“What is it?” one of the men asked, his tone unfriendly. “Do you have an opinion about katterpodstacking, Odo?”

Odo shook his head from side to side. “No,” he said. “But I do have an opinion about conflict in the face of hunger.”

The man narrowed his eyes, and his companion spoke up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Odo chose the words in his customary careful manner. “I only mean that the particulars of the food harvest shouldn’t be a matter of such dispute. What matters is only that it gets done, because your survival depends on it. Is that correct?”

The first man nodded slowly, and looked at the other. “I’ll help you shell this pile when I’m done with mine,” he said.

Odo went back to pushing the stones, happy that the unfriendly tone had gone out of the man’s voice. Several times since he’d come to Ikreimi, he’d witnessed unpleasant interactions, and he was coming to learn that a third party could sometimes redirect their intentions. He was as polite as he knew how to be, and often asked to be corrected if he was in error; and somehow, the things he said to them seemed to make them stop to reconsider their conflict. He couldn’t say why he did so, he only knew that he felt relief when the arguments ceased. It reminded him of the things Doctor Reyar had used to say to Doctor Mora—unkind things, things that had filled Odo with unwelcome tension.

The two men both turned their heads at once as another man entered the mill. It was Sito Keral, the man Odo had originally come to the village to see. He looked frantic.

“What’s with you, Sito?” one of the men asked him. “You were supposed to be here nearly an hour ago.”

Keral’s face was all downturned lines. “Ver, I’m sorry, but I don’t know what to do. Jaxa’s gone!”

Odo ceased to walk, loosening his arms, remembering the small girl with yellow hair. She had smiled at him the day before, at the midday meal.

“Gone! What do you mean, gone?” Ver asked.

“She’s run off toward the mountains, into the forest,” Keral said.

“What would make her do such a thing?” the other man cried out. “Isn’t she old enough to know better by now?”

“It’s my fault,” Keral said miserably. “My cousin sent me a message that indicated she could…she could…But now—” The man had run out of breath.

“Your cousin, the collaborator?” Ver said.

The fear and panic in Keral’s eyes gave over to rage. “My cousin is a good man!” he shouted. “The message was for the resistance. That is why Jaxa has gone—she is trying to help!”

“For the resistance!” Ver exclaimed. “She’ll never get to where they are hiding by herself!”

“Someone must go after her,” Keral said, pleading. “Ver, your uncle has papers. Couldn’t you ask him to…” He trailed off.

The other two men looked at each other, an unspoken note of impassive defeat passing between them. It was clear enough, even to Odo, that Ver did not want to ask his uncle to perform this favor.

Again, there was conflict here, and Odo thought he knew how best to solve it. He stepped forward. “The detection grid will ignore me,” he said. “I’ll go.”

“Go where?” Keral asked, looking a little surprised. He seemed not to have been aware that Odo was even present.

“To get Jaxa,” Odo replied promptly. “I’ll look for her and bring her back.”

Keral had water running over the lines in his face—tears, of course—but he had a look in his eyes of hope. Odo recognized it as he recognized it within himself. Hope, the feeling that what is desired is also possible; that events may turn out for the best. He’d long known the definition; to see it was compelling, to say the least.

Odo left the mill at once, without looking back, and without waiting for a reply from the others, for it seemed to him a matter of some urgency. Children were important to the Bajorans, and ill-equipped to be alone. He was pleased that he could be of further assistance to these kind people.

9

Natima liked the look of Quark’s smile as he gazed at her across the bar. It was at once friendly and lascivious, and she felt that the look on her own face probably mirrored his. She remembered, with slightly embarrassed pleasure, the holosuite experience from the night before—and what had come after the holosuite, in Quark’s quarters.

It was late, the establishment mostly empty. He leaned across the polished surface, over the remains of the two Samarian Sunsets in front of her. Quark refused to charge her for her drinks, a matter that seemed to entirely astound his brother Rom and the Bajorans who worked there. Apparently, Quark didn’t have a reputation for generosity. Natima knew better.

“Will you have another drink?” Quark asked her.

Natima smiled. “I don’t think I can handle any more this evening,” she told him. “I feel lightheaded.”

“I do, too,” Quark said, “and I haven’t had a drop.”

Natima’s smile grew broader, probably more foolish. Quark glanced over her shoulder then, looking toward the door, and his eyes went wide, his smile disappearing.

“I didn’t do anything!” he cried out. She turned around and saw that Thrax, the station’s chief of security, had just entered the bar and was making a beeline for where she sat. She shifted nervously. Had Quark made a mistake in his black-market transactions? Or was it Natima he was after? She wasn’t sure which option would be more unhappy for her.

She got her answer quickly enough as the tall man stopped by her chair. “Miss Lang,” he said coolly. “I’d like it if you’d come with me to the security office.”

Natima cleared her throat. “May I ask what this regards?”

Quark was gaping. “What do you want with her, Thrax?”

Thrax’s already menacing expression grew even more so. “Mind your business, Ferengi.”

“I am minding my business,” Quark said. “The lady’s business is my business.”

Thrax’s forehead creased with mocking curiosity. “Is that so?”

“It’s not true,” Natima said quickly, rising to go. “He has nothing to do with me.” She wouldn’t be responsible for getting Quark in trouble—Cardassian politics were not his concern.

“Natima!” Quark said, clearly hurt.

“It’s all right, Quark. I’ll see you later this evening.”

“You will?”

“Yes.” She said it with firm finality, trying to convey to him not to get involved, but he continued to look concerned, and she hoped very much that he would stay out of this, whatever “this” amounted to.

She followed Thrax across the Promenade to the security station, and took a seat in his cramped office. She drew a deep breath, reminding herself to be careful, not to let him intimidate her. But his manner of interviewing her was not threatening at all. In fact, he was oddly pleasant, a tack Natima presumed was meant to disarm her.

“Miss Lang,” he said. “It’s come to my attention that you have contacted the exarch at the Tozhat settlement.”

“That’s correct,” she told him, thinking there was nothing suspicious about it. “On Information Service business,” she added.

“Oh?” Thrax said. “But that isn’t what you told him. You said that you spoke to him as a citizen of Cardassia only.”

Natima felt her face darken with alarm, to hear him recite the exact words she had spoken to Yoriv Skyl. Had he been listening to the entire transmission? To all her transmissions?

He smiled. “There is nothing that goes on here that escapes my attention, Miss Lang,”

“What is this about?” she demanded. If he meant to arrest her, she’d rather he just get on with it. She had no interest in playing shadow games.

“I’m only satisfying my curiosity,” he told her. “I’m a man who likes to stay on top of people’s intentions. I’m especially curious to know something. You mentioned a name that is familiar to me. Glinn Russol.”

Natima sat frozen, terrified at the prospect of incriminating her friend.