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  Since Sisko had come in here so angry that he had punched Garak to the ground. Interesting to learn, Sisko thought, just how close to the surface it still was for Garak too. Who would have thought that Garak was not entirely reconciled to what had happened? He watched on with almost clinical detachment as Garak’s fists clenched briefly, and then were made to relax. Sisko doubted it had anything to do with guilt on Garak’s part. More like fear of detection, he guessed.

  “Your talents,” Sisko said, “have not gone unnoticed.”

  “How very gratifying to know that.” His voice was brittle.

  “And various people believe it’s possible they could be put to good use again—”

  Garak’s head snapped up. “By Starfleet Intelligence?”

  Sisko shrugged. Very slowly, Garak began folding the next piece of cloth on the pile. Watching, Sisko thought that perhaps the tailor’s hold on it was shaky. Just a little. A tiny smile was playing at the corner of the Cardassian’s mouth. He had been wrong, he realized, to think that Garak was trying to slide out of the trip to Earth. He had just been waiting for something else to draw him there.

  Garak’s voice was steady; he even managed to make it sound a little bored. “You’ll forgive me if I say that isn’t the most appealing offer I’ve ever received.”

  They stared straight at each other.

  Liar.

  “And so I must regretfully continue to decline your very kind invitation.”

  It was tempting, Sisko thought, so very tempting to knock him to the ground again. Just as Garak reached for another piece of cloth, Sisko slammed his hand down upon the pile. “What the hell are you playing at?” he said. “You know full well this is the best way you can help Cardassia against the Dominion—”

  “You’re assuming I’m not doing that already—”

  “All your resources were used up, you told me.” Sisko jabbed a finger at him. “I’d think you’d welcome the opportunity to make some new friends!”

  Sisko caught the hissed intake of breath, quickly cut off, and felt a vicious satisfaction that he’d hit the mark. “Besides,” he said, turning the screw, “you’re hardly in a position to refuse, are you?”

  “And what do you mean by that?”

  “You know exactly what I mean.”

  Garak’s eyes narrowed and Sisko knew that he had understood. He had blackmailed Garak once before to get him to leave DS9. He was prepared to do it again.

  And then, all of a sudden, Garak began to smile. “I will say one thing for you, Captain,” he said. “I always know exactly where I stand with you.” He reached for another piece of cloth, tugging at it gently until Sisko lifted his hand up from the pile. Sisko looked at him in confusion. Did Garak really want to be threatened? Both of them knew he was going to come to Earth. What the hell did he want? Garak was still watching him closely, his head tilted in—what? Challenge? Expectation?

  And then Sisko suddenly knew what was going on. Garak wanted to save face. Well, Sisko thought dryly, I did knock him to the ground…. “I would put it to you,” he said, “that Starfleet wishes to benefit from your exceptional expertise.”

  Garak beamed at him. “And that, Captain, would be most prettily put.” He picked up the pile of samples, shoved them unceremoniously out of sight under his desk, and set his hands down flat on the table. “Oh eight hundred hours?” He sounded eager now, almost excited. “Is that correct?”

  “At runabout pad A,” Sisko confirmed.

  “I’ll be ready.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.”

  They exchanged smiles that went nowhere near their eyes, and Sisko turned to go. As he walked back through the shop, the lights went down again. He went out, and the door glided shut behind him. He stood for a moment just beyond it, staring down the Promenade. He felt exhausted from the interview. And they hadn’t even boarded the runabout yet.

  Sisko walked on slowly along the deserted Promenade, looking at the shopfronts that were darkened and closed for the night. Quark’s was still open, the late shift there going strong. The door slid aside, and he saw the bright lights spill out, heard clearly the shout of a punter scoring at the dabo wheel. Bashir walked out onto the Promenade. He was out of uniform, wearing a suit, and had what looked like a bow tie thrown over his shoulder. Probably been in the holosuite. Sisko thought of calling out to him, but with his shoulders slumped, Bashir looked pretty tired. Sisko held back and watched him walk away.

  His combadge chimed, too loud, and he reached up quickly to cut it quiet.

