This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. ? POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster Inc. 1230 Avenue of the Americas New York, NY 10020 Visit us on the World Wide Web http://www.SimonSays.com/st http://www.startrek.com Copyright © 1993 by Paramount Pictures. All Rights Reserved. ? STAR TREK is a Registered Trademark of Paramount Pictures. ? This book is published by Pocket Books, a division of Simon & Schuster Inc., under exclusive license from Paramount Pictures. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020 ISBN: 0-7434-1221-4 POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster Inc. To Paullina’s TV set . . . Long may it wave Preface Several years ago, when Rene Auberjonois was starring on Broadway in City of Angels, I waited at the stage door after one performance and, when he came out, got him to sign my plush toy of Sebastian the Crab from The Little Mermaid—his nemesis in that film, since he had voiced the crazed French chef. Who would have thought that my little autographed plush crab (notice I avoid saying “stuffed crab”) would suddenly, with the debut of “Star Trek: Deep Space Nine” be transformed from a novelty item into a valuable Star Trek collectible. A lot of things have been surprising about “Deep Space Nine.” I’m surprised that I’ve been enjoying the series as much as I have, since I must admit the initial descriptions didn’t sound promising. But as of this writing, five episodes have aired and I’ve found them to be, by and large, rather entertaining. I’ve certainly liked it a lot more than the extremely uneven first season of “Star Trek: The Next Generation.” I’m surprised that I’m writing this novel. I figured I’d get around to doing one and had even been discussing a “Mr. Scott and Lwaxana Troi Visit Deep Space” novel because my last few Trek books have featured Lwaxana, and I figured I was on a roll. But this isn’t that novel. This had its origins much the same way that The Rift did—namely, editor Kevin Ryan came to me and said, “How would you like to be the first writer to . . . ?” In the former case, it was “have two Trek novels out back-to-back?” In this case, it was “write the first original Deep Space Nine novel.” How could I resist such an opportunity? Being offered the chance to work on a group of characters, using five scripts and the series bible for guidance, knowing full well that by the time the book comes out the characters might very well bear little resemblance to the way they’re being depicted right now? Knowing that I might have fans saying, “How come the book isn’t consistent with the way Sisko was portrayed last week?” Well . . . ’cause I thought it might be fun. And besides, my car is breaking down and I need a new one. Two solid reasons as far as I’m concerned. I wish to thank my wife, Myra, for her support as I once again put myself into one of these suicidal deadline-or-die positions. Myra, who can probably sympathize with Abigail Adams, wife of John, who proclaimed, “Think of it! To be married to the man who’s always first in line to be hanged.” Likewise, the girls—Shana, age twelve; Jenny, eight; and Ariel, seventeen months—who stayed out of my way. Far out of my way. Also, Mike Okuda of the Trek offices, who gave freely of his time to answer my many questions about DS9 in general and Odo in particular. For several days he fielded questions like “What about Odo’s mass?” and “Can Odo fly?” Little things like that. (Note to sticklers: Throughout this novel you will see Odo do lots of stuff that, chances are, you won’t see him do in the series. Having covered my bases thoroughly and checked and rechecked, I will state here that the reason Odo hasn’t performed many of the stunts I have him doing is not because he can’t. Rather, we’re getting down here to the realistic TV constraints of budgets. The only way that Odo could pull off on TV the stunts he does in this book is if “Deep Space Nine” had a budget of $85 million, rather than $2 million, per episode. Novelists are not limited by monetary constraints. I don’t have to figure out how to make something work on screen; all I have to say is “It happened.” So if you’re going to be one of those people who say, “Gee, we’ve never seen Odo transform his arm into a spiked sledgehammer, so that means he can’t, well, in the words of Robin Williams, “I’m sorry . . . I’d agree with you if you were right.”) Likewise, to my intrepid editors at the various comic book offices I work for—which, by the way, is nothing like what you see on Bob Newhart’s new program, so stop asking, okay?