Sisko moved to the replicator to get some refreshments—raktajino for himself and O’Brien, and cold water for Winn—and then brought O’Brien up to speed about the theft of the Orb.
O’Brien sipped his raktajino in the seat beside Winn’s. “If you don’t mind my saying so, ah, Eminence, your instinct to avoid taking a large contingent of ships into the DMZ was a good one. If Turrel really has a lot of Cardassian vessels combing the region right now, then finding the trail of a single Maquis ship will be hard enough as it is without adding any additional warp signature noise.”
“That was my thought as well,” Winn said, staring contemplatively at her water glass.
Sisko couldn’t help but wonder whether the real reason she had declined Turrel’s offer—possibly placing the peace treaty she and Bareil had just negotiated at risk—was that she wasn’t comfortable with the notion of delivering the Maquis to the legate’s tender mercies. Or maybe she simply doesn’t get along with Turrel as well as Bareil did.
“And that is why,” the kai continued, “I have decided to go into the DMZ alone. I wish to find the Maquis cell responsible for the theft of the Orb and make a personal appeal for its safe return.”
Sisko set down his mug. “With all due respect, Eminence, I strongly advise against that. The Maquis are far too suspicious of trickery and infiltration to trust you. And they’re desperate enough to see you as a valuable hostage.”
Winn set her glass down on the desk as though banging a gavel. By some miracle, the water didn’t spill. “I cannot sit idle while the Orb remains in the hands of thieves. Its return is too important to the people of Bajor. I am going into the Demilitarized Zone, before the trail goes cold. Turrel has even provided a copy of his ship’s sensor log to facilitate matters.”
Sisko’s gaze locked with Winn’s for a protracted interval. He doubted she possessed the expertise to follow a fading Maquis warp trail on her own, no matter what information Turrel might have shared with her. He could also see that he wasn’t going to dissuade her.
“All right,” Sisko said with a sigh. “But you should at least go with the protection of the Bajoran Militia.” He looked toward the chief engineer. “Mr. O’Brien, I want you to assemble a small recovery team and prepare a runabout for launch. Your team will coordinate the search effort with Kai Winn’s Bajoran personnel.”
O’Brien nodded. “Aye, sir. We can use Turrel’s sensor data to track the Maquis from the runabout. I doubt the Cardassian search parties have any equipment quite as sensitive as ours, so I expect we’ll locate the Maquis ship’s trail and follow it to their hideout before anyone else manages it.”
Something else suddenly occurred to Sisko. He cast an eye toward Winn. “Let’s just hope that Turrel doesn’t resent Starfleet’s involvement in the search enough to endanger the new Bajor-Cardassia treaty.”
“The legate shouldn’t mind your assistance,” Winn responded. “So long as it doesn’t further embarrass him by becoming common knowledge.”
O’Brien shrugged, clearly more interested in planning the details of the recovery operation than he was in the intricacies of Cardassian politics. “Once my team on the runabout locates the Maquis’ hideout, the Militia crew can keep them busy while my team slips inside, locates the vault, and snatches the Orb right out from under their noses.”
Winn nodded, her expression thoughtful, like a dom-jot player carefully considering every possible bounce the billiards might take. To O’Brien, she said, “The Emissary seems to think it unlikely the Maquis will be able to open the vault immediately. How do you propose to do it?”
“My first instinct would be to ask Legate Turrel for the combination,” O’Brien said.
Winn shook her head. “The price of that information would have been consenting to a joint Cardassian-Bajoran military operation. I’m afraid that we must find another way.”
Sisko frowned. “Chief, the Cardassians don’t manufacture blindvaults, do they?”
“No, sir. They’re designed and built by the one people in the quadrant most interested in keeping their valuables safe—the Ferengi.”
Sisko felt a grin slowly spreading across his face. “Then it sounds like you’ll need the services of an exceptional safecracker.”
“I think I have the perfect person in mind for the job,” O’Brien said, returning Sisko’s smile.
