Ro had found her guest’s wariness reassuring: at least neither party labored under the pretense that a meeting between former enemies was anything normal.

Lang must have noticed Ro’s scrutiny because she had quickly said, “Reconnaissance is an old habit. You don’t live most of your adult life under the threat of arrest or assassination without assuming an enemy with a weapon lurks in every shadow.”

“I know something of that myself,” Ro had answered.

Lang’s expression had softened, a touch of humor in her eyes. “Somehow, that doesn’t surprise me.”

A smile crossed Ro’s face now as she replayed the scene in her mind, realizing that was the moment she decided that she liked Lang. Once their mutual mistrust had been established, Ro had felt freer to make small talk, mention Lang’s previous experience on the station. Traversing a particularly obscure access tunnel crossover bridge, Lang had recalled how she used this route to deliver confidential reports to her underground contacts. Ro made a mental note to add semiregular sensor sweeps of the corridor to the surveillance profiles. In her turn, Ro reciprocated with an anecdote or two about her Maquis days. Lang had laughed at more than a few of her tales. Fringe rebel groups, regardless of ideology, tended to have characteristics in common.

Macet had remained quiet for the duration of their walk, something Ro felt grateful for. He must have sensed her reaction whenever he spoke; she hoped she didn’t physically recoil for that would be an undeservedly rude response to a guest. But until the cadence and timbre of his voice stopped causing her blood to boil, she was glad Macet kept his mouth shut.

Upon arriving at their quarters, Ro had briefed Lang and Macet on the extra security precautions Kira had ordered. Neither seemed particularly surprised; they exchanged a glance that informed Ro the Cardassians had contingency plans of their own. Layers upon layers of fear would have to be peeled away before her people and their former oppressors could have uninhibited rapport. Whatever mission Alon Ghemor had assigned Ambassador Lang must be critical to Cardassian interests. Otherwise, how could he justify a high-profile visit while relations between the two worlds remained tenuous at best? Shakaar’s humanitarian initiatives had been a solid first step toward finding common ground, but Ro wasn’t sure they were prepared to expand past them, especially with the Federation talks underway. Damn Cardassians always have the worst timing.

A metallic hum overtook the almost silent whirr of the turbolift. Ro turned toward the sound to see Taran’atar shimmering into visibility.

Ro frowned. “Don’t I recall an order coming down from the colonel about your being shrouded in public places aboard the station? Namely, that you aren’t supposed to be?”

“The enemy is here. I needed to assess them,” he said, checking the charge on his phaser.

Ro shook her head. “The Cardassians aren’t our enemies any longer. They’ve never been yourenemy. Your people served alongside them in the war.”

“Do you know their minds?” he asked, returning his sidearm to its holster.

“Bajorans aren’t telepaths, if that’s what you’re asking,” Ro said, hoping her glib answers would irritate Taran’atar enough that he wouldn’t pursue this line of questioning.

If Taran’atar sensed Ro’s discomfort, it didn’t stop him from peppering her with questions. “Do you have knowledge of their goals—their strategy?” he persisted.

“I’m assuming they’re here to meet with the First Minister, but outside that, no, I haven’t tapped into their database or spied on their private discussions.”

“Then they are your enemy. The unknown is always the enemy, Lieutenant,” he said as if there was no arguing with his conclusions.

Much as his cold pragmatism felt far too absolute for these “enlightened” times, Ro had to admit she agreed with him. How else had she survived during her years with the Maquis? Most of her Maquis friends had been slaughtered by Cardassians or arrested by Starfleet. And yet, by the grace of some unknown power that she refused to believe was the Prophets, she stood here, in a Bajoran uniform, alive, free and physically unscathed. It was her steadfast refusal to trust anything or anyone that saved her. Or so she believed.

“All possibilities exist until a choice is made,” Taran’atar continued, accepting her silence as a tacit endorsement. “Until the moment of choice, it’s strategic to anticipate and plan for any potential outcome. It’s how survival is assured.”

“The odds of Bajor obtaining a safe, beneficial outcome will decrease if the Cardassians think we’re luring them into a trap,” she said, playing the opposition card.

“You are naïve, Lieutenant, if you assume that the Cardassians aren’t luring youinto a trap.”

A soothing voice announced their arrival at the Promenade. Ro turned to look at the Jem’Hadar before she exited the lift. “Do you have business here? Or do you have more innocent civilians to spy on?”

“There is nothing here that concerns me. I will report my observations to the colonel at a later time.” He appeared to be conducting a quick weapons assessment before, presumably, shrouding again.

How could he assume that blatantly disregarding orders was fine? Taran’atar was breaking a dozen rules Kira had laid down for him. “I’m telling her about your clandestine operation during my end-of-shift security briefing.” She felt like an older sister tattling on an errant sibling.

“Do you think I would have showed myself to you if I had not wanted you to inform the colonel?”

Damn it all if he didn’t just make me look stupid,Ro thought. The turbolift doors closed, leaving Ro a little bit grateful she didn’t know where the Jem’Hadar was headed next. She didn’t know whether to be comforted that someone, namely Taran’atar, on her side had sidestepped propriety for expediency, or annoyed that she hadn’t had the guts to do it first. As she wove through the Promenade crowds toward her office, she continued contemplating his words. The unknown is always the enemy, he’d said. These people weren’t unknown…but everything she knew about them told her they were the enemy.

Sergeant Etana thrust a stack of reports into Ro’s hand as she passed through the doors of the security office; Ro barely acknowledged her. Making peace with her own confused thoughts proved harder than wrestling down a Vicarian razorback. She hated admitting that Taran’atar more or less espoused her own suspicions. All her training, her years in Starfleet were supposed to have quashed her xenophobia. Nice to know her enlightened education amounted to something. She found her chair by rote, tapped in her passwords and called up her workfiles.

Inwardly, Ro sighed. She sorted through the memos queued up on her viewscreen. Opening those designated “urgent,” she shuttled the others away until she was in the mood to deal with them. She’d always been cynical toward the old Federation philosophy about forgiving and forgetting because there were rarely assurances ahead of time that the enemy had replied in kind. Even the great negotiator himself, Jean-Luc Picard, had been deceived on occasion because he believed that those across the table from him told the truth simply because hetold the truth. Hadn’t she seen his dangerously trusting nature on their first mission together? And hadn’t she herself exploited it on their last?

What a strange day this had become! A philosophical alliance between a Bajoran lieutenant and a Jem’Hadar soldier wasn’t something Ro could have predicted a year ago. What isn’t known is the enemy until proven otherwise. Ro had little experience to prove to her that Cardassians weren’t the enemy. Even this group had yet to provide any details about why they had come.

She called up Lang’s file to amend it with information about her present visit. Ro now had a lilting alto voice accompanying her mental picture of Lang. The viewscreen picture failed to capture Lang’s incisive intelligence, her graceful carriage or ability to elucidate her hopes for the future of her people.