  “Sisko here,” he murmured.

  “Captain.” Odo’s voice. “I would be grateful if you could come to ops. We have a small problem.”

  “On my way.”

  A small problem? Perhaps it would take his mind off the larger ones.

  Garak switched the viewscreen back on. Sisko was standing just beyond the closed door of the shop, his fingers pressed up against his eyes. After a moment or two, the captain straightened himself up, and walked on down the Promenade. Garak switched the viewscreen off. He rummaged around under the desk, pushing aside the accumulated pieces of material and equipment, digging around until he found a glass. He considered the bottle of kanar—a decent vintage, left behind by the Cardassians that had recently visited the station—and then chose the whiskey Bashir had given him once as part of his general cultural education.

  He had always intended to go with Sisko, of course. As the captain had said, it was surely the best way to help Cardassia; in fact, it was the only real way available to him at the moment. But Garak had seen no reason why his assistance should be taken for granted, whether by all the machinery of Starfleet, or simply by the cog that was Captain Benjamin Sisko. He pulled the cork out of the bottle, and sniffed the contents. The scent was sharp and sour, and seemed to coat the back of his throat.

  He would have to watch Sisko, he thought, with a sigh, as he poured out a generous measure into his glass. It was not hard to see that the captain’s conscience was still troubling him, and a return to Earth might bring recent events into sharper relief. Garak had no desire to find himself playing a part in that particular moral melodrama. He had more pressing matters on his mind; matters concerning Cardassia.

  So now there was a government-in-exile? Garak swirled the golden liquid around and tried to put faces to the names that Sisko had given him. Rhemet he remembered well enough; a state conservator who had made his name in literary trials, clamoring in a voice just like everyone else’s, only that bit more strident. He had briefly been a member of Cardassia’s ill-fated civilian government, and one of the few to get away when the Dominion had taken over. Tehrak was a little more elusive; something at the Science Ministry, Garak seemed to recall. Not military; certainly not part of the Order. Just a relatively ordinary functionary; another cog in a now-broken bureaucratic machine. Garak watched the liquid slide down the inside of the glass. He had to wonder if these men really were the best that the Cardassian émigré community could manage. Tekeny Ghemor had always made his dislike of Garak clear—which had not exactly inclined Garak toward him—but at least he had had intelligence. Despite their differences, Garak would have felt a little easier at the prospect of a government-in-exile with Ghemor at its head.

  Not for the first time, Garak was struck with a sense of how few good people there seemed to be left these days. The old Order was gone, the military had surrendered to the Dominion, and Garak had never been wholly persuaded of the purpose of civilians in the state machine. A new anxiety had been presenting itself to him, ever since he had murdered Vreenak, ever since he had begun to believe again that this war could be won: What would Cardassia be like, afterward? Whose hands would hold it, care for it, punish it? The forthcoming conference had brought these questions to the fore: Against the assembled ranks of all the other powers in the quadrant, Cardassia’s hand, it seemed, consisted of nothing more than some second-rate civilians and the very last remnant of the Obsidian Order.

  Garak looked ar
ound for a distraction, searching the shadows of the shop. Earth, he thought, absently. It had promise—and hazards, too, it had to be admitted. He contemplated both. His instincts told him that this conference would be as much about the peace as about the war. And he really needed to keep an eye on Sisko. He leaned back in his chair, tipped his glass at one of the mannequins standing by, and drank, savoring the taste. He glanced down at the sewing that he had put aside when Sisko had come in. Back to work, he thought.

  Their guest was certainly awake now. Awake and angry. Auger pressed back against his seat and prayed he was inconspicuous. He was relatively hopeful on this score. Mechter was too busy yelling at Steyn to pay much attention to Auger, but if anyone could handle Mechter it was the captain. Still, her eyes kept drifting down to the weapon at Mechter’s side. It seemed to Auger to have a glossy, well-kept look; in even better condition than Mechter’s suit, and that was pretty sharp.

