He was grateful for the view.  Deep Space Nine hung in space like some
exotic creature, both disturbing and fascinating in its alien beauty. 
He watched its winking lights and the lights along the habitat ring and
began to idly speculate which docking pylon would be theirs.  Sirik of
Vulcan, son of Seklar, the cruiser's passenger manifest named him.  He
stood there perfectly still, hands clasped behind his back.  His brown
robes were sombre, unadorned and simply cut.  Illumination from the
cruiser's running lights cast an eerie glow about him and revealed
elegantly pointed ears.  The blue-black hair was cut short in the style
preferred by his race, the bangs perfectly straight across his high
forehead.  Deep brown eyes were focused out into the vastness of space.
 The young man gave an imperceptible sigh and reflected that before him
lay his journey's end.  That journey had been difficult and expensive.
But he hadn't the luxury of  time to dwell on such things now.  As the
cruiser approached its docking pylon slowly, he realised that more than
ever, it had only begun.
**********

Constable Odo stood unobtrusively against a far wall watching as
passengers disembarked, his quick blue eyes scanning for any hint of
trouble or suspicious behaviour as they passed.  A craft such as this
could have anything or anyone aboard and Odo had to admit that he would
feel better if he had more information on these arriving passengers. 
The fact that they were all Federation citizens did nothing to allay
the Constable's concern.   Many Maquis members could claim Federation
citizenship and did so when it suited their needs.   He well remembered
a particular Vulcan who, in fact, had been a gunrunner for the Maquis. 
If he were granted the leeway he would so like to have, that episode
would never have happened.

As he stood there, Odo speculated on just what these latest arrivals
would mean for his security force.  Whenever there were new arrivals on
Deep Space Nine, keeping an eye on Quark was never a bad idea.  But
either the Ferengi was getting good at throwing the Constable off the
scent or there was truly nothing about this particular cruiser to
interest station security.  Odo suspected the latter.  The passengers
stepped through the double airlocks and carried on about their business
hardly giving him a questioning glance.  On this occasion, there would
be no payoff for his trouble, he thought and momentarily fretted about
the waste of his time.  But his occasional scrutiny of people arriving
at the station had paid off more times than not and satisfied, Odo
turned and headed back towards the Promenade.

As he neared his office, Commander Sisko appeared at his side.

"Good morning, Constable."

"Commander Sisko."

"Been to check out that ship that just docked?"

"Yes.  Unremarkable bunch from what I can see," the Constable replied
gruffly.  "All Federation citizens according to the manifest.  The ship
is scheduled to be here only for a few hours taking aboard cargo before
heading out towards Tellerite space."

"Hmmm, " Sisko said softly, a touch of humour in his voice.  "Do I
detect a note of suspicion ....?"

"I'm Chief of Security.  It's my job to be suspicious."

Sisko grinned.  "Well, it seems this time, your suspicions are
unwarranted."

"The day is still young, Commander."

They continued towards the Constable's office and Sisko began,  "About
that report on the incident that occurred on the Promenade
yesterday...."

"Yes, Commander,"  Odo interrupted him.  "I haven't forgotten.  You'll
get it before the day is over."

"Good.  Major Kira is such a stickler for detail.  I wouldn't like to
tell her she had to wait a bit longer for it."

Odo's only response was a grunt of amusement and he watched the
Commander head towards Ops before entering his office.  Since the
morning so far had been very routine, Odo thought he might as well get
started on that report.

Along the promenade, below Odo's office, a lone Vulcan walked amongst
the crowd, paying little attention to the glittering shops, the traders
trying to catch his attention or others swirling around him.  While
others window shopped, Sirik approached one of the many computer access
terminals scattered on the Promenade which would display the usual
tourist information on DS9.  It was good enough:  he was able to
verifying the locations of the different sections;  the habitat ring,
Ops, the Promenade, the infamous Quark's and above him, the Chief of
Security's Office.

He had been travelling for some time, too absorbed in thought to
remember food.  But now his body demanded nourishment and the computer
schematics gave him the location of the Replimat.  He turned in that
direction, right into a woman wearing the uniform of the Bajoran
military, who was briskly headed the opposite way.  Her direct gaze
held him and for a heartbeat, he held his breath.

"Sorry!"  Major Kira said.

