“But…why? What did they want with those girls?”

The prylar’s voice was soft with hesitation, and Nerys had the impression that she was concealing something from her. “Perhaps…they wanted younger girls, so that they can begin training them for a particular job that is easier learned in one’s youth…”

“I told them,” Nerys sniffled, “when they came to the center of town and began to select girls from the crowd, I shouted that they should choose me instead of Petra Chan…” Nerys began almost to sob now, for she missed her friend, the teenage girl who’d been like a mentor and older sister, and Nerys feared terribly for her safety. “But…but…,” she continued, “they said I was too young, and too scrawny…and Petra Chan isn’t even that much older than me…and she’s thinner than I am!”

“Nerys,” Istani said, her voice soothing, “the Prophets will look after Petra Chan now, and you must thank Them for Their blessings. You and your family have always had plenty to eat, and you are together—”

“Not my mother,” Kira pointed out, aware that she was being, as her brothers often accused her, a pessimist, only seeing the negative side of things. Of course she should be counting her blessings for having avoided whatever fate had befallen those teenage girls. She should be relieved that the Cardassians took Chan instead of her, but she didn’t feel lucky or blessed—she felt guilty and angry.

“Nerys, my child,” Istani crooned, reading the tortured agony in Nerys’s face, “you will have to come to terms with your anger. We all suffer—it is part of the cycle of life. But it pleases the Prophets when Their children can transcend a life mired in misery, even in these…conditions.”

Nerys said nothing for a moment, only finished having her cry, and then caught her breath, her head now resting on the prylar’s shoulder. She thought, but did not say aloud, that if there were some way she could fight back, even a small way, if there were some way of surpassing these feelings of complete helplessness, maybe she could finally come to terms with how unhappy she felt. Maybe she could finally begin to achieve the peace she craved, the peace she knew the Prophets wanted her to have. But what could she do, as a ten-year-old girl?

Sitting there in the shrine, the last of her sobs calming themselves in her chest, she made a silent vow. She made it for her mother, and for Petra Chan, and for everyone else she knew who had been taken away or who had died. And mostly, she made it for herself; for the child who had never experienced childhood.

Dukat scowled when he received the call from ops; he didn’t care for the way the new glinn in security delivered his messages. The manner in which the soldier bit off the ends of his words irritated Dukat, and he disliked that the man insisted on being referred to by his given name. The prefect had initially refused, but since nearly everyone else on the station had fallen into the habit, Dukat would maddeningly find himself referring to the soldier as just “Thrax.”

T oo many eccentricities,Dukat decided, and he’s too remote. Still, those are hardly actionable offenses.

The comm signaled again. Dukat sighed. “What is it, Thrax?”

“You asked to be informed when Gul Darhe’el’s transport was on approach. It will dock in ten metrics.”

“Ah, yes,” Dukat said, smirking as he considered the conversation that was about to take place. “At last he graces us with his presence. Have an honor guard meet him at the airlock. See that he is escorted directly to my office.”

“Acknowledged.”

It was not long before Dukat’s office doors parted, and the dour-faced Darhe’el crossed the threshold, looking somewhat drawn. Dukat remained seated behind his great black desk, but pointedly did not invite the other man to take one of the guest chairs. “Gul Darhe’el. Welcome back.”

“Prefect,” Darhe’el said tightly. His voice was cold and hard, as always.

Dukat, by contrast, kept his tone gregarious. “And how was your stay on Cardassia?”

The other man was clearly fighting to rein in his contempt, which amused Dukat no end. Darhe’el always was too arrogant for his own good. “It was brief,” he answered with exaggerated stiffness.

The prefect chuckled. “Yes, I expect it was. Congratulations, by the way, on receiving the Proficient Service Medallion. I must confess that I had wondered if you got the news about the accident at Gallitep while they were pinning the medal on your chest, or if they waited until the reception.” Darhe’el’s only answer was his cold stare, and Dukat finally rose from his chair, abandoning the game. “But we aren’t here to discuss the honors that have recently been heaped upon you, are we?” He picked up one of several padds scattered across his desk, and slowly walked around to the other side, reading the report that was displayed on the device’s tiny screen. “Dozens dead, with the number expected to rise in the coming days; even more permanently disabled; fully one third of the Bajorans and Cardassians in the camp believed to be afflicted with a malady we don’t even have a name for yet…and all mining activity temporarily suspended.” He tossed the padd back onto the desk. It clattered loudly as it landed. “I don’t appreciate having to clean up your messes.”

Darhe’el held Dukat’s gaze. “We both understand what this amounts to, Prefect—the one issue behind which we have always stood together: insufficient resources to manage the annexation properly. Lack of adequate personnel, lack of proper equipment—”

Dukat snorted. “You’re not going to escape responsibility for this by laying the blame at the feet of Central Command, that I can assure you. The fact of the matter is that yourmen mishandled a crisis that never should have arisen.”

“I was informed that the AI failed to correctly identify a pocket of poisonous gas—a toxin of a type never before encountered…”

“This was hardly the fault of the artificial intelligence,” Dukat snapped. “This was the fault of the men who were supposed to have been trained to operate the system, to correct for inevitable failures on the part of the machine—the men who serve under you. This is about your facility falling apart while you were enjoying the accolades of Central Command under the Cardassian sun.”

For the first time, Darhe’el’s face lost its scowl as his mouth spread into a thin smile. “Is the prefect asking me to resign from my post?”

Dukat’s eyes narrowed. In fact, he wanted much more than to remove Darhe’el from Gallitep—he wanted him off Bajor. Darhe’el was a longtime favorite of Kell, and had been the legate’s personal choice to become prefect of the annexation, before Dukat’s secret maneuvering among the other members of Central Command had overridden Kell’s decision and secured the posting for himself. Dukat ascended, while Darhe’el remained at Gallitep. But the fact that the two guls were on opposite poles when it came to Bajoran policy wasn’t something that Kell had overlooked when he required Darhe’el to remain in charge of the mine. Of that Dukat was certain. Kell might be outwardly magnanimous, but he was unlikely ever to forgive Dukat, with whom he had long been at odds, for outmaneuvering him. Darhe’el was there to be Kell’s thorn in Dukat’s side…one the prefect was effectively powerless to remove.

“No,” he finally said in answer to Darhe’el’s question. Kell would never allow the other gul’s removal, not while Gallitep was productive, and Darhe’el knew that. Even Dukat’s political allies in Central Command would have none of it; they could hardly support the idea that the recently decorated Darhe’el bore responsibility for the mining accident. If anything, their public statements would emphasize the fact that, by taking place during Darhe’el’s absence, the accident proved how vital he was to Cardassian interests on Bajor. Nor would they be persuaded that insufficient resources and manpower were to blame for what happened. In the end, Dukat knew, the fault would land squarely where it always did: at the feet of Bajor’s prefect.