Winn walked several paces behind the engineer as he stepped off of the busy Promenade and into Quark’s bar. She was content to let him lead, since he was clearly far better acquainted with this milieu than Winn was.
Or had ever wanted to be.
While O’Brien chatted with one of the Ferengi waiters, Winn stood between the tables at the periphery of the bar’s gambling area, taking great care not to touch anything. The evening rush had yet to materialize, though the dabo wheel spun in a desultory fashion while a handful of revelers looked on. An awkward-looking Lurian ogled the young, scantily attired Bajoran woman who presided over the game. Winn looked away, disgusted, and approached O’Brien.
“So how about it, Rom?” the chief was saying, leaning toward the Ferengi waiter. “It’s just to the DMZ and back, and the whole thing’ll take maybe four days, tops. We could really use your help on this. Those lobes of yours could make all the difference.”
“The people of Bajor would be in your debt,” Winn offered, prompting a response from the Ferengi that resembled a wince.
The thin, almost emaciated-looking Ferengi was snaggle-toothed and repellent. But Winn had never much liked the company of Ferengi. She found everything about them—from their obsession with material possessions to their very appearance—to be the antithesis of all things spiritual.
It was bad enough having to ask for assistance from the alien whom the Prophets had inexplicably selected to be the Emissary. It was bad enough to be denied the opportunity to speak directly with the Prophets, as Sisko had done. It was bad enough to have to rely on the kindness and competence of Legate Turrell. But to be forced to consort with these large-eared creatures as well ...
But the Prophets may have a plan even for such as these, Winn thought, chiding herself. After all, Chief O’Brien really seems to think this Ferengi’s contribution to the mission could be valuable.
“Uhhm, why me?” said the Ferengi, who seemed to be cowering even though no one was threatening him. Winn wondered if cringing might not be an ingrained, reflexive defense mechanism for this wretch. In spite of herself, she felt a surge of pity.
“Rom, you are easily the most technologically savvy Ferengi aboard DS9,” O’Brien continued, draping a friendly arm around the Ferengi’s slight shoulders. “And that makes you the perfect choice to serve as Starfleet’s ‘safecracker’ on this mission.”
“My brother is not going to serve as Starfleet’s anything,” came a harsh, braying voice from behind Winn.
She turned to see the approach of another Ferengi, whose deep scowl and expensive-yet-vulgar-looking suit made it clear that he was far less apt to cower than the Ferengi with whom O’Brien was speaking. She recognized the newcomer at once as Quark, the owner of this establishment—and the one who had recently bestowed upon her the dubious honor of namesake for one of the items on his dessert menu.
Ignoring both O’Brien and Winn, Quark marched right up to the other Ferengi, the one he had referred to as his brother. Winn pondered whether any two brothers anywhere had ever resembled each other less.
“Get back to work, Rom, or I’ll dock you another hour’s pay,” Quark said.
“I’m on my break, Brother,” Rom replied, sounding lame.
“Your break’s over.”
“Now hold on a minute, Quark,” O’Brien said. “I’m not sure how much of our conversation you heard, but—”
Quark pointed at one of his outsize ears as he interrupted. “Hello? Would you like me to read you the transcript? You want to drag my brother off on a four-day jaunt across terrorist-infested space when I’m already shorthanded as it is.”
“But—” Rom began.
“No buts,” Quark said, squashing his sibling’s words flat. “You’re not going, and that’s that.”
Then Winn noticed another large-eared figure, a youth. He stood on the restaurant’s uppermost level, leaning against a railing. His tiny, sharp eyes seemed to be absorbing every detail of the exchange between Quark and Rom. Though the lad was a good eight meters away, Winn had no doubt that his oversize ears were taking in every word, just as Quark’s had.
Rom grimaced at Quark, apparently about to put up a fight. Then, to the obvious chagrin and disappointment of the boy on the railing. Rom’s temporarily rigid posture bowed into a subservience that he wore like a well-broken-in garment.
“Yes, Brother,” Rom said, shifting his scant weight awkwardly from one foot to the other. He was a picture of defeat and dejection.
