Opaka accepted the offer of deka tea from Ketauna, smiling her thanks. She sipped, looked around his small cottage as Ketauna went to fetch his copy of Dava’s Prophecies. Shev, Ketauna’s neighbor, occupied himself lighting candles. It was late in the evening, the long summer light giving way to shadows in the little house. In her travels, she had encountered a few dwellings like this one, very nearly identical to the cottage she had once shared with Bekar, and later with Fasil, just outside the Naghai Keep. Most of them had a few minor differences, but they were built so similarly, of nearly identical materials and construction, that she had the unusual sensation of being back in her own beloved home. She missed it, sometimes very much.

“The eighteenth prophecy of Kai Dava,” said Ketauna, reverently handing Opaka the open book. He was an artist, and had lived in the house his entire life. A kind man, he’d been a regular member of Opaka’s informal sermons since the day she’d arrived in the small town of Yarlin, several weeks earlier. She’d stayed on when she’d realized how many travelers came through the village each summer; it was the biggest settlement along the pass through the northernmost range of the Perikian mountains, right next to a reasonably clean river tributary. She’d pitched her tent in Yarlin’s spacious courtyard alongside a hundred others. A good many of them belonged to people who’d decided to walk with her, most from her winter camp, some who’d just shown up along the way—people who’d heard the message and were looking for someone to follow, it seemed, at least for a little while.

“Please, read it aloud,” said Shev. Shev believed himself to be an expert on the life and prophecies of Kai Dava. He was a layman, but had several times told Opaka that if his D’jarra had permitted it, he would have gone into the clergy. “Ketauna showed it to me three days ago, and I was stunned at what it seemed to imply.”

Sulan cleared her throat. “‘The dry ground shall be watered by a generation of sorrow,’” she said.

“That’s this generation,” Shev said knowingly.

Opaka nodded. “Perhaps,” she said. She went on. “‘The tears of the people shall water the land, the Tears of the Prophets cast away.’”

“Because the spoonheads have taken them all,” Ketauna broke in.

“We don’t know that,” Shev said. “They say the Orbs were all destroyed.”

“The Prophets will look after them,” Opaka said. And if They did not, that was also Their will.

“Go on,” Ketauna said.

Opaka had studied this prophecy many years ago, but it had been such a long time, she would never have remembered this particular verse without having been prodded by these two, part of her ever-growing congregation. Sometimes, it seemed as if there were as many prophecies on Bajor as there were people, and they were often too cryptic to be deciphered. Ketauna and Shev had asked her here specifically to discuss this prophecy. It was not the first time she’d been asked to give her impressions of a prophecy since she’d begun traveling, and she was sure it would not be the last.

“‘But the Prophets have not shed the last of their Tears,’” she finished.

“You see?” Ketauna said, looking a little triumphant. “Now, what do you think that means, Vedek Opaka?”

Opaka had stopped correcting those who still addressed her as Vedek, although she felt a twinge of regret almost every time; for what, she was not sure. “I can’t say, for certain,” she told him. “Perhaps it means there are other Tears of the Prophets which have not yet been discovered.”

“Well, this would be a good time for someone to find them, don’t you think?”

Opaka nodded slowly. “It might seem that way to us, but only the Prophets know when the proper time will be.”

“But you have read the prophecies of Trakor,” Ketauna reminded Opaka. “He speaks often of the Orb of Prophecy and Change. Nobody has written of it since the time of Kai Dava—”

“Yes, there are many mysterious tales surrounding Kai Dava, it is true…but not all are fact. Many have theorized that the Orb of Prophecy and Change was simply another name for the Orb of Souls.”

“Or the Orb of Contemplation,” Shev added. “But the evidence seems to suggest otherwise. Did you know,” he went on, “it was rumored that Kai Dava had an Orb fragment, a piece of one of the Prophet’s Tears? They say he had it mounted onto a bracelet, which he wore until the day he died…and that it disappeared after his death.”

