Colonel Kira Nerys had hoped to wend her way through the Promenade without being noticed. She had only been back from visiting Bajor—and Kasidy Yates—for a short time, and she felt certain that she would find every trauma in the quadrant metaphorically stacked on her desk when she reached her office. Thus, when she heard the clipped and slightly reptilian voice calling her name, she had to muster her resolve not to ignore it.

“Colonel Kira, may I have a moment?” the Cardassian said, catching up to her.

“Certainly, Gul Macet. What do you need?” Kira felt a surge of relief at the prospect of being reprieved from her office backlog, however briefly. She smiled; it was gradually getting easier to do that around Macet, though the fact that he was a virtual double of Gul Skrain Dukat—visually, if not morally—still made any sort of exchange of pleasantries a bit tense.

“I wanted to revisit our previous discussion regarding the Cardassia–Bajor peace talks. It’s been two weeks now since the negotiations stalled. Two weeks since I had to ferry Ambassador Lang back to Cardassia Prime empty-handed.”

This wasn’t news to Kira, though she found it hard to believe that two weeks could have passed so quickly.

Nodding, she said, “Yet you’re back here, even without the ambassador.”

“To do whatever I can to hasten the time when she and our other official representatives might be invited back to the bargaining table. I have waited patiently while you have—I presume—applied pressure on the Chamber of Ministers to bring this about. But how much longer must I wait, Colonel? How much longer must my people wait?” Macet opened his eyes wide, a nonverbal signal that, Kira had learned, was common to Cardassians who had just said something provocative and expected a response.

Kira wasn’t at all surprised by Macet’s question, nor by his obviously mounting impatience. Shortly after Second Minister Asarem Wadeen had taken a hard line with newly appointed Cardassian ambassador Natima Lang during the last round of peace talks—thereby causing their collapse—Macet had asked her to weigh in on the matter with First Minister Shakaar Edon, using whatever political pull she could muster.

What a joke, Kira thought. She was well aware that the problem of Bajor’s intransigence extended all the way to the highest levels; culpability for the failure of the talks lay not with Asarem, but with First Minister Shakaar himself. This, of course, wasn’t something she could reveal to Macet, no matter how much she had come to trust him of late.

Macet cleared his throat. “Well?”

Kira sighed, her smile collapsing as she shook her head. “I’m afraid we may have to resign ourselves to waiting a while longer.”

“A while,” Macet repeated, his eyes narrowing slightly.

“A very brief while, if that’s any consolation.”

“Ah. After Bajor officially enters the Federation, you mean. The talks will resume, but only after the Federation takes responsibility for them.”

A hard lump formed in Kira’s throat. She didn’t like this any more than Macet did. “I’m afraid so,” she said, her voice a hoarse whisper.

Macet was silent for a long moment. Finally, he said, “I am very disappointed to hear you say that, Colonel. Especially given your renowned influence over your world’s leaders, both secular and religious.”

“You’re still giving me too much credit, Macet,” she said, shaking her head yet again. “You know what it means for a Bajoran to be Attainted. Even the secular authorities don’t have much use for someone who’s been cast out of the faith.”

Macet smiled as though hoping to offer encouragement. “Ah, faith. You have no shortage of that, Colonel. It is as abundant as your humility. The kind of personal faith you possess can move entire worlds.”

Kira couldn’t restrain a bitter chuckle. “Worlds are one thing. Ministers are different beasts entirely.” Especially Shakaar, she thought.

Seeing Macet’s sour expression, Kira continued. “Look, I know how much you need closure on a Bajor–Cardassia peace treaty before the Federation begins running Bajor’s diplomatic efforts. I feel the same way.”

“It’s the only path that leads to an honest rapprochement,” Macet said, looking thoughtful. His features took on a vaguely menacing cast as he added, “and to a permanent peace.”

Shaking off mental images of belligerent, paranoid, future Cardassians someday returning in force to menace her homeworld, Kira nodded. “You’ll get no argument from me, Macet. But the first and second ministers don’t appear to see the matter with the same urgency we do. They’re perfectly content to wait a few months.”

Macet stared across the Promenade into the star-spangled darkness visible through the large upper-tier windows. His face slackened and his eyes grew pained. “I don’t need to tell you how desperate things are back on Cardassia Prime. How many people are still homeless. How many children are still starving and disease ravaged. Those who weren’t killed wholesale during the last hours of the war, that is.”

Thoughts of Cardassia’s suffering children brought to mind painful recollections of the late Tora Ziyal, whose recovered artworks Ambassador Lang had brought to Bajor as a gesture of peace—a gesture that Shakaar had effectively rebuffed, through Asarem. Her paintings and drawings, of exquisite beauty and poignant expressivity, had gone on display in Elim Garak’s former tailor shop—where some faceless, Cardassian-hating vandal had despoiled many of them.

Macet continued: “It’s ironic, really. For as long as I can remember, we Cardassians had always regarded ourselves as more advanced than you Bajorans. We had believed ourselves to be more sophisticated intellectually, culturally, politically—by any measure we could conceive. Now, after all we’ve been through—after the great price the Dominion War has levied against Cardassia for its sins—Bajor is exacting its revenge not through war, but through petty politics. Your ministers are not just keeping our worlds from attaining a true and lasting peace. They may also be confirming some of Cardassia’s oldest and ugliest prejudices. Good day, Colonel.” And before Kira could say a word, Macet strode away toward the Promenade’s busy center.

He’s right, she thought. As she resumed walking toward her office, a great upwelling of sadness spread through her soul. If professional diplomats can’t find common ground, then what hope is there for the rest of us?

