When the man tapped her on the arm, she clamped down on her unease like a vise. “Pardon me,” he said, “do you know if this route crosses the Edar Bridge?”

She shook her head. “I don’t usually ride the tram.”

He nodded. “It’s a better day to walk, don’t you think?”

The trigger phrase.Nechayev turned slightly so she could see him. “These are new shoes. I’d prefer to sit.”

The other man smirked. “Who is it who comes up with these codes?” He offered his hand. “I’m Jekko.”

She ignored it. “You were supposed to make contact with her.” She nodded at Jones, who threw her a confused look in return.

“No, I was supposed to make contact with you. She’s the analyst, yes? You’re the agent.”

“Perhaps she’s the agent, and she’s just good at pretending to be a civilian.”

Jekko’s smirk turned cynical. “Somehow I don’t think so.” He glanced around. “So. Where’s your starship, Starfleet?”

“Very far from here.” Nechayev glanced out the window, as if she were bored. “We’re here because Keeve Falor reached out through back channels to the Federation Council. He said you’d have something to show us.”

Jekko bristled at her tone. “Isn’t a covert military buildup of Cardassian troops on Bajor enough to stir your interest? It’s not just ships in orbit or the outpost on Derna. We have intelligence on stockpiles of weapons, combat vehicles, strategic matériel.”

“That’s your assertion?” said Nechayev. “We know about the starships. Ground forces, that’s a different matter. How exactly do you suggest that the Cardassians could move an invasion force onto Bajor without the general population becoming aware of it?” She shook her head. “Keeve’s claims need a lot of backing up, if Starfleet is going to take them seriously.”

The bridge of the freighter was as far from the clean, steely lines of the Vandir’s command deck as it was possible to be. The smell of stale food hung in the air along the cramped cylindrical bay, and the walls were a riot of bare cables where every inch of cosmetic paneling had been removed. The flight crew were on their knees, hands behind their heads, the four of them covered by a watchful gil with a phaser rifle. The captain—although the greasy little humanoid barely deserved such a title—stood, trembling slightly, with one of Dukat’s men holding a gun at his head.

The gul folded his arms. “I’m becoming bored,” he announced. “I thought you and your rusting scow might make an interesting diversion, but that’s waning.” He plucked at a bit of broken panel. “This ship is a mess. I’m disgusted by it.”

The Xepolite blinked, although his right eye was swelling shut; the injury had come from some small utterance the armed officer had taken exception to.

“Are you going to tell me why you broke from the spacelanes and tried to run for deep space, Hetman…?”

“Foroe,” husked the alien. “Uh, sir,” he added nervously.

“Well?”

“It was just a helm malfunction, like I told you,” he said thickly. “I was going to fix the problem—”

Dukat nodded and the officer with the gun smacked Foroe in the side of the head, staggering him. “You don’t seem to be listening to me, Hetman. I said I was getting bored. Bored with you, bored with this filthy ship, bored with hearing the same lies.” He stepped closer to the other man. “My men are searching all the decks, you do realize that? When they find whatever it is you are smuggling, you’ll be prosecuted not only for that crime but also for obstruction of justice. Under the weight of Cardassian law, that’s a very severe punishment.”

“We’re in Bajoran space, you can’t—”

Another nod, and Foroe was struck silent again. “Look around, Hetman. Do you really think this sector belongs to Bajor anymore?”

The Xepolite’s shoulders sank, and Dukat knew that it was almost over. In a moment, he will either beg for mercy or offer me a bribe.

“Look,” Foroe said in a low voice, “can’t we work out something here, captain to captain?”

Any reply Dukat was going to make was cut off by a chime from his comcuff. He tapped the bracelet. “Report.”

“Sir, this is Glinn Orloc. I’m in the secondary engineering spaces near the keel.”

Foroe failed to conceal the shock on his face, and Dukat smiled thinly. “What have you found, Glinn?”

“Sir, there’s a large concealed compartment, shielded with kelbonite. I have at least forty Bajorans of various ages down here.”

“Slaves?” Dukat said mildly.

“They’re refugees!” spat one of the bridge crew, and he was clubbed down for his outburst.

Dukat gave Foroe a measuring stare. “Your manifest says nothing about passengers, Hetman. That’s a very serious violation.”

Foroe’s voice took on a pleading tone. “They’re just civilians, that’s all. They can’t afford the exit permits to go offplanet. The security restrictions the Bajoran ministry have put in place are too strict.”

Dukat nodded. The limitation of unfettered movement by Bajorans had increased with Kubus Oak’s introduction of several “security acts,” creating a rise in incidents of people-smuggling. He studied the Xepolite; the hetman was doubtless earning a fine percentage in latinum for his part in this particular operation.

“Civilians,” repeated the gul. “Perhaps. Or perhaps they’re cell members working with the Circle or Tzenkethi interests, did that occur to you?” He loomed over the smaller man. “Or are youworking with the Tzenkethi? Is that why you tried to run?”

Foroe stared at the deck. “I…I panicked.”

Dukat raised his communicator to his lips. “And now you’re going to answer for your spinelessness.”

The Xepolite’s hand shot out and grabbed Dukat’s wrist. “Wait, no!” He cried out as the gun struck him again and he fell to the deck. “Wait,” he said, biting out the words. “Please! Look, I have information. I know something!”

The Cardassian crouched down until he was eye to eye with the freighter captain. “What could you possibly know that would be of interest to me?”

Foroe blinked back pain. “Passengers. Two Bajoran women, brought them from Draygo, they were bunked on the second tier.” He blinked. “There was something suspicious about them. I heard them talking during the trip. Something about Keeve Falor.”

Dukat stood up. “Really? And why should the name of a dissident exile be any concern of mine?” He waved him away. “Get him out of my sight.” Foroe shouted and protested all the way out of the room and down the corridor, his cries echoing and growing ever more strident. Dukat circled the bridge, thinking.

“Draygo,” said the armed officer. “That’s not a Bajoran colony.”

“Foroe thought he had something there,” Dukat mused.

“He genuinely believed it—it was clear on his face.” He paused. “Perhaps we should see. Our people do have a reputation for thoroughness to uphold, after all.”

The tram rolled into the long tunnel that passed under the City Oval, and Jekko shifted seats to sit next to Nechayev. His intonation was terse. “Listen to me, offworlder. The Cardassians are alreadyoccupying Bajor, it’s just a matter of visibility. You don’t see any tanks on the street corners, but believe me, the influence of those snake-faced aliens is everywhere. Every minister in the Chamber who might have stood against them has either fled to exile like Keeve, been threatened into silence, or bought out with money and promises. Lale is only a figurehead now, it’s Kubus Oak and his people who have the power, and they’re in the pockets of the Cardassians. Every day they’re bringing in more ‘cultural advisers’ and ‘contractors’ to the enclaves. It’s a silent invasion, and once that silence breaks it will shift the balance of power in this sector. Does your Federation want that?”

“Keep your voice down,” snapped Nechayev. “Listen to me, because I’m not going to waste time explaining it twice. Starfleet cannot intervene on Bajor without good cause or a formal request from someone in the Bajoran government.”