But Sirik only lowered his eyes and inclined his head gracefully.

"The fault is mine," he evenly said.

Kira quickly took in the computer display.  "Need some help?"  she
asked, not really certain why she was volunteering since it was obvious
the young man had already enlisted the computer's help.

His dark eyes met hers, flickered to her collar and he replied, "No,
thank you, Major."

With another nod, he left Kira standing there, wondering about the
Vulcan ability to answer a question exactly, never volunteering more
information than was required.

The noise and activity of the Replimat swallowed him as he stepped
through its doorway.  The shop was nearly full but no one paid him any
mind as he made his selection at the replicator, a Vulcan dish of
simple fruits and vegetables.  Only a  few empty tables remained. 
Sirik chose one and sank into his seat grateful for the noise, the
bustle and the anonymity.  Very few lunched alone here and the buzz of
conversation sealed him in his own thoughts.  He clasped his hands
before him, his lunch momentarily forgotten as recent events were
replayed in his mind.

Elim Garak was in prime position to notice Sirik's arrival.  Agitation
was too strong a word, the Cardassian tailor thought, but there was
something about the young Vulcan that caught Garak's eye.  He could not
be certain but had those long hands shaken ever so slightly when he'd
adjusted the bag that hung from his shoulder?  Those startlingly blue
eyes widened for a fraction of a second before they flickered back to
Bashir.

"What?"  Bashir immediately demanded.

"What indeed, Doctor?"

"Don't give me that.  I was just about to make my point when you
wandered off.  What did you find so interesting anyway?"  Bashir turned
slightly to  peruse the room.

When he saw nothing out of the ordinary, Bashir turned back to Garak
and smirked, "More cloak and dagger, Garak?"

"I'm not at all certain what you mean by that,"  Garak smoothly
replied.  "But never mind.  You were about to expound on the Terran
interpretation of Obrik Calem...."

"Yes,"  Julian began, eyes twinkling with amusement over Garak's choice
of words.  "I think I understand this Cardassian poet...."

Garak might have truly been interested in what Bashir had to say had
his gaze not wandered once again to the newcomer now seated, his meal,
hardly touched, before him.  The young man had gained a lunch
companion, a Bolian, but neither looked very comfortable.  Something
about the scene nagged Garak and he narrowed his eyes in concentration
before the answer popped into his brain.  The Vulcan and the Bolian
were locked in heated but hushed debate.  Most would have seen a
slightly agitated, insistent Bolian face to faced with that particular
coolness, bordering on arrogance, at which the Vulcans were so
practiced.   However, it was the small things, Garak thought, that
betrayed the young one; a nearly imperceptible waver in that steady
Vulcan calm.

Mesmerized, Garak watched as the Bolian leaned forward one more time,
whispering intently.  The Vulcan did not reply, merely stared at the
man across from him as if he were some bothersome species of insect. 
Garak recognized the look.  Dismissed, the Bolian bolted from his seat,
nearly upsetting it in the process, his anger intense, but there was
just a touch of fear.  Garak watched as the Vulcan continued his meal
as if the Bolian had never existed.

An *interesting* Vulcan.  Who would have thought?  But then, these were
*interesting* times, reflected Garak.

Julian Bashir was still talking.  Hoping that the Doctor had not
noticed the extent of his inattention, Garak returned to their
conversation and attempted to give the impression that he had heard
every word.

The young one, with usual Vulcan efficiency, finished his lunch and
left the Replimat, discerning blue eyes discreetly marking his
progress.  A thousand questions churned through Garak's mind.

"Forgive me, Doctor, but time is getting on."

"Yes and I must get back to the Infirmary," he sighed.  "I suppose the
rest of my brilliant analysis will have to wait until lunch tomorrow."

"Unless you'd like to meet for a glass of kanaar later," Garak offered.
 
They stood at the Replimat's entrance, Bashir seemingly unaware of
Garak's distraction and Garak annoyed to discover no trace of the
Vulcan.

As he started for the Infirmary, the doctor replied, "I'll let you
know...."

Garak was still smiling when he caught sight of Odo heading towards
him.    The Constable, hands clasped behind his back, was obviously
making his daily rounds.

"Ah!  Constable,"  Garak greeted Odo.

"Garak,"  Odo's voice contained a note of slight annoyance.

