When the turbolift doors closed, Ro requested the Promenade. She scowled at the universe in general, wanted to bang her forehead a few times, but settled for resting her head against the wall and closing her eyes. Seeing Gul Macet, Ambassador Lang and their “delegation” of soldiers had triggered a brain stem reaction: being hunted like prey. That her next turn would find her face-to-face with a resettlement camp guard prepared to clamp holding irons on her wrists and haul her off to be beaten. It was easier with the Maquis because she’d rarely had to stare down her enemy; the covert, anonymous nature of their war assured that. Now, she counted on the traveling time between the outer edge of the Habitat Ring and her upper core office to cushion her jangling nerves.

Conditioned response, Ro reminded herself. The reason her advanced tactical instructors gave repeatedly while drilling the class through every permutation of every worst-case scenario conceivable—so when you’re staring your worst nightmare in the face, your training, not your instincts, takes over.

“Welcome to Deep Space 9, I’m Chief of Security, Lieutenant Ro,” she recalled saying as she nodded a courteous greeting to the Cardassian, Macet. Kira wasn’t kidding about the family resemblance. When he opened his mouth to speak it was every propaganda holovid from her childhood. The same elongated syllables she’d heard announcing “the unfortunate need for ration cuts” or that “strained resources forbade the distribution of vaccines to afflicted provinces.” And she pushed back an instinctual inclination to spit at his feet.

This. Isn’t. Dukat. She’d repeated the words in her mind each time she found herself staring at him. She tried focusing on the tufts of hair on his chin, as if the cosmetic difference could trick her psyche into accepting Macet. Her mouth had parroted all the proper polite inquiries she’d heard employed on occasions such as these. Maybe she’d picked up niceties via osmosis from Troi and Picard. The whole Enterprise crew had been so damn polite! “I hope your trip went well.” “Radiation in the Denorios Belt often sends false sensor readings this time of year.” “We’ve secured quarters in the habitat ring for the senior members of your party—oh no, it isn’t any problem. More convenient access to the meeting rooms than having to come down from the docking ring every few hours.” What she wanted to say was “Get the hell off my station and stay off.”

She had searched Macet’s face for evidence that justified her fears and found nothing there but even-tempered professionalism—maybe even good humor. Did those traits prove he wasn’t Dukat? She’d seen the propaganda. Dukat allegedly loved children and small animals. He was an excellent father. Surely he couldn’t authorize the wholesale slaughter of an entire camp accused of aiding the resistance? Hah! Wasn’t Lang a former member of the Cardassian News Service, a.k.a. the empire’s propaganda machine? All of it felt a bit too coincidental for Ro to be comfortable.

Give her a day alone with him. Hell, give her an hour alone with him and she’d figure out the truth. Assurances from the Ghemor regime and DNA tests might support Macet’s claim to be who he said he was, but in a universe that already contained changelings, mind-altering entities, and even less explainable phenomena, how could anyone ever be truly sure of him?

Ro’s stare must have lingered on Macet for a long while before she noticed the small, slender figure clothed in a vivid periwinkle blue gown standing beside him. She didn’t recoil from Lang’s proffered hand. The gesture surprised her: Cardassians didn’t, as a rule, shake hands. In Ro’s experience, such a greeting came more commonly among Federation types than from the austere Cardassians. Clasping both her hands around Ro’s, Lang thanked her for accommodating them on such short notice. Strangely, the ambassador’s fingers on Ro’s wrist recalled the pleasant touch of cool water. In her experience, cold Cardassian hands usually meant death, or at least the promise of it.

Lang had issued the order to Macet’s men to disarm before she would permit them to continue beyond the airlock. Ro had witnessed their puzzled expressions as Macet walked down their line, equipment satchel proffered—their barely camouflaged resentment when he sealed the bag and sent it back into the Trager with one of his men. Understanding that Macet could have just as easily disarmed his men while shipboard, Ro recognized the gesture for what it was: a move to placate her defenses. They had submitted, Ro imagined resentfully, to Lang’s demand for absolute silence while the party moved from the disembarking area to the habitat ring. As she guided the group through the least traversed corridors, Ro observed the ambassador surveying each doorway and dark hall ahead of them. And while Lang’s hands rested, deceptively relaxed, at her sides, the tension in her thumb and forefinger indicated she wasn’t quite as willing to embrace the passivity she required from Macet’s men; Ro would bet the house that hidden beneath the rustling folds of her gown, Lang had a weapon. She’s on as high alert as we are. She’s as concerned about Bajorans coming un-hinged as Kira is about possible Cardassian treachery. Ro had made a conscious decision to let her guest’s infraction of protocol pass without comment—carrying weapons aboard the station was forbidden save for Militia and Starfleet personnel, and authorized visitors.

