Strange New Worlds 2016 (25 page)

When Odo pointed him toward a chair, Garak complied. Soon, he’d start up a one-sided
banter so annoying that the constable would give up and release him. He was too busy
puzzling over Doctor Dal’s research to really care why a tailor had been walking a
pet in a restricted area.

Right now, Garak was glad to spend a moment marveling at the convoluted mind that
had produced the moon of Tasadae hoax. No other scheme could have circumvented the
deal between the planet and the Ferengi. Unless otherwise occupied, satellites belonged
to the worlds they orbited.

Yet Garak was puzzled. The intricacy of the scheme was classic Obsidian Order, but
the sheer arrogance smacked of Central Command. Who else would credit themselves with
the ability to contrive a sham people that would cheat expert evaluation? Well, they
did have a history of underestimating Bajorans.

But what was their long-term plan? If the moon was declared off limits, the Federation
would enforce it. Deuterium couldn’t be mined inconspicuously enough to fool a starship
scan. But then, their plot involving Chief O’Brien had been shaky too.

No matter. The immediate task was learning how Rokor was getting on with tracing the
lemur’s progress via viewscreen.

“Your furniture is torture, Odo. I’m filing a formal complaint with Commander Sisko.
But I’ve heard you make an excellent chair. Care to show me?”

Clearly aggravated at Bashir’s statement, Lubaar glowered. “The Federation—or some
section of it—set up the bogus tribe.”

“Why would we?” Bashir rolled his eyes. “That’s not how we operate.”

“When I tell you the why, you’ll believe the how.”

Yesterday’s lunch squabble flashed in Bashir’s mind. “I’m listening.”

Looking professorial despite his hospital gown, Lubaar stuck out his chin. “Today
the Alpha Quadrant faces a threat not seen since the Borg. How can humanoids handle
an enemy that constantly changes shape? That may be among us already?”

Bashir leaned forward. “By learning to understand them so we can negotiate. As different
as Changelings are, we know from Odo they’re not mindless cyborgs. They’re capable
of principles, feelings, attachments, even nobility.”

“And of genetically engineering slave races to wreak their will.” Lubaar clutched
his sheet. “I lost the last family I had to their Jem’Hadar butchers.”

Bashir chewed his lip. He had no answer to that one. “Well, I can’t see how preventing
Ferengi from mining deuterium protects the Alpha Quadrant.”

“Deuterium? The moon of Tasadae holds something far more important: a tiny pool of
shapeshifters surrounded by rock that can arrest their transformation.”

“Seriously?”

“I saw it with my own eyes. When the creatures emerge from regeneration, they form
rudimentary shapes. As the rock absorbs the sun’s energy, it emits a quantum stasis
field that prevents them from shifting. When the sun sets, the energy drains, the
shapes release, and the cycle repeats.” Lubaar smiled. “You’re interested.”

Bashir coughed. “As a scientist. But that doesn’t excuse fraud.”

“Maybe not the gall of thinking Cerys and I would fall for it.” Lubaar sighed. “She
did her due diligence—performed every required test and noted the results. I didn’t.
The reason I kept my findings from Odo is that they consist of one observation.”

“Which is?”

“ ‘The Tasadae-Ferengi contract has been in place longer than this moon has been inhabited.
Insufficient garbage.’ ”

A smile twitched Bashir’s lips.

“When the fakers realized we knew, they came clean and showed us the pool. Immediately,
I saw the overriding value of keeping their investigation of the quantum stasis field
secret. Changeling spies could be anywhere.”

“And your wife?”

“She waffled.” Lubaar’s forehead creased. “Poor ethical Cerys. She denied the larger
principle: survival.”

Bashir felt queasy. “You’re saying the Federation assassinated her?”

“I—I don’t know. I’d thought halting her announcement had satisfied them.”

The doctor’s lips parted. “You gave her the sedative?”

Miserably, Lubaar nodded.

Garak stared at Odo, leaning against his desk as he listened to Rokor. The news that
Trestan was being held against his will in the derelict ore-processing facility should
have goaded the constable into action. Instead, he was fussing over details.

“How did you deduce that Thebroca Horven assassinated Dal?”

Rokor shifted his weight.

“Stands to reason,” Garak broke in. “She’s a member of the Obsidian Order—or so I’ve
heard.”

Odo ignored him. “Why kidnap your brother? Perhaps because you’re a former assassin.
Or so I’ve heard.”

Garak clicked his tongue. “Arrange the puzzle later, Odo. Can’t you see the man is
anxious?”

“If the kidnapper is holding him in ore processing, why aren’t station systems detecting
them?”

Garak jumped to his feet. “Biomimetic spray, of course! They’re probably registering
as voles.”

“But such tricks don’t fool lemurs, do they?”

