For example, the contents of Odo’s “Natima Lang” file, compiled during the ambassador’s second visit to the station, fascinated Ro. She was impressed by Lang’s unorthodox political views and active resistance against Cardassia’s Central Command. Why the Ghemor government had selected her to run errands to Bajor was obvious. What took Ro a moment to figure out was the relevance of Odo’s inclusion of cross-references to stationwide crime reports in Lang’s file. She focused on a few specific items that caught her attention.

Forty-two percent reduction in illegal trafficking linked to Quark’s

Six complaints regarding quality, swindling or thievery re: bar service (twenty-seven in same time frame previous year)

Dr. Bashir: dabo girl w/sprained finger from stuck dabo wheel; no harassment involved

The conclusion was obvious: Odo attributed the crime rate drop to Lang’s influence on Quark. So Quark had ties with Ambassador Lang, probably romantic ones. What did Lang have that he wanted?she wondered. Ro might be considering her possibilities with Quark, but she wasn’t stupid about him. Quark, characteristically, wasn’t one to plunge into a relationship without a profit motive hovering in the background. If some mutually beneficial emotion passed between interested parties, so much the better, but love alone never justified any transaction. His steadfast belief in the 229th Rule of Acquisition, “Latinum lasts longer than lust,” assured that.

She considered Lang’s holo. Unless one found exotic reptiles desirable, Ro never understood what might make Cardassians attractive to anyone outside their own species: she found them brutes who gloried in the slow, sadistic kill. Never distinguishing between those who could defend themselves and the sick, weak or young, Cardassians in Ro’s experience gloried in calculated brutality simply because they could.

But Lang…If the eyes, indeed, were the windows to the soul as the old Terran adage went, Lang’s eyes lacked the chilly veil of superiority all Cardassians seemed schooled in. Rather, Lang evinced a steely softness Ro believed characterized those who knew and practiced compassion, but understood that protecting goodness required a willingness to go into battle when circumstances required it.

Her viewscreen’s chronometer reminded Ro that she had less than twenty minutes before the Trager’s arrival—and she still had an errand to run before she greeted the station’s latest guests, if “guests” was the right way to reference them. Usually guests didn’t require more than uneventful arrivals, pillow pastries and quiet quarters to find comfort aboard DS9. The Cardassians might be comfortable, but the rest of the station was another matter.

After reviewing the potential pitfalls of hosting a warshipload of Cardassians, Kira and Ro determined that the station status would have to be pushed up to security level yellow. Impact to the day-today tasks occupying most civilians would be minimal: other than permitting only scheduled trips to and from the station, internal communications, commerce and activities would continue as normal. Those affiliated with the diplomatic delegations, Militia members and Starfleet personnel, would have to provide retinal scans in addition to the usual voiceprint ID in certain secured areas. All ships would be subject to random security checks and no last minute flight plans would be authorized. The cargo pilots would complain, but Ro felt the inconvenience would be mitigated by the decreased likelihood of some militant anti-Cardassian group deciding to use the station as a staging ground for an act of revenge.

Reassured that her people were in position and that all available measures had been taken to guarantee an uneventful remainder of shift, Ro closed Lang’s file, hoping she could glean a final insight into her guests by visiting the one person on Deep Space 9 who might know more than Odo.

Quark polished the last in a set of exquisitely crafted Gamzian crystal snifters (an idea he’d thought of after reading last year’s bestseller on Ferenginar, Packaging Your Way to Easy Profits) when Ro sidled up to the bar. She smiled cryptically.

“After we talked the other day, I went ahead and reserved the holo suite for tonight. Hope that wasn’t too forward of me,” Quark said.

Ro shook her head and shrugged. “Tonight isn’t going to work. Station business.”

“Come on, Laren. Tell that slave driver of a boss of yours that all work and no play makes for perpetually irritable employees,” Quark said, and muttering under his breath added, “and if she’s not walking evidence of that truism, I don’t know who is.”

“I have a feeling you’ll want to be behind the bar tonight, not in a holosuite.”

“Hmmmm. Must be some kind of show you’ve got planned if it’s better than gazing at you across a candlelight dinner for two, the moonlight etching your profile in silver against the velvety night sky.”

“Quark,” Ro warned, her eyes narrowing.

“Fine, fine,” he groused. “I’ll have to unload the holosuite time, though at this late hour that might be hard to do without deep discounts…Then again…” He craned his neck around the corner and hollered into the storeroom. “Hey you, Treir!”

Treir appeared in the doorway, a two-meter statue cut from jade. “Try again,” she suggested, gazing placidly down her green nose at her boss.

Rolling his eyes, Quark gestured for her to come closer. “Check the attitude in the back, Treir. This is business.” He waited, looked back over his shoulder and saw his number one dabo girl still fixed in the doorway, clearly unimpressed by his dictum. And what was with the outfit? Wearing scanty and provocative exercise attire instead of scanty and provocative work attire. Disgusted, he dropped his hands to his hips. “I could fire you for being out of uniform during business hours.”

She folded her arms across her chest, yawning. “Try again, Quark.”

“I don’t—This isn’t—I refuse to—” he sputtered. Glaring, he gave an annoyed sigh, squared his shoulders and took a deep breath.

Resting her chin in her hand, Ro’s eyes danced with amusement; she unsuccessfully suppressed a smile.

Insulted, Quark spun around and said, “Try to remember you’re on my side, Laren.” He turned back to Treir and said very slowly, “If you have a moment, Treir, I have a business proposition I’d like your input on,” he punctuated his amiable sentence with a decidedly sardonic smirk.

“Sure, I have a sec. What do you want?” she said, hopping up on the counter. She threw her bare green legs out in front of her, braced her hands behind her and arched her back in a stretch.

She’s trying to distract me—and it’s working,Quark thought, noting how equally effective she’d been in blocking his preferred escape route. “As your employer, I shouldn’t have to recite a damn sonnet to get answers to my questions. You signed a contract. I could fire you—without cause.”

“Yeah, but we both know you won’t. I’m too valuable to the bar,” Treir said pleasantly, removing a pair of metal bracelets from her pocket and bending to snap them around her ankles.

“Hey!” Ro jumped up from her stool and circled round to where Treir perched on the bar. “Are those new grav weights? I saw some of the Starfleet people using them during their rec periods.”

Treir nodded affirmatively, unsnapped one and handed it to Ro. “They’re great for extra resistance. Improves the workout like you can’t believe. Just press this button here and it enhances the artificial gravity by—”

“Ahem,” Quark cleared his throat. “Were we not having a discussion, Treir?”

Pressing her face between her calves, Treir grabbed her ankles and flattened her back. “You were talking. I wouldn’t call that a discussion.”

Quark looked pleadingly to Ro for support, but Laren was preoccupied tinkering with the grav weights. So it’s just me and Treir’s fantastically pliable limbs…