A number of people looked surprised, others seemed to know exactly of whom he was speaking. He did not say it, but Natima assumed he meant Kotan Pa’Dar—Russol would never confirm that the man was a dissenter, but Natima had long believed it was true.

“The division of power in the Detapa Council still swings in the general direction of Central Command, however. But if one seat on the council were to go vacant—were to be filled by a sympathizer—the balance would tip in our direction. Yoriv Skyl, who is an exarch at one of the Bajoran settlements, is poised to take the next open seat. I believe that Skyl would vote in favor of withdrawal, if the issue were to come to the council. Legate Ghemor and a few other important people with influence over Central Command mean to bring the item up for decision in less than one year.”

A few of the people in attendance looked poised to applaud, optimism quickly spreading from one person to the next. But Russol was quick to interrupt them.

“Our problem, of course, is how to make that position…vacant. How can we guarantee the dismissal of tyrannical and corrupt civilian prefects and exarchs when their terms have no limit? What can we do?”

The room fell absolutely silent, and Natima’s heart sank as she recognized the rhetorical questions for what they were, what Russol was suggesting. It seemed impossible, a stretch of character she would not have imagined of him, but the gravity in his voice was unmistakable. He was so desperate to pull his world’s involvement out of Bajor that he would condone assassination.

“It is for the good of Cardassia,” he said calmly.

“Is there no other way?” Natima asked, before he could put voice to the details.

“There is one other alternative,” he said, his tone belying no emotion at all. “But I believe that a few selected eliminations would be preferable to a coup, which may not produce the desired effect, and will almost certainly result in more deaths.”

Still, no one spoke, and Russol continued to sweep his gaze across the room, making steady eye contact with each person in attendance, one at a time. “I would not propose such a thing if I did not believe that it was necessary, and that now is the optimum time to act. The only time to act.”

Someone cleared his throat, and a quiet chatter began to rise once more. “But, Gul Russol,” someone called out, “how can we advocate for peace and murder at the same time?”

“We can’t,” Russol told him. “We simply must accept that we are forced to compromise our values in order to achieve the desired result—for the greater good. But it is as I say—there is no other way.”

Many questions followed, which resulted in a few short arguments, but most were quelled by Russol’s blunt responses. He had examined the issue from every angle, he informed the room, and he firmly believed that the time to strike was now.

After a good hour of moderately heated discussion, a vote was taken, and though Natima was hesitant to do so, she lent her support to Russol’s proposal. In the end, Natima was not the only one who chose to agree to Russol’s controversial tactics. When Dr. Tuken tallied the votes, Natima was surprised to learn that a strong majority had voted for it as well.

So this is what we’ve come to,she thought, looking around the room at downcast eyes, faces that seemed to reflect less patriotic zeal than usual. The vote had been secret, but the looks on the faces of those present were clear enough to reveal who had voted for the advocacy of murders—the deliberate killing of Union members—and who had not. Natima knew her own expression was far from innocent. Are we any better than that which we seek to overthrow?

“Don’t patronize me, Kubus,” Dukat snapped. “I am fully aware that I look like a complete fool right now. To the Bajorans—and to my superiors in Central Command.”

Kubus Oak coughed, quickly losing hope that this conversation would be brief, his placating manner seen for what it was. He disliked the prefect’s office, preferring to keep his conversations with Dukat confined to the infinitely more comfortable comm system; but ever since Basso Tromac had vanished, Dukat had begun to treat Kubus more like an assistant than a political cohort. It wasn’t as though their relationship had ever been on much of an even keel, but Kubus had never felt so much like a subordinate as in recent years, and it seemed to be getting worse as time went by. “As I was saying, it wasan unfortunate incident,” he said, “but there is no need to—”

“Incident?” Dukat laughed. “You speak as though this is some past event! My men have been unable to repair the detection grid on a global scale, Kubus, and we have only been able to maintain secondary systems in a few locales. Someone is going to pay for this.”

Kubus was ready for him. “I have heard a great many rumors from my contacts,” he offered. “They believe this is primarily the work of terrorists in Dahkur. They hide somewhere in the hills, though there has been no physical evidence of their exact location. It might be preferable to simply…” Kubus hesitated as he noticed that Dukat was shaking his head, but he uncertainly went on, “…destroy the entire region…”

“No,” Dukat told him. “There are valuable commodities in that part of Dahkur. Minerals, timber…Give me someone else, Secretary.”

“Someone else?” Kubus felt uncomfortably pressed, his mind going blank. He had been sure that the cell in Dahkur would be enough to satisfy Dukat, and he didn’t know what to say now that his suggestion had been rejected.

There was a long pause while Kubus tried to come up with something useful. “Well, there is believed to be an especially large cell in Kendra Province. I have no hard evidence that they had any involvement, but—”

“Did I ask for hard evidence?” Dukat said coldly. “Can this cell be pinpointed?”

“I…believe…their hiding place is somewhat more definitive than some of the others, but—”

“Then why have they not been brought to my attention before now?”

Kubus suddenly realized what a terrible mistake he was making. “Well…sir…that cell…It’s rumored that one of their members…is the son of our religious leader—”

“The kai’s son?” Dukat said, his expression suddenly changing to reflect his apparent interest. Kubus felt his heart sink like a stone.

“Yes, sir, that’s correct. No Bajoran is willing to reveal their exact location, but there is a general idea of where they might be found, near the forest just outside of the Kendra provincial seat…”

“Issue a statement, Kubus. If this Kendra cell does not surrender themselves, I will be forced to destroy the surrounding villages. However, if anyone from Kendra is willing to reveal their location before they surrender…well, the villages will be spared, of course…” He trailed off, a self-satisfied smile surfacing.

“Prefect,” Kubus said nervously, aware that he was inching into dangerous territory, “I’m not sure you understand the gravity of what you ask. I must tell you, I think the cell from Dahkur—”

“Oak,” Dukat said, and Kubus blanched. No good could come following the gul’s use of his given name.

“I hesitate to bring this up at such a sensitive time,” the prefect said, “But Legate Kell recently suggested to me that it would be in my best interests to appoint a new Bajoran cabinet. He believed it would be beneficial to simply execute all the current members of the Bajoran government and start anew. Of course, I assured him that I had no intention of betraying those who had been faithful to me for such a long time.”

Kubus recognized the threat, but he could not be responsible for an ultimatum involving Kai Opaka’s son. “Gul, respectfully—I don’t believe that any Bajoran would willingly reveal the whereabouts of the kai’s son.”

“Well,” Dukat said, “we’ll see if you’re right, won’t we, Secretary?” He stood from his desk, turning his back on the old man, who wasn’t quite sure whether he had been dismissed.