“Is this the same Russol who bears the first name of Gaten?”

Natima didn’t know what to do. “I…I…”

Thrax nodded. “I thought so,” he said. “Well. That is all I’ll be needing to know from you, Miss Lang. You may go now.”

Natima stood up on shaky legs, confused.

“Oh, and, Miss Lang?”

She turned back to him, tried not to look as though all she wanted to do was get away from Thrax and his stifling office. “Yes?”

“I’d appreciate your discretion about this meeting. In return, I will happily keep the contents of your transmissions to myself.” He paused. “You’ll do best to avoid discussing your business with your new Ferengi friend. I know what he’s up to. He thinks he’s clever, but he makes plenty of mistakes. Mistakes that could easily come to the attention of Dukat, if he isn’t more careful.”

Was this a threat? “Th—thank you,” she replied, and left the security office, her heart hammering.

Doctor Seia Trant led this day’s trip to another work camp, another Fostossa vaccination for another tired line of grubby, sullen workers. It was the third time Kalisi had been sent along on one of the excursions to manage the equipment, to set hyposprays, and to see that the camp medical systems were compatible with Crell’s. This camp was a few hours from Moset’s hospital; it had some local name she’d already forgotten. She disliked the trips, disliked looking at the sickly workers, disliked Trant’s knowing smirk whenever Moset was discussed, but she didn’t see that she had a choice. Someone had to assist, and Moset had been locked in his lab for days, finishing up some radiation study for the science ministry.

Today, there had been little for Kalisi to do. The camp’s system was already compatible with the hospital’s—they were both obsolete—and medical files had been downloaded, backed up, sent off. She could either wait in the shuttle or assist Trant with the inoculations, which would at least get her back to the warmth of the facility that much faster. She sat at the counter behind the generally glum-faced Trant, refilling hyposprays, ignoring the smell of unwashed flesh and sour breath as the Bajorans filed into the room, ten at a time, staring around themselves like dumb cattle. A handful of soldiers stood by, most of them looking over the two female doctors with smirks of their own.

Kalisi watched another thin old man step up to Trant’s table, as weak and tired looking as the rest of them. He slouched on the low stool, took his injection without comment, stood, and was motioned back out again by a soldier with a rifle. It was galling, how little these people appreciated what was being done on their behalf. Crell Moset had spent years studying Fostossa, had found a vaccine for a disease that had killed thousands of these people in the early years of the annexation. She had yet to hear a single appreciative word.

A worker sat down, a female with dead eyes. Hypo, stand, next. A man with a scar. Hypo, stand, next. A young woman with a babe at one pallid breast; neither looked well. Kalisi looked away, unhappy with the pity that welled up in her. At least at the institute, the only Bajoran she’d had to see was Mora Pol. Fumbling, frightened Doctor Mora, with his pet plastic man and his pedestrian mind. For him, she’d felt contempt. For these dirty, sorrowful people she couldn’t help but feel pity, in spite of what they’d done to the Union, what they’d done to her life…

“How many more are there?” Kalisi asked.

Trant shot her a glance. “Eager to get back to the facility, Doctor Reyar?”

The looks, the smiles, that was one thing; with that insinuating tone, Seia Trant had overstepped her bounds, and Kalisi was no novice to professional malice.

“Are you implying something about my relationship with Doctor Moset?” Kalisi asked, loudly, brightly, and was rewarded for her candor. Trant looked away, her face darkening.

“If I’ve offended you—” Trant started, but was interrupted by a wild-faced man a few people back in the line, dirty and greasy-haired, his teeth bad. He had stepped out of line, was staring at the two doctors with an expression of disbelief.

“Crell Moset? You work for Crell Moset?”

One of the soldiers stepped forward, a hard-faced glinn with a scarred temple ridge. “Back in line.”

“Moset the butcher? Is that who sent you here?”

The glinn raised his rifle. “Back in line, now.”

The Bajoran lunged past him, grabbed at one of the hyposprays on the table, his expression crazed. Kalisi and Trant both stood and backed away as the other soldiers came running. The Bajorans scattered.

“What’s in these?” the man shouted. “Another infection? Poison?”

He shook the hypospray in Kalisi’s face, and then the soldiers were on him, knocking him down with their rifles, holding him down while Trant stepped forward and injected him with a hypo she’d pulled from somewhere, something that instantly halted his struggle, calming him into a glassy-eyed stupor.

Two of the soldiers carried the mumbling madman out while the glinn barked instructions to the workers, shuffling them back into line, calling off work code numbers.

Kalisi looked to Trant, who was calmly stepping back to her place, checking the tray of vaccinations.

“Seems like there’s one at every camp,” Trant said, sighing. “Doctor Crell Moset, evil scientist.”

“What? Why?”

Trant shook her head. “They’re superstitious and ignorant, these people. They don’t understand how advances in medicine are made. How advances in anythingare made.”

Kalisi nodded, remembering Mora’s puffy, stupid face. “I’ve noticed that,” she said. As they went back to their work, she tried to picture it—Crell Moset, the work-obsessed, silently passionate man who fancied that he had a good sense of humor, as some kind of mad genius…

Bajorans, she thought, and refilled a new hypospray.

When she’d left home that morning, it had seemed like a grand adventure, a daring, heroic journey that would end with hugs and jumjacake, rewards for bravery…And Sito Jaxa had managed to hold on to that fantasy while the sun was still in the sky, imagining the surprised faces of the dashing resistance fighters when they realized a little girl had saved them, imagining the ride home in one of their flyers, the stories she’d be able to tell her friends at school…She’d darted and hidden, pretending that there were enemy soldiers after her, and for a while she’d walked by a stream that had small fish in it, and she’d stopped twice to eat the snacks that she’d packed for herself—all the while dreaming and pretending, acting like a little girl, doing all the things she had imagined she would do if she ever got to explore the forest on her own.

Jaxa had longed to go back into the forest for what seemed like an eternity. When she had been very small, children of the village could run into the forest and play together whenever they liked, and Jaxa thought she remembered going into the forest all the time, though it was a very long time ago in her short memory. Jaxa wasn’t sure exactly how old she had been when the rules had abruptly changed, when children were suddenly kept close to their parents at all times, when punishment for wandering off suddenly became severe and frightening—frightening because the children understood immediately that there was serious danger waiting for the entire village if they ever disobeyed. Fences had been built, warning signs erected. None dared challenge them—until today, when Jaxa had been so sure she was setting off on an auspicious adventure, one with the happiest of endings.

Now the sun was setting, and it was much colder than Jaxa had thought it was going to be. Even though the early fall days had been hot lately, the forest night was chilly, and too cold for sleep—as if Jaxa could have slept anyway, with the fears and regrets that were reeling in her head. What had she been thinking, sneaking away like this? Well, her pa always said she was rash. She’d made a foolish decision, a childish decision, and now she was likely going to freeze to death for it.