“Didn’t expect you back so soon, boss. Did it not go well?”

“Waste of my damned time,” Darrah shot back, advancing across the apron toward the precinct building. “I don’t know what the kosstthey do in that place all day aside from snipe at each other and make life hard for the rest of us.”

“Huh,” Proka nodded. “Politicians, eh?”

Darrah shot him a look. “I saw a crowd outside the building as I came in to touch down. What’s all that about?”

“Fallout from that business in Dahkur. It’s a vigil, or some such. People angry about the Militia using violence to break up the demonstration. They’re holding them in every province.”

Darrah didn’t reply. In all the activity after the Lhemorbombing, it had almost slipped his mind that there had been unrest of a different kind outside the Cardassian Embassy across the continent. There had been injuries, civilians fighting constables. What is happening to us?The question echoed through his head. It seemed like every time Darrah looked up, he saw more signs that his planet was losing its way.

“Remember when all we had to deal with were honest criminals and the odd smuggler here and there?” Proka had picked up on his mood; he was intuitive that way, which was one of the reasons Darrah used him as his second in command. He made a tutting noise under his breath as they entered the building.

Inside, the precinct was an exercise in controlled chaos. The entrance atrium was full of people pushing and shoving. One group was singing a hymn and holding duranjas, the ceremonial lamps lit to honor the newly dead, but the majority of them were calling out for the attention of the duty officers. Some were asking after friends and family who’d been on Cemba, others were just ordinary people frightened by the things they had seen on the newsfeeds.

He saw a familiar face among them, a man threading his way toward the exit and making little headway. “Syjin.”

The pilot turned and pressed through the crowd to them. “Mace, Migdal. Hey.”

“What are you doing here?”

Syjin managed a weak facsimile of his usual broad smile. “The, uh, port authority called me in.” He showed them a datadisk in his hand. “My ship’s been released from impound because of what happened in orbit. Apparently, they rushed through the paperwork and cleared me for flight status.”

“Because of the bombing?” Proka asked.

Syjin nodded. “The Space Guard has called in all available civilian ships on planet, and that includes mine. All qualified captains have been seconded to the emergency management bureau to assist with the cleanup operations. There’s a lot of wreckage drifting around up there, and the military needs all the help they can get making it safe.” He licked his lips. “I should thank you again. If you hadn’t vouched for me, I wouldn’t have a ship at all, wouldn’t be able to help.”

Darrah took it in. He knew that Coldri’s forces were stretched thin, but he hadn’t realized the situation was severe enough to force them to deputize civilian crews. “I thought the station’s core was still intact.”

“Mostly,” Syjin replied. “The explosion knocked it out of position and it’s settled into a decaying orbit. From what I heard from the other crews, it looks like it’ll have to be towed out by tugs and scrapped.” He blinked and looked away. “I knew a lot of good people on Cemba.”

Darrah nodded, his angry mood dissipating in the face of his friend’s simple grief. Bajor’s shuttle crews and freight pilots were a small community and a tight-knit bunch. He had no doubt that tonight a lot of absent friends would be toasted in starport bars across the planet.

For a moment, an uncharacteristic flare of hate crossed the pilot’s face. “You catch those Tzenkethi bastards who did this, Mace.”

“We don’t know for sure it was them,” he said carefully.

Syjin eyed him. “It’s all across the ’feeds. They said they were trying to assassinate the kai.”

Proka’s brow furrowed. “She wasn’t even up there.”

“That blowhard from Qui’al was on the broadcast. Kubus. He practically blamed the Guard for not stopping it.”

“You saw it?” Darrah asked.

Syjin shook his head. “No, Karys told me. She saw—”

“Karys?” Darrah was brought up short by the mention of his wife. “You talked to her?”

The pilot pointed in the direction of the offices. “Sure. She was here, with another constable, the dark-haired girl. She was pretty upset, looked like she had been crying.”

Darrah broke away and pushed his way back into the precinct.

He found her on the upper level, in an interview room. Light from the fading day filtered in through the window blinds. Constable Myda was with her, working a tricorder. Karys was pale, her face streaked with tear tracks. She clutched a tissue between her fingers. There was an untouched cup of dekatea on the table in front of her. Both women looked up as Mace slid open the door.

“Karys?” The tone of his voice was enough to communicate what he was afraid of.

She shook her head. “Bajin and Nell are fine, they’re at services.”

A strange mixture of fear and elation shot through him. He was so pleased that his children were safe, and yet the look on his wife’s face was enough to tell him that something was very wrong. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirrored window of the observation room next door. He saw the same cold terror there that he had witnessed every time he had been forced to give someone bad news. Your son has been killed. Your wife is missing. We’re doing all we can. I’m sorry.

He blinked, snapping himself out of the moment. “What happened?”

Karys stifled a sniff. “Mace, wait. Just let me do this.” She nodded to Myda. “I’m ready.”

“All right,” said the constable, giving her commander a quick glance. Myda aimed the tricorder at the table and thumbed a control, and abruptly Darrah realized what was going on.

The small holographic playback emitter inside the device cast a fan of orange-hued light across the table, and the shape of a dead man’s torso and head appeared, rendered in a ghostly laser glow. Karys made a choking sound deep in her throat and nodded once. Myda tapped the control again and the image disappeared.

“The likeness data was sent from the emergency bureau facility in Ilvia, sir,” she told him quietly. “I’m sorry, Inspector. Your office should have been informed automatically.”

“I was in Ashalla,” he replied. “I wouldn’t have gotten the message.” Mercifully, the face of the dead man had been free of any serious injury. He’d handled many of these identifications himself in his days as a street officer, and he knew the signs, the visible mismatching where the medical computers had made a virtual reconstruction of a countenance instead of the real thing. At least Karys had been spared that.

“It’s him,” said his wife. “That’s my cousin, Jarel.”

“Identity confirmed by next of kin,” Myda said into the tricorder. The device gave an answering beep.

“What was he doing on Cemba?” asked Mace. “I never knew he was there…”

“He was…he was supervising the transport of some materials. Mistwood from Rigel, for a piece he was working on.” She sniffed again. “That’s Jarel. He obsesses over the details.”

Mace hadn’t known the man well; he remembered him vaguely from family gatherings, a gangly fellow with a braying laugh. Mace had always been an outsider at those things.

“You should have contacted me,” he told Karys. “I would have done this for you.”

“You were in Ashalla,” she repeated, a razor under her words.

He felt each one hit him, guilt striking like ice in his gut. Mace shot Myda a look. “Can you give us some privacy, Constable?”

Myda nodded. “I’m done, sir. There were no personal effects. Your wife’s free to leave.”

When the door closed he went to her and held her, but Karys was rigid. “Talk to me,” he said finally.