Chapter 2

Still working in the cargo pod, Faren Gale had been three-quarters of the way up the restraint webbing when the first strike came. The alarm blared, the lights flickered for a second, and he nearly fell off the pile. With a yelp, he tightened his grip with one hand, and tried to wrap his other hand into the webbing to anchor himself more firmly. While scrabbling to fix one foot more firmly in the strapping, the other slipped free, and he dropped full length, wrenching his shoulder as he dangled free.

The lights came back. He regained his footing, grimacing at the pain in his shoulder.

He waited a second, looking around, half expecting some ship-wide comm report to explain what had just happened.

It didn’t come.

The young cargo handler decided it’d be safer to climb down, and find out what was going on. Trying to go easy on his injured shoulder, he kept his weight on the other arm.

The second hit came. Suddenly in the dark again, he reflexively groped for better purchase with his injured arm. He couldn’t keep his grip.

Screaming, Faren plummeted to the deck.

Tess McKennitt and Renyl Nehelae were in the ship’s galley, the one having a raktajino and the other a kavamilk, chatting desultorily about the Peldor festival, when the proximity alarm first sounded. In the unexpected total darkness that followed, hot liquid flew as the mugs dropped, followed by two yelps of pain and a thud.

The light returned, bright and steady.

Leaning against the galley counter, Renyl gingerly touched his kavamilk-soaked trousers, pulling the fabric away from his skin, and sucked in a quick breath of pain. The drink had been fresh and hot. He knew what the beginning of a burn felt like, and he knew he’d better get something on it.

He glanced over at the cupboard that held the medkit — and realized McKennitt was sprawled on the galley deck, unmoving.

“Tess?”

She didn’t answer, apparently unconscious.

Renyl limped toward her, and carefully knelt beside her.

She’d dropped her raktajino. From the look of it, she’d then stepped in the spilled beverage, and slipped. He leaned closer to check her pulse, and hissed in alarm. There was blood starting to ooze through her red hair.

“Tess?” he repeated.

No answer.

“She must’ve hit her head. Better get Darna...,” he muttered to himself, forgetting his own burn as he began to rise.

The ship was hit again, and Renyl was all but catapulted over McKennitt’s body.

Dellin Darna rolled out of her bunk with the first shock, and hit the deck. Shocked awake, she sat up, looking around in a daze.

“What happened?” she called in the dimness.

The murmurs from the others who’d been sleeping in crew quarters showed they were just as confused.

The freight handler also doubled as ship’s medic; she asked, “Is anybody hurt?”

“Just my pride, I think,” Turrit answered, rubbing his broad backside. He was the only other person to have been thrown out of bed. “Darna, what happened?”

“I don’t know....” A sudden flash of worry overcame her. What if their captain, the Emissary’s wife, had been injured? “I must get to Kasidy!”

She hurried past the small individual cubicles that were quarters for the captain and executive officer, and had reached the main corridor when the second hit came.

This one had been harder. The lights flickered again, coming back at only half-illumination for the first few seconds as the ship seemed to jump sideways, turning everyone’s stomach as it did.

Sindelar and Murtin had both been thrown to the floor in undignified poses. The smaller man slid nearly under his console. The heavier-set Murtin wound up crumpled between the wall and his seat, one leg hanging over the chair.

Cartier had kept his seat — bless his years of ship experience in Starfleet — and was already trying to assess what damage might have been done in the second volley.

Vinj was still upright, feet spread, crouched a little and with arms spread as if trying to balance on moving ice.

Pokel had tightened her grip on the chair, burying her face against the cushioned arm and squeaking out a little scream.

Kasidy, who’d taken a step toward Pokel to give the girl a hand back to her feet, was instead flung toward her chair. She managed to half turn and wound up slammed into the seat instead of thrown over the arm.

“Captain Kasidy!” Pokel jumped up in alarm, personal fear forgotten in the urge to help “the Emissary’s wife.”

“Ryltee, I told you to get us behind cover!” she gasped out, accepting the girl’s help in getting more comfortably and safely settled in the chair.

The leg kicked a little, then disappeared. A second later, Murtin crawled out from behind the chair.

“Right away, Captain...,” he panted. “But I thought we were behind an asteroid....”

“Lou? Were we damaged this time?”

“Minor, I think,” Cartier called. “But we’ll have to touch up the paint.”

Kasidy smiled a bit at the little joke, which confirmed that damage was indeed minor.

