Strange New Worlds 2016 (22 page)

Standing guard outside the Starfleet dining room, Odo wasn’t surprised when Dal Cerys
stormed out. The couple couldn’t spend five minutes together without fighting. If
they weren’t arguing about the metaphysical properties of
borhya
s, it was the artistic merits of Earth jazz versus Klingon opera.

To address the couple’s volatile relationship, Odo had brought a trusted lieutenant
in case they separated. He nodded at him to follow.

Immediately, Dal jerked around as if to see who was behind her. “After all I did for
you, Odo, I warrant second-best security? If that’s how it is, I prefer none at all.”

Odo had dedicated so much effort to learning the gestures and sounds that conveyed
humanoid reactions, they’d become automatic. Without intending to, he blew out his
breath and flicked his eyes upward. Then he beckoned his lieutenant back and strode
forward to take his place.

“Thank you,” Dal murmured, then hurried ahead. Suspecting she was crying, he hung
back. When she rounded the corner ahead of him, he heard a gasp, but when he rushed
to join her, she looked fine. “Muscle twinge.”

When Thebroca exited the sizing chamber after twenty minutes, Garak smiled. At last!
A chance for parley with somebody with talent, savvy, and—as a quick review of her
recorded measurements confirmed—the perfect figure to carry off his finest fashions.
No matter that the last time they’d met he’d tried to eliminate her. What else could
an Obsidian Order operative expect after she’d been caught colluding with the Romulan
Tal Shiar? But what was past was past. Clearly, Thebroca was back in the Order’s good
graces. Why marry Horven except for the access it allowed her to carry out their secret
business?

“I have several brocades and damasks that would look marvelous on you,” Garak said,
guiding Thebroca past a well-aimed sensor to a blind spot where he’d arranged a pile
of textile squares. When he’d positioned her just so, he leaned closer. “And if you’d
like any other information, just ask.”

“Like what? The lowdown on everyone’s favorite drink?” Thebroca trained her uncommonly
green eyes on him. “Gossip about impending vacations of Starfleet personnel might
be of interest.”

The archness in Thebroca’s tone chilled Garak down to the bone plates at the back
of his heels. The last time he’d passed on such casual information, Chief O’Brien
had been seized to face trumped-up charges on Cardassia Prime—part of a rickety Central
Command scheme. When Tain was in power, he’d never have sanctioned it.

Garak leaned closer. “I mean in-depth analysis, not trivialities. Our relationships
in the quadrant are now guided by treaties, but what do those words really mean to
the average Starfleet officer? We were both trained by Enabran Tain. You know the
level of intelligence I’m capable of gathering. If you don’t want to collect it, why
did you come to my shop?”

“For an evening gown.” Thebroca held up a swatch of black-and-gold jacquard. “Tain
trained us both, yet only I carry on his work. But while your espionage abilities
have proved disappointing, you do have a reputation for being a good tailor.”

Waiting for Deep Space 9’s part in the First Contact Symposium to begin, Bashir caught
Garak eyeing the Cardassian in the shimmery gown. The first time he’d seen a female
of that species, he’d found the prominent exoskeleton disturbing. With a more experienced
eye, he could appreciate her regal figure, elegant neck, and cascade of silky black
hair.

“Doctor, you’ve stopped talking.”

Bashir glanced at Garak. “Because I’m boring you. You’d rather take stock of everyone’s
outfits.”

“Can you blame me? I clothed half the crowd here. But I can pay attention to multiple
topics. I’m Cardassian, remember?”

With his secret genetic enhancements, Bashir could as well—but he avoided mentioning
it.

Garak studied him sidelong. “To summarize: the initial step in first contact evaluation
is assessing sentience, then sapience or the likely potential for sapience.”

“Right.” Bashir straightened his shoulders. “I spent the afternoon with Lubaar discussing
every aspect of the process, but that’s the gist of the neurocognitive portion. The
next step is assessing cultural development. Depending on the mix of factors in the
evaluation matrix, a planet may be placed off limits, assigned guardians for discreet
observation, allowed monitored interactions, or opened to full access.”

“Splendid,” Garak said, his gaze on the peach chiffon frocks gracing the twins who
ran the bakery. “And each outcome would cheer or anger a different vested interest—especially
concerning a moon rich with deuterium.”