“Now get back to work before your next paycheck gets all the way down into negative integers,” Quark said. With a shamefaced nod, Rom quickly walked away, headed for the kitchen.
“You’ll have to forgive my brother for wasting your time,” Quark said, speaking to both O’Brien and Winn simultaneously. “I love him, but he’s an idiot. It’s a full-time job just steering him clear of trouble and keeping his teeth to the grindstone.”
“No problem, Quark,” O’Brien growled. “Especially if you have some skill in breaking into Ferengi-designed blindvaults.”
Quark’s eyes widened in a stage-play portrayal of surprise and indignation. “Chief! That sounds like criminal behavior to me. Whatever Constable Odo may have told you, I’m far too busy running my entirely legitimate food, beverage, and entertainment emporium to have time for such things. Now, if you’ll please excuse me ...” And with that, the large-lobed restaurateur was gone.
O’Brien sighed, his brow furrowed. “Damn. I mean, “That’s certainly disappointing.’ Sorry, Eminence.”
But Winn wasn’t concerned about the chief’s language. “What do we do now? Can your recovery team get at the Orb without bringing a Ferengi along?”
“Looks like we’re going to have to. I suppose we can always open the vault after we get it back to DS9. After all, what’s the difference if it takes an extra day or two to do a job a Ferengi could have done in a few minutes?”
Winn considered O’Brien’s question in silence. He’d made a good point. But what if the Maquis thieves had somehow managed to remove the Orb from the vault? If Chief O’Brien wasn’t able to settle that question until after returning the vault from the DMZ, then the Maquis might succeed in taking the Orb just about anywhere. Its trail would be as cold as a Pagu winter by then. In that event, recovering the Orb would be all but impossible.
She glanced upward again. The Ferengi youth was still standing on the restaurant’s upper level. He was gripping the railing so hard with his long, graceful fingers that his knuckles were as white as a sinoraptor’s fangs. The boy’s gaze seemed to be lingering on the entryway to the kitchen, through which Rom and Quark had just disappeared. His dartlike eyes contained a fire that she would have recognized in any species: frustrated ambition.
Winn decided to find out as much about the boy as she could. Turning her gaze back to O’Brien, she said, “Please continue assembling your team, Chief.”
O’Brien nodded. “We can be ready to leave within a few hours.”
“Good. I have some business to tend to in the meantime.”
Then she strode purposefully back out onto the Promenade. She still needed to contact Militia Command in order to obtain an escort vessel for the Orb-recovery mission, a call she intended to place from her quarters.
But on her way there, she made a brief stop at the station’s security office.
* * *
Nog felt his lobes fairly vibrating with apprehension, though he couldn’t exactly say he was afraid. The sensation wasn’t as bad as the times Odo had picked him up and tossed him into a holding cell—his most recent experience of that occurred only a few days earlier, when his friend Jake Sisko had acted to settle their recent quarrel over a double date that had gone badly—but it was close. Sure, Kai Winn wasn’t the constable; no armed deputies flanked her, nor did she have the authority to summarily lock him up, so far as Nog could tell. And she didn’t have Odo’s creepy, unfinished facial features. But Nog was well aware of her significance to Bajor’s religious community, and felt himself responding to her air of quiet authority in spite of himself.
What would Marauder Mo do? Nog asked himself. He decided that the beloved action-figure/holovid personality would meet Winn’s authority with bluster.
“All right, Kai Winn,” he said, folding his arms across his chest with practiced insouciance. “Now will you please explain exactly why you’ve brought me here?”
Winn gestured broadly about her, as though inviting him to study the Bajoran shrine’s simple, unadorned walls.” I asked you to come here partly to familiarize you with something I’m seeking. And partly so we can speak in private about its extreme importance to the people of Bajor.”
Nog looked about the shrine, which was empty except for the two of them. A pair of prylars had been tending to the tapestries in the outer vestibule when they arrived, but had obediently vanished when the kai had asked them to step outside for a few minutes.
“Well, we seem to have a great windfall of privacy,” Nog said. “Let’s get on with this before my uncle sends out a search party.”