Opaka had heard the story, along with many others about Kai Dava. The idea of someone using a broken Orb as their own personal token had always struck her as troubling, to say the least. Fortunately, there was no evidence to support the legend…. None that was known, at any rate.

Her expression must have reflected as much. Ketauna quickly changed the subject. “I suppose you have heard by now that Vedek Gar has been aggressively campaigning for the position of kai. He seeks to manipulate those of us who follow you, Vedek Opaka—he has declared your word to be the viewpoint of the church.”

Shev broke in. “He has even moved into your old house. As though he is trying to be physically closer to you, as well as spiritually. I believe he means to deceive your followers.”

Opaka nodded absently. She had heard such murmurings before today, and she was not sure what to make of them. She hoped they were at least partially true—that Vedek Gar really did believe the time of the D’jarras was past, though the idea still surprised her. She had not yet had time to puzzle out what the greater impact might be. She looked out one of the windows. “It is growing late,” she declared.

“Vedek Opaka, can I offer you a bed for the night? I would be glad to have you take my pallet, and I can sleep up in the loft.” He gestured to a short ladder against the back wall of the cottage, and Sulan regarded it with some curiosity. There was a door at the top of it, in the same place as that inconvenient window of her own house—and it occurred to her that the window had probably once functioned as a door, just like in this house. It probably had been equipped with a loft as well, before the long-ago fire.

“It wouldn’t be any trouble,” Ketauna added. “I take in visitors all the time, especially in the winter. I would enjoy the company, really.”

Opaka smiled. “It’s quite all right, thank you. I’ll return to the village before dark.”

“But it will be dark quite soon,” he protested.

Opaka turned to Shev, who lived in a similar abode just north of Ketauna’s. “Does your house have a sleeping loft like this one? For I believe my old cottage was constructed in a similar manner…and it’s a bit of a coincidence that I should think of it now, for it was often told that Kai Dava himself lived there once.”

Shev answered with enthusiasm. “Ah, yes! The little house just outside the walls of the Naghai Keep—that was Kai Dava’s house. Indeed, my house has a sleeping loft, just as Ketauna’s does.”

“Kai Arin told me that there had been a fire…. It must have destroyed the loft,” Opaka mused. “The door was left behind, but I always thought it was a window.”

Ketauna answered. “Yes, but if you had gone into your cellar, I suspect you would have found that the foundation of the house extended beyond the back, where the raised porch would have been, for in the old times, people used to sleep on those porches in the summertime, raised high above the ground so the tyrfoxes and cadge lupus wouldn’t trouble them.”

“My little house didn’t have a cellar,” Opaka said—

—and she saw something, then, in her mind’s eye, a flash of dream like a memory, so strong and clear that for a moment, she could see nothing else. Ketauna’s small home had disappeared. She saw a man in vedek’s garb looking out over a vast and fiery pit. He wore a mask, and his body shook with some unknown emotion, one that made him tremble in its violence. She recognized the man, recognized Bajor’s fire caves.

“Vedek Opaka, are you all right?”

It’s Gar Osen. She didn’t know how she knew, but she did. He stood behind an open door, his face hidden, the light of open fires dancing across his mask. And she knew things, then, things that she had no worldly way of knowing.

“Sulan?”

The worry in Ketauna’s voice drew her back, back from what she knew had been a vision. A frightening one, but to hear the Prophets once more…to know that They had chosen her for this thing…

“I need to go back to my house,” she said. The cellar.

“You mean…to your tent?” Ketauna asked her, taking her teacup. “At least let me accompany you—”

“No. I mean to my house…my house outside the keep, outside the Kendra Monastery. I need to speak to Vedek Gar. I’m going to go find my son…I will need him to help me.” She spoke her thoughts, as certain of them as she’d ever been of anything.

“Vedek Opaka, can we help?” It was Shev.

Opaka looked up at him. “If you would like to come along, then you may. I believe it might be best to have some help. Yes.”

“I’m coming too,” Ketauna insisted.

“Yes,” Opaka said again, her voice steady. “We’ll all go. There is something in that house that…I must find. I must find it before Vedek Gar does.”

