Natima had been called to the Information Service's headquarters in Cardassia City for her latest review with Dalak, the director of her department, and as she shifted in a stiff-backed chair in front of his small metal desk, she could tell by the tone of this encounter that he was probably going to be transferring her. There had been rumors of changes made, and he had that distracted, irritable air he acquired when he was forced to reshuffle assignments. She hoped he'd send her to Cardassia II. She had grown up in an orphanage there, but that wasn't the reason she wanted to return. She'd made contacts in the past few years, people who had come to seem to her almost like family.

Of course, Natima wasn't sure what it was like to have a family, so she couldn't make the comparison with any certainty, but she had become very close to a few of the people within the rough organization that was beginning to take shape. In particular, Gaten Russol, though Natima had no romantic interest in the man. No, he was definitely more like a brother to her-or at least, her estimation of what a brother must be like. A brother that she had come to deeply trust and respect. He currently lived on Cardassia II, along with a handful of others within the nascent dissident movement that Natima was helping to organize.

It seemed that Dalak had other things in mind for Natima, however. It took her a moment to fully grasp what he had said when he uttered the words, "Terok Nor." It was a name that was immediately familiar-and immediately repugnant.

Natima sat forward in her chair, her hands spread across the surface of the director's desk. "No, no, Mister Dalak, you promised you would not send me to Bajor again. You said I-"

"I never promised you any such thing," Dalak said crisply. "In fact, I am certain that I warned you this day might come. Come now, Miss Lang. It's been years since that incident on Bajor. Decades, even."

Decades? Could it really have been that long? Natima supposed it had. How had she suddenly come to be so old?

"Besides," Dalak went on, "I'm not sending you to Bajor, specifically. Terok Nor is a thoroughly modern Cardassian facility, in orbit of the planet, with the strictest of security measures. You will be safe there and uniquely placed to report on the annexation from its command post."

"Yes, of course," Natima replied, though it wasn't so much the issue of safety that made her loath to return to the B'hava'el system. It was the politics, the gross display of manifest destiny that she feared would someday drive her people into ruin. Could she safely keep her opinions silent in such a place? Especially with that degenerate prefect residing in the very same facility?

"It's a temporary post," Dalak assured her. "You'll be there less than a year."

Natima fell back into her chair, unhappily accepting the inevitable. This was her career, and though it was increasingly coming into conflict with her evolving ideals, there was no other profession she cared to pursue. She would go where the service sent her.

It was late, and the bar was closed for the night, but Quark was still at work, as he often was, tallying his daily receipts at one of the tables. He checked every number at least three times against his earlier totals. He was not a man to make mistakes in his ledgers, because he never failed to check his totals thrice.

Quark heard the footfalls of someone approaching the door long before they entered the bar. One of the Bajoran workers, wiping up a puddle of spilled kanar, kanar, flinched as an expressionless garresh jostled past him, as if he was not even there. Quark frowned. He had taken pains to project the image of neutrality, but sometimes it galled him to see the way the Bajorans were treated. flinched as an expressionless garresh jostled past him, as if he was not even there. Quark frowned. He had taken pains to project the image of neutrality, but sometimes it galled him to see the way the Bajorans were treated.

"Quark, you have a call," the Cardassian told him. "Something appears to be wrong with your comm line-"

"I closed it down for the night," Quark snapped, and then quickly checked himself. He couldn't afford to express any attitude. He gave a strained smile. "So I could get a moment's peace while balancing my account books," he finished. "Thank you for informing me. I'll take my call now."

He watched the blank-faced garresh leave his bar and chased the Bajoran worker off before he activated his comm. The call was from Ferenginar, and Quark felt sure he knew the origin of the communication code-it was his cousin Gaila, doubtless looking for a handout. Now that Quark was beginning to enjoy some monetary success, he could look forward to every leaf and twig of his family tree coming along with their grubby hands outstretched.