Ro had found her guest’s wariness reassuring: at least neither party labored under the pretense that a meeting between former enemies was anything normal.

Lang must have noticed Ro’s scrutiny because she had quickly said, “Reconnaissance is an old habit. You don’t live most of your adult life under the threat of arrest or assassination without assuming an enemy with a weapon lurks in every shadow.”

“I know something of that myself,” Ro had answered.

Lang’s expression had softened, a touch of humor in her eyes. “Somehow, that doesn’t surprise me.”

A smile crossed Ro’s face now as she replayed the scene in her mind, realizing that was the moment she decided that she liked Lang. Once their mutual mistrust had been established, Ro had felt freer to make small talk, mention Lang’s previous experience on the station. Traversing a particularly obscure access tunnel crossover bridge, Lang had recalled how she used this route to deliver confidential reports to her underground contacts. Ro made a mental note to add semiregular sensor sweeps of the corridor to the surveillance profiles. In her turn, Ro reciprocated with an anecdote or two about her Maquis days. Lang had laughed at more than a few of her tales. Fringe rebel groups, regardless of ideology, tended to have characteristics in common.

Macet had remained quiet for the duration of their walk, something Ro felt grateful for. He must have sensed her reaction whenever he spoke; she hoped she didn’t physically recoil for that would be an undeservedly rude response to a guest. But until the cadence and timbre of his voice stopped causing her blood to boil, she was glad Macet kept his mouth shut.

Upon arriving at their quarters, Ro had briefed Lang and Macet on the extra security precautions Kira had ordered. Neither seemed particularly surprised; they exchanged a glance that informed Ro the Cardassians had contingency plans of their own. Layers upon layers of fear would have to be peeled away before her people and their former oppressors could have uninhibited rapport. Whatever mission Alon Ghemor had assigned Ambassador Lang must be critical to Cardassian interests. Otherwise, how could he justify a high-profile visit while relations between the two worlds remained tenuous at best? Shakaar’s humanitarian initiatives had been a solid first step toward finding common ground, but Ro wasn’t sure they were prepared to expand past them, especially with the Federation talks underway. Damn Cardassians always have the worst timing.

A metallic hum overtook the almost silent whirr of the turbolift. Ro turned toward the sound to see Taran’atar shimmering into visibility.

Ro frowned. “Don’t I recall an order coming down from the colonel about your being shrouded in public places aboard the station? Namely, that you aren’t supposed to be?”

“The enemy is here. I needed to assess them,” he said, checking the charge on his phaser.

Ro shook her head. “The Cardassians aren’t our enemies any longer. They’ve never been your enemy. Your people served alongside them in the war.”

“Do you know their minds?” he asked, returning his sidearm to its holster.

“Bajorans aren’t telepaths, if that’s what you’re asking,” Ro said, hoping her glib answers would irritate Taran’atar enough that he wouldn’t pursue this line of questioning.

If Taran’atar sensed Ro’s discomfort, it didn’t stop him from peppering her with questions. “Do you have knowledge of their goals—their strategy?” he persisted.

“I’m assuming they’re here to meet with the First Minister, but outside that, no, I haven’t tapped into their database or spied on their private discussions.”

“Then they are your enemy. The unknown is always the enemy, Lieutenant,” he said as if there was no arguing with his conclusions.

Much as his cold pragmatism felt far too absolute for these “enlightened” times, Ro had to admit she agreed with him. How else had she survived during her years with the Maquis? Most of her Maquis friends had been slaughtered by Cardassians or arrested by Starfleet. And yet, by the grace of some unknown power that she refused to believe was the Prophets, she stood here, in a Bajoran uniform, alive, free and physically unscathed. It was her steadfast refusal to trust anything or anyone that saved her. Or so she believed.

“All possibilities exist until a choice is made,” Taran’atar continued, accepting her silence as a tacit endorsement. “Until the moment of choice, it’s strategic to anticipate and plan for any potential outcome. It’s how survival is assured.”

“The odds of Bajor obtaining a safe, beneficial outcome will decrease if the Cardassians think we’re luring them into a trap,” she said, playing the opposition card.

“You are naïve, Lieutenant, if you assume that the Cardassians aren’t luring you into a trap.”

A soothing voice announced their arrival at the Promenade. Ro turned to look at the Jem’Hadar before she exited the lift. “Do you have business here? Or do you have more innocent civilians to spy on?”

“There is nothing here that concerns me. I will report my observations to the colonel at a later time.” He appeared to be conducting a quick weapons assessment before, presumably, shrouding again.

