, Prylar Rhit, himself….
“For one thing,” Brixhta said, ignoring Odo’s reply, “you’re still as shy as ever.” He sounded almost playful now, Quark thought. In much the same way that a razor-cat was playful—just before it tore open the throat of its prey. “Almost a whole morning you’ve spent following me round the station,” Brixhta said, “and only now you’ve come to talk to me.”
“You may rest safe in the knowledge that I was taking a keen interest in your progress. Very keen.” Odo glared at him. “And I shall continue to take a keen interest in you for as long as you remain here on DS9.”
Brixhta drew his glass in toward him. “That you should show such concern, after so much time has passed. I’m honored, Odo. Honored.”
“It’s only natural for the station’s chief of security, wouldn’t you say?” Odo thinned his lips. “When, exactly, did you get out of prison, Brixhta?”
Quark, mouth full of brandy, started to choke. Both Brixhta and Odo stared across the bar at him. “Sorry,” Quark muttered. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“Six months ago,” Brixhta admitted. “But you too, Odo, may rest safe in the knowledge that my…ah…felonious days are over.”
Odo snorted. “I find that highly unlikely—”
“What you see before you is a new man, Odo.”
“And how, precisely, did this improbable transformation take place?”
“Ah!” Brixhta sounded rapturous. He spread back into the bar stool. “Therein lies a tale, and one which I could spend a whole day telling. But the heart of it, Odo, is that I discovered History.”
“History?”
“History. And with that discovery, I found worlds of immeasurable beauty; worlds upon worlds…” He took a little of his tonic water; it seemed to steady him a bit, Quark noticed. “History, Odo,” Brixhta said, “has looked upon me kindly, and she has shown me her treasures.” He sounded close to tears.
Odo looked distinctly unmoved by this. “What’s the scam, Brixhta?” he said.
Brixhta tipped the brim of his hat upward. “I deal in antiques,” he said, and then pulled the brim back down again.
“Antiques?” Odo said, in disbelief.
“Antiques,” Quark put in, pointing at the piece of pink plastic on the bar. Odo reached out cautiously and picked it up, looking at it as if it were a piece of evidence.
He growled suspiciously. “Why, if you are selling antiques, have you spent the whole morning visiting almost every establishment on the Promenade? Is the proprietor of the jumja kiosk a keen collector? Has Kaga at the Klingon restaurant also had a life-changing encounter with the past?”
“It’s called advertising, Odo—” Quark said, sighing at having to point out something this obvious. After all this time.
Odo gave him a sharp look. “You keep out of this, Quark.”
If it was possible, Odo sounded just a tiny bit more bad-tempered than usual. Quark decided to make a strategic withdrawal back to his brandy. For the moment.
“Mr. Quark is, to some extent, quite correct,” Brixhta said, “but, in addition, I have been looking for somewhere to hold an auction of m
y goods. Somewhere with a fair amount of space, plenty of chairs, perhaps affording the opportunity to offer my customers something to eat, or something to drink….” He looked around him, and then gleamed at Quark from beneath his hat. Quark smiled back broadly. It seemed that they were definitely going into business.
“Have some more tonic water,” Quark said generously, reaching over to top up the drink. Brixhta raised the glass and tipped it at him, before sucking out a little more of the liquid.
“If I could interrupt this mutual appreciation session for just one moment,” Odo said dryly, “may I ask when you intend to hold this auction?”
Brixhta looked at Quark. Quark looked back. Brixhta shrugged, and then Quark offered, “Tomorrow morning? Eleven hundred hours?” Brixhta nodded.
“I see….” Odo looked at Quark thoughtfully, and then turned back to Brixhta. “Hours yet,” he said. “In the meantime, perhaps you won’t mind accompanying me down to the cargo bay, opening up all those packing cases you have brought on board, and showing me exactly what’s inside, will you?”
Brixhta drained his glass and slid out of the chair. “Odo,” he said, “I thought you would never ask.” He addressed Quark. “I shall return,” he declared. “And bring you my wares.”
Just before Odo turned to go, Quark pointed at the pink plastic card the constable was still holding.
“Can I have that back?” Quark said.
Odo looked down at it. “No,” he said. “I’ll be needing it for the trial.”
Sisko put down the padd and checked the time. Still no sign of Ross. He went over to the replicator and got himself a cup of raktajino, and drank it slowly, standing by the window looking out across the plaza and toward the Bolian consulate. There was a light mist coming from the sea. He caught himself thinking of the view of the stars that he had from his office, back on the station; white points of light against sheer black. He sighed, then finished up the coffee and looked again to see what time it was. He put down the cup and started unpacking his bag. There were a couple of padds on top; he scanned through one of the reports, reminding himself of the details of the news of Dominion activity in the Calandra Sector. It would almost certainly come up in conversation with Ross later. If they got the chance. If Sisko decided he had nothing else to say first.
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