His bar on the station had grown from a little gambling post in one of the storefronts on the Promenade to the largest business on the station. Quark's had quickly overtaken the replimat as the popular place for Cardassians to drink and dine-no great accomplishment, but he wasn't going to argue with success-and he'd plowed his profits back into his black market business, and and created a fund to pay off anyone who might venture too close to his fledgling enterprises. Besides the foodstuffs-and the Bajorans were a nut-and-root type of people, mostly cheap vegetables and bird flesh-he oversaw a goods exchange, and he had a line on some utilitarian art from the surface, which he sold on consignment at one of the shops. Carved wooden bowls and tatted shawls were popular with the station soldiers; they liked to send them home to their families. He could get a piece of pottery that would sell for twenty slips on the station in exchange for a half-slip bucket of root soup. He was making money hand over fist, and of course his mother had to brag about it, telling tales that had reached the ears of many less-fortunate relatives and acquaintances. As it was, Quark had already taken in his penniless idiot brother and nephew, after Rom's marriage had finally failed, and he wasn't especially interested in showing anyone else the same degree of altruism. created a fund to pay off anyone who might venture too close to his fledgling enterprises. Besides the foodstuffs-and the Bajorans were a nut-and-root type of people, mostly cheap vegetables and bird flesh-he oversaw a goods exchange, and he had a line on some utilitarian art from the surface, which he sold on consignment at one of the shops. Carved wooden bowls and tatted shawls were popular with the station soldiers; they liked to send them home to their families. He could get a piece of pottery that would sell for twenty slips on the station in exchange for a half-slip bucket of root soup. He was making money hand over fist, and of course his mother had to brag about it, telling tales that had reached the ears of many less-fortunate relatives and acquaintances. As it was, Quark had already taken in his penniless idiot brother and nephew, after Rom's marriage had finally failed, and he wasn't especially interested in showing anyone else the same degree of altruism.

Gaila's ugly mug was spastic with excitement, and he didn't bother with any pleasantries. "Quark! Aunt Ishka tells me you've begun turning quite a profit these days! I wonder if you wouldn't be interested in fronting a potentially very lucrative endeavor." "Quark! Aunt Ishka tells me you've begun turning quite a profit these days! I wonder if you wouldn't be interested in fronting a potentially very lucrative endeavor."

"I'm already fronting a lucrative endeavor," Quark told his cousin. "It's nice to talk to you, Gaila, but I've got things to do."

"Your mother also tells me," Gaila went on, as if not listening, Gaila went on, as if not listening, "that your brother and nephew have come to live with you. That you took them in entirely out of the goodness of your heart-" "that your brother and nephew have come to live with you. That you took them in entirely out of the goodness of your heart-"

"There's no goodness in my heart," Quark hastily interjected.

"That's not what Aunt Ishka tells me!" Gaila said. Gaila said. "She says you're becoming soft. I hear you're selling food to those Bajorans at cost. I hear you're-" "She says you're becoming soft. I hear you're selling food to those Bajorans at cost. I hear you're-"

"You hear nonsense, then," Quark snarled. His first instinct was for self-preservation-to deny outright that he was selling anything to the Bajorans-but he couldn't back down from an accusation like that. "I may have lowered my prices somewhat, but you can't gouge the Bajorans when they've got next to nothing to pay with. I wouldn't sell anything if I didn't make it accessible, and I'm selling plenty. You've got to know your market, cousin. I'm sure there's a Rule of Acquisition that says something about that..." He racked his brains, but could not think of an appropriate Rule. Perhaps he should make one up.

"I know the rules, and I've got a better idea for profit in the B'hava'el system," Gaila said. Gaila said.

"You want to come here? here?" The last thing he needed was Ferengi competition-especially from his lousy cousin.

"That's right. Food is one thing, but weapons-the Bajorans would pay well for them, wouldn't you say?"

Quark snorted. "And I thought I was taking a foolish risk."

Gaila ignored him. "Would you loan me the latinum to get it started? A munitions consortium, that is. Think of it, Quark! If the Bajorans have a little money to spare for a bit of food now and again, they'll have money to spare for guns and ammo, no question. I've been listening to the newsfeeds from Bajor since you got there, and the resistance will stop at nothing to-" "Would you loan me the latinum to get it started? A munitions consortium, that is. Think of it, Quark! If the Bajorans have a little money to spare for a bit of food now and again, they'll have money to spare for guns and ammo, no question. I've been listening to the newsfeeds from Bajor since you got there, and the resistance will stop at nothing to-"

"I don't know, Gaila." What his cousin was saying made sense, but Quark wasn't entirely sure he wanted to get involved. Of course, with his black-market goods business, he was already into the occupation pretty deeply, but he had a strong feeling that on a list of Cardassian punishable offenses, food-someone-might-eat and weapons-someone-might-shoot-at-you-with were not quite equal. "It sounds pretty dangerous."

"I'll buy you your own ship when I start to make profit," Gaila promised. Gaila promised. "I mean, in addition to paying you back, with interest. You name the rate you're comfortable with." "I mean, in addition to paying you back, with interest. You name the rate you're comfortable with."

