Instead, he said, “What if they go to the Federation?”

“Then they’ll be exposed as the cowards I’ve always said they are. Let them fight their own damn battles. Besides, they haven’t freed Parrik yet, have they?”

“No.” Parrik was a Cardassian accused of sabotaging a Klingon mine and had been imprisoned for six months, interrogated who knew how many times, with no sign of a trial, nor any proof of his involvement in the landslide that—like this aircar collision—was probably a simple accident. But Monor wants some of his own back, and I suspect this is how he’ll get it.

“Schedule another broadcast for sunset,” Monor said. “By then, we’d better damn well have more information, and I’ll be ready to announce another curfew.”

Ekron winced, but did not argue. “Curfew, sir?” he prompted by way of determining the nature of this latest futile gesture.

“Yes. Allnon-Cardassians must be indoors before sunset.”

Once, Ekron would have pointed out that such an action would only serve to antagonize the citizenry, make everyone nervous, create more tension in a situation already laden with it, and, worst of all, stall trade and the economic outlook of the colony. This time of year on this continent, night accounted for seventy percent of a planetary rotation, so much of the business that was conducted on Raknal was done after dark. And a great deal of it involved aliens, particularly Yridian merchants, not to mention the occasional Ferengi.

However, raising such objections only got Ekron yelled at and, after all these years, Ekron had had enough of Monor’s rants. He used to consider them part of his job. Of course, he also used to consider a planetside assignment to be a hardship, something to be experienced briefly before retreating back to the constructed environs of a space vessel. After five years on Raknal V, however, he couldn’t imagine serving for any length of time in the regulated atmosphere of a ship—nor had he any desire to listen to Monor’s rants more than absolutely necessary.

So he simply said, “Very well, sir.”

“Damn right it’s very well. We’re not going to let those Foreheads stop us, or let them take what’s ours from us. It’s our planet, dammit, wefound it. Why, in the old days, we wouldn’t have put up with all this competition nonsense. We’ve become soft, Ekron, that’s the real problem.”

“Yes, sir. If you’ll exc—”

But Monor was determined to rant. “I swear to you, I don’t know what’s happening to us. I hear that some resistance movement has started on Bajor. Can you believe that? Damn fools in Central Command have let the Bajorans’ spirituality lull them into a false sense of security. Now they’re facing guerrilla attacks. Mark my words, nothing good will come of that. We can’t afford to let anything like that happen here.”

Ekron refrained from pointing out how impossible that was. “Yes, sir. If you’ll excuse me, I have t—”

“And what’s more, you just knowthat Qaolin’s going to try to find some way to make us look bad here. He’ll go screaming at Dax, telling him that this is proof that we can’t handle the planet. And that damned Trill will listen to every word he says. You know those Foreheads call him ‘the Great Curzon,’ like he’s a damned circus performer or something. It’s enough to make you weep, it really is.” The prefect stared at Ekron. “What are you still doing here, Ekron, don’t you have work to do?”

“Yes, sir, I do.” Relieved, Ekron beat a hasty retreat.

“Be strong, my fellow Cardassians, and be vigilant. We will overcome these tragedies and emerge a stronger people for it!”

Governor Qaolin switched off the recording of Prefect Monor’s tiresome speech. “This,” he said to the other occupant of his office, “is what I have had to put up with for five years, General.”

General Worf nodded. His hair had gone completely white since the last time Qaolin had seen him, which was shortly after the colony on the southern continent was established half a decade ago. He seemed more tired, too—though Qaolin supposed he could have just been superimposing his own fatigue on the general. The governor had not expected to find himself stuck on this rock for a seeming eternity. All the stories he’d heard about sailing on the Barge of the Dead through Gre’thorweren’t anywhere near as awful as what he endured daily administrating the Klingon colony on Raknal V.

“I take it the prefect’s accusations are baseless?” Worf asked.

“Of course they are.” Qaolin was surprised at the question. “We do not need to expend any effort to make Cardassians fail, they do so quite well on their own.”

“What of Monor’s accusations regarding the orbital control centers?”

Qaolin snarled. “More lies. It is true that we have not been cooperative, but it is not for lack of trying. Both sides assign orbital paths to ships that conflict with those assigned by the other side. We have had several near misses because of this. But Cardassian sensors are not sufficiently acute to do the job properly. We have offered to provide a minimal upgrade in exchange for shared duties, only to be rebuffed. They assume that their sensors are adequate to the task and accuse us of trying to sabotage their equipment—and of deliberately causing the difficulties. As if we need to.” His hand going to his d’k tahginvoluntarily, Qaolin stood up and said, “I swear to you, General, I almost wish that something would happen to force a war between our people. Then it would give me the excuse I need to plunge my weapon into Monor’s unworthy heart.”

“Perhaps. But now would not be the right time.”

“There is never a wrong time for war, General.”

Worf gave Qaolin a withering gaze. “It is easy for you to say that, Governor. You are not on the Homeworld. You do not see the posturing of the High Council as half of them insist we no longer need Federation aid, and cry out for closer ties to the Romulans.”

Qaolin spat on the floor. “Romulans? Those honorless petaQare not worthy to blacken our boots! Besides, I thought they closed their borders.”

“Their governmentdid. But the Romulan aristocracy is like a pipius—its tentacles spread everywhere. I do not trust them. And I do not trust ourgovernment to act sensibly as long as Chancellor Ditagh allows this petty squabbling to go on.” The general shook his head. “He does nothing to unite the Council, instead allowing it to grow more fractious, while our shipyards remain barren, our people starve, and once-noble Houses fall into ruin.” The general turned to Qaolin. “We mustwin this planet, Governor. We mustregain Ch’gran. It is all that may save us in the end.”

“Perhaps it is, General, but I do not think I am the one to win it.” Qaolin stared at the general, and finally decided that he had to ask the question. “Is there any way I may be reassigned? I am a ship commander, not a planetary governor. The colony virtually runs itself, and the duties I do have can be performed by someone more—politically adept than myself.”

“I am afraid not. The High Council agrees on little in these dark times, but one thing they are in harmony on is that you are best qualified to run this colony and to win Ch’gran for us.” Worf frowned. “Do you not consider it an honor?”

“I consider winning Ch’gran an honor, General,” Qaolin said with another snarl, “and you have made it clear that it is an urgency as well. But I do not consider running this colony to be an honorable way of winning it. It is better suited to the shadowy machinations of I.I., not the true battlefield of a warrior.”

Worf tilted his head. “Odd that you should say that.”

Qaolin frowned. “Why?”

“It was at the specific recommendation of Imperial Intelligence that you were assigned as governor, and at I.I.’s insistence that you remain.”