How could he assume that blatantly disregarding orders was fine? Taran’atar was breaking a dozen rules Kira had laid down for him. “I’m telling her about your clandestine operation during my end-of-shift security briefing.” She felt like an older sister tattling on an errant sibling.

“Do you think I would have showed myself to you if I had not wanted you to inform the colonel?”

Damn it all if he didn’t just make me look stupid, Ro thought. The turbolift doors closed, leaving Ro a little bit grateful she didn’t know where the Jem’Hadar was headed next. She didn’t know whether to be comforted that someone, namely Taran’atar, on her side had sidestepped propriety for expediency, or annoyed that she hadn’t had the guts to do it first. As she wove through the Promenade crowds toward her office, she continued contemplating his words. The unknown is always the enemy, he’d said. These people weren’t unknown…but everything she knew about them told her they were the enemy.

Sergeant Etana thrust a stack of reports into Ro’s hand as she passed through the doors of the security office; Ro barely acknowledged her. Making peace with her own confused thoughts proved harder than wrestling down a Vicarian razorback. She hated admitting that Taran’atar more or less espoused her own suspicions. All her training, her years in Starfleet were supposed to have quashed her xenophobia. Nice to know her enlightened education amounted to something. She found her chair by rote, tapped in her passwords and called up her workfiles.

Inwardly, Ro sighed. She sorted through the memos queued up on her viewscreen. Opening those designated “urgent,” she shuttled the others away until she was in the mood to deal with them. She’d always been cynical toward the old Federation philosophy about forgiving and forgetting because there were rarely assurances ahead of time that the enemy had replied in kind. Even the great negotiator himself, Jean-Luc Picard, had been deceived on occasion because he believed that those across the table from him told the truth simply because he told the truth. Hadn’t she seen his dangerously trusting nature on their first mission together? And hadn’t she herself exploited it on their last?

What a strange day this had become! A philosophical alliance between a Bajoran lieutenant and a Jem’Hadar soldier wasn’t something Ro could have predicted a year ago. What isn’t known is the enemy until proven otherwise. Ro had little experience to prove to her that Cardassians weren’t the enemy. Even this group had yet to provide any details about why they had come.

She called up Lang’s file to amend it with information about her present visit. Ro now had a lilting alto voice accompanying her mental picture of Lang. The viewscreen picture failed to capture Lang’s incisive intelligence, her graceful carriage or ability to elucidate her hopes for the future of her people.

Ro would be lying if she didn’t admit to enjoying her brief chat with Lang. After a few minutes of animated discussions with the ambassador, Ro considered that her own view of Cardassians as an aloof, calculating and cruel people might warrant an exception. Lang had a sense of humor; she questioned her people’s nearly universal adherence to officially sanctioned views of government, religion and ethics. Her misgivings about Cardassians weren’t entirely unlike Ro’s concerns about the Bajoran tendency to mindlessly accept whatever the vedeks passed down to them without critically thinking through the rightness of those edicts. She found herself nodding in agreement with Lang’s ideas without pausing to consider that these ideas came from a Cardassian.

In an impulsive moment, before she’d left the Cardassians to settle into their quarters, Ro had asked Lang to join her for drinks at Quark’s sometime after dinner. She conceded her own naughty curiosity about Quark’s reaction to seeing his old flame, elegant and beautiful as ever. But there was also her hope, however small, that she could, once and for all, eliminate the bitter taste of suspicion from her mouth, by proving Taran’atar, herself, and all those who lived in a place of mistrust and ignorance, wrong.

Councillor Charivretha zh’Thane sat taller in her chair, hoping to create the impression that she was listening attentively to the Bajoran trade minister. Her seasoned experience in surviving such meetings aided her attempts to focus, but enduring Minister Kren’s nasal monotone for extended periods of time required more than her usual self-discipline. Unwilling to risk appearing impatient, Charivretha deigned to check the time; she guessed Minister Kren’s accounting of Bajor’s trade relationships with non-Federation worlds had been going on for two hours. His proposed solutions to amending those trade relationships once Bajor entered the Federation would account for another two hours. A suggestion to Second Minister Asarem Wadeen, who peripherally supervised Bajor’s monetary and trade policies, that Minister Kren submit his remarks in text for subsequent sessions might be in order. Charivretha’s two dozen or so counterparts appeared to be focused on the speaker. Perhaps it was the dual impact of Kren’s nervous energy and vocal tones on her Andorian senses that made her restless. Or perhaps not: out of the corner of her eye, she noted the meeting’s chair, Trill ambassador Seljin Gandres, dozing off in spite of Gandres’s years dealing with the Pakleds on behalf of the Trill diplomatic corps.