The two men were silent, staring at her with something like awe, but Opaka had closed her eyes. She thanked Them for the burden They had placed upon her shoulders, praying that she would prove worthy.

Natima fumbled with the satchel that was tied around her waist beneath her skirt. Every little noise she made seemed to echo throughout the fetid hole she had been forced into, and she feared the Bajoran who waited for her outside the tunnel would immediately guess what she was up to. There were noises of dripping and sloshing that reverberated from everywhere; she hoped it would drown out her activity. From the satchel she managed to find what she wanted in the near total blackness—Veja’s comm unit, with a direct line to Terok Nor. Veja had asked Natima to carry it for her in her waist-satchel, since she claimed it spoiled the neckline of her dress.

Natima activated the communicator, and waited for Damar’s inevitable answer.

“Veja, do you have any idea what the hour is here on the station?” His voice over the communicator was louder than Natima had expected, and she moved farther down the clammy tunnel as she answered him, fumbling for the volume control.

“Damar! It’s Natima! We’re in trouble!”

“What? Veja, I can’t hear you. Did you say you’re in trouble?”

Still too loud. Natima pressed her fingers over the pinpoint of a speaker and moved even farther into the blackness. She could see nothing, hear nothing but the ever-present liquid sounds that rushed through the tunnels. She counted on the noise to cover her own, but it seemed that Damar couldn’t hear her. She spoke louder.

“Damar! This is Natima Lang! A Bajoran has taken us hostage just outside of Tilar! There are more of them somewhere around here. He was speaking of something to do with balon, I got the impression it was important.” There was no answer. “Can you hear me?”

“I hear you now, Natima, but your signal is weak.” Damar’s voice reflected something like fear. “Is Veja all right?”

“She’s fine, Damar, I will look after her. But you must send someone. Did you hear all that I told you? There are more Bajorans around here, and this man is concealing something about balon.”

“I will send someone immediately.”

A crooked beam of light bounced into the offshoot. Natima whirled around, her fingers closed tightly around the communicator, as the Bajoran, dragging Veja by the arm, lunged at her, trying to get the device. Natima saw her chance and stepped to meet him, grabbing for his weapon, stuck in the waist of his tattered pants. She dropped the communicator but got her hands on the phaser. Veja ran when Seefa let her go to fight Natima for the weapon. The palm beacon fell to the floor, illuminating nothing.

They struggled in the cold dark, Natima’s terror lending her strength—and somehow the thing discharged, a brilliant burst of light and sound that tore into the low ceiling of the tunnel. Debris rained down and Veja screamed—but only once, the sound cutting off abruptly.

Natima still had the weapon. Seefa scooped up the palmlight, moving its beam across the darkness, clouds of dust obscuring its meager light.

Natima trained the weapon on the Bajoran, searching the murky dark for her friend—and let out a cry when she saw the crumpled heap on the muddy ground, pinned beneath a massive mound of ceiling stones. She was not making a sound, but she was alive, her face pulled back in an expression of agony.

“Veja!”

The Bajoran was there even before Natima, scrabbling at the rubble. Only her head and one arm were visible beneath the pile of rocks.

“Help me!” he shouted.

Natima dropped to her knees, tried to keep the weapon trained on the Bajoran as she dug with her free hand.

“You might as well put that thing down,” the man told her, without looking away from his work. “There was only one good blast left in the power cell.”

Natima did not know whether to believe him, but considering Veja’s condition it suddenly seemed unimportant. She put the weapon in the waistband of her skirt and began hauling the rubble away from Veja’s body. Veja had started to pant, taking in short gulps of air, her eyes shining with fear and pain.

“Don’t worry,” Natima said, digging, babbling at her friend. “You’ll be fine, we’ll get you to a doctor soon, everything will be fine.”

The Bajoran continued to pull at the rocks, but his expression was grim as he looked over Natima’s shoulder, back toward the main conduit they’d left behind. He saw her looking and nodded in the direction of the tunnel.