  “Captain Steyn,” Mechter said. “When, back in the gray mists of time, you first approached my employers, I believe you were at pains to point out your professionalism, your good reputation, and your foolproof security—”

  “Mr. Mechter,” Steyn said quickly, before he could get further under way, “Let’s skip listing my shortcomings and focus for a minute on solutions. From where I’m sitting,” she shifted a little in the prison of the chair, “I think we have two reasonable options. Either we can carry on to Yridia on limited power, or we can divert the ship and stop off for repairs.”

  Auger’s guess was that Steyn was gambling on her bluntness sidetracking Mechter and stopping him from shouting at her any longer. The captain was not, from all Auger had seen, on the whole very fortunate when it came to taking risks, but she certainly knew how to talk her way out of a tight spot. Literally, in this case.

  Mechter blinked back at her. “What do you advise?” he said at last.

  “Well,” Steyn drew in a breath, “we could probably get there a day or two sooner if we don’t stop off. But diverting will make it a safer ride. Trasser’s good at his job, but I know from experience that I wouldn’t want to fly under one of his patch-ups for longer than strictly necessary.” She looked up at Mechter slyly. “Choice is yours, Mr. Mechter. We can carry on limping toward Yridia if you like. But which do you think your employers will prefer?”

  Mechter released his grip on the arms of the chair and stood up straight. Steyn straightened up, pulling her jacket straight. Mechter was looking a bit harried, Auger thought, and he wondered—not for the first time—what these mysterious employers must be like if they had Mechter running scared.

  “All right,” Mechter said at last, “where can we go?”

  “Auger,” Steyn said, and when he turned to look at her, she winked at him. Auger risked a smile back. “Open a channel to Deep Space 9,” she said. “We should let them know we’re on our way.”

  A quiet buzz had spread through ops—restrained, but expectant. Striding out of the turbolift, Sisko registered the change in atmosphere straight away, and welcomed the distraction.

  “There was a small problem, you said, Constable?”

  Odo looked up at him, and inclined his head in greeting. “Captain. We’ve just received a distress call from a freighter—a failure in their primary warp engines.”

  “And they want to dock at DS9 for repairs?” Sisko frowned slightly. This was routine—not something Odo would usually trouble him with, not even with the heightened security that came during war. “What’s the catch, Odo?”

  “Their cargo. One hundred vials filled with liquid latinum.”

  Sisko whistled softly. “Now, that is a catch.”

  “In every sense of the word,” Odo agreed. “Given that, I believe it’s reasonable to conjecture that this might not simply be engine failure, but could well be sabotage. And I am certainly not ruling out the option that the ship has been intentionally diverted to the station.”

  Sisko nodded his agreement. “Draw whatever security you need onto this, Odo. We don’t need any trouble right now.” Any more trouble. “Have you let the chief know he has a little extra work coming his way?”

  “Naturally. And I’m sure you can imagine the delight with which the news was met. But he’s assured me that he can cope with the repairs.” Odo paused. Which meant there was something else he wanted to say. “You leave very early in the morning, Captain, am I correct?”

  As if the constable wouldn’t have the precise time committed to memory. “That’s right,” Sisko said. “Oh eight hundred hours.” He waited patiently for the next question.

  “Captain,” Odo said, “if I may say so, you have been unusually preoccupied in recent weeks. Is there something about your forthcoming trip of which I should be aware?”

  “It’s an important conference, Odo,” Sisko said, wondering if anything could happen on the station without the constable getting wind of it. “Klingons, Romulans, Federation—hardly what you’d call natural allies. Plenty of room for misunderstandings. Particularly with the Romulans, at this early stage.”

  From the extent of Odo’s impassivity at this response, Sisko guessed he was not satisfied with it.

  “Captain…I would say that your preoccupation predated the announcement of this conference. I appreciate that Starfleet has an increased need for secrecy in wartime, but the security of this station is my primary concern—”

  “I know, Odo. I can assure you that in no way is the station at risk.”

  It was a half-answer, and Sisko could see it did not even half-satisfy.

  “I see,” Odo said. “A matter of Federation security, I imagine?”

