Keren stirred beside him. Shar wasn’t surprised when she worked her way down the row, through the center aisle and to the front. She threw back her hood, revealing her face. Audible gasps sounded from every corner.

“I make no pretense as to my identity. You all know I am one of you,” she said, calmly. “I believe that the strangers coming may be for our good. We have struggled since the Archipelago Wars to wrestle rights away from the Houseborn and we are still far from finding equality with them.” She paused, directing her gaze at the floor for a moment before returning her attention to the crowd. Her eyes moved from row to row, seeking personal contact with each listener as she spoke. “My time to go into the waters is coming, but because I am a Wanderer, I will be denied that opportunity during the Homecoming fifteen days hence.

“Instead, I will present myself to the physicians, receive my injection and go about my life pretending that I don’t want or need to go into the waters,” Keren’s steady voice was heavy with sorrow. “And I will be living a lie. I deserve to take a consort, to add to the next generation. I believe our contact with the strangers may make that and many more things possible.”

“How do you know they can be trusted?” the leader asked.

She stepped behind the podium. Resting a hand on each side of the rostrum, Keren surveyed the crowds. “I’ve dealt with them. They don’t even come from this part of our galaxy. They live tens of thousands of light years from here. Knowing nothing of our history, they can look at both sides impartially. Who else among those that we trade with, that we exchange culture and knowledge with can make that claim? None.” Her eyes finally found Shar, willing him to lift his eyes and meet hers; he complied and held her gaze, unwavering.

“Who knows if these strangers have been brought here by the Other? There’s no question that we face perilous times. The blockades may turn Houseborn against Wanderer after centuries of relative peace. We have neither the arms nor the resources to fight them, but we are being swept by currents that will decide our fate, one way or the other. The strangers may be our last chance.” Keren spoke as if to Shar directly, as if she sat at his elbow and whispered her words for him alone. He was transfixed.

4

When the turbolift doors closed, Ro requested the Promenade. She scowled at the universe in general, wanted to bang her forehead a few times, but settled for resting her head against the wall and closing her eyes. Seeing Gul Macet, Ambassador Lang and their “delegation” of soldiers had triggered a brain stem reaction: being hunted like prey. That her next turn would find her face-to-face with a resettlement camp guard prepared to clamp holding irons on her wrists and haul her off to be beaten. It was easier with the Maquis because she’d rarely had to stare down her enemy; the covert, anonymous nature of their war assured that. Now, she counted on the traveling time between the outer edge of the Habitat Ring and her upper core office to cushion her jangling nerves.

Conditioned response,Ro reminded herself. The reason her advanced tactical instructors gave repeatedly while drilling the class through every permutation of every worst-case scenario conceivable—so when you’re staring your worst nightmare in the face, your training, not your instincts, takes over.

“Welcome to Deep Space 9, I’m Chief of Security, Lieutenant Ro,”she recalled saying as she nodded a courteous greeting to the Cardassian, Macet. Kira wasn’t kidding about the family resemblance.When he opened his mouth to speak it was every propaganda holovid from her childhood. The same elongated syllables she’d heard announcing “the unfortunate need for ration cuts” or that “strained resources forbade the distribution of vaccines to afflicted provinces.” And she pushed back an instinctual inclination to spit at his feet.

This. Isn’t. Dukat.She’d repeated the words in her mind each time she found herself staring at him. She tried focusing on the tufts of hair on his chin, as if the cosmetic difference could trick her psyche into accepting Macet. Her mouth had parroted all the proper polite inquiries she’d heard employed on occasions such as these. Maybe she’d picked up niceties via osmosis from Troi and Picard. The whole Enterprisecrew had been so damn polite! “I hope your trip went well.” “Radiation in the Denorios Belt often sends false sensor readings this time of year.” “We’ve secured quarters in the habitat ring for the senior members of your party—oh no, it isn’t any problem. More convenient access to the meeting rooms than having to come down from the docking ring every few hours.”What she wanted to say was “Get the hell off my station and stay off.”

She had searched Macet’s face for evidence that justified her fears and found nothing there but even-tempered professionalism—maybe even good humor. Did those traits prove he wasn’t Dukat? She’d seen the propaganda. Dukat allegedly loved children and small animals. He was an excellent father. Surely he couldn’t authorize the wholesale slaughter of an entire camp accused of aiding the resistance? Hah! Wasn’t Lang a former member of the Cardassian News Service, a.k.a. the empire’s propaganda machine? All of it felt a bit too coincidental for Ro to be comfortable.

Give her a day alone with him. Hell, give her an houralone with him and she’d figure out the truth. Assurances from the Ghemor regime and DNA tests might support Macet’s claim to be who he said he was, but in a universe that already contained changelings, mind-altering entities, and even less explainable phenomena, how could anyone ever be truly sure of him?

Ro’s stare must have lingered on Macet for a long while before she noticed the small, slender figure clothed in a vivid periwinkle blue gown standing beside him. She didn’t recoil from Lang’s proffered hand. The gesture surprised her: Cardassians didn’t, as a rule, shake hands. In Ro’s experience, such a greeting came more commonly among Federation types than from the austere Cardassians. Clasping both her hands around Ro’s, Lang thanked her for accommodating them on such short notice. Strangely, the ambassador’s fingers on Ro’s wrist recalled the pleasant touch of cool water. In her experience, cold Cardassian hands usually meant death, or at least the promise of it.

Lang had issued the order to Macet’s men to disarm before she would permit them to continue beyond the airlock. Ro had witnessed their puzzled expressions as Macet walked down their line, equipment satchel proffered—their barely camouflaged resentment when he sealed the bag and sent it back into the Tragerwith one of his men. Understanding that Macet could have just as easily disarmed his men while shipboard, Ro recognized the gesture for what it was: a move to placate her defenses. They had submitted, Ro imagined resentfully, to Lang’s demand for absolute silence while the party moved from the disembarking area to the habitat ring. As she guided the group through the least traversed corridors, Ro observed the ambassador surveying each doorway and dark hall ahead of them. And while Lang’s hands rested, deceptively relaxed, at her sides, the tension in her thumb and forefinger indicated she wasn’t quite as willing to embrace the passivity she required from Macet’s men; Ro would bet the house that hidden beneath the rustling folds of her gown, Lang had a weapon. She’s on as high alert as we are. She’s as concerned about Bajorans coming un-hinged as Kira is about possible Cardassian treachery.Ro had made a conscious decision to let her guest’s infraction of protocol pass without comment—carrying weapons aboard the station was forbidden save for Militia and Starfleet personnel, and authorized visitors.