“And yet you reside in the capital?” Again, Charivretha thought of her chei,so far from Andor—and from his bondmates—for so long now.

“I do,” Asarem said. “With the Chamber of Ministers convening there, and the Vedek Assembly, and all the work I do with the first minister, it just made more sense to live in Ashalla than here,” she explained. “But I visit when I can.”

Even that—an occasional trip home by Thirishar—was something with which Charivretha could have coped. For so long now, her cheihad obstinately refused to face his obligations, to her, to his bondmates and, most distressingly, to his people. Since she had last seen him on Deep Space 9 a few weeks ago, she had seriously contemplated the possibility of employing her considerable influence to see him reassigned within Starfleet, specifically to a posting on Andor. Europani and Bajoran matters had kept her occupied since she had accompanied Admiral Akaar here, but even one or two well-placed subspace communications could have begun the process. She probably would not have approached Akaar—she was unsure how he would have reacted to her request, in light of the complex relationship he had with his own people—but she knew many other admirals in Starfleet Command. Perhaps an even more effective resource, though, would have been Commander Vaughn; Elias had always proven himself to be somebody who could get things accomplished, swiftly and thoroughly. And only six days remained before Thirishar departed aboard a Starfleet vessel, bound on a dangerous mission that would, under the best of conditions, keep him away for months.

None of that would have been effective, though. Charivretha had realized after contemplating such a plan that it would not have resulted in Thirishar returning to Andor. Her young cheiwas stubborn and willful, and when she had reflected on their last conversation, she had concluded that he would sooner resign from Starfleet than go back home. That was why it had been necessary for her to set another course of action in motion.

“You have a lovely planet, a lovely city,” Charivretha said, her diplomatic instincts continuing the dialogue, even as her mind traveled other paths.

“Thank you. I think so,” Asarem said. “I’ve never been to Andor, though I have heard some interesting things about it. What’s it like?”

I’m not the only politician here,Charivretha reminded herself, and her thoughts moved automatically down the avenues she would have to send the conversation to deflect Asarem’s inquiry. But before she spoke again, the glass doors leading out to the balcony parted in the middle. Green, patterned curtains covering the glass on the inside swayed as the doors folded inward. First Minister Shakaar and Admiral Akaar stepped outside, an improvised communications center visible in the room behind them—behind Shakaar, anyway; because of his size, it was difficult to see anything past the admiral.

Like Asarem and Charivretha herself, Shakaar had dressed today in a more formal manner—in an olive jacket and matching slacks, with a russet shirt—than he had during the meetings the three of them, along with Akaar, had conducted these past weeks. When Charivretha and the admiral had first arrived, pomp and custom had seen each of the quartet in ceremonial attire, but as the days of their informal summit—held without their staffs—had grown longer and more complicated, they had all resorted to casual togs. Well, all of them but Akaar. Starfleeters,Charivretha thought. They never want to give up their uniforms.But the admiral had at least forgone his dress wear during their meetings, in favor of what he wore for regular, everyday duty. Today, though, he was back in full dress.

“They’ve begun,” Shakaar pronounced, and Charivretha and Asarem both turned to peer out at the square. Since receiving notification yesterday that Europa Nova had been rendered habitable again by the Starfleet Corps of Engineers, Bajoran officials had organized the efforts necessary to return the Europani to their world. That coordination, led by the first minister’s industrious assistant, had begun here in Brintall, where one of the smaller refugee groups, numbering only in the thousands, would be the first sent home; this group consisted of core personnel, including government leaders, physicians, disaster workers, and law enforcement. Later, and in the days ahead, the remainder of the three million refugees, currently housed all over Bajor and on Deep Space 9, would follow.

Charivretha looked to the four corners of the square, and then to four other areas surrounding a beautiful fountain in the square’s center. Eight triangular zones had been roped off in the corners and around the fountain, set aside, she knew, as the places from which the refugees would be transported onto the ships waiting in orbit. The crowd milled about somewhat anxiously—Charivretha’s antennae detected the heat output of the humans and conveyed their anticipation to her—but everybody seemed to respond dutifully to the members of the Bajoran Militia controlling the operation. Not only did the crowd seem particularly well behaved, Charivretha noted, but they were also relatively quiet, their combined voices a mere hum. She supposed that their excitement at going back to Europa Nova must have been tempered by their knowledge that, although decontaminated, their world would still bear the scars of the crisis they had endured. The civilization of the Europani had been saved, but now they would have to tackle years of rebuilding.

As Charivretha watched, Bajoran Militia personnel directed refugees into the designated areas. Silver, cylindrical devices—the councillor recognized them as pattern enhancers—stood atop tripodal bases at the three corners of each zone. Lights at the upper tips of the devices indicated their operational status. The enhancers, she knew, would facilitate transport from such a congested area.

After Charivretha saw a group of Europani dematerialize in a coruscation of white light, she turned to Shakaar. Behind him, voices emerged from within the building, some with the tinny character that distinguished them as emanating from communications equipment. The ad hoc comm setup provided a means of harmonizing the efforts of the ground-based personnel with those of the crews on the ships above. “Congratulations,” Charivretha said, offering her compliments. “The completion of this operation will be a notable achievement for the Bajoran people.”

“Thank you, Councillor,” Shakaar said. “We’re pleased that we’ve been able to help the Europani.”

“Bajorans know something about losing their homes,” Asarem noted. “It’s been a pleasure and a privilege to help prevent that from happening to these people.” She swung her arm out over the edge of the balcony, taking in the throng below.

“And we are very grateful for that.” The voice came from just beyond the first minister and the admiral; from their reactions, it seemed that neither of them had heard anybody come up behind them. The two men moved aside, revealing the speaker, whom Charivretha knew at once. The woman, an older human with lines etched deeply into her face around her eyes and mouth, smiled broadly. “Iam grateful,” she added. With short, curly hair as white as Charivretha’s, the woman looked almost like an albino Andorian, though few Andorians lived long enough to develop loose folds of flesh hanging from their neck, as this human had.

The woman reached her right hand out to the first minister, who took it in his own. “President Silverio,” Shakaar greeted her warmly, but she raised the index finger of her left hand to stop him. “Grazia,” he corrected himself, honoring the woman’s preference to be addressed by her given name, something Charivretha was aware of from the time she had spent with the Europani leader prior to the crisis.

When Silverio’s hand parted from Shakaar’s, she took a stride past him and reached out to the second minister. “Grazia,” said Asarem, stepping up and clasping the offered hand. Charivretha did not require her antennae to identify the genuinely cordial relationship between the Europani president and the two Bajoran ministers.