“The followers of the Way have nothing to do with the Cardassian Union anymore,” said the priest, her voice taking on an angry tone. “If you cannot see past the color of my skin to that fact, then nothing I can say will convince you otherwise!”

The man laughed harshly. “Then we agree on something!”

“Get ready,” Darrah said quietly. This scene had played out so many times, he could predict the moment the flashpoint would come with uncanny accuracy. The bitter thought made him sullen. Confrontations like this one were repeated all over Bajor; they had become a matter of everyday life, surges in the slow-burning discontent that underscored everything. Five years,Darrah thought, five years and no reprisal of any note as payment in kind for the attacks. Is it any wonder that everyone is still angry, still searching for somewhere to direct the anger?

The man stabbed a finger at the Bajorans in Oralian robes. “And you! You’re the worst, willingly giving yourselves over to them.” He glared at the priest. “You’re polluting the faith of our people, indoctrinating our kind!”

“It’s not like that at all,” argued one of the converts.

“Be quiet!” roared the man. “You’re traitors to the Celestial Temple!” He reached for a pocket, and his hand returned with a blunt club; behind him the crowd came forward.

“Now,” Darrah snapped, and Proka and his men reacted with a clatter of drawn phasers.

“Step back!” barked the constable, a pickup in his communicator amplifying his voice through the public address speakers on the parked flyers.

Jeers and catcalls erupted among the mass of people as Darrah stepped up to where the Cardassian woman stood, a pistol in his hand. He took a curl of her robes and pulled her toward him. She smelled of dust and the odd, metallic sweat of her species. “You need to take your acolytes and go,” he snapped.

“We have a right to be here,” she retorted. “The First Minister—”

“Right now,”Darrah growled, “unless Oralius wants more martyrs.”

She saw the iron-hard glare in his eyes and nodded, retreating back toward the rest of the hooded group.

“You see?” shouted the bald man, and he spat. “You see? Even the City Watch are against us!” He shook a fist in Darrah’s face. “Are you bought and paid for too, lawman? Is that your job?”

A hot flare of resentment shot through Darrah, and without warning he smashed the butt of his phaser down on the bridge of the bald man’s nose. It broke with a wet crack, and the protester went to his knees, a fan of blood gushing over his lips. “My job?” Darrah snarled. “You don’t know a damn thing about it.”

Dukat found the look of profound irritation on the senior officer’s face quite amusing. “Jagul Kell. Here you are.”

“It’s GulDukat now, isn’t it?” Kell retorted, crossing the room. “Get out of my chair, Gul.”

“Of course.” Dukat stood up and stepped away from the ornate desk. It was the same one Kell had used in the Dahkur embassy; in fact, almost everything in the jagul’s duty office was the same; doubtless the man had given orders to transfer all the trappings of his rank and pomposity to the naval base here on the Derna moon the moment it had been completed.

Kell’s irritation diminished as he took his rightful position. Dukat had deliberately come to the man’s chamber unannounced and taken his seat just to rattle his former commander; Kell was overly fond of making a performance out of his superiority, and if he could not assert his control over a meeting at the very start, it made him petulant and uncomfortable. Dukat’s amusement at scoring points on the man waned quickly, however; it was, in the end, a worthless exercise.

Kell eyed him. “I have a briefing in a few minutes. Whatever you want had better be something you can tell me quickly.”

Setting his agenda before I have even spoken,thought Dukat. He’s the same fool he was the day we set foot on Bajor.

“I noted your deployment to this sector with the Vandir,”Kell continued, giving him the smallest amount of attention he could. “I believe you have your assignments from Central Command already. Do you need some approval from me?”

Dukat shook his head. “Actually, Jagul, I am here to inform you of additional mission objectives in my assignment here at Derna Base.” The name made his lip curl. The facility on Derna was hardly worthy of the name; it was less an outpost than a series of revetments and temporary docks that ships could use between sorties. He imagined that more of the facility’s functions were turned toward the covert needs of the Obsidian Order than the Union’s navy.

“And those objectives are?” Kell demanded.

“Twofold. Firstly, to impress upon you Command’s desire to annex Bajor…something that in ten years you have yet to achieve.”

Kell’s eyes flashed with anger. “You share that responsibility with me, Dukat. Let us not forget whose plan it was that brought us to this state of affairs.”

“I provided you with an opportunity, Jagul. Command feels you have not fully exploited it.”

“Command is light-years away,” grated the other man.

“Things here are more complex than they might appear from an office on Cardassia Prime.”

“No doubt,” Dukat allowed. “Nevertheless, I am here to impress upon you that occupation must be formalized, and soon. If not, then other men may have to take your posting here.” He gestured around at the opulent office.

The jagul folded his arms, seething quietly. “And the second objective?”

“It appears that the United Federation of Planets has taken an interest in the situation on Bajor. They are considering open political opposition to our presence in the sector.”

Kell snorted. “The Federation? Toothless, posturing fools, all of them. Let them bray and talk about sanctions and their stern displeasure.”

“It would be unwise to underestimate Starfleet.”

The other man glared at him from behind the desk. “I am ranking officer here, and it will be my choice to decide what is and is not wise.”He gave Dukat a sharp wave of the hand. “You may tell Command that you have delivered your messages. Now get out of my office and return to your duties.”

Dukat nodded, letting the jibe roll off him. “I intend to do exactly that.”

The Xepolite transport touched down on the apron at Korto starport with a sound that was somewhere between the noise of a dying bovine and a case of cutlery thrown down a staircase. The ungainly ship, little more than a collection of cargo pods mated to a drive module, sagged on its landing gear and shed a cloud of rust fragments. The main hatch dilated in fits and starts until finally it was wide enough for the ship’s owner and his most recent passengers to disembark. The captain, like his vessel, was grubby but quite quick, and he followed the two Bajoran women down the egress ramp.

“So, here we are, home sweet home,” he sniffed, fishing a patched padd from his pocket. “And as such, if you would be so kind?”

“Thanks for the ride, Hetman Foroe,” the older female answered him, the one with the severe face and the shoulder-length blond hair. She seemed to do most of the talking, while the other one, with the large, nervous mouth and black, stringy plaits, hovered nearby. Over the course of their journey, he’d attempted to fathom the dimensions of the relationship between the two Bajorans with little success. Sisters? Lovers?He couldn’t find a pattern that fitted. Still, his curiosity about them was fading with the prospect of money changing hands. The blond woman tapped a code into the padd, releasing the second half of Foroe’s fee, and with that their transaction was complete.

“My pleasure,” he said, examining the string of digits. When he looked up from the padd, they were walking away with their bags over their shoulders. “Hey,” he said, jogging to catch up. “Now the business part is behind us, I’m curious—”