—who were, once again, kind enough to cut me some slack—particularly Bobbie Chase and Joey Cavalieri. Thanks, guys. Also many thanks to several people who influenced this book, including Agatha Christie, James Cameron, and Alan Young. Oh . . . the tone of this book? For those people who like to be warned about such things? Well . . . it’s . . . It gets kind of intense, actually. There. Now you’re warned. So . . . Let’s get deep. PROLOGUE THE VESSEL with the killer on it moved through space. The vessel was small and quite energy-efficient. It moved quickly and briskly through the depths of the void. Its destination lay not too much farther off. Soon. Soon the business would be done. The killer stared out one of the small viewports, watching the distant stars move past. His thoughts were his own, his face inscrutable. Soon. Soon it would be done. . . . But of course before it was done . . . it had to begin. This was not going to be a problem for the killer. He was quite certain of that. He had had a long and very successful history. He went where he wished. Did what he wished. None could anticipate his moves. None could stop him. He would visit terror upon them and do his business, and then he would leave, when he felt like it. And none would stop him. None could. He turned away from the window . . . and released the shape he had assumed. His body oozed downward, reconfigured itself. . . . And, moments later, had become a simple suitcase. The killer went to sleep and dreamed of the killing to come. . . . And no one would ever see him. . . . CHAPTER 1 “NOW WATCH CAREFULLY.” Miles O’Brien, square-jawed, curly-haired, and the most aggressively patient individual on Deep Space Nine, smiled broadly, which was the only way he was capable of smiling. He had a look in his eye that gleamed of mischief and deviltry. It was, in fact, the exact look that he had used several years previously on a certain young botanist aboard the USS Enterprise, when he had first spotted her lounging in Ten-Forward. And she had found that look refreshingly guileless, even playful. A pleasing mixture of a little boy’s soul in a grown man’s body. That was over four years ago. Now she just found it damned irritating. Keiko, his wife—the irritated woman—did not look up from the lesson plans she was preparing for the next day. At first glance, and even at second, Miles and Keiko O’Brien were mismatched. In contrast to the buoyant Irishman’s open expression and “Hi, pal, gladdaseeya” air, the Asian Keiko was far more low-key, far more reserved. When O’Brien’s spirits were high, they couldn’t be anchored with a crate of gold-pressed latinum. When they were low, a team of horses could be hitched up and whipped into a frenzy, and still not drag him out of the doldrums until he was ready to go. Keiko, on the other hand, was far more steady. She was not quick to anger, but instead would build gradually. O’Brien sometimes teasingly called her “the slow cooker.” But when she did get angry, volcanoes had nothing on her. She was light-skinned where he was swarthy, delicate where he was coarse. Yin, as she put it, to his yang. He, on the other hand, would say that she was Abbott to his Costello—a reference that she did not begin to understand, along with most of his references to arcane and archaic Earth matters. There was much about him that she did not understand, even after four years of marriage. She did not understand his fondness for poker, a relatively dishonorable game where the object was to win through deceit and trickery rather than through an honest matching of skill against skill. She did not understand why she was supposed to adjust to such a radical change in her life as coming to this godforsaken space station that was so isolated it wasn’t even in the middle of nowhere but rather in the distant, bleak outskirts of nowhere. She did not understand why in the world he had been dead set on naming their offspring Elvis if it had been a boy. Fortunately the issue had been dodged when a girl arrived, during one of the more tempestuous days of Enterprise life that she had experienced. And most of all, she did not understand why he did not understand. “Miles, please,” she said, rubbing her temple—an early warning sign indicating that her beloved husband was really pushing matters. “I’ve really got a lot on my mind right now.” O’Brien, who rarely, if ever, picked up on the aforementioned early warning sign, said, “It’ll just take a minute.” “Miles . . . ” I miss the Enterprise, and I miss my life, and it’s a struggle to get any children to come to my classes because they’d all much rather be out causing trouble or something, and anyway, I never intended to be a teacher—I’m a botanist. And I never intended for Molly to grow up in a snake pit...
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