Winn smiled blandly, not rising to Nog’s insolent tone. Moving quietly, she led the way into a smaller interior chamber, which was lit only by candles set into sconces. In the center of the room, atop a raised dais, sat a large, dark, roughly cubical box.
“I know all about your many ... skills,” she said, her eyes seeming to bore into him.
“Really?” Nog said, wondering how that could be. After all, he wasn’t exactly a public figure.
Her expression turned grave. “Yes. Your Constable Odo has told me a great deal about you. It seems you’ve misspent a great deal of your childhood learning to crack safes, pick locks, and so forth.”
Now his lobes picked up the sound of opportunity. She needs me, he thought. Looks like it’s a seller’s market for the services of a good lockpick. And Nog knew that he was good.
But being scrutinized by an authority figure—even one whose authority largely didn’t affect him—also made him nervous. He maintained his neutral negotiator’s grin as best he could anyway. “I suppose I’m not the sort of person you’d normally turn to for help.”
“Be that as it may, your abilities will be invaluable in recovering one of Bajor’s missing Orbs from the vault that holds it.”
“Let me guess. It’s in a Ferengi-constructed blindvault.”
Her eyebrows rose. “You’re familiar with them?”
“Of course,” Nog said, swelling with pride. “The lock mechanism is a kind of tonal puzzle. Sort of a subsonic word-association game where you key in specific notes in response to random prompts from the vault’s computer.”
She stroked her chin thoughtfully. “That doesn’t sound too difficult.”
Nog felt an incipient surge of panic; perhaps he had told her too much. Recovering quickly, he pointed to his right ear. “Without the correct combination—or lobes like these—you won’t have a prayer of getting a blindvault open anytime soon.”
“It is a mistake to underestimate the power of prayer, my young friend.”
“I trust latinum more.”
Ignoring his comment, Winn said, “The mission will last about four days. You would accompany me aboard a Bajoran Militia vessel, which will be working in tandem with a Starfleet vessel in recovering a missing Orb.”
Nog didn’t like the sound of that. “Why do you need to bring me along? Why not just bring the vault back to the station and have me open it here?”
“Because if others have succeeded in opening the vault first, recovering the Orb may well prove impossible. I can’t risk that. Don’t worry, child. You’ll be well protected
.”
Nog’s fear persisted. “If you need to bring a lot of protection along, then this must be a pretty dangerous mission.”
Her bland smile abruptly turned as hard as duranium. The lines on her face, perhaps etched there during the brutal years of the Cardassian Occupation, deepened. “We live in a dangerous universe, child,” she said.
“Maybe. But some parts of it are definitely more dangerous than others. And therefore more expensive.”
She blinked in evident incomprehension. Pleased that he was holding his own with her, he pressed on. “I need latinum. Ten bars. Up front. I’ll do the mission, but only if you show me the goods first.”
She regarded him in silence for a long moment. He expected her to become angry with him. Therefore the sad expression that crossed her broad face took him by surprise.
“I’ll show you something better,” she said finally. “The Orb of Prophecy and Change.” Then she turned toward the box at the room’s center and opened it.
He looked inside, skeptical.
Suddenly, a light more brilliant than anything Nog had ever seen before streamed forth, washing over him, enveloping and embracing him. Ageless voices whispered into his lobes, their enticing words just beyond his comprehension. He heard a ringing, not-unpleasant musical overtone underlying it all, which brought to mind the stories he’d been told as a child about the highly paid celestial choirs that worked the Great Lounge of the Divine Treasury. It spoke to him of the infinite, and of answers to questions he lacked the understanding even to ask. And for an instant, he glimpsed something heretical, something he’d dared to consider only occasionally, such as during the times when he watched, disappointed, as his father knuckled under to Uncle Quark’s arbitrary will.
It was the notion that there might be something out there even more precious than latinum.
Then, as suddenly as the nimbus of light and thought had surrounded him, it was gone. The box was closed, inert.
STAR TREK: DS9 - Prophecy and Change Page 8