The doctor shook his head. “The point of the evaluation is what’s best for the newly
discovered people, not outside interests.”

Garak’s mouth quirked. “You can’t deny outside interests are the point of all the
security Odo has in place. I couldn’t exit my own shop without submitting to a frisk.”

Bashir conceded his cynical friend had a point. “Like you, our constable prefers prevention.”

No sooner had Bashir mentioned Odo than he heard his voice from his combadge.
“Doctor, we need you in the infirmary. Immediately.”

Bashir gauged the density of the crowd waiting for the evening’s speakers to show
up, then gave Garak a regretful glance, tapped his combadge, and said, “Bashir to
ops. Beam me to the infirmary, please.”

A moment later, Bashir felt the tingle of dematerializing, then rematerializing. Without
time for his pupils to adjust, he squinted in the bright lights of the surgical suite.
Odo and two security officers were standing on the opposite side of the operating
table. Atop it lay Dal Cerys. One look, and he could tell that the medical service
she required was the one he enjoyed least: an autopsy.

“So . . . Doctor Dal was murdered?”

Odo glared at Garak. “That’s what I brought you here to tell me.”

The Cardassian blinked sleepily. “What reason could I possibly have? I’m just a—”

Anger rose inside Odo, and it rumbled out in his voice. “None of that. I was standing
near Shaloza Trestan when he recognized you as the man tasked with interrogating him.
Everyone else may be touched you let him go, but I’m not so naïve. That story is verification
that you were indeed a member of the Obsidian Order with all the ruthless, vicious
training that implies.”

“So you say.” Garak yawned. “But half a dozen witnesses can verify that today, at
least, I was a simple tailor. Run my surveillance footage to ease your doubts. I have
nothing to hide.”

Odo growled. “That’s what that diplomatic couple said. Am I the only one who finds
Cardassians alibiing Cardassians suspicious?”

“Ah . . . Doctor Dal was murdered when Thebroca was occupying me with her new gown.”

Odo glowered. “Murder hasn’t been established. I’m waiting for the autopsy.” But he
knew what it would find.

Odo kept Garak in his office three hours past midnight waiting for the autopsy—long
enough for him to doze despite his stiff chair and for the constable to glisten from
delaying his regenerative cycle. When the good doctor confirmed that Dal’s unnatural
death had occurred while Garak was stitching, the news was a relief to both of them.

At the eighth hour, Garak was waiting in his shop for Shaloza Trestan. After all,
a promise is a promise. When the ninth hour rolled around with no ex-urchin interviewer
in sight, he headed for Quark’s.

There he saw the good doctor undergoing full-on Quark badgering.

“Come now, Bashir. What does ‘unnatural’ mean? She slipped in the bathtub? She choked
on a grape? Or”—the Ferengi boosted himself half on the counter to lean closer—“she
suffered a fate requiring further investigation?”

Bashir drained his teacup, set it on the bar, and waved for Quark to stop. “Not my
place to say.”

Quark lowered himself to the floor. “You Starfleet types are annoying.”

Garak chuckled. “I’m not in uniform and not bound by discretion. I can tell you, beyond
a doubt, she was murdered.”

Quark rubbed his hands. “The Manhunt Pool is open for business.”

The Womanhunt Pool, you mean,
Garak said to himself. Thebroca Horven murdered Dal Cerys—of that he was certain.
But how she’d done it and why—or how long it would take him to make Odo aware without
implicating himself as the source—that he didn’t know. “Put me down for three days.”

As Garak handed over his stake, he saw Bashir fold his arms. “Has anyone ever told
you that running a pool on when a murderer will be caught is ghoulish?”

“You have,” Quark answered, “every time that’s the crime in question. But I’ve yet
to see you miss a wager.”

The doctor shifted his weight. “Okay. One day.”

Odo wasn’t good at all humanoid expressions, but he hoped his combination of stare,
jutting jaw, and grunt communicated his exasperation. Just in case, he slammed his
fist on his desk. “If you won’t tell me Dal’s conclusions concerning the tribe that
inhabits the moon of Tasadae, how can I determine which interest had the most reason
to kill her?”

Clutching his arms, Lubaar pressed back in his chair. “That was Cerys’s last project.
Out of respect—”