From out in the corridor, Kira heard the low buzz of chatter from the first group of guests to arrive. Shakaar’s enthusiastic voice rose above the noise. Seeing that the first minister would be serving as the gathering’s host, Kira was glad he had arrived before the others; she had no desire to play host, covering for his absence with small talk. Because Sirsy accompanied Shakaar’s party and she knew how the evening was to go forward, Kira could disappear until her presence was required. The room might be ready, but she still had a few items on her list before she could say she was finished. She discreetly moved to a position by the curtained turbolift and touched her combadge. “Kira to Ensign Beyer.”

“Go ahead, Colonel.”

“Report to the reception hall, Ensign. Guests are arriving and I don’t have a clue what to do with them,” she whispered, hoping she could go unnoticed for a few minutes longer.

“On my way, sir. I was helping Quark solve a replicator problem—”

“Nerys! What are you doing hiding behind there?”

She startled and took a sideways step to peer beyond the curtain. Shakaar stood directly in front of her, arms outstretched, with an exuberant grin on his face. So much for going unnoticed.

“Get out here,” Shakaar continued jovially. “I have people you need to meet. Come socialize! This is your night, too—this is Bajor’s night!”

Propelling her toward the group, he steered her past Sirsy and in the direction of a handsome black woman that Kira recognized from the newsfeeds.

“Second Minister Asarem, you remember Colonel Kira, your Militia contact here on the station? I know you two have met, but this is the first time you’ve worked together. Kira also plays a mean game of springball should you be in the mood.”

Minister Asarem nodded politely; Kira reciprocated.

Kira surveyed the guests, checking to see if there was anyone else she needed to greet, if any old friends had come calling. Behind Shakaar, a prylar she recognized as being a protégé of Yevir chatted amiably with one of the trade ministers. He must have sensed he was being observed because he looked up to see Kira and frowned; his eyes instantly shifted to a spot directly over Kira’s shoulder before physically turning his back to her.

When Yevir had first passed down his judgment, Kira believed she would gradually desensitize to the Attainder’s consequences. As one of the faithful, she understood her peers’ behavior and couldn’t fault them for following the edicts of their religious leaders. But each cold encounter still smarted and this last one had a sharper sting considering present circumstances.

Here in this room were former enemies, people representing repressive or violent cultures, those espousing primitive traditions and backward belief systems, and yet all worked to overlook what divided them and focus instead on their commonalities. And Bajor, pious, spiritual Bajor, couldn’t let go of punitive measures against one of their own for one night. This was supposed to be a reception celebrating Bajoran progressivism!

To Yevir’s credit, the Attainder was working. Being the conspicuous outcast in almost every room she walked into assured that she would never forget what she’d done, never stop atoning for her mistake and wasn’t that, in part, what it was supposed to accomplish?

At least Yevir himself isn’t here to add insult to injury,she reflected. He’d been on the original guest list, much to her consternation, but had been forced to bow out, citing some “Assembly business” that apparently superceded an official state function. Kira found herself wondering if the “Assembly business” was related to schism rumors Kasidy had told her about.

She felt Shakaar’s hand on her elbow again as he directed her toward the back of the room where the newest group of guests to join the reception stood: the half-dozen Cardassians.

“I haven’t met Gul Macet or Ambassador Lang, yet, Nerys,” Shakaar said cheerily. “I’d appreciate it if you introduced us.”

And the evening just gets better and better,she thought, putting on her most polite expression as she prepared to face the evening ahead.

With the servers dispatched to clear the tables, Ro decided to take a break from her scintillating dinner companions (a doddering member of the Alonis delegation, and the governor of one of the Klingon controlled Cardassian protectorates) and went in search of Quark. As she crossed the room, she spotted Kira chatting with Shakaar and the Cardassian delegation, the colonel somehow managing to look far more at ease within this gathering of luminaries than Ro imagined she would. Ro’s eyes panned the room as she went on, pausing to note Hiziki Gard, seated a few tables away, looking in her direction. The Trill ambassador’s aide—and her counterpart in Federation security—smiled pleasantly and raised his glass to her. Ro nodded back, accepting the compliment graciously: Nice work,he was saying.

She wound her way through clusters of servers milling around in the side rooms, diligently recycling used glasses and plates while replicating condiments and flatware in preparation for the next round. Quark’s bellows were better than sensors or tricorders when it came to tracking him down. The employees grew progressively more anxious the closer she came to where he was working.

“Vulcan port is served by request only! It’s too expensive! Push the Gamzian wine—we have that by the crate load. So help me, Frool, I’m deducting that port from your wages. Now get to work!”

The chastised waiter skulked by Ro, who had been waiting in the doorway.

Quark finally noticed her. “Oh. Hello, Laren. How’s it going out there? Everyone talking about how wonderful I am? The artful presentation and the balanced diversity of my menu? Who needs the bar—I’ll have jobs lined up until the end of the century when this is over.” He scanned the crates piled up around him, making notes on a padd about what he’d used from each before closing it up and shoving it off to the side. Later, he’d send employees up to take each container back to whichever cargo bay he was using these days to stash his legal goods.

“If you say so,” she answered. “As long as it isn’t field rations, I’m happy.” Ro knew all Quark’s black market and embargoed items had been stowed away in cargo bays 16, 43 and 51. She was saving that knowledge for the day when she needed to motivate Quark to help her on official business. In the meantime, she knew that everything he thought he’d hidden from her was more innocuous than dangerous. Well, mostlyinnocuous.

Quark removed a meter-high stack of plates from a shelf and placed them on a cart. “Broik! Take these to Shakaar’s table.” He continued his inventory as he resumed speaking to Ro. “You’re staying for dessert, right? You haveto stay for dessert—it’s Spican flaming melon.”

“You know, I meant to ask you about that. Are you using actual flame gems for the effect?”

“Just three in each dish,” Quark said absently. “I assume everybody will know not to eat them. Except maybe the Klingons.” He stopped his inventory abruptly and looked at her. “You aren’t gonna tell me they’re toxic, are you?”

“No, that isn’t what I—”

“Because the last thing I need is some extended family member of Chancellor Martok winding up facedown in the melon.”

“Relax, Quark. No one’s going to die tonight from eating your food…strange as it is to hear myself saying that.” Ro hurried on before Quark could retort. “To answer your original question, though, I’m stuck here for the duration.” She hopped up to take a seat on the edge of a table. “The colonel’s pretty uptight about whatever Lang and Macet have planned.”

“I don’t know why she’s worried. Natima’s about as honest as they come—I always liked her in spite of that.”

“You have any clue what she might be up to?”