Garak sucked in his breath. “Lucky thing I happened to be—”

“Stop lying.”

Before Garak could retort, Rokor grasped Odo’s shoulder. “Stop risking Trestan’s life.”

The constable jerked away. “Fine. I’ll pull up the facility’s schematics on my viewscreen—”

“No need.” Rokor held out the padd tucked under his arm.

Ignoring Odo’s scowl, Garak moved closer. Apparently, Fletflet had tracked all the
way to level thirty-three.
Good girl.

Pointing at the red dot inside the refinery, the Bajoran said, “I wrote a message
on the lemur’s collar in code that Tres and I used during the Occupation. I told him
to remove the red bead from the collar, swallow it, then pinch the lemur’s tail. This
green dot shows the creature separated from him. If it’s doing what we hope, it’s
hiding within a couple meters of Horven.”

“We?” Odo glared at Garak.

Emphatically, he shook his head. “Leave me out of this.”

Before Garak could continue, Bashir dashed in. “I know who—”

“The Obsidian Order,” Odo interrupted, “though not our resident member. Gul Horven’s
wife killed Dal and engineered the attempt on Lubaar. We could use your help, Doctor.
We’re picking her up now.”

“We?” Garak felt tension building between the bone plates above his eyes. The headache
would last a week.

“Yes, we.”

Horven was holding Trestan one level below where O’Brien had accidentally triggered
Dukat’s anti-uprising program, causing lockdown of sensitive areas all over the station.
Odo remembered the incident as the excruciating hour he’d spent trapped in his office
with Quark.

He studied his team. Ordinarily, he’d have employed his own personnel for a rescue
operation, but this situation involved several factors requiring discretion. Despite
being a physician, Bashir had seen action. As for Garak and Shaloza Rokor, well, their
experience was even more extensive.

Bending over Rokor’s padd for one last look at the situation inside, Odo switched
to vertical view. Trestan’s position high above the deck suggested he’d been imprisoned
somewhere near the top of the chute designed to feed molten ore to the refinery blast
furnace.

When the green dot rose, Garak whispered, “Let’s move. I doubt Thebroca’s bringing
Trestan his supper.”

Odo held up a shushing finger, then punched his security code into the entrance keypad.
The next step was their plan’s weakest. He’d ooze out a vent on the opposite side,
but due to the clangor solids made in air ducts, their only recourse was to burst
through the door together.

He left them to it. Unlike Garak, who’d pried off a grille to give his lemur access,
Odo sluiced through myriad tiny holes, then flowed around behind the walls, unhindered
by exhaust fans and filters. Reaching his exit point, he heard Horven.

“Just one fingertip so your brother will take his job seriously.”

Forming the Klingon hawk some said was the model for their bird-of-prey, Odo dive-bombed
Horven. She dropped her knife and grabbed her disruptor. Odo retracted to the size
of a gnat to avoid her zigzagging blast.

Odo saw Trestan shackled to the observation platform just above the blast furnace.
Calmly, the young man squeezed under the control box. The faithful lemur jumped onto
his lap.

Beneath, Odo’s team charged into the room, raced to three corners, and trained their
weapons on Horven. Before she could switch her target, Odo spread around her in a
net, reserving just enough of himself to form a mouth at her ear.

“The only thing saving you from Garak is the bother he’d have explaining why he also
shot the chief of security.”

“Damn you, shapeshifter.”

When Horven dropped her weapon, Odo resumed his usual form and kicked it clattering
down the steps.

“Pity,” Garak called up, “seeing such a rising star face such an ignominious end.”

Horven spat. “You don’t know the mess you’ve made. When I pass the news to Tain—and
I will—you’re dead.”

“Who’d believe a disappointment like me defeated a prodigy like you? But compared
to your fate—hourly prayers in a Bajoran penitentiary until old age finally releases
you—I’d prefer death. Wouldn’t you?”

Weary of Cardassians, Odo squatted to unshackle Trestan. When the boy gasped, he looked
up to see Horven dislodging a neck plate. The surgical alteration revealed a bubble
under her skin. Before he could stop her, she popped it. Instantly, she slumped.

Toxin.
When Odo darted a glance at Garak, the Cardassian looked unsurprised.

“Did you hear the tragic news? A Romulan freighter crashed into the moon of Tasadae,
obliterating the entire tribe.”

When Bashir nodded, Garak placed his tray across from him and settled on the vacant
chair.

Tired of poking at his enchilada, Bashir laid down his fork. “Supposedly, the captain
flew too close trying to see the new humanoids.”

“Hmm. I’m just glad a Cardassian transport heard their distress signal and beamed
the crew aboard.” Garak smiled. “Cardassians helping Romulans. Perhaps your Federation
ideals are rubbing off on us.”