Charivretha’s antennae alerted her to her aide’s presence; Thanis’s relaxed energy patterns were distinctive in this tightly wound room. He whispered something in her ear, stepped back and waited for her response. Damn. We’re already working on the station instead of Bajor to accommodate my personal circumstances, she thought. If I keep asking for favors, I’ll prompt more questions and curiosity—exactly what I’m trying to avoid. But this situation can’t be helped. She raised her placard, asking for recognition from the chair.

Gandres started, too relieved at Charivretha’s interruption to be properly discreet. “Excuse me, Minister Kren, Councillor zh’Thane has asked to be recognized.”

“A matter of personal concern has come to my attention. I’d like leave for the remainder of the hour, with the chair’s approval,” Charivretha asked.

Gandres picked up his wand and tapped the bell sitting on the table before him. “Chair calls a recess for all delegates. Session to be resumed at 1330.”

While her colleagues and their aides milled around her, some lining up at the replicators, others starting preparations for their own remarks, Charivretha gathered her things and followed Thanis to the wardroom’s antechamber where her visitor awaited.

Uncharacteristically, the usually composed Dizhei paced the length of the room. Her antennae tense, eyes bright with worry, Dizhei flew to Charivretha’s side as soon as her elder entered. Before Dizhei could speak, Charivretha raised a hand for calm. “I’m assuming we have a situation with Thriss.”

“It’s not a situation, Zhadi, it’s the ongoing situation. I’m so sorry to disturb you, but there was an incident with the cloth merchant an hour ago and I’m uncertain how to proceed,” Dizhei said through short bursts of breath.

Sighing, Charivretha took a seat on one of the benches lining the waiting room. She patted the spot beside her, indicating to Dizhei to join her. Charivretha rested a hand on Dizhei’s shoulder, making small, soft circles on her back. “Slow down, Dizhei. You’ll faint.”

Clenching and unclenching her hands, Dizhei leaned closer to Charivretha, allowing the young one to whisper her concerns. “I thought a distraction would help. She’s done little but taunt poor Anichent about the lack of progress in his research—if you were to ask me, I think she’s tampering with his data just to see if she can make him as irritable as she is, but I have no proof to support such allegations and even Thriss tends not to be cruel—”

“Dizhei, shri’za,” Charivretha implored, hoping her use of the endearment softened what she imagined was her own impatient tone. She also hoped it reminded her son’s bondmate that they were not alone in this place, that discretion was paramount. “When your students misbehave, are you always so flustered?”

“I’m sorry, Zhadi. I see more than mere misbehavior from Thriss, and I fear where I see these behaviors leading.”

“Explain,” she prompted.

“We went out shopping today. I had read in the station announcements that a group of craftsmen from the Musilla province would be displaying their wares. I thought it might take her mind off—” she paused “—everything. She likes mingling with those of other cultures. Her zhavey is a textile artist and I thought she’d find an outing pleasant.”

“And…?”

“She found a piece of cloth—handwoven, exquisitely rich in color and detail. Seeing that it pleased her, I asked the merchant discreetly for a price—I thought I would surprise her with it as a gift. When he tried to take it away from her, telling her at my request that it wasn’t for sale, she raged at him. ‘How could he deny a soul her burial shroud? Was cruelty to widows part of his way of doing business?’ I paid him the litas you left me and removed her from the shop as soon as I could.”

“You did well. What do you require of me?” Charivretha squeezed Dizhei’s leg affectionately.

“I believe we need to reconsider our plan to wait here until Shar returns,” Dizhei answered confidently. “Anichent agrees.”

Charivretha imagined how long Anichent and Dizhei had been planning on bringing this proposal to her before Thriss’ behavior forced the issue. The intimate associations of bondmates…I miss them, she thought, remembering her own experiences. But sometimes bondmates lacked the objectivity to perceive the wisest course of action. “Didn’t we all decide that being here when Shar comes back will improve the chances of his returning to Andor for the shelthreth?”

“Thriss is pained by the reminders of Thirishar that surround us, and yet she wallows in them. She, of all of us, insists on sleeping in his bed every night,” Dizhei shook her head. “I can’t help but think that perhaps, if we go home, Thriss can lose herself in her studies. Complete her medical training and start her residency sooner.”