Quark frowned. The danger seemed a little less dangerous when he started thinking about interest rates. Gaila was a relative, of course, so he couldn't go much higher than eighteen percent...

Gaila began to smile toothily, reading Quark's silence in his own favor. "Do we have a deal?" "Do we have a deal?" he ventured. he ventured.

"I don't think it would be a good idea for you to be coming and going on Bajor," Quark said. It wouldn't be good for either of us if he was caught. It wouldn't be good for either of us if he was caught.

"My associate will take care of the face-to-face business with the Bajorans," Gaila promised. Gaila promised. "All transactions will take place outside the system. You'll never see either of us." "All transactions will take place outside the system. You'll never see either of us."

"Well," Quark said, thinking he could live with that arrangement, "I'm thinking about twenty percent."

"Twenty percent! Quark, I'm family!"

"You told me to name my-" Quark stopped speaking, staring in horror at the blue light that had flickered on his keypad. "I have to go," he said, and jabbed his finger at the disconnect. Someone was trying to listen in on his conversation.

Quark snapped his console shut with shaking hands. He reviewed, in his mind, the last few lines of the conversation. We were only talking about financial matters, nothing to implicate me. We were only talking about financial matters, nothing to implicate me. Thrax had been trying to catch him at his black market business for three years now, but Quark had been far too careful. His stupid, prideful boasting may have changed all that. If he hadn't been so quick to defend himself; if he'd just denied Gaila's implication that he was dealing with Bajorans-well, if Thrax had indeed heard his conversation, Quark's only recourse was to construct a convincing lie. He put his ledgers away and began to close up the bar, already working on his alibi. Thrax had been trying to catch him at his black market business for three years now, but Quark had been far too careful. His stupid, prideful boasting may have changed all that. If he hadn't been so quick to defend himself; if he'd just denied Gaila's implication that he was dealing with Bajorans-well, if Thrax had indeed heard his conversation, Quark's only recourse was to construct a convincing lie. He put his ledgers away and began to close up the bar, already working on his alibi.

Since the presentation at the Bajoran Institute of Science, Dukat had thought often of the shape-shifter, Odo. He'd heard about the creature years before, of course, and had always meant to go see it-the discovery of a new sentient life-form was inherently interesting-but he'd had more urgent matters needing his attention, and indulging a mild curiosity on Bajor's surface hardly seemed worth the time. Now that the resistance was finally-finally-firmly in hand, he'd arranged a presentation at the institute for some of the occupation leaders, to report on the new detection grid-and to make a show of Bajor's safety, of course. The mere fact of inviting them was proof, and he'd overseen preparations himself, discussing with the director his ideas for the visuals, his feelings on how the material should be presented. As an afterthought, he had asked her to include something about the life-form.

Doctor Yopal's presentation on the sensor and tracking systems had been brief and not overly technical, as he'd recommended, and had been well received. Too long a presentation, and the guls and legates attending might start to regret the trip, which would have been entirely counterproductive. Another scientist spoke more specifically on the systems' impressive attendant weaponry, and Dukat had been positively gleeful, watching the grim, irritable faces of his detractors as they were forced to recognize his success. But the nondescript fumbling Bajoran who'd introduced himself last had stolen the show. Or rather, his shape-shifter had.

Dukat had displayed the same polite interest as everyone else, but he had no doubt that they were all just as astounded as he. The Bajoran had gone on about density and mass and theoretical subspace phasing, but all attention had been on the "man" that stood next to him, tall and lean and of strangely unmolded face. The being had shifted through a number of different forms, becoming a whole series of animals, a chair, a table, a pair of boots; at the Bajoran's urging it had done tricks with its skin and flesh, stunning and amusing the rapt audience.

Afterward, several of Dukat's departing guests had asked what he planned to do with the creature. He had managed some ambiguous answer, wondering that himself. The research had shown Odo to be impervious to any common injury, and capable of fantastic physical strength. There had to be some military application, something that would advance Cardassian interests-and therefore his own rank and reputation, a most agreeable corollary.

He leaned forward in his office chair, tapped in the code for the institute. A moment later, the director's face flickered onto his screen.

"Gul Dukat," she said. She looked pleased to see him. she said. She looked pleased to see him.

"Doctor Yopal," he said. "I wanted to commend you once more on your management of the institute's presentation."