  It had almost become shorthand between them: Federation security, Constable. Don’t ask me any more, Constable. You really don’t want to hear any more, Constable.

  “There really is nothing for you to worry about, Odo,” he said.

  “Well, I hope you in turn will rest assured that the station is in safe hands while you’re away, Captain.”

  “Of course I will,” Sisko murmured. “Keep me posted about this transport ship until my departure. I have to go and speak to the major.” He stopped on his way up to his office. “I suppose you’re glad to see the back of my fellow traveler,” he said. “One less thing for you to worry about.”

  Odo looked up at him. “Your fellow traveler, Captain?”

  “Garak’s coming with me.”

  There was a slight pause. He hadn’t heard, Sisko realized. Something that had got past him. But there was no double take. Not even a flicker. You really did have to give Odo credit.

  “Garak?” Odo said, eventually, and rather blankly.

  “That’s right.”

  “Captain…” And now just the merest suggestion of doubt was allowed across those controlled features. Sisko waited for him to come right out and say it. He knew that Odo had been waiting for the opportunity.

  “It…has not escaped my attention,” Odo said, “that you’ve been spending a great deal of time in Garak’s company recently.”

  “Perhaps I like his sense of humor.”

  “You’ll forgive me if I say I find that explanation rather unlikely,” Odo answered bluntly. “May I lay out my evidence?”

  Sisko glanced meaningfully around ops. Odo lowered his voice.

  “Time closeted away with Garak. A whispered conversation with Quark which results in charges being dropped against a man who stabbed him. A very angry Dr. Bashir. Let me ask in the plainest terms: Is there something happening on this station about which I should be informed?”

  “No, Odo,” Sisko said, in perfect honesty, shaking his head. “There isn’t.”

  “Which, of course, is not the same as saying that nothing is happening.”

  “No,” Sisko agreed, “it isn’t.”

  “I see.” Odo’s dissatisfaction was plain. “Let me guess—a matter of Federation security?”

  Sisko shrugged. Odo turned away, and Sisko was sure he heard a growl.

  Sisko retreated upstairs, back int
o his office. He’d been contemplating sleep, he recalled. Perhaps it could wait a little longer.

  A night falls here, a day breaks there. A moon sets and a sun rises. Stars wink in and out. People are talking, sending out messages, laying down line upon line in the pattern of infinity.

  3

  SEATED IN THE REPLIMAT, Odo was beginning to feel like a man at sea. The wave of chaos that was threatened by the arrival of the Ariadne was drawing ever closer. And, right now, he was trying to navigate the shoals of what was turning into an unexpectedly rocky breakfast with Lieutenant Commander Dax. Dax was on a rescue mission, and Odo was beginning to fear that he was about to find himself turning into her backup.

  “He’s been moody, Odo,” she said, emphasizing her words with a wave of her fork. “And has been for a couple of weeks now. It’s just not like Julian at all! I even went to play that stupid secret-agent program with him last night—I thought it might cheer him up a bit.” She shook her head. “He turned it off halfway through!”

  Odo slid the level of coffee in his cup down by exactly 1.5 centimeters. It came as no surprise to him to learn that Bashir’s game had lost some of its appeal. He looked across the table and, with a guilty start, realized that his attention had wandered. Dax was looking at him as if expecting an answer.

  “Perhaps,” he said, twitching a little more coffee into himself, “the doctor simply needs some time to himself at the moment.”

  “It’s ever since he went to that conference,” she said, attacking the second of her fluff pastries with a merciless stab of the fork. A few flakes fell away onto the plate. “Did he say anything to you about it? Anything about how it went?”

  “He’s said nothing about it to me,” Odo replied honestly.

  “Hmm.” Jadzia frowned. “Maybe someone didn’t like his paper. Those academics can be very cruel sometimes.” She sat for a moment staring thoughtfully at her breakfast. “Usually I’d just have a word with the chief, but he’s going to be busy over the next few days with the Ariadne….” Her attention fell on Odo and her eyes glittered slightly; she was looking at him like someone suddenly handed the key to a treasure chest. “Maybe you could do something to help….”