Vinj had reached the comm panel, bracing himself in case of another hit. The freighter wasn’t built with all the shields and protections of a starship. “Nothing on any of the channels — nobody’s trying to contact us....”

“Somebody’s shooting at us, why won’t they talk to us?” Pokel interrupted, astonished. “How could they shoot at us? Don’t they know who we are?”

The others looked at her, worried at the implication the girl hadn’t realized.

“Temma-demoiselle,” Cartier said softly, with his usual nickname for her but none of the usual teasing, “if they wanted something from us, or were going to give us a chance to surrender, they would be trying to contact us, to tell us so. We would know who we were dealing with. But with silence, they may want to destroy us, not talk to us. And how do we answer that?”

“But....” She stared at him for a second, then shuddered and pressed closer to Kasidy.

“Try to make contact,” Kasidy ordered, taking Pokel’s hand. She swallowed. “But we’d better send out a distress signal too.”

“If we can get through the jamming,” Sindelar muttered as Vinj went to work with silent intensity.

The proximity alarm sounded another warning; the ship rocked a little, ever so gently.

“They hit us again?” Pokel asked, panicking.

“No,” Murtin replied. “But I think they hit something near us.”

“Probably the asteroid we just ducked behind,” Sindelar said. “I’m picking up hot fragments.”

“Are they answering?” Kasidy asked her XO.

“No,” Vinj said flatly.

“I think we can assume that means they’re going to ignore our hails,” Kasidy decided. “Keep us in the asteroids, Ryltee, and find us a hiding place.”

“...So you see,” Quark continued, wearing his most earnest expression, “it does matter what kind of pen you write with. It has to convey your feelings as well as your thoughts, your sincerity of purpose. Now feel the grip of this pen — smooth, comfortable — and palpably sincere.” He all but shoved the pen in the man’s face. “It doesn’t matter what kind of year you’ve had, what manner of woes you mean to burn in the braziers of the Prophets — this pen won’t fail you.”

The man took the writing implement, a little hesitantly

“And it carries the blessing of the Emissary himself, before he went to the Fire Caves to meet his destiny. He used to come in here all the time, you know,” Quark said, leaning forward as if sharing a confidence. The earring he always affected for the festival jingled like one of the ceremonial bells. “He talked to me about everything — you know how people talk to their bartender. I probably knew him better than anybody. He was always doing favors for me, and me for him.”

That sealed it; with a few appropriate expressions of awe and eagerness, the Bajoran visitor pulled out a slip of gold latinum and handed it over, keeping the pen clutched tightly in his fingers as he headed out the door. Quark saw him pause at one of the baskets of blank renewal scrolls long enough to grab one, then vanish from sight.

Quark grinned. Another sale, he thought to himself in satisfaction, then glanced down the bar and hurried toward the next potential customer.

“Keep the refreshments flowing,” he paused long enough to mutter to several staff clustered around the replicator. “The month of atonement’s only a few weeks away and if there’s not enough latinum in my coffers I’ll have to let some of you go.”

They scattered as he moved on.

The woman at the other end of the bar was holding one of the pens, studying it with a skeptical expression. Several others were scattered on the bar in front of her.

“Well, doctor,” he said jovially, “isn’t that the perfect souvenir of your time on the station? An item used in the greatest Bajoran festival of all, an expression of new beginnings, of hope, of troubles left behind as one moves on into the future.”

Monrow stared at him. “It’s a replica of a Federation writing stylus, with some paint and a little feather and fringe at the end,” she replied. “It’s not even native manufacture or design.”

“Now, now, not a replica,” Quark hastily covered, “but a Bajoran design based on the superior simplicity of style that the Federation is known for—”

The doctor burst out laughing. “Save the flattery, Quark, I’ve been around enough to recognize it. Imitation is not the Bajoran way. And a slip of gold latinum for a cheap replication? I think I’ll pass....”

“If it’s the money you’re concerned about — and believe me, I know how difficult it can be for you Federation officers to adjust to the monetary economy here — get Morn to buy it for you. He can never resist a pretty face, and his generosity is legendary.”

“I’m sure he’d rather save his latinum for his bar bill,” Monrow chuckled, then lay down the pen and moved down the bar. She slid into the seat next to Morn, who looked pleased at the attractive woman’s returned presence. They chatted a moment, then she nodded at him, got up, and left the bar.

Grumbling, Quark gathered up the pens Monrow had been examining, and looked around for his next sales target.