Charivretha considered her child’s mate, imagining not for the first time how effective Dizhei must be in dealing with her pupils’ overly concerned families. Not one for impulsivity, Dizhei had the most responsible nature of the four of them. She could be counted on to be rational under the most trying circumstances. And yet, here she sat, her flushed forehead and bloodshot eyes tangible evidence of emotional distress. If gentle Dizhei felt this undone by her predicament, Charivretha could hardly fathom what the moody Thriss might be capable of. One misstep and Shar’s future could be jeopardized. The stakes could hardly be higher. I wonder if all zhavey s go through this…

As much as she appreciated the honor of Shar’s being matched with a bondgroup, Charivretha found herself wishing, not for the first time, that Shar’s DNA might have been compatible with one less volatile than Shathrissía zh’Cheen. Yes, Thriss’s willowy fragility, unusual by Andorian standards, suited Shar’s tendency for appreciating the unconventional. He enjoyed being unique, embracing the less obvious choices, and Thriss certainly embodied that. Together, Shar and Thriss brought out the best and worst in each other. At the time she met Thriss, a scrawny, wide-eyed thing of seven, Charivretha had no idea what a force to be reckoned with was sweeping into her life.

It was during Shar’s Heritage studies. The students were learning the first forms of an ancient festival dance, one they’d be called on to perform at the Time of Knowing. Sitting in on her chei’s class, Charivretha had remembered her own Knowing ceremony—the subsequent celebration after she’d learned the names of her bondmates; her life had been redefined during those hours. She had recalled her own youthful excitement while observing her chei and his classmates, including Thriss, standing off to the side in the shadows. Considering the group as a whole, Charivretha had noted how Thriss’s plainness, her homeliness, distinguished her from the rest. And then, on her cue, Thriss had assumed her place in the form, had risen up onto her toes and had curled her arm over her head with such delicacy and loveliness that Charivretha’s breath caught in her throat. Dozens of pairs of childish eyes had focused on the ethereal Thriss, each wondering if she would someday belong to them.

Subsequent years brought Thriss official reprimands for misbehavior in class—mostly for inappropriate displays of temper—but she had remained well liked by her peers, gaining a folk-herolike reputation for speaking out against perceived injustice. All her peers valued her opinions and desired her approval as they copied her hairstyles and the clothes she wore. When she staged a sit-in protesting Andorian communities encroaching on animal habitats, half the students joined her.

Except Shar.

Shar’s seeming obliviousness to Shathrissía ought to have been Charivretha’s first clue that he felt differently about her than he did about his other bondmates. He never sought out her company, never invited her to study. For her purposes at the time, Charivretha found Shar’s disinterest a relief: it decreased the likelihood that her chei would find the trouble that followed Thriss wherever she went.

When, five years later, Shar received Thriss as his bondmate, Charivretha still refused to worry because the bondgroup was a strong one. Shar instantly adored Dizhei, as everyone who met her did; with Anichent, he found a kinship of minds unlike any he’d ever experienced. Anichent and Shar quickly became inseparable. Charivretha often saw Shar and Anichent shyly holding hands during study time; Shar’s tender displays of affection warmed Charivretha as few things did.

Though he treated Thriss honorably, Shar appeared indifferent to her company. Because Shar tended to run counter to whatever trends and fads existed among his peers, Charivretha assumed he ignored Thriss because of her popularity. Thriss tried, but failed, to provoke any substantive reaction from him. In retrospect, Charivretha could see that Shar had conscientiously avoided Thriss, taking deliberate steps to assure their school schedules, their extracurricular hours and mealtimes didn’t intersect. As his zhavey, I should have known intuitively why he behaved the way he did: Shar ignored Thriss to avoid confronting the powerful attraction he felt for her. Years, I wasted years that I might have used to derail what proved to be the inevitable explosion between my chei and his lover…if I could have stopped them, if I could have foreseen what they would do and how irrational they could be…

Knowing all of the situation’s complexities, Charivretha had played a dangerous card in bringing Thriss to Deep Space 9. Ideally, Thriss’ ability to insinuate herself into Shar’s emotions should have given him an incentive to bow out of the Gamma Quadrant mission. Instead, Thriss’s appearance had reinforced the very decision Charivretha hoped to reverse. Shar had accurately perceived that his best chance at pursuing his misguided quest to find an external solution to the Andorians’ spiral toward extinction—as if he, brilliant as he was, could solve a problem his people had struggled with for so long—was to go as far from Thriss as possible, as fast as he could travel. The Gamma Quadrant certainly meets those criteria, she thought bitterly. Now what to do with Dizhei? If Thriss’ outbursts threaten Dizhei’s equilibrium, we might face losing more than Shar.…

Thanis discreetly crouched down beside Charivretha, informing her that the trade agreement transitioning session would be resuming shortly. Did she need to ask for more time from Ambassador Gandres? Charivretha shook her head no. With all the tenderness she could muster, Charivretha gathered Dizhei in her arms, cradling her against her shoulder. Beneath her own trembling hands, Charivretha felt the labored breathing that marked Andorian keening. Resisting the impulse to give into her tumultuous feelings, she focused her energy on reassuring Dizhei, cursing her selfish offspring. Where had she failed in conveying to Shar the seriousness of his obligations? “I will do what I can,” she whispered into Dizhei’s hair. “I promise.”

