She scanned the careworn faces of those stepping through the platform portal, their rocky features revealing little emotion beyond simple weariness. She hoped to recognize someone, anyone, from the last time she had been here. It distressed her to think of those soldiers she’d come to know in any capacity being killed and never returning, but of course it was the reality, a reality that the Information Service always had to face.

When she’d been assigned to Bajor, easily the most violent and primitive world she’d ever seen, Natima had witnessed some of the most unspeakable things of her career. She’d enjoyed the challenge, at first, but was relieved that her request for a transfer back home had finally been granted. Bajor was a cruel place, with cruel people. It horrified her to see the aftermath of the skirmishes between Cardassian soldiers and the resistance fighters on that world, but perhaps the most upsetting revelation she’d had there occurred when she had discovered that she was beginning to relate to the Bajorans on some basic level. It seemed to her the very best reason to come back home, to focus her allegiance where it belonged; but her opinions regarding the Union had never been the same after the years she’d spent on Bajor.

With a small handheld netcam, she spoke to a few soldiers, who responded to her questions brusquely but supplied her with the patriotic phrasings she expected—and needed—to hear.

“My unit paid dearly, but the Federation’s losses were even more significant. We will prevail.”

“Cardassia will not sleep until we have wrested what is rightfully ours from the Federation dogs.”

“The families of those who have not returned can feel proud knowing that their son, husband, father, or brother gave up his life to better our world.”

Natima winced a little at the last one, for there were women in the military as well as men, but Cardassia was still mired in patriarchy. Females were seldom in combat, although there were a number in command. It was generally believed that women belonged in the sciences, situated as far away from physical danger as possible, for their roles as mothers were valued more highly than any other contribution they might make to the Union. While Natima certainly didn’t regret that she wasn’t stationed on the border along with these returning soldiers, she might at least have liked the option. As it was, she got plenty of disdain from her male colleagues at the Information Service, who had long tried to dissuade her from covering pieces that might place her in harm’s way. It was foolish, especially considering that Natima had no children—and though Cardassian women were blessed with an especially long window of fertility, Natima’s window was more than halfway closed.

In this press of nearly identical soldiers she suddenly saw a familiar face, one that it did her heart good to recognize, for it was the face of her old friend, a glinn named Russol. It was always a relief to see her acquaintances return safely, but it especially gratified her to see that Gaten Russol was still alive.

She put up her hand and called to him, and he turned, along with a few others who looked to see what the commotion was about. Russol smiled in instant recognition, for the two had shared a few exchanges at various press conferences. Natima had come to believe that Russol and she were like-minded politically.

“Hello, Miss Lang,” he said, bowing slightly, stepping closer. “On assignment, I presume?”

Natima nodded.

“You look rather uninterested,” Russol noted. “Do you find these interviews tedious?”

Natima was taken aback at his undercurrent of irritability, not sure if he was flirting with her, but Russol then smiled so warmly that she was compelled to smile back. Perhaps he wasflirting.

“It’s worth it to have run into you,” she said, feeling bold. “It’s always a relief to confirm that an acquaintance has come back safely from the front lines.”

“They’ll never finish me off, though it’s not for lack of trying.” His face twisted slightly, his eyes growing distant before he refocused on Natima.

She cleared her throat, fidgeting with the netcam in her hands. “Do you have any comments that you might like to share with the Union public?” she asked him.

Russol snorted. “No,” he said, and his voice was unmistakably bitter. “I suppose I would have something to say, if I thought that anyone would listen to my opinions instead of execute me for them.”

Natima was shocked; she knew from their past conversations that Russol had a bit of a radical streak, but she had not expected him to state anything so bluntly. She was not sure how to respond.

From the corner of her eye, she thought she recognized another of the men that were coming across the tarmac from where the returning ships were docking. Turning slightly, she identified the features of a man whose name did not come to her right away, but his profile and expression was immediately reminiscent of quaking regret, of a time that Natima generally took pains to avoid revisiting. Bajor. Terok Nor.

Natima looked away. This was Corat Damar, the former fiancé of Veja, Natima’s old friend and colleague from her days on Bajor.

She tried to turn so that Damar would not see her, hoping to avoid an uncomfortable reunion. His memories of Bajor were probably even more unpleasant than Natima’s, for it was on Bajor that he had lost the woman he loved. Veja Ketan had not died, but she had been injured so severely as to render her incapable of bearing children, which, according to Cardassian tradition, made her ineligible for marriage.

In a way, Natima had always thought, Veja’s ultimate fate was worse than if she had died, for although she was alive and generally well, Damar could not marry her, and Veja was very unlikely to marry anyone. Some women in her position would have taken a lover, but Veja was not the kind of woman to indulge in such tawdry dalliances, and anyway, it was clear that there was no other man for her but Damar. Natima still spoke to Veja from time to time, and had learned recently from her that Damar had married and had an infant son. Veja had delivered the news with heartbreakingly false indifference. The entire subject depressed Natima so profoundly that she wished never to think of it, let alone to speak of it. Natima was unmarried herself, but she had never been especially interested in the prospect of marriage and children. Veja’s life’s dream had been to raise a family. The circumstances on Bajor had taken that from her.

Natima risked a glance in the hope that the soldier had gone away, but he was there—and he raised his head and looked at her. She saw the hardness in his expression go slack for a moment as he recognized her, hidden sorrow rising to cloud his gaze. Natima could not look away now, for it would be impolite to pretend that she had not seen him. She smiled quickly, but he did not smile back, looking very much as though he intended to go on his way without acknowledging her. Though it was rude, the possibility that she would not have to speak to him filled Natima with great relief.

“Miss Lang?” Damar called.

She could not reasonably ignore him in Russol’s presence, not without a lengthy explanation that she would rather not give. She nodded to Russol.

“Another time, I hope,” she said lightly, and he smiled, spreading his arm in a gesture of polite dismissal. Damar strode through the other soldiers in his unit to approach her.

“Hello…Gil Damar,” Natima said, after searching his uniform for signs of his rank. She was surprised to see that he was still a gil, for it seemed that his military position had been rising rather quickly back on Terok Nor, over a decade ago. She remembered, then, that he had been a favorite of Dukat—until he had fallen from the prefect’s good graces, following the incident that resulted in Veja’s injury.