Dax frowned. “All right,” she assented, “but it’ll take time.”

“Whatever it takes,” was Vaughn’s response. “Just do it.” He stepped across the threshold and the door closed behind him.

Dax watched the commander go, wondering what new crisis had just been sparked.

When Vaughn reached his quarters, he found he couldn’t recall how he’d gotten there. He knew he must have traversed the corridor from the mess hall, ridden the turbolift up to deck one, and passed through the door of his cabin, but he had no memory of making the journey. Only one thing occupied his thoughts, one impossible thing.

Setting the padd down, he touched a contact on the back wall of his cabin, causing the basin to emerge. He held his hands under the faucet and cool water gathered into his cupped hands. Bending over, he brought the water to his face, splashing his eyes, soaking his beard. He repeated the process, again and again, realizing that each breath was becoming more difficult. He stopped and stared at his hands. They were shaking.

Steady, Elias. You’ll hyperventilate or worse, push that hundred-year-old heart of yours right over the cliff.

Vaughn closed his eyes and steadied his breathing and heart rate, using a Vulcan meditation technique he’d learned…when? Forty? Fifty years ago? So hard to keep the events of his life straight in his mind sometimes. When he opened his eyes again, his aged reflection stared back at him from the mirror above the basin. Water dripped from his silver hair, forming rivulets in the deep lines of his face. Dark hollows surrounded his eyes. So many damn years…

Vaughn grabbed a towel and patted himself dry. Then he picked up the padd and collapsed on his bunk.

There was no mistaking the transponder signal. He’d committed the code to memory decades ago. But why here, and why now, of all times? He sifted through the possibilities, and decided the only answer he could believe was the one that made no sense at all.

But if it was true…if the trail they were now following led to the Valkyrie,then the closure he’d long sought for the disastrous mission to Uridi’si might finally be within his reach.

He fell asleep with the padd clutched to his chest, dreaming of the dead.

2

The world as she knew it had ended.

“Place both your hands on the tome and speak as I do: I, Asarem Wadeen…”

Her shaking hands rested on the book. Flecks of another’s blood stained her smooth brown skin. She thought she heard herself say the words as the magistrate bade her, but her voice seemed too distant, as if she were very far away from what was happening.

Bajoran security had thrown her to the floor of the Promenade’s meeting hall in the first few seconds, attempting to protect her from further weapons fire and from the chaos that had erupted. Screams filled the room, mingling with the sound of the transporter beam that had allowed the assassin to escape. People pushed against each other, some attempting to flee in panic, others trying to regain control of the situation. She’d heard Lieutenant Ro shouting orders—

“…to uphold the laws of Bajor and to act honorably as custodian of the Bajoran people…”

—General Lenaris, searching the room with his eyes for accomplices; Admiral Akaar, speaking urgently into his combadge; Colonel Kira, rushing toward the body, demanding an emergency transport to the infirmary; blood everywhere—

“…that I will protect and defend the Bajoran people from all foes, within and without…”

A half-dozen security people had taken her from the scene, three in front of her, one on either side of her holding tightly to her upper arms as they ushered her swiftly through the dim Cardassian corridors of the space station. A sixth deputy was at her back, one hand clamped to her shoulder, pushing her forward—

“…that I will face the future fearlessly…”

Phasers drawn and held high all around her, a small irrational part of Asarem had wondered briefly if she was being taken to her execution. Only later, after they’d sequestered her in her VIP quarters, when Supreme Magistrate Hegel arrived with Deep Space 9’s Bajoran doctor and confirmed the assassination, had she realized fully that she was not about to die, but that her life would never again be the same. From that day forward it belonged to Bajor, and Bajor alone.

“…and that I will conduct myself with truth and honor, and with faith in the guidance of the Prophets…”

Shakaar was dead.

“…pledging my life and my paghto the service of Bajor.”

She felt the tome slip away as the magistrate closed the book and bowed her head. “Walk with the Prophets, First Minister Asarem.”

Too late, Ro Laren saw the truth. Hiziki Gard, aide to the Trill ambassador and security liaison for the Federation delegations, had played her from the beginning. For weeks he’d lived and worked aboard the station unobtrusively. He had consistently deferred to Ro’s authority as chief of security, seemingly content to work within, rather than attempt to override, her security precautions. He had flattered her and approached her socially as kindred spirits. He’d even flirted with her. He had done it all…just so he’d know exactly how to undermine her security measures in order to kill Shakaar.

Several of her deputies swarmed the room, some taking statements from witnesses or holding them for further questioning, others ushering delegates out of the meeting hall, away from the crime scene. She saw Councillor zh’Thane and Admiral Akaar in deep, frantic conversation with a dismayed Seljin Gandres, the Trill ambassador. The Cardassians—Gul Macet and Cleric Ekosha—had gathered in one corner of the room around a pale and shaken Vedek Yevir, who looked as if he was trying very hard not to vomit. Some of the other guests were jabbering hysterically, none louder than Quark, who was protesting Corporal Hava’s attempts to usher him out. “Laren! Laren, please!”

“Not now,”she growled. Sergeant Shul passed close to her, and Ro seized his arm. “Get the rest of these people out of here. I want the room sealed, and I want to start interviewing witnesses immediately, starting with the Trills. Have you heard from Etana yet?”

“She checked in a minute ago,” the older, gray-haired deputy said. “Minister Asarem is secure in her quarters.”

“The hell she is,” Ro said. “Keep the habitat ring locked down but evacuate the sector with Asarem’s quarters, sections 060 through 120, every level, I don’t care who’s living there. I want guards inside and outside her quarters at all times, surveillance in every corridor, patrols on the crossover bridges, and situation reports every thirty minutes. Move.”

Suddenly Taran’atar was next to her, his faced knotted in concern, his words brief and to the point: “The assassin may still be aboard the station.”

Ro took his meaning: he was volunteering to go hunt for the killer—as only a Jem’Hadar could. “Go,” Ro said.

Taran’atar nodded once and shrouded, becoming invisible, and for a disconcerting moment she felt grateful to the Founders for engineering their soldiers so well.

“Ro.”

Ro turned, finding herself under the glare of Fleet Admiral Leonard James Akaar. Nearby, Councillor zh’Thane and Ambassador Gandres looked on. Though they all appeared concerned, the Trill ambassador seemed the most visibly upset by far. “Yes, Admiral?”