“The Chin’toka system,” it said. “I am aware of it. The Dominion housed a primary communications relay there during the war.” For the first time, Nog thought he detected emotion in the creature’s voice: resentment, maybe even anger.

Good,Nog thought. Let it feel what I feel.

“Seventy-two Jem’Hadar were killed in that action,” the creature continued, and now Nog was certain that he heard anger in its voice.

“You were trying to kill us,” Nog said, struck by the incongruity of offering up a defense for Starfleet’s attempts to save the people of the Alpha Quadrant from the invading hordes of the Dominion.

“It was the Founders’ will,” the Jem’Hadar said.

“That doesn’t make it right,” Nog said, the volume of his voice climbing.

“Of course it does,” the Jem’Hadar avowed. “Everything done in the name of the Founders is right.”

“Shooting my leg off?” Nog’s voice had risen almost to the point of screaming.

“The Jem’Hadar soldiers you fought were trying to kill you, I’m sure,” the creature said. “Their mission was to defend the communications station. They were carrying out their duty. You fought them. Shooting you was the appropriate thing to do.”

Nog seethed, and he suddenly felt the urge to lunge forward at this monstrosity, regardless of the consequences.

“Everything done in the name of the Founders is right,” the Jem’Hadar repeated. “If that was not true, then I would not be standing here.” It leaned forward, bringing its face to within centimeters of Nog’s. “Or youwould not be standing here.” The threat carried in the words only reinforced the menace on the Jem’Hadar’s face.

Nog staggered backward, unable to stand his ground. This creature, this Dominion soldier,would one day reclaim its birthright, Nog knew; it would kill again, and it would do so soon.

Nog turned and looked at the bulkhead beside the turbolift, then reached over and touched the control plate. The door opened, and Nog backed into the car. “I’m notstanding here,” he said, mustering what little defiance he could. As he moved to the rear of the lift, he spotted his padd near the bulkhead on the far side of the corridor. His eyes were still on it as the door slid closed.

“Port airlock,” he said, and the lift started its horizontal journey to the bow of the ship. Nog would go back to the station and report to Colonel Kira what had happened, and make her understand how dangerous the Jem’Hadar was…except that he knew that she would not understand. She believed Odo—they all did—and she would ascribe Nog’s warnings to fear, and to the terrible injury he had suffered in the Chin’toka system.

Nog would still go back to the station, though. He would go to ops, work one of the sensor consoles, and return to Defiantonly once the Jem’Hadar had left it.

They were carrying out their duty,Nog thought. Which was true, he supposed, except that their duty was to kill and to conquer. These creatures, these things,had been created specifically for that purpose. They were no better than charged phaser banks, chambered quantum torpedoes, and with no more conscience or morality than those weapons. And worse than that: they likedwhat they did, every one of them.

Nog’s hands began to tremble.

“I hate them,” he said aloud, and knew that he was right to do so.

11

“I’m ruined,” Quark said. He threw an elbow up onto the bar, dropped his chin into it, and peered out at empty chairs, empty tables, and worst of all, an unmoving dabo wheel. Treir, his newest dabo girl—an Orion, tall, gorgeous, and majestically green—stood by the gaming table with her arms folded across her chest, looking painfully bored. Two of his waiters, Frool and Grimp, stood quietly in a corner, leaning against a wall and looking equally uninterested in being there. Business had been so slow tonight that Quark had sent the rest of his staff home.

The virtual night of Deep Space 9 encroached on Quark’s as it rarely had recently, sending shadows and silences into the lightly populated establishment. The festive colors reflected by the dabo wheel, and usually sent spinning around the room, instead rested statically on the walls. A dreary dimness hung between the orange and yellow stained-glass artwork on one side of the room, and the many hues of the bottles sitting behind the bar on the other. The absence of the whoops and cries of dabo players and the overlapping conversations of a large crowd left the place bereft of meaty sound, with the occasional, reedy ring of glassware a lonely underscore to the relative quiet.

“‘Ruined,’ Quark?” Skepticism filled the voice of Ro Laren, who sat across the bar from him. Quark looked over to see her eyebrows raised on her forehead, and a closed-mouth smile that he thought just might be hinting at mischief. The two were by themselves at the bar, at the end farthest from the entrance.

“Ruined,” Quark maintained. “Just look at this place.” He brought his elbow up off the bar and motioned with both hands at his establishment. Ro swiveled on her stool and gazed around. “It’s not even twenty-six hundred and there are only—” Quark hurriedly scanned the room from side to side, then glanced up at the tables on the second level, aggregating the clientele with practiced precision, though tonight that did not take much of an effort. “—seven customers here.” He raised an arm and pointed across at the dabo table, where a Tellarite freighter captain sat bent over the gaming surface, her head resting on the wager board between her splayed arms. “And one of them’s not even conscious.”

Ro laughed at that, just a short chuckle, but it affected Quark as though it were music. And not that Klingon opera tripe,he thought; thanks to Jadzia and Worf, Quark had heard more than enough of that overdramatic bellowing during the last eight years. No, Ro’s laughter sounded light and lyrical, like a Betazoid dance suite.

“Well, I’m not saying you’re not having a bad night,” Ro amended, spinning back toward the bar. “But ruined?”

“I’m telling you,” Quark said, “this is the start of a downturn. I can feel it in my lobes.”

“Your lobes, huh?” Still, the impish smile remained on her face.

Quark grasped the edge of the bar and bent forward, as though about to offer Ro something in confidence. “Never,” he began, his voice conspiratorially hushed, “underestimate the lobes of a Ferengi.”

Ro leaned on her forearms over the bar and dropped the volume of her own voice, obviously playing along. “I’ll remember that,” she said.

Quark pushed back from the bar and smiled himself. “You do have to admit, we’ve got some pretty nice, pretty large ears.” He waved in the general direction of the side of his head.

Ro sat back on her stool and threw up her hands in what Quark took to be mock frustration. “What is it with men and size?” she said. “Not everything worthwhile is big.”

“Or tall,” Quark said without missing a beat. To his delight, Ro smiled widely.

“Or tall,” she agreed. They regarded each other across the bar for a moment, and Quark felt that they had made a connection beyond his flirting with her. “Still, I don’t think you’re ruined,” Ro finally said, turning her head and looking around. The moment passed.

“Listen,” Quark told her, “closing time is hours away, nobody’s gambling, nobody’s using the holosuites, and Morn’s not even here.” He peered toward the other end of the bar, where his best customer for more than a decade typically sat. The usually reliable Morn, Quark knew, had forgone the bar tonight in favor of his own quarters, where he was giving a poetry reading for anybody on DS9 who wanted to attend; Morn had sent invitations to every personal companel on the station. “Plus, I’ve got only six conscious customers, and one of those,” he said, teasingly referring to Ro, “is only drinking pooncheenee.”He reached forward and picked up the short, translucent blue glass sitting on the bar in front of Ro. “Another, Lieutenant?” he asked. Quark had no taste himself for the sweet, fruity beverage—he kept it in the bar primarily for use as a mixer—but a lot of Bajorans liked it.