“That it is,” the woman said again.

Kasidy moved around the table, studying the sculptures. One depicted a robed Bajoran woman in mid-stride, her hands oddly crossed in front of her waist; the other showed a bare-chested Bajoran man leaning forward, struggling to haul something unseen, by ropes he held over his shoulders. Kasidy appreciated the technique of the two pieces, which seemed rough and kinetic, and yet also somehow graceful.

The robed woman, Kasidy decided, did not really appeal to her, although it took her a moment to determine why: despite being completely different in composition and material, the work reminded her too much of the jevonite figurine that Eivos had given her. While she remained grateful for the prylar’s thoughtfulness, the statuette’s tie to B’hala had come to bother her. She had not yet taken it down from the mantel in the front room, but she had begun to consider doing so. If City of B’halahad not been Ben’s favorite print, she would have thought about taking it down as well.

“Those are by Flanner Posh,” the shopkeeper called. “Only twenty-six years old. Lost his father in one of the camps.”

Kasidy glanced over at the woman and nodded, not really sure of the significance of the comments. “I’m sorry to hear that,” she offered.

“We’re all sorry,” the woman said, though without any animosity. “I just mention it ’cause what happens to a person informs their art.” Kasidy nodded again, not really paying much attention, but when she looked back at the sculptures, a story unfolded in her mind. The man—the artist’s father—worked to death by the Cardassians during the Occupation, made to plow fields in the high heat of summer; the woman, a cleric of some sort, also imprisoned in the camp, and somehow a source of strength for the boy—the future artist—allowing him to make it through. She had no idea whether any of that was even close to the truth, but the artwork had that quickly taken on new weight, new meaning, for her.

Kasidy roamed deeper into the gallery, peering at the paintings and the other sculptures, and occasionally exchanging remarks with the shopkeeper. Quite a few different artists were represented here, and Kasidy found that she really liked the work of several of them. As she reached the rear of the gallery, she asked the woman, “Did you do any of these?”

“Oh, my good word, no,” the woman said. “My contribution to the world of art isn’t as a sculptor or a painter; it’s as a critic.”

Kasidy laughed. “Me too,” she said. “I can’t draw a blade of grass.”

“But you know a good picture of one when you see it, don’tcha?”

“That I do, dearie,” Kasidy said, good-naturedly mimicking the woman’s way of speaking.

To Kasidy’s delight, the woman threw her head back and laughed heartily. “Ah, you’re a kidder, darlin’,” she said. “I like that.”

“Good,” Kasidy said, unable to keep from smiling. “Maybe you’ll give me a good deal on this painting then.” She gestured to her left, at a pointillist landscape.

“Everybody gets the same deal, dearie,” the woman told her, “but they’re all good ones.”

“I’m sure they are,” Kasidy said. “Actually, this piece…it’s not quite right for me, but I love the style.”

“That’s Galoren Sen’s work,” the woman said. “Really maturin’ these days. I like that one myself. Course, I like ’em all, otherwise they wouldn’t be hangin’ in my gallery.”

“Will you be getting in any more of his work?” Kasidy wanted to know.

“Well, lemme see…Sen’ll probably bring me more of his work…oh, in about two months, maybe three.”

“All right,” Kasidy said. “I’ll be sure to come back then.”

“I hope I’ll see you sooner than that,” the woman said. “I do have a pretty good turnover.”

“All right,” Kasidy said. “I’ll be back sooner.” And she meant it. This woman had put her at such ease. Even though people had recognized Kasidy tonight, the man leaving the gallery had not, and now neither had this shopkeeper. Plus, now that she thought about it, the two who had recognized her had treated her with common courtesy, but not with reverence; they had even seemed to try to avoid being reverential. Maybe the people of Adarak would allow Kasidy—maybe she would allow herself—to look beyond the place the Bajorans claimed for her in their culture. Somehow, in just a few minutes, this loud, genuine woman had brought Kasidy a lovely sense of calmness and acceptance. “You have a very pleasant evening,” she told the woman. Then she thought to ask, “By the way, what’s your name?”

“I’m Rozahn Kather,” she said. “But everybody calls me Kit.”

“Well it’s very nice to meet you, Kit. I’m Kasidy.”

“Of course you are, dearie,” Kit said, and she winked. Kasidy felt her own eyes widen as she realized that this woman had known who she was all along. She also felt sure that Kit had treated her no differently than she treated anybody else.

Kasidy left the gallery feeling more comfortable here on Bajor than she had since moving here. When two women passed her on the avenue, she offered them a big smile. “Pleasant evening,” she said. The women returned both the smile and the greeting.

Bajor still did not feel like home to Kasidy, but she suddenly thought she could see a time when it would.

55

Vaughn awoke to the sound of fire.

Earlier, after he had sighted the complex surrounding the source of the pulse, he had descended the hill and walked the final kilometers to the outer walls of the buildings. The veil of night had dropped by then, and considering his exhaustion, he had decided to make camp and get some sleep. He would make his push into the buildings once he had rested and regained some of his strength.

Before laying out his bedroll, Vaughn had paced along the outside of the complex, searching for a way in. He had not needed to search long. The first door he had come to had been not only unlocked, but wide open. Beneath the light of his beacon, the yawning entryway—like so many things on this planet—had projected an air of abandonment.

Now, where he was camped, a hundred or so meters away from the complex, the crackle of flames reached his ears, not from the buildings, but from nearby. He floated slowly up out of sleep at first, until the incongruity of the sound brought him fully awake. In the instant before he opened his eyes, he perceived the flittering light on his closed lids, and felt inconsistent waves of heat breathing across his face.

Recalling that his phaser had been lost, Vaughn did not move as he opened his eyes, wanting to assay the situation before betraying that he was no longer asleep. The small fire grew from within a circular bed of stones, he saw, a couple of meters in front of him. Vaughn waited a moment, looking and listening for anything that might help orient him to whatever new circumstances he now faced. He remembered clearly his mission to stop the pulse, his location on this planet, what he had been through today—

Through the flames, movement caught his eye, just on the other side of the stone circle. Unable to tell what had caused it, he listened for any other sounds beside those of the fire. The movement came again.

“And that’s Rigel,” a voice said, the seemingly ordinary nature of the words and tone striking in the current context. Vaughn sat up on his bedroll and peered over the flames. A woman sat there, her knees pulled up against her chest, her head back as she gazed at the stars. She had dark hair that fell to the middle of her back, a bit wild despite being tied just below her neck. She looked to be in her thirties—and even younger when the wavering firelight sent an orange-yellow glow across her features—although Vaughn knew that she was older than that. He stared at her, and she looked away from the heavens and over at him. “Do you remember what you learned about Rigel, Elias?” she asked.