Natima turned to look, felt her heart sink at what was illuminated by the dim glow of the light. Where the opening had been, now there was only a wall of crumbled rock and clay that continued to spill its gritty contents into the tunnel. They were trapped.

Gul Dukat finally looked up from his computer screen. “Balon? Are you certain she said balon, Damar?”

“I’m not certain of anything, Gul.” Damar could feel each second tick by. “Except that they need help. We need to send someone to Tilar right away.”

“Yes, certainly, but the part about balon…I received word, just about a week or two ago, that a Bajoran man was apprehended either on or near Derna. If I’m remembering correctly, traces of balon were found in the area after more extensive scans were performed. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but…

“He may have had something to do with the Bajoran who is holding the women captive,” Damar said quickly. “But we must find them if we are ever to know for sure.”

“Indeed, Damar, you have my authorization to take a shuttle to Tilar.”

Damar was taken aback. He had expected Dukat to let him go, but not alone. “I will need backup, sir. There’s no telling how many there are.”

“I thought you said there was only one.”

“Yes, sir, but…But perhaps more are involved. You know how the cells work.”

Dukat nodded. “Very well, take Garresh Trach with you, I can’t spare anyone else while we’re installing the new security features. I’ll inform the nearest ground division; they’ll provide whatever else you need. Report back to me as soon as you find out anything more about the balon. Meanwhile, I’ll try and see what I can glean from the Bajoran with the shuttle. I seem to recall that he was taken to Pullock V…”

“Thank you, sir.” Damar promptly left Dukat’s office and could scarcely keep himself from running to the lift, anxious to get to Veja, though he was still disappointed that Dukat would only appoint a single enlisted man to accompany him. He pressed his comcuff and raised it to his mouth.

“Garresh Trach, this is Gil Damar. Please meet me at shuttle pad 3. We’re going to Bajor. I will brief you en route.”

Natima and and the Bajoran had finally managed to clear the rocks and broken chunks of clay pipe from Veja’s body, and now the man simply sat, speechless, watching Natima as she stroked Veja’s hair and squeezed her hand. Veja had drifted in and out of consciousness, crying in pain during her moments of lucidity. A wet, seeping patch of darkness stained the front of her dress. Natima had found only superficial wounds to account for the blood, but had no doubt that there had been internal damage—how much, she did not know. Veja had finally swooned into a kind of sleep, for which Natima was grateful.

She sat back on her heels, trying to think. Damar would be looking for life signs in the vineyards, not wherever they’d ended up. By the time he widened his scan, Veja might be dead. She would have to find the little communication badge, tell Damar what had happened.

The Bajoran watched Veja, his expression strange. He seemed unhappy that she had been injured, as if he’d somehow forgotten that this was all his fault. Yet she didn’t feel hatred for him, perhaps because she didn’t feel it coming from him. His intentions, unclear before, were obscured even further. He’d been quick to help Veja—of course, Natima had been holding his weapon by then, so it seemed likely that he was only trying to prove himself useful to avoid being killed.

“Should we try to dig ourselves out of here?” she finally asked.

“We disturb that pile of rubble, we’re going to invite another cave-in,” he said. He didn’t seem angry or crazed, only tired.

Natima looked down the dark passageway in front of her, and pointed into the blackness. “What if we try to go that way?”

“I don’t know. The tunnel ends in another pile of rocks. It’s a dead end.”

“We could at least check,” Natima said. She stood up, looked around her feet for the communication device by the thin light of the palm beacon, lying on the floor by Veja. With the mounds of dirt and rock that had come down, she’d never find it, but unless there was some obvious way out, she’d have to look. It might be their only chance.

The Bajoran also stood, and Natima took a step back, hand on the weapon tucked in her skirt—and heard a synthetic crunch beneath her heel.

She forgot about the Bajoran, dropped to pick up the communicator. She tapped it, but it only squawked strangely in response.

“It’s broken,” she said, crestfallen.

“Give it to me,” the Bajoran demanded, and Natima instinctively pulled it away.