The scientist hesitated, then frowned in seeming irritation. "Do you not remember telling me already?" "Do you not remember telling me already?"

She was flirting. Dukat sighed inwardly. Sree Yopal was attractive, he supposed, but he would never meet a Cardassian female as lovely as his Athra, at home and patiently waiting for him. To have an indiscretion with another Cardassian woman...he found the thought distasteful.

"Although I was surprised you let the Bajoran present Odo," he said, entirely ignoring her less-than-subtle advance. The message would be clear. "Surely, you've turned the project over to a team of our own...?"

Her face smoothed, became a mask. "Actually, the shape-shifter has left the institute." "Actually, the shape-shifter has left the institute."

"What? What do you mean? Who authorized a transfer?"

"No one, Gul. Odo left of its own volition."

"And you just let it go?"

Yopal cleared her throat. "Short of placing the entire institute under a high-density containment field, there was no way to keep the shape-shifter, if it did not wish to stay." "Short of placing the entire institute under a high-density containment field, there was no way to keep the shape-shifter, if it did not wish to stay."

Dukat had to consciously relax his neck and jaw to speak. "Where did it go?"

"I do not know. Perhaps Doctor Mora-"

"You will have him forward all research regarding the shape-shifter to me immediately."

"Yes, sir," she replied. she replied.

"And...Doctor Yopal, I have good news for you."

"Oh?" She cocked her head. She cocked her head.

"Yes, Doctor. Your assignment on Bajor has come to an end. You may return to Cardassia Prime."

The woman's smile vanished. "Prefect," "Prefect," she said faintly, she said faintly, "you are...too kind. But I-" "you are...too kind. But I-"

"No need to thank me," he said, fully aware that thanking him was the last thing on her mind. He knew her type all too well. She was driven and committed, and leaving Bajor was anything but a reward to her, especially so abruptly. She would be unlikely to enjoy as much prestige in a Cardassian facility. But losing the shape-shifter was not a mistake that Dukat could let go unpunished. He cut the transmission off, already thinking ahead. What had the Bajoran doctor said?

"Odo has expressed great interest in learning more about his species..."

Where might such a creature go? Who would it talk to, if it sought information about other worlds? A Bajoran farmer, raised by generations of Bajoran farmers?

It will come here, Dukat thought, suddenly certain of it...though Dukat would do what he could to ensure the visit, to see to it that Odo understood where its best chances lay.

He put a call in to the base nearest the institute, waited while a surprised garresh went to find his commander. It shouldn't be too hard to find the creature, considering its appearance. He'd have it monitored at a discreet distance, and once he was sure of its whereabouts, he could decide how best to draw it in, bring it to Terok Nor. Then he could take all the time he needed, to decide how Odo might best serve the Union. It- He, he reminded himself. he reminded himself. It identifies itself as "he." It identifies itself as "he."

Dukat smiled. A sentient creature that could turn himself into a book on a shelf, an insect on the wall...Perhaps he he might serve best as one of Dukat's team. might serve best as one of Dukat's team.

"...which was how I ended up spending half my residency on the station at Hetrith," Doctor Moset said. "That's when I really shifted my focus. The creature died, eventually, but I kept it alive long enough to learn everything about it. By the time I went home, I was ready to apply for my second doctorate. And after all that work, they put me here here. Even Hetrith had better facilities, and it was a frontier station."

He leaned against the biobed that Kalisi was calibrating, his long arms folded, his tone light in spite of his words. She'd found Crell Moset to be a man who took most things lightly, his most common expression one of amused detachment. They were alone in the contagion ward, the beds empty, the day staff excused. In the weeks since Kalisi had come to work at his hospital, Moset had taken to seeking her out sometimes in the late afternoon, talking a bit about himself as she went about whatever menial work she'd been assigned. Complaining about his lot in life, which was so much better than hers, she occasionally felt like throttling him.

After a few days to consider her options, she'd decided to encourage the doctor. For a relatively young, unmarried woman it was not the wisest choice, she knew, to become involved with a superior. But for such a woman with few prospects, in her personal life or her career, there were worse mistakes.

Like not not becoming involved with one becoming involved with one, she thought, tapping at the open control panel on the bed's back. Second time in a month she'd had to reset the circulatory diagnostics. The equipment wasn't the best, but at least it was his his hospital, his research facility. She was just someone qualified enough to fix it. hospital, his research facility. She was just someone qualified enough to fix it.

"I mean, how many times have you had to reset these things?" Moset asked, his thin line of a mouth curving slightly.

