The Bajorans, running and shouting, some praying and others fighting among themselves for food, for a vehicle, for old hurts given freedom by the anarchy; the Militia, who moved not as policemen did on Cardassia, with boldness inspired from fear of their badges, but skulking in the shadows as Bennek did, afraid for their lives; and the Cardassians, insect-sharp in their black armor, stalking the streets with copper rifles in their grip and armed skimmers preceding them.

Speakers on the skimmers and the few streetscreens that still worked were broadcasting the same loop of careful speech, a string of platitudes recorded by Lale Usbor calling for calm across the planet and assuring the people that their Cardassian friends were here to help restore peace.

On occasions, as he moved from building to building through the rainy morning, Bennek saw Union soldiers panning tricorders around the streets, the devices bringing them through masses of displaced citizens to groups of swaddled figures hiding in disguise. Oralians.Without ceremony or comment, the troopers took Bennek’s brethren out of sight of the Bajorans and phasered them down, using high-energy blasts to disintegrate the bodies. They didn’t offer them the chance to recant.

The first time, he wept, clutching the leather bag to his chest and rocking in the wet darkness. The second time he just watched, and the time after that, and the time after that.

It took all day to reach the hill district on foot, and then an hour or two more before he was at the ornamental gardens and through to the Naghai Keep. Bennek didn’t pause to wonder where the Militia guards had gone; he could hear the humming of skimmers following him up the hill. The sound pressed him on, buoying his aching legs as a swimmer would move on a wave crest. Into the keep, and the corridors beyond. Searching. Searching.

Panic built in his chest, a heavy knot of it like a vise being slowly tightened more and more until his ribs would crack. “What if he is not here?” Bennek asked the question aloud, and it echoed down the corridors. “Oralius save me, but what if he is not here?”

The cleric had gambled it all on this one thing, on the single hope that he would find the man he needed in the Naghai Keep. If he was wrong, then his failure would be total. “Am I the last?” he asked the air. “Am I the last one to walk the Way?”

He turned a corner and his pulse raced. He knew this place: the quarters that the priests of the Celestial Temple had taken after the destruction of the monastery at Kendra. If he was here, it would be in one of these rooms.

He crossed up and down the corridor, finally halting outside a door. “Gar! Gar!” It was hard to speak without gasping. “Are you in there? For Fate’s sake, open the door!”

When the latch released, he threw himself at the door and fell inside. The vedek was there, watching him with cool, wary eyes. Words spilled out of Bennek’s mouth, babbling gratitude to find his fellow cleric still here, still alive. Gar seemed to find his questions and his appearance here strangely at odds. It was almost as if the Bajoran wasn’t aware of the madness enveloping his world. The vedek gave him water and, finally, the panic began to subside. It had been in him so long that the Oralian had almost forgotten what the absence of it felt like.

Gar eyed him. “Why are you here? You must know the keep won’t offer you any sanctuary.”

Bennek almost cried out in shock. “You would turn me out?”

“I mean that this place won’t protect you.”

The reality of those words hit him like hammers. The skimmers—they had been so close behind. The soldiers—even now they were likely tracing his steps through the gardens, into the keep, toward the central tower…They would find him. It was inevitable. That made this choice all the more important.

Gar seemed to sense the understanding within the other cleric and spoke with gentle care, encouraging him to remember his faith, to take strength from it. Bennek wanted to, so very badly he wanted to, but he saw his beloved Tima’s face in his mind’s eye, and thought of the dead in the streets. He was afraid he would break down and weep like a child.

The skimmers were outside. He could hear the noise of their engines. Bennek looked up and asked for help. “Can you hide me? Please?”

When Gar shook his head, he felt as if darkness had swallowed him whole. Denied? He wants to let me die?Panic returned, swamping him in its embrace. For one moment he longed for the numb nothingness he had felt after learning of Tima’s death. And there, in her memory, he found something close to strength.

“I’m sure even Oralius knows that no man can be strong every day,” said the Bajoran.

“But now I have to be,” Bennek told him, and drew out the contents of the bag he carried. A tiny gasp of sadness escaped him when he saw that the recitation mask he held was damaged, but he pressed on, reaching in again to reveal the nested tube of precious brangwa-hide scrolls. He tried and failed to keep his hands from trembling. A choice was made, and words formed on his lips. I am going to die.He knew it as clearly as he knew the sun would set and rise again. Just as Hadlo did, just as Tima and all my brothers and sisters. But Oralius will survive. She must.“You cannot hide me, I was wrong to ask it of you. I will leave this place, but in the name of our twin faiths, I ask you to do this for me, Osen. Conceal them. Hide the mask and the scrolls from the soldiers and promise me you will never reveal their location as long as you live, not until the soul of Cardassia grows strong again, not until the Voice of Oralius is ready to be heard once more. Tell me you will do this. Swear it!”

The Bajoran looked down at the burden Bennek placed in his hands. Outside, he could hear the approach of Cardassian boots across the wooden floors of the keep. Bennek felt tears blurring his vision. “In the name of your Prophets, swear it!”

And then Gar Osen did something odd. He smiled. Not in the warm manner of a friend greeting another friend, or the comradeship of distaff cousins, but in the cold way a victor would take pleasure from the groveling surrender of an enemy.

The door to the chamber shattered under a heavy boot and banged open. Bennek reeled back into the room and fell against a chair. His eyes darted around, seeking another exit, but there was only a barred window and they were eight stories high.

A glinn and a pair of low-ranked garresh entered. The enlisted troopers were bored and annoyed with the detail they had drawn, but the glinn looked confused. He was waving a combat tricorder about and frowning.

“Is there a problem, Glinn?” asked Gar, without even a hint of fear.

“We’re tasked to recover all Oralian dissidents for processing,” said the officer. He pointed at Bennek. “This is one of them. But my readings are wrong.”

“How so?” Gar made it sound like this was some parlor puzzle game. Bennek was frozen at his side, too afraid to speak or to move. The two garresh had their guns aimed squarely at his chest.

The glinn pointed the tricorder at the Bajoran. “I’m getting five Cardassian biosigns in this room, not four.” The young officer blinked. “You’re not—”

“Lubak Five. Tul One. Karda Nine.” Gar said the words with a flat, slightly irritated sigh, moving the mask and the scrolls to his right hand. “Authenticate.”

The officer was so surprised to hear a Cardassian code issue from the mouth of the cleric that he input the string into his tricorder without really thinking about it. He read something off the screen and his gray skin whitened. “Forgive me, Agent,” he began. “We were not aware that the Order was operating in this zone.”

Bennek finally regained control of himself, enough to turn and face the other man. “Agent?” he repeated.