As Ro prepared her end-of-shift report, she noted grimly that while the Cardassian presence on the station hadn’t produced a marked increase in security problems, the imposition of yellow alert protocols had. One of her corporals had just been admitted to Dr. Tarses’ care. The Klingon captain of a vessel loaded with Cardassian humanitarian aid had charged the security officer with a d’k tahg, when, under orders, the deputy prevented the J’chang from launching. Other than reissuing her earlier statements about changes in station security, adding random, full-body scans, and making certain that all pilots arriving at or departing from the station were aware of those changes, Ro felt there was little else to do until everyone adjusted to the new rules. People typically hated change.

A beep from her console alerted her to the approach of a visitor to the security office. Ro recognized her through the door windows immediately: Councillor Charivretha zh’Thane.

Ro rose from her chair as the councillor entered, but zh’Thane quickly indicated she expected Ro to sit down. The councillor took her place in the visitor’s chair, sitting regally straight, hands folded in her lap; she exemplified poise.

Before today, Ro had spoken to zh’Thane only a handful of times, and on all those occasions she found the diplomat to be pleasant enough, but imperious. She could only imagine what Shar must have felt growing up with such a formidable presence to contend with. Even now, in her office, Ro felt zh’Thane was holding court.

“I bring the accolades of Admiral Akaar, Lieutenant Ro. He’s pleased with Colonel Kira’s decision to increase security. He also admires how swiftly and capably it’s been handled,” she said, a slight tremor in her voice.

Knowing Akaar’s reservations about her competence, Ro foundzh’Thane’s words to have little more substance than polite pleasantries. What intrigued her was the crack in zh’Thane’s perfectly composed veneer when, for an instant, she showed vulnerability. In good time, Ro thought. Not wanting to offend her guest, she offered a half-smile.

Zh’Thane replied by deliberately closing her eyes, allowing her long gray lashes to flutter politely. “I’m sorry to hear of your corporal’s injuries. I hope it’s nothing serious.”

Ro was impressed with how in-the-know zh’Thane appeared to be: the incident with the J’chang had occurred in the previous hour. “Dr. Tarses will release him to his quarters this evening. Just keeping him under precautionary observation for the time being. Thanks for asking.” Assuming zh’Thane had more pressing concerns than passing on Admiral Akaar’s compliments, she made the opening move. “Now, what can I do for you, Councillor?”

“The yellow-alert status. It’s my understanding that all starship departures and arrivals require a day, sometimes longer, for clearance,” she said, perusing a padd she’d apparently had tucked inside her sleeve.

“That’s correct. We felt that we needed to screen for potential security risks, biohazards or other illegal activities that might threaten the various diplomatic goings-on.” And her staff—already putting in extra shifts since Akaar’s arrival—felt burdened by the pressure of their added responsibilities. Councillor zh’Thane had better not add to their load, Ro thought defensively.

“A plan must exist to accommodate emergencies. Something involving Admiral Akaar or First Minister Shakaar, for instance.” Her antennae curled slightly forward.

“Not going to happen. The same rules that apply to the lowliest scrap scow apply to the admiral and the first minister. Barring full on military assault or medical emergency—”

Zh’Thane pounced. “I require a medical exception for my vessel, Lieutenant.”

“Why?”

“That’s a private matter.”

Ro refused to budge. “Without signed medical orders, your ship will have to queue up behind everyone else.”

“I’m a Federation councillor, Lieutenant,” zh’Thane said quietly, though the warning in her tone was implicit. “You can take me at my word.” The councillor leaned forward as she regarded Ro challengingly across the desk.

Placidly, Ro met zh’Thane’s stare. Tough talk and aggressive body language never phased her. “If I had a bar of latinum for every VIP who asked for special privileges, I’d be retired on Risa by now. We’re in a state of heightened alert.” Why was it that important people always assumed the rules didn’t apply to them?

“The war’s over. I think we’re reasonably safe. Aren’t you being overly cautious?” zh’Thane snapped.

“If I hadn’t experienced an unprovoked Jem’Hadar attack fairly recently, I might agree with you. Our known enemies might be accounted for—it’s the unknown enemies we need to guard against.” The casualties, the damage to the station’s primary systems, and the ensuing panic all loomed large in her recent memory; none of it would Ro want to experience again. If safety required inconvenience, she would happily be the enforcer.

“Perhaps I should speak with Colonel Kira,” zh’Thane said.

“That’s certainly your privilege. But if you have a genuine medical concern that may require bypassing our security measures, the colonel will require the same answers I do.”

