It was dusk when the Federation envoys beamed into one of the courtyards within the Assembly Hall complex — shields and scramblers prevented anyone from beaming directly into the Hall, for security reasons.

If there was a stereotypical Vulcan, Ambassador S’ren would be the one. Silver hair and a few wrinkles around his startlingly blue eyes revealed his advanced years, but his expression was as calm, collected, and otherwise devoid of emotion as if neither anger nor joy had ever crossed his features to shatter his stoicism. His robes were simple and functional, of rich fabrics in subdued dark colors, with a handful of his many awards and honors displayed on his chest. He moved with serene dignity.

Admiral Alynna Nechayev, on the other hand, wore a severe, determined expression, her tight lips and small chin suggesting tension. Brown eyes studied their target directly. Her blonde hair was functionally coiled behind her head. The Starfleet uniform was crisply tailored and fitted without a wrinkle. Her movements were equally crisp but impatient, as though she controlled some deep emotion, and her back was as stiff and straight as if she were braced against a wall.

With them were a handful of functionaries — S’ren’s self-effacing personal secretary, a junior ambassador apparently of Haliian blood, Nechayev’s own aide of lieutenant rank — and the captain of the Sutherland, the starship that had brought them to Bajor.

The first minister approached.

“Ambassador S’ren, Admiral Nechayev, Captain. Welcome to Bajor.” Shakaar nodded to them each in turn. Kira and Rig flanked him, each nodding in an appropriate physical courtesy greeting, while several other staff trailed them.

“First Minister.”

“Minister Shakaar.”

“Minister.”

“Let me introduce you to several of my staff. This is Colonel Rig, my security chief, and this is Colonel Kira, recently of Deep Space Nine, newly detached.”

“Colonel, Colonel,” the ambassador replied with a regal incline of his head.

Nechayev’s gaze focused on Kira. “I heard you had sent a new commander to the station,” she said shortly. Her tone suggested she wanted an explanation.

Shakaar didn’t give her one. “You heard correctly.” He smiled in his most charming manner, which didn’t seem to make any impact on the storm in the admiral’s eyes.

“Good to see you again, Colonel.”

“And you, Captain,” Kira replied, smiling back at the always welcome Captain Shelby.

The other introductions and greetings were quickly exchanged.

With a glance at the sky, Shakaar then said, “I suggest we go indoors — it appears we’ll be enjoying one of our Perikian storms before long. We have a small gathering of the ministers and other officials set for this evening. I’m sure you’d like to get settled in, perhaps freshen up, before then? Ambassador?”

The Federation embassy moved as directed, with the Bajorans trailing behind.

“I can’t help but wonder if sending a Starfleet admiral, along with a Federation ambassador, is intended to be a kind of message for Bajor – the voice of friendship and reason, on one hand, with the reminder and threat of strength, on the other,” Kira muttered sotto voce.

“The symmetry hadn’t escaped me, either,” Shakaar agreed in an undertone. “I’m just surprised it isn’t Ross.”

“It’s possible that, after the Ferengi incident, Starfleet decided he wasn’t the man to deal with the Bajorans any more. I haven’t heard anything from him in weeks.”

Shakaar’s mouth turned up in a little smile. “Actually, my office has been bombarded with messages from him in the past month. Nechayev isn’t here because Ross is out of favor.”

“She was put in charge of the Maquis situation, back when that all started. There were many Bajorans who supported the Maquis. Since this isn’t a directly military situation, perhaps she was deemed more likely to ... understand us?”

“Considering she was trying to stop the Maquis, that would be more of an insult,” Rig offered a little distastefully.

The comment convinced Kira that Rig had been one of those Bajorans who favored the Maquis.

Of course, had it not been for the Emissary, Kira suspected she might well have allowed the Maquis to use the station when they requested it.

Admiral Nechayev checked her quarters thoroughly for listening devices or anything else that shouldn’t be there. She spent a few moments studying what she could see of the Bajoran capital city from her window, which extended across half of the outside wall.

Then she began to dress for the reception. As she pulled on her formal gold-trimmed white uniform jacket, she thought she heard something in the outer room.

Slipping quietly out of the dressing chamber, she found it empty — but there was a simple PADD set against the vase on the table.

Glancing around as she crossed the room to make sure no one remained concealed somewhere, she picked up the PADD. It was a child’s first model of the ubiquitous device, something a pre-school-age boy or girl might use.

