“He doesn’t know where Damar is?” Odo was as perplexed as I was.

“Yes. And judging from this, he’s quite eager to find him.” I wondered, could it be possible? Odo was thinking the same thing.

“Do you suppose–?” he began.

“Yes. Damar’s broken with the Dominion. Either he’s on the run . . .”

“. . . or he’s gone over to the Resistance,” Odo finished.

“This would be significant. Damar’s a dedicated soldier who commands the loyalty of much of the army. He’s not a politician who changes sides like coats.” I hated the man, but I knew that he lived by a strict military code of honor: The Cardassian Union, right or wrong. How else could he have followed that psychopath Dukat for so long? And how else could he have justified his murder of an innocent like Ziyal?

“Unless it’s a trick to expose the rebels,” I added.

“I’d better get this information to Captain Sisko,” Odo decided.

“Would you rather I tell him?” I offered. Odo looked positively drained; he needed to return to his liquid state.

“No,” he declined after a moment. “There are certain protocols. . . .”

“I understand.” And I did. They had codes that I was not privy to, and they wanted to keep it that way. “In that case, Odo, I’m going to get some sleep. You know where to find me.”

“Thank you for your help, Garak,” Odo said, with his sincere formality.

The Promenade was empty at this hour. I made my way up to the second level, to spend a few moments in the observation lounge before retiring to my quarters. It was the one place on the station where I felt a sense of expanded space. The ironies of the situation both amused and irritated me. Here I was, the invaluable decoder of Cardassian encryptions containing life‑and‑death information for the Federation–and they won’t trust me with the code to wake up Captain Sisko. Ah well, it was never easy being a Cardassian on this suspended chunk of desolation. And then I laughed out loud. But what about Odo? The last time I looked he was a changeling, a member of the race of Founders that was determined to destroy the Alpha Quadrant. Not only did he have the captain’s wake‑up code, he also slept with the station’s second‑in‑command.

I found myself staring at the escape pods that had recently carried the Defiant’s crew to safety before that noble vessel was destroyed. They were temporarily tied to a docking arm and looked like small, vulnerable orphans waiting for another home. A noise at the other end of the level reminded me to pay attention, in case Londar Parva and his friends were looking for another opportunity to put the “spoonhead” in his place. The turbolift was nearby, and I made sure it was empty before I entered.

But if Damar had thrown his support to the rebels . . . if it wasn’t a ploy . . . I wanted my revenge on him, yes, but not at the expense of liberating Cardassia. And it wasn’t just liberating the planet from the control of a foreign power. It was closer . . . more personal. I wanted something that was even more difficult to attain–redemption.

The doors opened, and once again I was alert as I stepped into the deserted corridor and moved past the sleeping quarters to my own. It was time, I kept repeating in my head. It was time to take our place among the planets and peoples of the Alpha Quadrant as a civilized and open society. It was time to repair the damage. “A stitch in time saves. . . .” What? What was that expression?

As soon as the doors to my quarters closed, I felt her presence. Smelled her. She was standing against the window behind the desk. This was not the first time she had come here and waited while I worked late into the night. But something was different tonight. The distance between us had opened up again. I gestured to raise the light level.

“Don’t,” she said.

“I didn’t expect you until tomorrow.” As my eyes adjusted, I saw the phaser in her hand. “Who were you expecting, Remara?”

“You, Elim.”

“Am I in some kind of danger?” I looked around to make sure we were alone.

“Sit down,” she said quietly. I tried to maneuver around so that my back would face the window.

“Over there, Elim.” She indicated the chair in the corner near the door. “And don’t be foolish.”

“I’m afraid your warning comes too late.” She came around the desk and perched on the edge facing me.

“Is this an interrogation?” I asked.

“I was instructed to kill you without questions,” she replied flatly.

“Obviously people who don’t value the art of conversation.” She just looked at me. The distance had never been greater.

“And you lied to me about Bajor. You know my homeworld very well.”

“I wouldn’t say that. I was there only for a short period.”

“Long enough to kill my husband and son.” Everything about her–her hair, face, the clothes she wore–was stripped down, severe. No one who knew her as a dabo girl would recognize her at this moment. I’d always known that spinning the wheel at Quark’s was a cover . . . and I’d chosen to ignore it. And I knew enough about myself and my craft to know that my lapses could no longer be considered accidents.

“You know what I’m talking about, don’t you, Elim?” Her eyes burned with an anger that would never subside in this lifetime. She wasn’t a collaborator; Kira had gotten that all wrong. She was a terrorist.

“You’re Khon‑Ma, aren’t you?” She didn’t respond. “Being the only Cardassian on this station, I expected you a long time ago. What kept you?”

“They were on the Taklanwhen you ordered it to be destroyed. With seventeen others who were just trying to free themselves from being sent to work as forced laborers here.”

“In a time of war, when you commandeer an enemy ship and attempt to escape. . . .”

“That wasn’t a war!” she snapped. “It was rape. Murder. Genocide. One day we had our lives and the next Cardassians were taking them away!” Remara’s anger dared me to deny this. I wondered what it had cost her to constantly bridle her true feelings as she was passing herself off as the remote and desired sex object. Perhaps the Klingons were unconsciously attracted by what was underneath the makeup and skimpy costume. Usually the experiences that drive a person into any kind of resistance movement are also ones that can anesthetize all feeling. But Remara’s passion appeared undiminished. Of course, this passion was my opening, my chance for escape from her revenge disguised as Khon‑Ma justice. But I was weary beyond caring. Moments before, I had been fantasizing about redemption, and now I was about to be executed for the Cardassian Occupation of Bajor. And all along I had been clearly setting myself up, ignoring every sign like an inexperienced probe. Perhaps this was the redemption I was looking for.

“I was on Bajor a short time to interrogate possible Resistance members. The occupation was a strictly military affair and they brought in . . . my group. . . .”

“What group?” she interrupted.

“It’s not important–it no longer exists. We were given children to interrogate. They were starving, dressed in rags. It was a disgrace, beyond the usual incompetence of the military. The guls were out of control, grabbing anyone they thought was Resistance. I took one look at them and saw that they were just angry rock throwers. I gave them latinum and threw them back onto the streets. We told the military that either we do things our way. . . .”

“Which way is that, Elim?” she sneered. It was one of the few times that I found her unattractive.

“The right way, Remara. Find the right people, get the right information that can be used effectively against the Resistance. But that meant the military had to give up control, and of course that was out of the question. So we were sent home.”

“You were seen at the shuttle!” she insisted.

“We were at the terminal when the Bajoran prisoners overwhelmed their captors and took over the shuttle. They had hostages and wanted to negotiate. I could see that Gul Toran was over his head–making ridiculous threats to people who had nothing to lose.”