“It was Shakaar,” Dakhana Vaas told her, nodding toward the back of the cave.

“Oh,” Kira said, a little embarrassed. She wouldn’t want Shakaar to hear her complaining.

“It’s all right, little girl, he knows he can’t cook.”

Kira resented Dakhana calling her “little girl,” since they were only a couple of years apart, and anyway, Kira had been with the cell for more than a year. She silently wished she was taller, or at least as tall as Dakhana.

Shakaar came into the main body of the cave from where he’d been sitting with his precious and notoriously troublesome comm system since just before mealtime. He leaned his hands against the end of the table, his expression suggesting news.

“Listen up,” he said, the unusual tension in his voice imploring everyone to look up. The older members of the cell occasionally heckled Shakaar for his tendency to mumble, but he was not mumbling now. “We’ve got a chance to get into Gallitep.”

“Gallitep!” Dakhana exclaimed. “Who’s your informant? Is he reliable?”

“I believe so,” Shakaar said. “But even if it’s just a rumor, this is an opportunity that I don’t think we should pass up. It’s too important. The Cardassians have decided to shut down the place for good. It’s too much trouble to relocate the Bajoran workers, so…” he trailed off, passing a hand over his grim face.

“So they’re going to kill them instead,” Furel said, the disgust in his voice plain.

“Yes,” Shakaar said. “Right now, I just need a couple of volunteers to go down and meet with this contact in order to get more information about the plan. It’s a little risky—”

“Risky,” Dakhana warned. “Shakaar, we’re talking about Gallitep! There’s no way to even approach that camp; there’s nothing around for kellipates except booby-traps and Cardassian patrols, the air security has to be the tightest anywhere on the planet, and Gul Darhe’el is—”

“I’m talking about a meeting at a safe location not far from here,” Shakaar said. “I wouldn’t usually ask anyone to meet with a contact when I can’t vouch for his reliability. But like you said, Vaas, this is Gallitep. This person is supposed to have inside knowledge of the camp, and it could be the only way anyone could even—”

Kira spoke up before anyone else could. “I can go.”

Shakaar turned to her, hesitating. Kira was sure he was going to say no, but he surprised her. “Okay, I have one volunteer. Who else?”

“Well, I’ll go with her, of course,” Lupaza said. “So that means Furel is coming.”

Furel folded his arms and nodded without a word, his eyes reflecting hard determination. Kira wondered if he might have known someone who had been taken to the camp; almost everyone had relatives who had died or gone to work camps, but Gallitep was different.

“That should be fine,” Shakaar told them. “You’re to go and meet this person at the Artist’s Palette at six-bells tomorrow. Whoever he is, he’s asked that we perform some sort of favor in exchange for the information. I don’t know what the favor is, but—”

“But I’m sure we can handle it,” Furel finished. “We willhandle it.”

Shakaar nodded. “If this information is legitimate, we can’t afford to be skeptical. Those people in that camp can’t afford it, either. This is their last chance, and it sounds like we don’t have much time.” His gaze panned around the room. “This is one that we have to get right, no matter the cost.”

He had no doubt that Gul Dukat was going to be furious when he delivered this piece of news, but Basso Tromac could scarcely conceal his persistent smile when he approached the prefect’s office. Of course, he would not have the satisfaction of saying “I told you so,” not to Dukat. Such a move would certainly mean a death sentence for anyone, especially for a Bajoran. But at least Basso would get to see the look on his face; that alone would be worth the outburst that was sure to follow.

“Gul,” Basso addressed the prefect as he entered the office, seating himself behind the enormous desk without being asked; his relationship with the prefect had at least become secure enough that he no longer had to wait for permission just to sit down in his presence. Dukat looked up from his filing computer, gave him a nod, and pressed his fingertips together, an expression of impatient expectation on his face.

“I must warn you that what I’m about to tell you is going to be very…disappointing,” Basso began.

Dukat looked weary. “Yes, you said as much this morning, when you asked to meet with me. Now suppose you get to the point, Basso.”

“Of course, sir. You know that I’ve tried to keep very careful tabs on the Kira family, though in recent years Taban has refused to accept any more of your generosity. He has become quite…bitter since his wife—ah, that is, since Meru passed on. I have done my best to keep track of the children, but they are older now, and they tend to—”

“Yes, I’m aware of the Bajoran child’s propensity to wander. I wonder if this story has an ending, Basso.”

Basso cleared his throat. “Of course, Gul. You see, the daughter, she—”

“Yes, Nerys. Beautiful girl.” He sighed. “What’s she, about fourteen now?”

“That’s correct, sir. She has been increasingly difficult to locate in the past few years, roaming and coming home only on very rare occasions.”

“But of course, you have ensured her safety,” Dukat said carefully.

Basso began to feel worried. “I have done my best, sir. It’s true that Bajoran children are allowed a certain amount of freedom, but certainly not to this extent. I wondered if she might have taken to running away, but when my people in the village spoke to Taban, he seemed entirely unconcerned for her safety. It seems that he…knew where she was. She—”

“So, she is safe,” Dukat said, appearing to relax somewhat.

“Well, yes, she seems to be safe, but—you see, sir, what I’m trying to tell you is that I have information to suggest that Nerys has joined the resistance movement.”

He risked a direct look at the prefect’s face. Surprisingly, Dukat did not look angry, exactly. He looked surprised, but not angry. Basso could not quite place his expression, but if he hadn’t known better, he’d have said the prefect looked…concerned.

“Only fourteen years old,” Dukat finally said. “After all I did for her as a child. I saw to it that she was sent to school—art school, as her mother wished, though apparently she didn’t take to it. I never would have predicted an outcome like this.” Dukat pushed himself up from his chair, folded his arms, wandered toward the back of the room. “Do you know where she is, Basso?”

“Sir, I don’t know yet, but I am doing my best to locate her. My contacts have suggested that she must be hiding in the Dahkur hills, with one of the cells in that general vicinity, but we can’t nail down which one. It seems possible that even her father doesn’t have that information.”

Dukat sighed again, pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose.

Basso could not quite puzzle out the meaning behind the prefect’s reaction. Sad, fearful, strangely introspective—nothing like what he’d been expecting. He couldn’t help but feel cheated. Dukat spoke again after a moment, and Basso wondered if the Dukat he’d expected to see was about to make an appearance.

“After all I did for her,” he repeated, but his voice was colder this time, as if he’d had time to contemplate the meaning of it all. “You must find her, Basso, and you must bring her to me.”

“Of course,” Basso said reluctantly, realizing that he should have expected this order. Dukat went on.

“And she must be completely unharmed, do you understand me? No excuses.”

“Un…harmed? Yes, yes…certainly,” Basso stammered, and left the room without being told to. He knew the prefect well enough to know when it was time to leave him, and anyway, he needed to get away so he could think. What had gone wrong? He’d been expecting an expression of horrified shock, followed by a lengthy tantrum and an order to kill the ungrateful girl, a standing order that would probably never be carried out. Instead, he’d gotten himself a great deal more work, he realized. Locating Kira Nerys, hiding somewhere in the Dahkur hills with one of any number of resistance cells, and bringing her to the prefect— alive—that was a tall order. A nearly impossible order. And Basso had no one but himself to blame for it.