“Follow the map at the given time,” was all it said.

Kira hated formal diplomatic affairs. They tended either to be stuffy, boring, and a waste of time with people she often didn’t care for, or a minefield of people playing games to obtain information, maneuver for advantage, or more-or-less politely look down their noses at everyone else. This one, thrown together at the last minute, at a time when political relationships were tense and some considered the unexpected Federation presence to be something of an insult or a threat, was certain to be one of the latter.

Things started out that way, but didn’t last long. Nothing seemed to disturb the ambassador; even when one of the more belligerent ministers tried to taunt him with several sharp-edged comments, the Vulcan handled the situation with aplomb. The junior ambassador was vivacious and skilled at getting those she spoke with to open up and relax. Captain Shelby had obtained permission for a number of his senior officers to join the party, including his Bajoran chief engineer, to swell the ranks of the Federation attendees and lessen any awkwardness they might feel. The Sutherland’s reputation as Starfleet’s “party ship” had been earned, and as they mingled with the ministers, vedeks, and Bajoran officials, they helped put others at ease too.

As the evening went on, Kira decided the Federation representatives had been chosen for persuasiveness and an exceptional ability to soothe ruffled feathers, and they were skillfully working on convincing several of the officials to reconsider their positions. Doing a better job than I am, she thought ruefully. She’d been too tense about the gathering to let herself enjoy it. And there continued to be several unsettling undercurrents.

“Colonel Kira, I must say, I am surprised to see you here,” she heard a husky voice comment.

She glanced up. One of the undercurrents had just approached her, in the very tall form of a dark-clad vedek. “Really? And why might that be? You’re Vedek Foldan, I believe?”

“Yes, I am,” the vedek replied smoothly, nodding. Her dark brown coif and veil momentarily covered her face. “At last report, you were stationed at the entrance to the Celestial Temple.”

“I’m being ... reassigned,” she admitted reluctantly.

“Oh? And where might that new assignment be?” the other inquired politely.

“I’m ... not sure yet.”

“So who is now in command of the station?”

“I believe it’s General Krim.”

Foldan nodded again. “I had heard he was being reinstated, but I had not expected him to be given such an important post!”

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence. Kira noted the vedek’s gaze followed the ambassador venomously, her mouth tightening.

“I noticed you were speaking with the ambassador before,” Kira began.

Foldan made a disgusted sound. “The Vulcan has no understanding of the significance of the Celestial Temple and no respect for the Prophets. Like the rest of his kind.”

“My ... the current science officer on Deep Space Nine is half Vulcan. He’s demonstrated a great interest in the Celestial Temple, and esteems the Prophets for their very existence. He does not follow them as we do, but he respects our ways and beliefs.”

The woman looked at her sharply. “Interest? Esteem? Indeed! And what of you, Colonel Kira? Do you still follow the Prophets, or have you been corrupted by your Federation officers to see them as the simple ... interesting ... esteemable ... curiosities of a backward people?”

“I follow the Prophets, as I always have! And the Federation does not treat them as ... curiosities! The Emissary—“

“Hmph! Another alien who should not have come here.”

“Captain Sisko was the Emissary of the Prophets! They sent—“

“Perhaps,” Foldan cut her off. “But I can now see that you are not the Bajoran you were apprised to be, when you first went to that station!”

She turned on her heel and stalked away, leaving Kira taken aback and torn between responding in anger or self-defense.

The captain of the Sutherland seemed to make a beeline for Kira as Foldan departed, summoning the monks of her order with an imperious wave.

“That vedek doesn’t seem to be having a particularly good time,” he commented, leaning close enough for her to hear his near-whisper.

“I don’t think she was,” she agreed, still upset.

“Considering the way she was digging at the ambassador before, I’m surprised she even came to the party.”

“I noticed she seemed to be doing her best to provoke him, along with ... other people here,” she acknowledged reluctantly, then added, a little dryly, “But she’s a candidate for kai. I suspect she had to make an appearance here, if for no other reason than to prove she’s important enough to the future of Bajor to have been invited.”

“Black isn’t a common color for the religious orders, is it?” Shelby asked, watching the dark-clad woman make her way out of the reception hall, a pair of similarly-dressed monks trailing her, pausing for just a moment to speak with Vedek Ungtae.

“It’s not,” Kira replied. “No other order uses those colors. Most Bajorans shun black anyway.”

“She reminds me of a cowbird,” he observed.