"You seem to do just fine with what you've been given," she snapped, a sneer in her voice.

He studied her a moment, perhaps making his own final decision on the matter. He had a fine, high brow and extremely thin lips. Not a bad-looking man, although his hair was an atypical brown, rather than black. He was tall, which she liked. She didn't know his personal situation, but doubted it was relevant. He'd been working up to something since the day she'd arrived.

"That's right, Doctor Reyar, I do," he said, meeting her gaze directly. "I've done important research in my time here."

Kalisi went back to her work. She felt the heat in her voice, felt its warmth. It felt good, to say what she wanted to say. To know what effect her irritation would have. She was an attractive woman, she knew, well-educated and fine of feature.

"How nice for you," she said, not looking away from the bed panel.

A beat later, and his hand was on her shoulder. His fingers were long and tapered, his hand warm through her tunic. It was so cold here, always so cold...

"I see how hard you work," he said, his voice low in his throat. "I appreciate it."

She turned to him then, letting her anger carry her. "I'm a weapons engineer, Doctor. I designed and implemented the detection grid that has made Bajor safe for us, that has finally halted the insurgency. And because of a single mistake I made, years ago, the Ministry of Science has given me no credit for my work, for my research. My reward for getting the systems up and running is to be sent here, to fix biobeds for you. you."

She'd stepped over the line, but she didn't care, and the doctor's heat was coming back at her, his bright eyes flashing with it.

"You think I want to be here? My specialty-my passion-is nonhumanoid exobiology. I had just begun to establish myself at home and the ministry tells me I'm needed here here, running research projects on an inferior species, giving inoculations and treating diseases as though I'm some, some medic medic. At least you get to go out in the field. I'm here every night, every single night, all alone-"

He was suddenly so close to her that she could smell him, the astringent scent of sterilizing hand cleanser, an expensive hair oil. His gaze was brilliant, piercing, and focused entirely on her. His hand slipped around her lower back and he pulled her roughly closer.

She fought him for a just a moment and then allowed herself to be kissed, to feel the crush of his narrow mouth against hers. He was a brilliant man. She would work at his side, find a way not to be forgotten. He pushed his hand into her skirt, and then her only thoughts were of the flesh.

7.

Although the occasional alien pilot came through Quark's bar, as well as the odd half-breed from regions unknown, the vast majority of his clientele looked identical to him: dark, slicked-back hair, uniformly gray skin, and indistinguishable shiny gray military uniforms. Sometimes, if one of the Cardassian regulars struck up a conversation with him, Quark had to engage in a moment of panicky brain-wracking in order to place the man-was it someone he'd talked to before? It took time to recognize a particular Cardassian, and even then, Quark didn't go much by faces; a man's voice, his mannerisms, the verbal expressions he frequently used-that was the way to tell, in an ocean of bland gray people.

Women were a different matter. Quark came up from the cellar after the lunch rush one fine, lucrative day to find that there was a new face in his establishment, a female face. He'd seen Cardassian women before, but they were always either uniformed or accompanied by a male. This woman was neither. She was dressed in a long, green gown-not a scientist or a soldier, and apparently nobody's wife, either. The dimple in her forehead was painted bright blue, something that Quark was reasonably certain indicated that she was not married. The other men in the bar had taken notice, too, a group of noncoms and a couple of glinns at the bar all stealing looks.

Quark saw that his brother was headed toward the woman's table. Quickly he elbowed his way ahead of Rom and approached the lone Cardassian female.

"Hey," Rom protested, but Quark ignored him. He flashed his best sales smile at the woman.

"What will you be having, then, miss?"

The woman lifted her face to him, her throat long and graceful, accentuated by the ridges that ran down either side of it. The neckline of her dress dipped down low enough that Quark could see the alien peculiarities of her pectoral bone structure; a scoop, identical to the one on her forehead, was plainly visible just above her breasts. Quark swallowed, noting to himself that he had never seen quite so much of the Cardassian anatomy before; he found this woman's to be surprisingly agreeable.

"A Samarian Sunset, please," she said, her voice cool.

"Right away," he said, and dashed back to the bar.

"Brother," Rom said. "Your elbows are sharp." He rubbed his side.

"Sharper than your wit," Quark grumbled, mixing the drink. "Can't you see there are a half-dozen customers who haven't been waited on?"

"I was trying to see to that woman back there-"

"I'll handle her, Rom. You take care of those soldiers in the corner."

"Oh. Okay, brother."