Garak smiled at Odo.  "No unusual activity today, I take it."

"Since when are you interested in station security, Garak?  Heard
something I should know about?"

"No, not really, though it's interesting that you should ask.  I just
had the most fascinating lunch with Dr. Bashir.  His interpretation of
one of my favorite poets is quite ...  unusual...."

"Is there a point to this, Garak?"

"Of course,"  Garak continued brightly.  "While Dr. Bashir and I were
having lunch, I witnessed an interesting exchange between a young
Vulcan, whom I presume arrived this morning on that cruiser and a
Bolian.  I thought for a split second that the Vulcan was actually
going to throttle the Bolian."

Odo gave a gruff laugh.  "That Bolian's been aboard for about
twenty-four hours.  He's known for minor criminal activity -- petty
smuggling, the usual stuff.  He's been sniffing around Quark. 
According to his flight plan, he's supposed to be leaving today.  He's
a known quantity, Garak."

Garak fixed Odo with that gaze that missed little.

"Indeed!  Then I wonder.  What business could a known petty criminal
have with a Vulcan who has just arrived?  My!  Look at the time. 
Excuse me, Constable.  I must get back to my shop."

 Odo gave the Cardassian a slight nod and watched as he hurried off.  It
was alarming sometimes, the Constable reflected, how that Obsidian
Order-trained mind worked.  Though this morning Sirik had received only
the most perfunctory of glances, he did indeed remember the young
Vulcan.  There'd been nothing remarkable about him.  But then, there
had also been nothing remarkable about the Vulcan Maquis gunrunner,
Sakonna.

It was beginning to make the Constable uneasy that Garak was uneasy.
**********

Dim spaces, corridors filled with shadows, were not the only places one
could hide.  In a tiny tea shop nestled in one of the Promenade's
corners, Sirik watched as the activity around him gradually lessened as
the afternoon passed.  There was only an hour or so remaining before
the cruiser's scheduled departure.  Not soon enough, he thought,
fighting a fatigue only partially related to his travels.  He closed
his eyes, as if he could shut out his surroundings, this day, the false
name that always passed his teeth with difficulty and the thudding of
his heart in his side when he remembered glimpsing the Changeling, the
only one within his reach, for the first time.  He remembered how his
breath stopped for what had seemed an eternity when the Bajoran Major
had questioned him on the Promenade.  As their eyes met, he had been
certain that she had seen straight into his inner most thoughts.  Only
at the very last moment had he realized that what the Major saw was a
handsome young man who might have been in need of assistance.  It had
shaken him to his core.  Then, the fiasco that was lunch had ensured
that calm remained elusive.  He shuddered.   The possibility of failure
was greater than he would like to think.

He was weary but there was no respite for he seldom slept these days. 
Rather than battle the nightmares, Sirik would stay awake as long as he
possibly could.  His body protested only occasionally, having grown
accustomed to being constantly denied its normal amount of rest.

They came to him in his dreams, demanded that the honour of their house
be satisfied;  his mother and two older brothers, bloody bodies frozen
solidly by the absolute cold of space.  Unseeing eyes transfixed him. 
Mouths, caught for eternity in the grimace of painful death, commanded
him and it was always the same.  Always he awoke, sobbing, promising
her ghost that he would do what only he, as the last member of her
house, could.   Because of a fluke, a whim of faceless superiors, he
was alive today.  He too should have been part of that ill-fated
Romulan-Cardassian armada when it reached the Omarion Nebula, site of
the Founders' homeworld.  But a last minute change of orders places him
aboard another warbird bound for sensitive patrol duty along the
Neutral Zone between the Empire and the Klingons.
 
Sirik hoped, rather foolishly, that as he neared the completion of his
deadly quest, the dreams would abate somewhat.  He hoped that when the
dreams came now, the terror would be weakened; that the horrible images
of  his slaughtered family would fade like the black of a starless
night yielding to the first light of dawn.  As he drew closer to his
target, he hoped  their loud voices would become whispers. He wanted to
see forgiveness in their blank eyes and give them the rest which, up to
now, had been denied them.