“A what?” The comparison didn’t sound complimentary.

“An Earth bird. North American. Mostly black, with a brown head.”

“Oh,” Kira said, not knowing what else to say. That description was accurate — the order’s voluminous black robes and brown headwear and veil could give the impression of a bird scooting along the ground.

“They lay their eggs in other species’ nests, leaving the responsibility of raising them for the other birds,” he continued. “Larger than most of the birds around them. They’re considered parasitic.”

“She has a following among the population,” Kira reminded the human captain, frowning. She was still angry at the vedek’s disparaging remarks implying she might no longer be a true Bajoran, but she wasn’t going to allow insinuations from a Starfleet captain. “And she’s a vedek, part of the Vedek Assembly, she deserves respect and she is not a parasite!”

“My apologies, Colonel,” Shelby immediately responded. “Ahh, I see one of your ministers appears to have been cornered by the ambassador — for all his manners, he is the most determined Vulcan I’ve ever met. But I suspect he and your Minister Rozahn are not likely to see eye-to-eye, no matter how determined he might be. Perhaps we should join the conversation and make sure things don’t get too serious tonight....”

Rig studied the weapon that had been found late that afternoon in an alley near the café where Kira and Yates had been eating. Her gaze flicked to her officer.

“Starfleet issue,” she said flatly.

“So it seems, Colonel,” Harus replied briskly.

“And we have no idea who might have been carrying it?”

He shifted uncomfortably at her whiplash tone. “One of our local security spotted a woman in the alley, matching the description of the woman I saw following the Emissary’s wife this afternoon. He tried to pursue her, but she escaped. A short while later, a civilian reported seeing a man crawling in the alley — a man generally matching the description of the other person I observed staring at the Emissary’s wife. The bystander became concerned and called us; by the time we arrived, the man was gone — but this weapon was found, abandoned.”

“So it may have been the woman’s. It may have the man’s. It may have been neither’s.” Her sharp expression returned to her officer. “DNA scans?”

“So far, all it confirms is that the phaser was handled by at least two different Bajorans in the past day.”

“A Starfleet weapon, handled by Bajorans. Keep me informed, Harus.” She was clearly disturbed. “And add another guard on the Yoljan Retreat. We’ll talk to the vedek in the morning, and to Captain Yates.” Rig resumed her seat. “Something here isn’t adding up.”

Kira was restless, unable to sleep. She decided to take a walk through the city, hoping the exercise would help her put her thoughts in order.

Taymon all but materialized beside her as she passed the Hall’s security checkpoint.

“Do you need an escort, or a guide?” he asked.

“No, thank you, Taymon. I know my way around Peri’ketra.”

He hesitated.

“I just want to take a walk. The rain’s stopped, hasn’t it?”

He nodded. “It’s clearing up, too. We should be able to see stars again in half an hour. If you’re sure....”

“I’m sure.” She smiled reassuringly. “I’m not looking for trouble, I’m heading for the western sector.”

“The older shrines and retreats,” he noted.

She nodded and left him behind, knowing quite well he would mark her time of departure, and if she were gone overlong, would notify Rig and probably send someone looking for her. Rig would know she had gone to the small monastery the Yoljan order maintained in the city. Like many orders, they kept a presence in the capital, near the kai’s combination residence/religious center. This provided a hostel for their own monks when traveling, a retreat for people considering joining a particular order, and a residence for the order’s vedek while attending Assembly meetings. A long time ago, in the days of the djarras caste system, those monasteries had been clustered together in the western sector. During the Cardassian occupation, a number of the orders had built elsewhere in the city and surrounding regions.

The city was quiet at that time of night. To avoid whoever might be out, she chose to take the Path of Shrines, a large park with meandering walks that led past small shrines, memorials, carved images, and plantings in honor or memory of past events or persons.

The rain of the early evening had lessened to a fine mist that was settling as she walked. All around her, surfaces gleamed as gentle path illumination gave way to starlight. She could hear the steady dripping of water pooling from leaves, branches, roofs, and carved images. It vitalized the night; the air was freshened with the sweet scents of flowers opened to the rain. The only sounds were her footsteps on the stone, the dripping water, and the insects and wildlife beginning to stir after the rain.

It wasn’t far to the part of the town once claimed almost solely by religious orders and their families. The Yoljan Order’s retreat sat in the midst of a grove of moba trees, the oldest of which was supposed to have been brought from the Kendra Valley over eight hundred years before, and whose bountiful fruit had provided the seeds for the others. It was a little distant from most of the other such monasteries, due to a combination of age, order size, a fire in the sector a few generations before, and the gardens that were considered an essential part of any religious retreat.