Zh’Thane appeared to waver indecisively. “This isn’t—” she began, then started again. “Lieutenant, believe me when I tell you I’m not insensitive to the station’s security concerns or your responsibilities. But the situation—” She cut herself off again and closed her eyes, then took a deep breath as if to calm herself. When her eyes opened again, they seemed pleading. “Please don’t require this of me.”

“With respect, Councillor,” Ro said gently, “I can help you only if you can help me to understand the situation.”

“I know,” zh’Thane said. Hands squeezing the armrests, the councillor’s upper body and antennae tensed, until she exhaled deeply. “It’s simply that I’ve been trying to convince myself that taking an outsider into our confidence wouldn’t be necessary. I realize now how foolish that was. But you must understand that that level of trust doesn’t come easily to many of my people, Lieutenant. If I am open with you, can you assure me that what I say will remain between us?”

Ro stared at zh’Thane, a little stunned to see how fragile and powerless she suddenly seemed. Whatever’s going on, it’s obviously mortifying her to do this.“I have no desire to violate your privacy, Councillor. Perhaps you should speak with the colonel directly—”

“No,” zh’Thane said firmly. “It’s my understanding that you’re Thirishar’s friend. He admires and respects you. That will make this easier for me, but I need to know that you’ll keep this in confidence.”

With a deliberate move of her hand, Ro tapped in the commands engaging her office’s privacy shields. She rarely used the shield, saving it for interrogations or clandestine informants reporting in. “I will, unless doing so somehow compromises the safety of this station.”

Zh’Thane nodded. “Acceptable…. You’re aware of Thirishar’s bondmates being aboard the station?”

“Yes,” Ro said. “I was the one who arranged for their stay in Shar’s quarters during his absence, per his request.”

“For which I know they’re most grateful. Having any small aspect of his life to cling to has been a great comfort to them these past weeks. You see…by accepting his current assignment, Shar has put his well-being, and that of his bondmates, at risk.”

Ro frowned. “In what way?”

“He was supposed to come home!” zh’Thane hissed. “I don’t speak of a cultural obligation that’s at odds with his Starfleet career, although that aspect of it certainly can’t be overlooked in all of this. I speak now of biological necessity.”

Ro tried to intuit from zh’Thane’s hints what she might be implying, and became alarmed. She knew that some life-forms had an imperative to return to their place of birth in order to continue the reproductive cycle of their species, only to die if they failed. “I’ve heard that Vulcans—”

“This isn’t like that,” zh’Thane said. “You’re perhaps imagining that Shar has put himself in danger by denying an inner drive to procreate, but that isn’t the case. In fact, the situation is, in many ways, far more grave than that, with potentially farther-reaching consequences.

“The Andorian species, you may know, has four sexes, none of which is truly male or female as you define them. Our interactions with the many two-sex species that comprise the majority of sentients with whom we traffic has led us to accept male and female pronouns for simplicity’s sake, and because it helps us avoid unwelcome questions about our biology.

“Because our procreative process requires chromosomes from four parents, it is, as I’m sure you gather, a very complicated matter for four individuals who are compatible—genetically and emotionally—to come together to produce a child.”

Complicated is an understatement, Ro thought. It sounds damn near impossible.“Councillor, forgive me, but…I don’t understand how such a biological system could sustain itself.”

“It doesn’t,” zh’Thane said quietly.

That was when Ro began to understand what the Andorians were facing, even as zh’Thane continued to spell it out.

“Our species is dying, Lieutenant. It wasn’t always this way, but certain…changes…have led to our present dilemma, which neither Andorian nor Federation science has been able to solve. The best we’ve been able to do is adjust ourselves to our circumstances. Our culture is now defined by the need to do whatever is necessary to ensure the survival of our species. Successful conception requires careful planning. As many variables as can be controlled, are. But matching together the most viable quads is difficult undertaking. This is so much more complicated than…Do you know that within minutes of Shar’s birth, his DNA map was entered into our master files with the express purpose of being matched to those he was most compatible with, genetically? He belonged to something bigger than he was before he even had a self-concept!

“Thirishar believes we are simply delaying the inevitable. And he’s right. We take our obligation to produce offspring more seriously than any other aspect of our lives because our species is headed toward extinction. We have to do all that we can to assure our kind’s survival until a solution can be found.”

Ro watched zh’Thane’s antennae twitch sharply with her every word, the councillor’s agitation palpable.

“That’s why you needed Shar to return home,” Ro realized. “To join his bondmates in producing a child.”