“No.”

“I might be able to fix it. I’m an engineer.”

“You’ve never even seen anything like this before.”

“I’ve fixed plenty of things that I had never seen before,” he informed her drily. “I can do it. Just give it to me.”

Natima hesitated. He might be able to alter the signal somehow, to contact his cell. She knew full well that Bajorans could be frighteningly resourceful when they wanted to be. On the other hand, at least someone would dig them out. She handed it over.

Seefa popped the badge open with his fingernails, examined it closely with the palm beacon. “I think I might be able to fix it,” he murmured. “But,” he said, looking up at her, “if I do, your friends are just going to put me under arrest, send me to a work camp—or execute me.”

“I won’t let them,” Natima said quickly, though she knew it was no use. Bajorans were suspicious by nature, and she had no doubt that Damar would not stand to see him live, after what had happened to Veja.

He put the badge in his pocket. “Let’s have a look at the other exit,” he said. “We’ll have to consider all our options.”

Natima looked down at Veja. She did not look well, her eyelids shiny and her breathing shallow. She did not like to leave her friend here alone, even if it was only for a little while, but she saw no other choice. She was not about to let the Bajoran out of her sight if she could help it.

Dalin Kruva of the Hideki-class Cardassian patrol vessel Drakamair was just returning to Pullock V from patroling the edge of the system when he received the systems-wide alert. Such transmissions from Terok Nor were not unusual, but they rarely concerned patrol ships that were this far from the Bajoran system. Open calls were usually for troops to go down to the surface of Bajor, with the very occasional bulletin in regard to a Tzenkethi or Federation vessel. The transmission was audio only, but Kruva recognized the prefect’s unmistakable tone and cadence.

“Patrol vessels, this is Gul Dukat. I have been alerted that there may be a handful of Bajoran insurgents who have begun using balon-based fuel sources in order to avoid detection of their spacecraft. I am issuing an alert status in the following sectors…”

Kruva was surprised at the Bajorans’ resourcefulness, though he supposed he shouldn’t have been. They weren’t as primitive as they seemed. Not that he was concerned; the insurgents wouldn’t come near him, not in balon-powered ships. It would take a balon vessel a week to get out of the Bajoran system, at best, and by then it would be out of fuel.

Yawning, Kruva turned away from the transmission as his ship’s sensors read another vessel in the sector—a Cardassian ship, Keldon-class. He hailed the vessel.

“This is the patrol ship Drakamair, authorization code 1-1-4-7 chavat. Please state your code and your purpose in this sector.”

“This is the Koeder, outbound from Pullock V, authorization 8-9-5-5 po’tel. We are escorting Union officials back to Cardassia Prime.”

Kruva scanned the numbers and found them to be legitimate. The officials had been at the colony to witness an execution of Bajoran terrorists, political prisoners, and such; he allowed the ship to pass without further challenge, slightly bored by the repetitive nature of his work. He continued on his course, tuning the midrange sensors’ sweep cycle to maximum. This area was often thick with Tzenkethi vessels, and some of the more adventurous Ferengi pirates operated in this region as well. It was a risk to divert power from the disruptor banks—it was not patrol procedure—but Kruva felt it was worth it. He rarely needed his weapons, and watching the traffic was his only diversion.

As he neared Pullock V, his sensors again alerted him to a vessel coming out of warp. He could not get an immediate read on the ship’s type, but after a moment he discerned it to be an outdated Bajoran carrier, flying erratically as it slowed to impulse. It was obviously damaged, and posed no threat to him. Likely it was manned by Yridians or some other opportunistic people who had no qualms about using other species’ technology, but the cryptic alert from Dukat had left him cautious.

“Bajoran ship, this is the Cardassian patrol vessel Drakamair. State your business in this sector, please.”

The carrier did not respond, continuing to fly in a strange, lopsided manner. At least one of its thrusters was out. Dalin Kruva was becoming annoyed. “Bajoran ship, I repeat: state your business or I will open fire.”