Kira knew there would be someone awake; there was always someone at the doors of the retreats, to be ready for travelers at any time of the day or night. If Kasidy was awake, she hoped to talk to her. If not, Kira expected there would be a bed she could use, and she would speak with the human in the morning. She’d have to let Taymon know, of course, or there’d be security forces storming the place by then. She couldn’t help smiling at the thought.

Moving quietly through the moba grove, Kira froze at the sound of voices.

“Why not?” were the first words she heard clearly, in a strident, recognizable voice, carrying through the night.

“You’re not who we expected,” another woman replied coldly.

Kira ducked under a low-hanging branch, glad for the dark blue uniform that wouldn’t be seen in the shadows. She peered out to see four people standing at one of the monastery’s garden entrances. All were cloaked and hooded — but there was no mistaking that first voice.

“That was explained, you should have gotten the message. Check with your sources, they’ll confirm my reason for being here!” came back the first.

“We’ll do that.”

“But in the meantime—“

“Admiral....” carried a man’s voice, deeper, almost warning.

A few seconds later, Admiral Nechayev’s voice continued, lower. “All right, then. I’ll be back when you’re satisfied. But don’t take too long. We don’t have time to waste.”

“We’ll let you know.”

Kira held her breath as the admiral turned and stalked away from the entrance; the man with her hurried behind her, after looking around, presumably to see if there was anyone who might have observed the encounter.

Nechayev passed a scarce dozen feet from her, then vanished into the darkness of the garden.

The pair at the door waited for several moments.

“Will she be back?” the male asked.

“She’ll be back,” the woman assured him. “We’ve got something she wants, and she’s obviously willing to risk her career for it.”

“What if it’s a plot, and she turns us in?”

The woman laughed, a little bitterly, Kira thought. “What could Starfleet possibly do to us?” She paused for a second, looking around. “She’s gone. We may as well go inside.”

They entered the monastery and closed the door behind them.

For a moment Kira was undecided. What had she just seen? What business did Nechayev have with Bajoran monks who didn’t care what Starfleet could do?

If she entered the monastery, she might encounter the people she’d just seen — and she didn’t know who they were. Would they know her? Would it be trouble, with Kasidy there? Might she get involved? Could that be dangerous?

She could follow the admiral.... Of course, the woman had probably beamed back to the Sutherland by now. But then, she thought, why hadn’t Nechayev simply beamed back from the grove?

Kira returned to the Assembly Complex, where she spoke to Taymon about putting additional security around the Yoljan Monastery, only to learn that Colonel Rig had just ordered the same thing. But the colonel wasn’t available to discuss the situation; Taymon refused to divulge anything without his superior’s order. Shakaar was “in a private meeting and could not be disturbed,” and so was Jolorn.

Uncertain who else she could safely discuss it with, Kira went to bed. There, she spent the rest of the night tossing, trying to assemble the pieces of the puzzle she felt a part of, into something identifiable.

The two walked down the Promenade, Kaoron towering over the smaller, finer-featured T’Leera. The Plom’tel was leaving for the Alpha Quadrant in a few minutes, with a temporary Bajoran registry number and a Bajoran station engineer as its “captain” for the few minutes it would take to pass through the Celestial Temple. They had taken advantage of the short time they had, but it was time for the Vulcan ship to continue on its way.

The Romulan ship, however, was not.

“Commander Tallin is returning to the Empire,” T’Leera noted, glancing for a second at the goods displayed at a souvenir kiosk, but not pausing. “He states he will be filing a personal complaint about Bajor’s action, but I find it ... unexpected that he refused to place so much as a single Bajoran aboard his ship for the short time it would have taken to pass through the Wormhole.”

Kaoron nodded. “It is curious.”

“Does your Bajoran commander share your ... curiosity?”

“I do not know. He has only been here two days. I have not observed that he shares confidences or information with anyone as of yet.”

T’Leera raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps,” she suggested, “someone should note their concerns about the Romulan’s behavior.”

Remembering Krim’s expressed feelings about Romulans and his litany about their previous activities, he replied, “I suspect the general has already noted and passed along his own concerns to those in his government most with a need to know.”

“Mayhap you should mention your interest to the admiral, your mother.”

