The dalin was surprised. “There is very little time, sir. It may not be possible to completely—”

Dukat ignored him. “Start arranging for the transfer of first-tier military officials; all higher-echelon officers will be transported back to Cardassia Prime immediately. The rest are to follow until evacuation is complete, but I want all our people gone within three days. Understood?”

“What about…what about the tailor, sir?”

“He can fend for himself,” Dukat snapped. Kell had made it clear enough that the disgraced operative was to be left alone; this might actually be the first time Dukat was happy to comply with the legate’s order. “Carry out my intructions,” he told Trakad.

“Yes, sir.”

Dukat turned to go, but his thoughts quickly turned to the shape-shifter. “Contact Odo for me, Trakad.”

Where Trakad had previously looked bewildered, now he looked fearful. “The…shape-shifter is…Nobody can find him. He seems to be…gone.”

“Gone?”

“He…hasn’t been seen since yesterday, and rumors have already sprouted that he fled…back to Bajor.”

Dukat felt a momentary weakness in his limbs. Odo might not have gone back to Bajor; he could very well still be here, but if he was not answering station calls…After everything else—the treachery of the Detapa Council, the long-term flagrant disregard for his authority by the ingrates on this horrid world—the notion of Odo’s disloyalty was very nearly the thing to send Dukat into a state of complete anomie.

He swept his gaze across the surfaces of his office—the eye-shaped window, framing starry blackness; the walls, his desk, the floor and ceiling. Every last fraction of it had been designed and created specifically for him, as the prefect of this world. But now—the thought of leaving Terok Nor whole and intact for Bajorans to infest like voles was repugnant to him. He doubted they would destroy it outright; without orbital facilities of their own, they might have need of such a place. Better to obliterate it himself than leave his seat of power for lo these many years to such as them.

But no, Dukat decided. Terok Nor would remain here, under the authority of whoever came along to claim the Bajoran prize for themselves, and it was looking more and more as though the Federation was going to be the unlikely victor in this comic tragedy.

Would the shape-shifter ally himself with the Bajorans? Dukat thought not; the man was a complete enigma in many ways, but the thing that defined him most was his status as an outsider. He could continue to search for his own kind…which meant that he would likely remain on the station, to fraternize with the democratic hypocrites of the Federation.

Dukat turned off the lights in his office. The Union had just made an enormous mistake, and Dukat had no intention of ever forgetting it. He was leaving, but this would not be the last he had seen of Bajor. His business here was far from finished. No, if he thought for an instant that he would never see Terok Nor again, he would have it destroyed with the Bajorans still aboard. But this was not over. Not nearly.

The people in the Valo system had been chattering about a possible withdrawal for a long time. Ever since the Federation ship that carried Ro Laren had come and gone, a great deal of gossip had circled around the colony world. When Jas Holza had finally agreed to purchase and deliver weapons to the people of Bajor, the residents of the Valo system had begun to speak of the coming withdrawal as fact, though Keeve had been afraid to really believe it. But as more reports poured in, and people arranged for transport back to Bajor, Keeve finally had to acknowledge to himself that it was not just a rumor, not a Cardassian trick—the occupation was over.

Those in Valo II’s overcrowded settlements were speculating about what the ultimate cause of the withdrawal had been, picking up pieces of gossip as they heard them, often second-hand, or even third-hand, from Valo III. Most wanted to believe that the death of the kai’s son had been the catalyst; that the massacre in the Kendra Valley was the final outrage to thrust the resistance—and the rest of Bajor—into the frame of mind they needed to be able to summon the strength for the final push. Jas Holza was already held in high regard on this planet for keeping the citizens of Valo II alive with very little motivation. Now he was a genuine hero, for coming through with the weapons that gave the resistance the edge in the end. Keeve knew, of course, that there was more to it than that. The Federation had played a role, and Keeve imagined there was some machination of Cardassian politics that must have facilitated this unlikely outcome. Still, he was not such a pragmatist that he would not let the people have their martyr and their hero; it did much to bolster them in the uncertainty of this time. For despite the intense joy of knowing that they could return home once again, there was also unease over the consideration of what they would find when they got there.

Jas Holza had arranged for several of his transport ships to begin ferrying people to the surface of Bajor. He had already come to warn Keeve and the others that Bajor was not the same world they remembered. Jas’s own ancestral home had been nearly destroyed in a recent attack, a great deal of the surrounding farmland and forest burned or permanently altered by either military strikes or the varied interests of the Cardassians over the years of the occupation. But most ignored his caution with eagerness—despite what Bajor might have become, nobody could believe that it would not be better than Valo II. A very few chose to stay behind, but most of the settlers preferred to take their chances on what was left of Bajor.

Keeve was one of the last to leave. He bundled up what few belongings he still cared to take with him, said good-bye to the handful of people who were staying, and prepared to board one of Jas Holza’s outdated carriers. He waited in a slow-moving line, following a mix of people who trudged up the drop ramp and were shown into individual passenger compartments.

One of the pilot’s crewmen took Keeve to a compartment with an open seat, pressing a panel so that the door would slide open, and Keeve was, for a moment, taken aback to see that the compartment appeared to already be full. But as he ducked inside, he quickly saw that he could take his place next to two silent children, close in age, though Keeve had no idea how old they might be. Twelve? Eight? Keeve had always been a poor judge of these things.

Keeve took his seat, and the man who sat opposite him spoke with enthusiasm. “We’re to travel with Minister Keeve Falor?” he asked rhetorically, apparently speaking to his wife, who was seated next to him.

It took Keeve a moment to place him. “Bajin,” Keeve finally said to the middle-aged man. This was the son of Darrah Mace. It was somewhat disconcerting for Keeve to acknowledge how old the man looked to him—if his friends’ children were aging so much, how old must he then be? He wondered how Kalem Apren would look to him now, for he was to meet Apren and Jaro Essa at Bajor’s capital as soon as he arrived.

“Hello, Keeve.” Darrah Bajin greeted him with affection and respect, excitement showing through in his tone. “Have you met my wife and sons?”

“I have,” Keeve said, nodding to the two politely silent boys in the seat adjacent to his. Bajin’s wife, Cheren, gave him a wide smile, and then turned to her boys.

“This man was a great governor on our world when Papa and I were just small children!” she explained to them.

The children smiled shyly, and then quickly looked away, whispering to each other and looking deferentially to their mother. Keeve smiled at them. “Shy,” he remarked.

Cheren’s smile tightened. “Their lives have been difficult,” she said.

“As have all of our lives,” Bajin quickly added. “But that will come to an end, now.”