Suddenly, the carrier launched two objects the size of small shuttles. They began flying toward Pullock V, keeping in a tight formation.

Kruva ran a scan on the emissions of the two objects and detected nothing…But his scanners wouldn’t pick up balon, not without recalibration. Kruva frowned. The lack of a detectable fuel signature seemed proof positive. But whether to pursue the small ships or the carrier was the larger question.

He decided to go the easier route, taking care of the tiny ships first. The carrier was practically crippled, he could finish it off anytime, but there was a slight chance that one of the other vessels could get away if he didn’t act now. He quickly transferred power to the ship’s forward disruptor banks, locking on to the nearest shuttle. He took it out easily, its blip on his transponder vanishing as the Drakamair’s weapons blasted it into twisted bits of floating scrap. Without a moment’s hesitation, he targeted the second shuttle, which had managed to get just far enough to force him to power his ship a short distance before eliminating it as well. He turned his attention back to the carrier, but to his surprise, the ship seemed to be gone. Judging by the ion trail he detected, the ship had gone to warp. Powering up his sweep cycle, he followed the ship’s warp signature, and he set a new course to give chase. He was not yawning now.

Glinn Tedar’s senses felt especially dull today. Although it was what passed for summertime on this continent, his fingers still felt stiff in the damp chill. The thin veneer of sunshine did little to stave off the bone-penetrating cold. How he hated this planet! He was counting the days until he would be sent home to his wife and family. The border fights would have been preferable to this backward, icy chunk of misery. He regarded the mud on his boots as he stepped out of the forest, wrinkled his nose in disgust. There was nothing so wretched on Cardassia Prime as this gloppy, sucking terrain that seemed to exist everywhere on Bajor, even when there hadn’t been rainfall in weeks.

He had been careless in his rounds today, ignoring many signs that people had been in the woods. He’d spent countless patrols following such signs, and they never led anywhere. His outfit hadn’t had much luck locating terrorists in this region. They either didn’t exist, or they were just too savvy to leave evidence of their presence. At this point, Tedar didn’t much care which scenario was true; he just wanted to get back to the barracks where it was warm.

He heard a rustling in the trees behind him and hesitated, hoping it would be another soldier from his squad, although they weren’t supposed to meet back together for another kellipate or so. He raised his comm, ready to call for backup, but then relaxed. He saw a couple of Bajoran children picking their way through the forest. They looked awfully small, though Tedar couldn’t begin to guess their ages. Bajoran children matured very differently from Cardassian, and they all looked like babies to him.

It disgusted him that the Bajorans allowed their children to roam so freely, running loose like animals. He would have had sympathy if he didn’t already know them to be petulant monsters most of the time, probably from lack of decent supervision and tutelage. Cardassian children would never have been unaccompanied like this—in fact, Cardassian children would have been studying, honing their bodies and minds for the collective betterment of the State. There were games, but they were practiced rather than played, teaching skills necessary to become productive citizens of the Union.

Tedar wondered if he should acknowledge the children. Of course, they posed no threat to him, and they were not traveling outside the proscribed boundaries—there was no law against what they were doing—but Tedar thought there ought to be one, for their own safety. It annoyed him that these children would no doubt grow to be just as useless and defiant as the adult Bajorans were—that sort of attitude probably originated in the kind of lenient parenting that had allowed these two to roam about the forest by themselves. The children had come close enough now that he could see they were a girl and a boy, the girl being the elder of the two. She was scolding the smaller one, a brother, perhaps. Tedar wasn’t sure—Bajorans all looked essentially the same to him: bland, fleshy features, crinkled nose. The girl child did have one distinguishing feature—her hair was a deep, fiery red.

Tedar decided to put a bit of fear into these two. “Halt!” he barked abruptly, and the children jumped. The girl dropped what she had been carrying, a rough drawstring bag, which fell and spilled its contents—several large, ripe moba fruit.

Tedar trained his disruptor on the frightened whelps, and bent over to pick up the fruit. “Where did you get these?” he asked the girl, whose expression wasn’t as fearful as he’d expected.