“And perhaps also to the ambassador, your mother,” Kaoron agreed. “I believe both our mothers would find it equally intriguing that a Romulan scientist reacted in such a way to the opportunity presented by the general, at such a time.”

They reached the airlock.

“It has been good to see you again, T’Leera, even if just for a few hours,” Kaoron told her. He couldn’t help the warm smile; he knew she wouldn’t hold it against him.

“We will only be a few months, Kaoron,” she said.

“Unless you find other mysteries that you cannot resist,” he teased a little.

T’Leera accepted it as she always did. She would be the first to acknowledge her weakness to learn of something new. “In any event, we will be here again, on our return, whether in a week, a month, or a year. I will see you then. Until then, peace and long life, cousin.”

“Live long, prosper, and enjoy the pleasures of eternal curiosity, cousin,” he replied.

She held out her hand; he touched his palm to hers, fingers split, sharing the surface thoughts of close relatives and intimate friends. And, in his case, opening the affection he’d always felt for her, and learned not to suppress. As always, she seemed to hesitate a bit, then returned the fondness. It was easier for her than for most Vulcans, who tended to become even stiffer and more aloof in his presence. She’d been raised with his influence, after all, he reminded himself, and felt a small ripple of humor from her in return.

Then T’Leera turned away and headed into the airlock, her hands clasped behind her back. She didn’t look back. She didn’t need to.

Kaoron watched the airlock cycle closed, then headed for the upper observation deck to watch the Plom’tel pull away from the station. It turned toward the Wormhole in an elegant arc, then vanished in the sudden swirl of color and energy that continued to awe him.

Then she was gone, and he felt alone again.

Alden stood at the port that gave him the clearest view of the Defiant. His expression was a little dreamy, with a half-smile; one hand rested on the window, moving reverently as if there were nothing between his fingers and the ship, and he could touch it, caress it....

“Endar?”

“Hi, Ezri,” he murmured, barely distracted.

Seeing the direction of his gaze, she glanced out the window. “What do you see?”

“The Defiant,” he answered softly. “She’s going to be mine. He doesn’t want her, she’s mine....”

Dax was perplexed. “What do you mean?”

“The general. Krim. He asked me to tell him who should fly her. He doesn’t want her. It’ll be me, Ezri. She’ll be mine now....”

“For the time being, anyway,” she said dismally, unable to keep the pessimism from her voice.

Her tone caught his attention. “What do you mean?”

“Haven’t you been following Bajoran politics, Endar?”

“Not really. Why?”

“I talked to a colleague on Bajor this morning. This closing the Wormhole is just the first step. If the ones behind this succeed, next they’ll try to order all non-Bajorans to leave Bajor, and then the system. We’ll have to leave the station. It’s what Starfleet ordered us to do before, during the coup. If Bajor tells us to leave, we’ll have to go.”

He frowned, a little perplexed. “So?”

“They won’t just put us all on the Defiant and fly us away to set up shop somewhere else — we’ll probably all be reassigned to other ships and bases. Separated. And who knows where they’ll send the Defiant, or what crew they’ll put on her.”

Alden stood rigid, both hands on the window, breathing fast, eyes wide but focused on the Defiant. “No....”

“Endar? Are you all right?” Dax asked, a little alarmed.

After a long moment, he burst out in a strangled, agonized voice, “No. No, I’m not all right. That’s not fair, they can’t do that, they can’t take her away. Not now....” His fingers tightened as if trying to curl around the ship and bring it to himself, to prevent it from flying away without him.

“I’m sorry, Endar, I shouldn’t have said anything....” She felt sorry for having expressed her fear, and a little alarmed about Alden’s reaction.

“They can’t....” He looked torn between tears and rage, as if his dreams of a moment before had been dashed against a rock and shattered.

“Endar, I think we’d better go talk for a while,” Dax insisted firmly. “Let’s go. Right now.”

“They can’t vote us away, they can’t!”

“Let’s hope they don’t. Shakaar and Kira will do their best not to let them....” She pulled at his arm.

He shook her off, obviously fighting for control, then very slowly relaxed his hands, closing his eyes and counting his breaths as she had taught him. After a long, torturous moment, he opened his eyes again and looked at her, seemingly exhausted.

“I’ll be all right, Ezri.”

“Are you sure?” She searched his expression. “I still think we should talk.”

He finally nodded. “All right.” With one last lingering stare at the Defiant, he let her pull him toward her office.