“Yes. In their late teens and early twenties, all fertile Andorians are obligated to return to Andor for the shelthreth—a period of time and a ritual akin to a wedding. If all goes well, the shelthreth results in conception and the bondgroup’s obligation to reproduce will be met. But time is an important factor as well. Individually, Andorians have only a five-year window of fertility. Thirishar and his bondmates are nearing the end of theirs. His stubborn refusal to come home and instead waste precious months in the Gamma Quadrant is putting them all dangerously close to missing their last opportunity to conceive.

“Perhaps you’re wondering how tragic it can possibly be if one less child is born to us. But to my kind, every birth is important. Every new life is hope. And yet Thirishar, my own chei, doesn’t see it this way.” Zh’Thane shook her head. “There has never been a time in his life that he didn’t have these obligations, and yet somehow, he thinks he’s the exception. That the needs of his people have no hold on him!”

“Councillor, please—”

The knuckles of zh’Thane’s hands turned white-blue. “He goes off on this quest of his, thinking he’s doing what’s best for all of us, without stopping to think that it might destroy everything his life is about! If the worst happens, all of it—Dizhei’s students, Anichent’s research, Thriss’s medical studies, my career will be worthless! Our work will have no meaning because we will have failed in our greatest purpose and obligation to our people.”

“Has something happened medically with one of Shar’s bondmates that compromises the shelthreth?” Ro prompted gently.

“My zhri’za. One of Shar’s bondmates, Shathrissía. The stress of Shar’s decision is having unforeseen—consequences. She has become emotionally unpredictable—possibly even unstable. I worry about what she might do if she loses control. If her equilibrium destabilizes any further, she will have to return to Andor.”

“Why not make the arrangements and depart now, if you’re so concerned?”

“Because it is still the best choice for the three of them to wait here until Thirishar returns,” zh’Thane explained patiently. “Should the situation change, however, we might have to move swiftly, without having time to make the proper applications.”

“Our medical staff has training in the physiologies of most Alpha Quadrant species,” Ro offered kindly. “They might be able to help.”

Zh’Thane’s voice cracked and a wail-like sigh escaped her throat. “If only it were as simple as asking Dr. Tarses for a hypospray. Or finding a project to keep Thriss busy—perhaps sending her on a cultural tour of Bajor or to Cardassia to offer medical service. She tends to be mercurial, to change her mind at a moment’s notice. If we can persuade her to listen to sense, she might agree to go home.”

Ro considered how best to handle the situation. She’d always sensed something conflicted in Shar, simmering below the surface of his steadiness. And it was uncharacteristic of someone as skilled in negotiation as Councillor zh’Thane to become so overwrought without good cause. She went with her gut. “Without betraying your trust, I’ll take this to Colonel Kira and let you know what she says. I’ll get back to you once she’s made her decision.”

Likely embarrassed by the intensity of her outburst, zh’Thane refused to look at Ro. “Thank you, Lieutenant.” She exited without a backward glance.

Ro spent the remaining few minutes of her shift considering how best to present zh’Thane’s petition to Kira when her relief reported in. Sergeant Etana Kol nodded to Ro but scarcely said a word as she took Ro’s place at the security desk. Etana hadn’t been her usual jovial self since the Defiant departed; like several others in the station crew, the deputy had someone aboard Defiant whom she missed terribly. And from what Ro knew of the relationship, three months would be the longest time Kol and Krissten had been apart since they’d gotten together. That must be hard. Still, Etana’s not stupid. She must have known getting involved with a Starfleet officer might mean prolonged time apart. “You okay, Kol?”

Etana looked up with a smile. Ro was impressed by how easily it seemed to fall into place. The sergeant shrugged. “Hate sleeping alone.”

Ro smiled back. “Don’t worry; when she gets back, you’ll be annoyed you don’t have the bed to yourself anymore.”

Etana laughed. “You’re probably right. Night, Lieutenant.”

“G’night, Kol.”

As she left the security office, Ro saw to her surprise that zh’Thane was still just outside, chatting pleasantly with Hiziki Gard, the Federation’s security liaison and aide to the Trill amabassador. Ro nodded to Gard as she passed them, and gleaned from the few bits she overheard that zh’Thane’s earlier angst had passed.

Was that whole thing an act? Ro wondered, stopping in front of the turbolift. As she reconsidered what she would say to Kira, Ro found herself wondering how much of zh’Thane’s performance had been staged and how much had been genuine.

“Lieutenant.”

Ro looked over her shoulder and saw the councillor standing alone again near the security office, Gard having apparently moved on.

“Thank you,” zh’Thane mouthed soundlessly. Her eyes brimmed with pain for the briefest of moments before the composed politician’s facade descended like a mask. Then she turned away, disappearing into the humanoid tide of the Promenade.