Ezri pulled herself up the rungs of the ladder and heaved through the hatch onto the bottommost deck of the hydrofoil. She craved a hot steamy drink—maybe a Tarkellian tea because she was missing Julian—but first a shower. The wetsuit had been comfortable enough, but she still felt chilled from the water. She eagerly peeled the clammy thing off and went hunting for her boots when she noticed—

A pair of armed soldiers guarded each entrance to the room. All the Yrythny who had accompanied her on her underwater journey to Tin-Mal knelt silently, hands at their sides. Candlewood, Juarez, and McCallum, all pale and with wet hair dripping into their eyes, stood next to Jeshoh.

“What’s going on?” Ezri said finally, since no one seemed eager to provide her with an explanation.

“There’s been an attack on an aquaculture village,” a soldier said gruffly. “Explosives were set off by a signal from this vessel—shortly after another transmission was sent here from your workstation on Luthia. Everyone on this vessel is to submit to questioning.”

“Surely you don’t think that I know anything about this. My people and I have been away from my office all day.” Then it hit her. Shar.Ezri touched her combadge. “Dax to ch’Thane.”

No answer.

“There’s a logical explanation for this, I assure you,” she said. She tapped her combadge again, repeating the call and still, nothing. Dammit, Shar, where are you…?

12

Kira heard the gasps, the whispered questions and sensed waves of confusion spreading through the crowd, but the tears pooling in her eyes blurred her view. Her breath caught in her throat with each ragged intake. Closing her eyes, she allowed silent tears to wash down her cheeks, grateful for how the dimmed lighting obscured her face. Her intently focused seatmates gave no indication they noticed her struggle; her emotional shock could pass without comment, and for that she was grateful. She needed to feel this alone.

From the center of the room, the hologram, a deceptively lifelike child-woman shifted in her chair, her gaze directed at the unseen person capturing her image in photons and force fields. She dipped her head and laughed shyly. “My name is Tora Ziyal and I’m an artist,” she said, trying to sound confident. “Or I’d like to be. My teachers—they say I’m promising. That’s why they asked me to make this introductory holovid so that they can have something to present to the art council when they petition to have me included in the upcoming new talent exhibit at the Cardassia Institute of Art.” She paused, squeezed up her shoulders, unable to repress her excitement. “I still can’t believe they think I’m good enough!”

Kira had held up the drawing, impressed by the combination of simple forms executed with confident, elegant lines; the composition was thoughtful and expressive. Peering at Ziyal over the drawing notebook, she saw a young woman, anxious to please, and smiled. “These are lovely! Such serenity. You can really see Vedek Topek’s influence in the texture of the shading over here,” she pointed out the variegated, monochromatic tones of the rocks, “and in the geometric choices over here.”

Ziyal had clasped her hands together with childish glee. “I’m so happy you like them. Do you think my father will like them?” she had asked.

“I’m certain he’s very proud of you.” Kira had hoped Ziyal didn’t notice her smile tightening or her eyes glassing over at the mention of Dukat. Whatever her feelings for Dukat, Kira felt nothing but genuine affection for Ziyal. That Dukat was Ziyal’s father was a curse of luck and genetics. The ability to sire a child and be a father weren’t always mutually inclusive. She wondered, not for the first time, how such a monster could have helped create so lovely a soul.

“I wish I could say that there’s some deep meaning I was trying to impart from my work.” The hologram Ziyal shrugged. “I don’t know that Iknow what each piece means, but if I talk about what I was thinking and feeling when I created them, perhaps it might help the committee discover whatever it is in my art that pleases my teachers. I just draw what I feel and somehow, it just comes out as art.”

Wide-eyed, Ziyal had gazed lovingly between Kira and Dukat, relishing being between the two people she adored most. “It’s a chance to show that Bajorans and Cardassians look at the universe the same way,” she had explained to them. “That’s what I want to do with my work: bring people together.” The passion imbued in her guileless words broke Kira’s heart.

Dukat had stood by, playing the proud parent, having convinced himself that he deserved credit for Ziyal’s sweet sincerity. Kira had quelled her disgust for Ziyal’s sake. Her loathing for Dukat needed to be kept from his daughter. Insulated from his crimes, Ziyal could continue to see him as her heroic rescuer; she deserved to see her father that way because that was how daughters were supposed to see their fathers. Kira understood that in her naïve fashion Ziyal believed she could bring Cardassia and Bajor together in her own world by casting Kira in the maternal role opposite her father. How could she comprehend what she hoped for? She had stood there, with Ziyal as the apex of their triangle, and hated Dukat for encouraging Ziyal’s misplaced optimism. He had gone along with his child, allegedly being supportive, but in reality he was exploiting Ziyal to perpetuate some sick fantasy.

Kira shuddered, remembering. In light of what she now knew about her mother and Dukat, she understood that after a fashion, in another lifetime or reality, she and Ziyal could have been sisters. Damn you, Dukat.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Gul Macet, eyes trained on her. She swiped at her tears with her fist and fixed her gaze forward, pretending she didn’t feel Macet’s eyes drilling into the back of her head. She didn’t know how much of her history Macet was aware of, but she wasn’t about to give him any reason to go nosing around.

Holo-Ziyal rested her chin in her hand. “I think some of the reason why I draw—or paint—is because I’m looking for ways to make sense of my life. See, I don’t entirely belong to either part of my heritage,” she said, her voice cracking. The hologram swallowed, bit her lower lip and sighed. As Ziyal smoothed her skirt, twitched nervously—whatever business she could distract her hands with while she struggled to push down her emotions—the guests sat in awkward silence, uncomfortable voyeurs of her pain.

Kira watched her friend’s shoulders shake. Trembling, she fought the illogical impulse to rush to her side and cradle the girl in her arms.

Kira had threaded her fingers through Ziyal’s cold ones, searching for any sign that the life force, thepagh she cherished, lingered. No vedek attended the body and where was the family to remove the Tora earring that by rights, Ziyal should have worn? The only family she had, her father, was in no condition to mourn. He rocked back and forth in his prison cell, prattling on about buying her a new dress or taking her home to visit, seemingly unaware of her death. To Dukat, she remained alive and Kira knew, after a fashion, she was, but where? What happens to thepagh of a child that no one will claim?

Holding Ziyal’s hand, feeling the warmth dissipate from her fingers, Kira refused to accept the notion that whatever energy it was that made Ziyal the vibrant, creative person she was had died with her. That all had been lost and that none of her lived on.

And now Kira sat in this place, predominantly surrounded by strangers, and knew, of a certainty, she hadn’t been wrong. Something of Ziyal yet lived.