She was nearing the turbolift to ops when two Bajorans—an older woman and a younger man—approached her. Both were hooded, though not exactly in the style of her world’s clerics or worshipers. She steeled herself for what was to come. Ever since she had released the prophecies of Ohalu onto the Bajoran civilian comnet, and had been Attainted by Vedek Yevir Linjarin, her interactions with most Bajorans had been frosty at best.

“Colonel Kira,” the younger man said. “May we have a moment of your time?”

“I’m late for an appointment,” Kira said, thinking ruefully of the mounds of work that awaited her. “Perhaps one of my officers can help you?”

“A moment is all we ask,” the woman said. She moved her hood back on her head, as did the man, and Kira could see their ears now. Their unadorned ears. They were not wearing the earrings that signified Bajor’s faith. Kira’s hand involuntarily moved to her own right ear, from which her own earring had dangled before her Attainder had stripped her of the right to wear it.

“We want to thank you for revealing the truths of Ohalu to us,” the man said. “The teachings of Bajor’s temples have always governed our lives, but the prophecies you disseminated answer so many more questions. You have helped us along our own spiritual path.”

“The truth of the Prophets cannot be monopolized by any one group of believers,” the woman said. “And the truth of the Prophets has been hidden for far too long. You have helped to reveal it. Do not mourn the loss of your standing in the Bajoran orthodoxy. Your pagh is obviously stronger than that.”

“You have revealed to us a destiny that was obscured for far too long by those in control,” the man said. “The Prophets are with you.”

Smiling, the pair recloaked their heads and continued on their way amid the bustle of the Promenade.

Kira stared after them, unsettled. What was that about?

The blood sizzled on his forearm, burning through his black coverall into his tough skin, but Taran’atar ignored the pain. He wielded the creature’s severed arm like a club, planning to use the clawed digits at its end as spear points.

Sensing that one of the giant arthropods was about to jump on him from behind, Taran’atar rolled to the side, tucking his limbs in close. In the past, he might have just stood his ground and let the alien attack him, but after fighting against forty-three adversaries from various species, he had begun to master a variety of fighting styles and strategies.

The creature landed, its splayed feet absorbing the impact of the fall on its spindly legs. Although there were variations, all of Taran’atar’s current attackers were from the same alien species. Oversized arthropods, each of them had two legs and two arms, plus a lengthy curled and segmented tail. Their three-meter-tall bodies were protected by carapaces of black, organic armor. Their heads were elongated and gourdlike, with mucus-dripping jaws from which issued a screech that would have struck terror into most humanoids.

Taran’atar had already dispatched four of them, but at least six more still crawled in the shadowy canyon, and he wasn’t sure that there weren’t more lurking nearby that he hadn’t seen yet. He had to use additional caution because of the creatures’ acidic blood; his hide was tough, but healing from extensive burns was not how he wanted to spend the next several days.

Standing, Taran’atar feinted to the right with his arm club, and as the creature dove to that side, the Jem’Hadar soldier scissored his leg out, sweeping it into the feet of one of the aliens. It toppled, off balance, and he grabbed a rock, smashing its skull in one brutal blow. Its death screech reverberated through the canyon.

Suddenly the din became overwhelming as the shadows uncurled themselves and the creatures screamed down at him. His count had been wrong. There were at least a dozen of them left, and they were angry. Skittering and bounding down the rock walls, they came at him.

Roaring his own rage, Taran’atar met their attack, forcing two of them into each other so that their snapping jaws ripped into each other’s heads, green ichor spewing about the canyon. He ducked from underneath their dying bodies to find another alien in midair, about to land atop him. He thrust the arm club upward with all his strength, punching through the creature’s thorax and spine, impaling it. The move may have eviscerated the beast, but its weight drove it down onto Taran’atar’s hand, the blood burning through his gray scales and down to softer flesh beneath.

The creature opened its jaws, snapping at Taran’atar’s face. The Jem’Hadar then saw a disconcertingly sharp set of inner jaws shoot out toward him. With both hands occupied holding the beast’s scrabbling claws and ravening mouth at bay, Taran’atar had little choice. He opened his mouth wider than the width of the alien’s inner jaws, and bit down on the creature’s extrusion. He felt it crunch inside his teeth, and caustic ichor sprayed onto his face. He tossed the alien to the side, pulling the severed limb from its chest and spitting out the vile appendage he had just bitten off.

The other creatures prowled on the walls, skittering upside down like spiders, wary of the fearless Jem’Hadar. He let out a bellowing roar that echoed through the canyon.

“Hey, pallie!”

Taran’atar looked around for the voice that called to him. Finally he saw a man—a gray-haired human dressed in black and white—standing on one of the ledges up the canyon wall. Light spilled from behind him, and the sounds of other humans and music echoed from the light.

“Would you mind terribly keeping the noise down to a dull roar, please? You’re drowning out the band. And truth to tell, you’re spooking some of the high rollers.”

Taran’atar was about to respond, when one of the aliens jumped him from behind, its claws raking around his chest. Reaching up, he grabbed the creature’s elongated head, using its forward momentum to flip it over his head. As it hit the dirt, the Jem’Hadar smashed his hand down in a chopping motion, severing his attacker’s neck and allowing its head to roll into the canyon.

Looking back up toward the human, Taran’atar saw him exiting through what appeared to be a doorway set into the illuminated area. He wasn’t certain, but he thought he heard the departing human say something that sounded like, “Sheesh, and I used to think Worf had a problem with holosuite violence.”

At times such as these the task with which Odo had entrusted him—to live among Alpha Quadrant humanoids in an effort to understand their often incomprehensible ways—seemed utterly unachievable.