Darrah went quickly through the maze of alleyways between the day-rental hangars and forced himself to slow to a casual walk as he rounded the corner, bringing the site of the dispute into view. He took in the crescent-shaped ship sitting half in and half out of the hangar, and faltered. He recognized the craft instantly, and for a moment he considered just turning and walking away, leaving the situation to play out as the Prophets intended. But only for a moment. The vessel was an odd bird, the fuselage of a decommissioned Militia impulse raider married to a brace of refurbished warp drives off an Orion schooner. It had a mutant, misshapen air to it, as if the craft were the result of some unfortunate mechanical crossbreeding experiment. It didn’t look like it should be flying, but Darrah knew full well that the pilot encouraged that appearance in a vain attempt to make it draw less attention. And the pilot in question, well, he was being pressed into the side of his ship by a man who had twice his mass, wearing dark clothes and a gaudy Mi’tinoearring. Darrah frowned. In his experience, clans from the Mi’tinocaste always had a sense of entitlement about them that made for poor relationships with anyone they considered a “lesser.” Like, for example, a skinny shuttle jockey in an ill-fitting tunic.

Darrah cleared his throat, and the Mi’tinoman paused with his fist cocked to punch his victim squarely in the gut. The pilot caught sight of Darrah for the first time, and his face flushed with relief, some color returning to his nasal ridges. “Ha!” The pilot managed. “You’re gonna regret this now! Do you know who that is? He’s only—”

“Syjin, shut up,” snapped Darrah. “What are you doing?”

“What am Idoing?” Syjin retorted, coughing because the big guy had him by the throat. “What are youdoing, standing there and watching this lugfish manhandle me?”

Darrah stroked the stubble on his chin thoughtfully. “I’m sure it isn’t anything you don’t deserve. Let me take a wild stab in the dark here and say that you’re the person who was in danger of getting his head caved in here last night?”

“Yes,” said the pilot. “Possibly. It’s a big port.”

“Hey,” began the man in the dark jacket, angry at the new arrival. “Get lost!”

“Not that big.” Darrah kept talking, ignoring Syjin’s assailant. “I bet you deserve it. Can’t you keep out of trouble for one single day? I mean, would that be too much to ask?” He was advancing as he spoke, letting his coat fall open a little. “Remember old Prylar Yilb at temple school? He was right about you. You’re on a road straight to the Fire Caves, my friend. Damnation eternal.”

“Hey,” repeated the Mi’tino,but they weren’t listening to him.

Syjin’s eyes widened. “Yeah, right after you, Darrah Mace! I’m not the one who broke the icons in the vestry! I’m not the one he made write out all of Gaudaal’s Lament a hundred times!”

Darrah threw up his hands. “Oh, this again?I was nine years old! Are you going to keep bringing up that story forever?”

Finally, the act of being ignored by the two men was too much for Syjin’s attacker, and he turned on Darrah, still holding the pilot in place. “Hey!” he shouted. “I told you to get lost! Who the kosstdo you think you are?”

Without moving too fast, Darrah pushed back his coat to reveal the earth-toned uniform he was wearing underneath it, the duty fatigues of a law enforcement officer in the Bajoran Militia. “I’m the police, friend. And that man, sadly, is a Korto citizen, and so I have to reluctantly consider him under my protection.” He nodded at Syjin. “Why don’t you stop choking him there and we’ll try to settle this with some decorum?”

The man in the dark jacket swore a particularly choice curse that suggested Darrah’s mother should take congress with farm animals, and what little of Darrah’s good mood remained instantly evaporated. He lunged, quick enough to take the man off guard, and caught him in a viselike grip, his hand pulling hard on the assailant’s right ear. Darrah twisted and pulled at the earring denoting the Bajoran’s D’jarracaste, putting savage pressure on the lobe. The man howled and stumbled away, releasing Syjin and flailing.

“Something else Prylar Yilb used to say was, you could tell a lot about a man from the way his paghflowed,” Darrah growled. “Let’s see what we can learn about you, huh?” He gave the ear a hard yank, and the man overbalanced and fell into a heap on the thermoconcrete landing pad. Darrah let him go and shot Syjin a look. “Hm. Not much. The ear of any good Bajoran is supposed to be the seat of their Prophet-given life force, but our friend here doesn’t seem to have anything there but wax.” He made a face and wiped his hand on his coat.

“Bloody Mi’tino!”wheezed the pilot. “You think you can push me around because your D’jarra’s higher up the wheel than mine?” Syjin rocked back and forth on his heels, emboldened by Darrah’s presence. “I might just be Va’telo,but I still deserve respect!” He nodded to himself and attempted to straighten his clothing.

“This isn’t about that!” snarled the man, getting to his feet with one hand pressed to his pain-reddened ear. “This is about you sleeping with my wife!”

“I didn’t sleep with her!” Syjin blurted. “It’s your brother who’s doing that! I just flew her out to meet him on Jeraddo!”

The redness unfolded across the man’s entire face as anger overwhelmed his reason. “You little maggot! I’ll kill you!” Out of nowhere a glitter of silver slid from a pocket in the sleeve of the man’s jacket, and suddenly he was holding a shimmerknife.

Darrah felt a familiar, icy calm wash over him, and by reflex his hand dropped to the holster on his belt. “Don’t do this,” he said.

“I’ll kill you both!” roared the husband, blind fury propelling him forward. The knife came up in a line of bright metal; then the phaser pistol was in Darrah’s hand and the short, sharp keening of an energy bolt crossed the distance between them. The man hit the deck for a second time, the small vibrating blade skittering away from his nerveless grip.

With a heavy sigh, Darrah reached inside his coat and tapped the oval communicator brooch on the right breast of his uniform tunic. “Precinct, this is Darrah. I need a catch wagon down at the port, hangar nineteen. Got a sleeper here, aggravated assault.”

“Confirmed, Senior Constable Darrah,”said the voice of the synthetic dispatcher. “Unit responding. Remain on-site. Precinct out.”

“Wah,” said Syjin, “you shot him. Thanks, brother. He would have murdered us both.”

“Don’t ‘brother’ me, you crafty son of a Ferengi. You’re not family, you’re my bloody penance.”

Syjin pulled a hurt face and leaned down to examine the unconscious man. “Oh. Charming. Old Yilb used to say that all men are brothers in the Celestial Temple.” He reached for a pocket on the other man’s jacket, and Mace smacked his hand.

“Yeah, well, if you ever find it, you can start calling me brother then, not before.” He blew out a breath, studying the man. “Poor idiot. His wife cuckolded him, no wonder he was furious.”

“That’s why I steer clear of the ladies,” Syjin said sagely. “Never let myself get tied down.” He patted his ship. “This is the only mistress for me.”

“Right,” Darrah said dourly, “but you’re more than happy to take a woman’s money to fly her away for some offworld adultery. I’m sure if I looked hard enough I could find a law against that.”

Syjin’s smile froze. “Ha,” he managed. “Oh, before I forget. I’ve got something for you and the children.”

“Don’t try and change the subject!” Darrah snapped, but the pilot was already inside his ship.

A moment later he returned with a hard-sided cargo container. “Here. This is for you and Karys and the little ones.”