Through the soft material of his shoulder-bag, he caressed what lay
waiting within; a box that fit neatly in his hands.  The bio-stasis
field the Cardassians had used had been a much bigger size and created
only to keep a Founder from changing shape.  But their Romulan allies
had realised that such a weapon against the Founders needed to be much
more portable and more powerful.  What lay in his bag was the result of
much hard work by a people, as a result of the slaughter at the Omarion
Nebula, on the brink of chaos. How appropriate that the only Changeling
to feel the effects of the Cardassian device would now die from the
effects of this weapon.

Remembering the necessary deeds done to procure this device caused a
familiar tingle to run through him:  it had taken every ounce of
intelligence, cunning and courage he possessed.  Ancient debts, though
it had pained him to do so, were collected.  These were obligations
owed by houses as great as his own, minor houses and lesser families;
obligations that, as a matter of pride, should not have been mentioned
save only in the most desperate circumstances.  Then, where nothing
else would do, bribery, threats and blackmail had been his tools until
Sirik had not only verified that the Tal Shiar had constructed the
deadly weapon, but had also held one of the devices in his hands.

Movement at the tea shop's door caught his attention.  Two Bajoran
security personnel stood with their backs to him and it seemed to Sirik
that they were more vigilant than they would have been had they been on
routine patrol.  He sat perfectly still, thankful for the dim
lighting.

When the security guards moved off, Sirik stepped onto the Promenade
and was greeted  by the sight of the Constable in conference with his
two men.  He would prefer to pick his moment and now, he thought with
panic swelling with every heartbeat, was not it.  Carefully, Sirik
turned away as if he had not seen them.  Blood roared in his ears and
he had begun to think that he had avoided the Constable when the
gravelly voice stopped him in his tracks.

"You desire something from me?"  he asked as Odo came up beside him.

"Yes.  I'm making some inquiries into the activities of a Bolian who
calls himself Rahkt."

"The name is not familiar to me."

"You were seen talking to him in the Replimat this afternoon."

He raised an eyebrow.  "That Bolian.  A case of mistaken identity.  He
thought I was another."

"Still, I'd be grateful for whatever information you can remember from
the encounter.  Would you mind?"  Odo gestured in the direction of his
office and his men, standing at a discreet distance made it more than a
request.

His stomach tightened more with each step that brought them closer to
Odo's office.  The Constable's men followed at a distance, relaxed, but
watching Sirik's every move.  The events of the early afternoon flashed
through his mind.  The Bolian had made him so conspicuous.  Rage
coursed through his body, threatened to drive away all reason, when he
remembered their confrontation.

They entered Odo's office and with a confident wave, the Constable
dismissed his men.  He motioned Sirik to a seat, saying, "This won't
take long.  Hopefully, you'll be able to help me."

"I am certain that you will be able to help me," Sirik said, slipping
his hand into his bag.

Then he smiled and the look would have frozen the blood of any solid.

Immense satisfaction seized Sirik when Odo tried and failed to extend
his arm.  Sudden, intense pain racked the Changeling's body.  His chest
and abdomen lost its humanoid form, the golden liquid that was his true
self swirling even as he doubled over in an effort to control the
pain.

Calmly, he removed the Constable's communicator. 

"You'll never get away with this."

"Escape is not necessarily part of my plan."

"Why are you doing this?"

"I doubt I have time to explain.  You are losing molecular cohesion and
in a matter of minutes, you'll be reduced to your true form.  Very soon
after that, you'll be dead."

As if in direct response to these words, another spasm of pain shot
through the Constable's body.  Sirik stared with morbid fascination as
the arm Odo clutched around his middle merge with the liquid churning
there.

"Mnhei'sahe,"  he said.  "Do you know this word?  No matter.  A great
house was destroyed in the battle at the Omarion Nebula...."

" 'The ruling passion...'  I understand.....  revenge...."

A calm Sirik had not felt for a very long time settled upon him and he
felt strangely removed from the events unfolding before him.  More and
more of Odo slipped into that strange liquid that was not liquid and
the Changeling was having trouble speaking now.

"It is not required that you understand, only that you die.  But
mnehei'sahe is much more.  My honour is satisfied and you  --  you pay
for the spilling of so much Romulan blood...."

Odo dragged himself to his feet but his legs shook and wavered between
solid and liquid form.  Sirik's eyes widened with new respect as he
prepared to fight off this last desperate challenge.  As Odo lunged, 
falling short of his target, the doors to his office swished open and
Garak took in the ghastly scene before him.