“My papa,” she said.

“Papa,” the little one echoed, and began to snivel.

“Quiet,” the girl whispered, but the boy began to whimper even louder. The noise grated at Tedar’s worn nerves.

“Stop that!” Tedar snapped, pointing his weapon directly at the pathetic little urchin.

“Don’t you shout at my brother!” the girl screamed, and to his great consternation, she picked up one of the fallen moba fruit and tossed it directly in his face. Before he could quite gauge what had happened, the girl had grabbed her brother by the hand and begun to sprint through the forest, dragging the little boy behind her.

Wiping the sticky nectar from his eyes, Tedar was amazed at how quickly the child was moving, but he wasn’t about to be bested by a couple of dirty-faced imps. He set off after them, catching up quickly, grabbing the little girl by her tangled, flame-colored hair.

“Ow!” she shrieked. “Let go of me!”

The boy cried out in baby-talk for his sister, and Tedar grabbed him by the arm with his free hand. The child fought to get away, but he weighed about as much as a bird, and Tedar lifted him off his feet with no trouble. The children thrashed in his hands.

Tedar suddenly felt very foolish, wasting his energy on a couple of squirming brats. “What are your names?” he demanded. “I don’t mean to harm you, I just want to know where you belong.”

“We belong in Dahkur,” the girl replied, through gritted teeth. “This is our home, and you can’t tell us we can’t be here!”

He tightened his grip on the girl’s hair, twisting until he felt a good many strands breaking away from her scalp. Tears were running down her face, but he could see that she was struggling not to cry. It made him all the more angry to see her fight against her natural response, and he gave her hair another firm yank before he threw her to the ground.

“I can tell you that I think you’re a disgusting little churl whose parents are negligent to have let you in the forest by yourselves! You’re lucky I have a soft spot for children, otherwise I might have shot you straightaway!”

“We aren’t d-doing anything wrong,” the girl insisted, her sobs finally having gotten the better of her. “You l-l-let my brother go right now!”

Tedar pulled the crying boy close to him. “Perhaps he would be better looked after in an orphanage,” he suggested, “since your parents can’t be bothered to keep track of him. He’s practically a baby!”

The girl hiccuped through her sobs. “I look after him j-j-just fine!”

“Tell me your name, or I will take him to an orphanage—and you’re welcome to accompany him, if you like.”

“K-K-Kira Nerys, and R-Reon.”

“Kira?” he repeated. He considered the name, knowing he had heard it before—knowing that it was supposed to mean something to him. And in a beat, he remembered. Dukat’s Bajoran mistress—her name was Kira…something. He couldn’t remember her other name, but he was certain that her family name was Kira—and that the Kira family was to be left alone. These children could be related to her, could even be her own. He released the boy’s arm, and the child commenced to crying louder than ever, as if jostled awake from a state of shock.

“Go home,” he ordered the girl. “Go and fetch your bag where you dropped it, and go home. I don’t want to see you here again.”

“But,” the girl said, wiping the grimy tears from her face, “we were supposed to take that moba to Sorash Mabey. She’s ill, and Papa said—”

“I don’t care what your papa said,” Tedar shouted, scarcely able to believe that this stubborn child would be arguing with him after he’d just done her such a tremendous kindness. “Just get out of here. If I see you again, I’ll kill you.”

It wasn’t true, of course. Tedar could not have taken the risk of hurting any relation to the Kira family, but they probably didn’t know that. Tedar shook his head, thinking of Dukat and his “cultural” exchanges—disgusting, and a lot of the men on the ground felt the same, but it was not wise to speak of such things.

He holstered his disruptor and watched the two children run back to retrieve their bag of fruit, balling his fists to ward the cold away from his fingers. This loathsome tradition of allowing children to…play…Tedar would never understand it. But then, it wasn’t his job to understand things. He went where they sent him, did as he was told, and left the understanding to others.

Horrible planet. Tedar slogged on, wishing he was home.