When the gul spoke again, the air between them chilled. “Don’t make the mistake of getting too close to the aliens. They don’t need friends, Pa’Dar. They need masters, and when Bajor formally becomes a client world of the Cardassian Union, it will be our duty to take on that responsibility. For their good, as much as ours.”

“Only Cardassia knows what is best for Bajor, is that what you are saying?”

“Of course,” said Dukat, as if any other suggestion was idiotic. “It will only be by the Union’s benevolence that Bajor can advance. Otherwise, they will remain stagnant.” He cast a glance at the crescent of Bajor, huge in Derna’s sky. “The evidence is all too clear. A decade Cardassia has been here, and what has been done? The lethargy of these aliens is like a taint, infecting all who come to this world.” He shook his head. “But that time has passed.”

He’s talking about an invasion.The insight hit Pa’Dar like a splash of icy water. “Dukat,” he said, the words bubbling up from inside him, coming from a place that he had tried to seal away, tried to deny. “I know what you’ve done to these people. I’ve seen the edges of it, I am not blind. The stranglehold Cardassia has placed around Bajor’s throat, the Tzenkethi and the threats—”

“Be very careful of what you say next,” the gul warned.

“Don’t say something you will regret…something that might force me to make an unfavorable choice. You are far from home, Kotan. Remember that.”

The cascade of accusation he was about to unleash stalled in his throat, and Pa’Dar fell silent for a long moment, a sudden awareness of how distant the protection of his family was from him. Finally, he summoned some courage to answer back to the other man. “You and I, Dukat, have nothing more to discuss. Perhaps once I thought I knew who you are, but I see now that all we have are viewpoints in stark opposition.”

Dukat’s voice dropped to a hush. “I am genuinely saddened to learn you feel that way, Pa’Dar. As a nod, then, to our former friendship, I will tell you this. Don’t place yourself in conflict with me. You won’t win.” He turned away. “Go back to Bajor, back to Tozhat, and smile your smiles to the natives. You’ll see how much coin that earns you when we take this world for ourselves.”

Pa’Dar tried to find a way to respond, but nothing came. He glanced around him and saw nothing but soldiers, men in black shining armor, moving on errands and toward missions he had no influence upon.

The police flyer settled to the ground, thrusters throwing out a wave of rust-colored dirt as the motors died. Darrah Mace stepped down from the hatch and caught a breath of the dusty air, the moisture draining instantly from his mouth. Out here, in the middle of the plains where B’hava’el beat down from a cloudless sky, the heat was a heavy blanket. Darrah tugged at his collar.

The Oralians coming out from the shanty made little trails of ruddy dust as they walked. The dull, unkempt earth beneath their feet was sun-bleached and eternally dry. Nothing had grown out here for years, not since the attacks; one of the plasma bolts dropped on Korto had gone wide and scored a huge black oval in the grasslands, killing every plant that thrived there. In the aftermath the ground had remained dead, as if it were cursed. No one had wanted it. No one but the Oralians, who had nowhere else to go.

Darrah glanced over his shoulder to the west. The Cardassian enclave was visible at this distance, a large low construct of dark metals and thermoconcrete, extending ever closer to the outskirts of Korto. He hadn’t been inside the walls of the cordoned community, not since the changes that had come after First Minister Lale’s reelection. Kubus Oak’s aggressive lobbying had pushed through the laws that now made Cardassian-owned land de facto Cardassian sovereign territory, and no amount of demonstrations or civil disobedience courtesy of the Circle had stopped it from happening. Every enclave an embassy,he thought, every embassy a place for them to do whatever they want to.

And those laws had seen an end to the Oralian presence in the enclaves as well. The walled zones were designated for use by Cardassian military, trading and civilian concerns only; theological groups were not accommodated. Darrah walked toward the approaching figures and the ragged collection of old bubbletents and ramshackle buildings behind them. The Oralian Way lived on charity now, on handouts from the Bajoran church and the smallest subsistence grants from Cardassia Prime. He sighed. These people, they’re dying out by the ticks of the clock.

“Chief Inspector Darrah,” said the woman leading the greeting party. She rolled back her threadbare blue hood and gave him a nod. “Thank you for coming.”

Darrah returned the gesture. “Tima.” He pushed away the moment of disquiet he always felt at seeing a Bajoran dressed in the robes of an alien faith. “It’s been a while since we last spoke.” His eyes were drawn to her right ear; it was bare of any adornment.

“Three years,” she agreed. “At the great wake for the kai.”

A memory flashed in Darrah’s thoughts. Three years? Has it only been three? It seems like forever.He recalled Tima’s face on that day, when all of Korto became hushed in memorial for Kai Meressa’s passing, her sorrow bright and shining. The wall of silence that hung over the city, the views on the streetscreens of the kai’s funeral procession, moving in solemn lockstep down the Avenue of Lights in Ashalla.

Three years Meressa has been gone, and still no one has taken her place.But then again, Darrah thought of Vedek Arin and took some comfort that the irresolute priest from Kendra hadn’t ascended to that sacred high office. Bajor’s Vedek Assembly was still divided over the kai’s replacement, over the Oralians, over everything, and the schism in the clergy spilled over into the lives of ordinary Bajorans. It was difficult to seek truth and solace at temple when the priests within it had no consensus of their own.

“This way,” said Tima, leading Darrah and Proka back toward the grubby little settlement. Bennek was waiting for them at the edge, and at a respectful distance other Oralians watched from beneath their hoods, naked suspicion in their gazes.

The Cardassian bowed slightly. “Before we discuss this, I want to show you first what was done.” Bennek took them toward a hut built out of an old cargo pod. The wind changed, and Darrah smelled rotting vegetation and the tang of ashes.

“You’re limping,” said Proka, gesturing at the cleric’s leg, which he favored as they walked.

“It’s nothing,” Bennek replied. “I was burned when I ran to put out the flames. I’ll heal.”

“Should you be walking on it?” asked the constable.

“This is more important,” he replied, and pulled open the door of the pod.

A cloud of dirty white haze rolled out from the inside of the container, and Darrah covered his mouth with his hand at the stink of it. Inside he glimpsed mounds of blackened matter, some of it still weeping smoke where it smoldered. He stifled a cough. “What’s this?”

“This,” said Tima, “was all the food we had stockpiled from the donations we have been given. Surplus from the katterpodfarms in the valley, loaves of mapabread given to us by the monks from Korto. All destroyed.”

“They came out of the night, as they always do,” said Bennek wearily. “They threw crude firebombs, and they deliberately targeted the food stores.”

“Did you see anything?” asked Proka, holding up his tricorder to record any statements. “Can you describe them?”

“The same as every other time.” Tima turned bitter.

“Clad all in black, faces covered.” She spat and pointed at the distant enclave. “It’s the Cardassians!”

Bennek frowned at her outburst. “We don’t know that—”