"Constable!  I've seen you look better...."

Romulan and Cardassian met somewhere in the middle of the distance that
seperated them.  The fighting was fast and furious.  Sirik had strength
and youth on his side.  But on his side, Garak had experience and the
frantic realisation that Odo was running out of time.  Well placed
kicks left Garak winded and the pain caused his eyes to water.  He
recovered quickly as he realized that the Romulan was looking for an
opening.  Garak parried a swift kick and a blow that would have done
serious damage had it landed.  Before Sirik could react, Garak followed
through with a ferocious blow to the Romulan's midsection and the young
one doubled over from the shock and pain.  Like the passing of seconds,
a number of techniques devised to deliver quick death flashed through
Garak's mind.  But he pulled back from the brink and landed a quick
combination of blows that left Sirik dazed.  The sound that escaped him
was one of exertion and satisfaction as Garak delivered a blow to
Sirik's jaw that snapped the Romulan's head back, sending him reeling
into unconsciousness.

Without a pause, Garak was beside what remained of Odo's humanoid
shape.

"Odo!  What is it?!"

"....bag...."

The time it took Garak to disable the device seemed like days and the
Cardassian was aware of the last vestiges of Odo's humanoid form
dissolving.  Quickly he reached for Odo's discarded communicator.

"Garak to Bashir!  Medical emergency in the Constable's office!"

Not certain what else he could do, he watched the large, unmoving
golden pool with growing concern.
**********

A brown human watched him from the other side of the holding cell's
force field.  Even through the throbbing in his head, he recognized
authority.  He did not move, afraid that he would shatter into a
thousand pieces if he did.  Through the haze and discomfort there was
only one thought:  had he succeeded?

"An interesting device, Mr...."

When the Romulan remained silent, Sisko continued, "Starfleet
Intelligence will be happy to receive it."

"You are welcome to it  --  for the safety of the Alpha Quadrant."

"If you hadn't just tried to murder my Chief of Security, I might be
inclined to thank you."

Sirik laughed, "You just might live to thank me one day anyway,
Commander.  That is, if the Dominion does not sweep your Federation and
the Klingons aside.  So the Changeling lives still.  Will he recover?"

Only Sisko's eyes changed and he very nearly missed it.  Sirik smiled.

"It's not the Constable I'd be worried about if I were you but the time
you're going to spend in a Federation penitentiary for attempted
murder."

"No matter," Sirik sighed.  As long as there was breath in his body,
opportunity was not dead.

Ben Sisko turned from the cell disturbed by a feeling of foreboding he
could not shake.

In the Infirmary, Julian Bashir and Elim Garak peered into a very large
sterile container silently watching its golden contents ripple ever so
slightly.  Lifesigns were improving, much to the Doctor's relief.  Both
men had been encouraged by Odo's ability to pour himself into the
container from his office floor.  But now, he showed no signs of taking
his humanoid form.  Using his medical tricorder once more, Julian
reflected that as long as lifesigns improved, he would not be too
concerned -- and they were improving minute by minute.

"What I want to know, Garak, is how you came to be in Odo's office
anyway."

"Sheer luck, Doctor.  I happened to remember something I neglected to
mention to the Constable...."

"Luck, Garak?  The word is not part of your vocabulary," Julian
scoffed.  "No.  I believe from where they met on  the Promenade, to get
to Odo's office his little party would have had to pass your shop. 
You've been suspicious of Sirik since you spotted him at lunch.  You
just couldn't pass up the opportunity...."

Garak's eyes twinkled.  "As always, your interpretation of things is
unique, Doctor.  But I think everyone should be happy I came along when
I did.  Deep Space Nine would not be the same without the Constable,
wouldn't you agree?"

Bashir chuckled softly.  As he watched the handsome doctor turn back to
his patient, Elim Garak's thoughts were suddenly light-years away.  He
remembered a different life, a very different man and the look of
courage in the eyes of a young Romulan warrior in desperate battle for
his honour.
**********

Apologies to Diane Duane and Peter Morwood.  If you
have not read their excellent book 'The Romulan Way,'
do so!  Duane's 'My Enemy, My Ally' is also wonderful
and it's after their Rihannsu that my Romulan is modelled.

Like what you've read? Have suggestions or constructive criticism? Email me! tlyr (at) tlyr.co.uk