He spotted her. The constable was standing at the entrance, scanning the bar with her usual thoroughness — and, amazingly, in uniform. All of the other Bajoran crew and most of the Federation crew were dressed in civilian attire, a broad palate of colors, textures, and designs that would have pleased the soul of any Ferengi clothier — and maybe even that of Garak, tailor, spy, or whatever he was, Quark couldn’t help thinking as he made his way to the entrance. Why Emyn was still in uniform....

“Constable Emyn!” he greeted her broadly, renewal pens conspicuously in hand. “Have you burned your renewal scrolls yet?”

Her gaze flicked over him, then, as if dismissing him as no threat, returned to the rest of the chamber.

“So,” he said when she didn’t answer, “not celebrating the Peldor festival?”

“No.”

“Couldn’t get anyone to cover for you? I would think Stevenson or one of the other Starfleet officers could let you have a break—“

“I don’t observe the festival.”

He did a double-take. “What? You don’t—” He blinked — no chance of selling a pen to her! — and sputtered. “It’s the biggest celebration on Bajor, even bigger than the Emissary’s festival! Everybody celebrates! You’re the only Bajoran I’ve ever met who doesn’t celebrate! Even the ones who don’t believe in the Prophets still celebrate!”

Her gaze turned icier, if that was possible. “The station goes on, festival or no festival.” Her security scan apparently finished, Emyn turned on her heel and strode into the crowd. He watched her go, her height, red hair, and dark blue uniform standing out as she moved through the celebrants.

“I don’t understand that woman...,” he muttered.

“Who does?” he heard a somewhat mocking voice say.

Alden, he groaned, recognizing the voice. “Planning on tearing up the place again?” he asked sarcastically. “I wish you’d wait until tomorrow, there are a lot of people on this station who’d like to drink and celebrate in peace today.”

Alden glared at him with those piercing violet eyes, his complexion flushing, then just as quickly going pale.

“I have to get to Ops,” he said through gritted teeth. “The Colonel’s actually letting me stand the watch. Can you believe it? Now would you mind getting out of my way? Or do you get your crowds by not letting people leave when they want to?”

The dangerous tone and the clenched fists convinced Quark to back out of the way, hands held out in the traditional Ferengi submissive manner. He knew enough about the executive officer’s temper; he didn’t need another demonstration. And if Alden had plans for the day, he didn’t intend to be part of them.

Watching the executive officer make his way into the crowd on the Promenade, Quark could only shake his head. “I never liked him. That’s one misfit they shouldn’t have sent here,” he muttered balefully, recalling an earlier conversation with Kira.

Thinking of Kira....

“Ezri, you consider this not dressing up?” Kira’s voice echoed across the bar.

“It’s not a dress, it’s not cut up to there, you don’t have to carry a shield, and I assure you, nobody’s going to kiss you, and if they try, you get to skewer them!” was Dax’s merry rejoinder.

He heard women’s voices, laughing.

“It’s still got a hat!” he heard Kira complain.

More laughter accompanied that comment.

The new holosuite program of Ezri’s, he thought. He rushed to the stairs, eager to see what kind of costumes the new program called for. He caught a glimpse of Kira, Dax, Pryen, and Bilecki entering the holosuite.

They were all fully clothed. In pants. And high black boots that at least showed off shapely legs. And colorful, ruffled jackets that wouldn’t show anything, even without the short cloaks draped over one shoulder. And what looked like narrow swords at their waists. And hats — incredible hats with long feathers.

He felt disappointed, even a little robbed. All of them dressed from head to foot.... “A day like today, and they couldn’t use the Golian spa program?” he grumbled.

“Are you Mr. Quark?” a tentative voice interrupted his reverie.

He whirled to see a group of four Bajorans — two adults and two children, a family. They were strangers to him, no doubt on the station for the festival. Probably naive farmers who’d spent every lita they could spare, and maybe then some, to come here to stand where Captain Sisko had stood, in Quark’s quick estimation.

It was the adult woman who’d spoken.

“Uh, yes, what can I do for you?” he asked impatiently.

The couple exchanged glances. “My cousin said you have renewal pens that were actually used by the Emissary himself?” the woman asked a little breathlessly.

“My dear lady, your cousin tells you truly,” he said expansively, the businessman swiftly coming to the fore. “You’ve come to the right place, at the right time. And today only, a third of the profits from all pen sales are going to the Bajoran Restoration Fund. It’s what the Emissary would have wanted. Right this way....”

Chapter 3