Vaughn nodded, accepting her answer. “Just know, then, that you’ll be missed. By all of us.”

“Thank you,” Girani said again.

Vaughn finished dressing while Girani moved to an interface console and uploaded her tricorder’s readings to the infirmary mainframe, to cross-check later against the master scan taken by the diagnostic array. She was changing Vaughn’s prescription to Ostenex-E when she heard a voice call out, “There you are, Commander! I heard I might find you in here.”

Girani turned. Standing in the doorway was Quark, his hands held uncharacteristically behind his back. Girani was about to deliver a scathing reprimand about a patient’s right to privacy in coming to see a physician, but Vaughn spoke first.

“Mr. Ambassador,” he said, pulling his uniform jacket on. “What a pleasure it is to see you.”

Girani suppressed a laugh. Quark’s diplomatic appointment as Ferenginar’s official representative to Bajor was still hard to take seriously, especially after it became common knowledge that it had come about purely as an act of nepotism on the part of Grand Nagus Rom, Quark’s brother.

Quark snorted at the commander’s greeting. “Ah, you say that, but you don’t mean it.”

Vaughn looked at him. “How could you tell?”

“I’m willing to overlook your insincerity, Commander, given your situation and all.” From her angle, it appeared to Girani that Quark was holding something behind his back, but she couldn’t make out what it was.

“My situation?” Vaughn asked.

“Another birthday,” Quark said. Vaughn shot a look at Girani, who shrugged, putting on a face with which she hoped to project, Don’t look at me, I didn’t tell him.“At your age, that’s gotta make anybody cranky,” Quark went on. “It can’t be getting any easier. You’re less steady on your feet, less quick with a phaser, less able to remember things, less able to endure the, ah, company of females…”

“Less able to endure the company of you,” Vaughn added.

“Commander, please,” Quark said. “Let’s not spoil what should be an occasion to celebrate.”

Vaughn stared at him. “You’re here to help me celebrate.”

“Well, as it happens, I was at the station’s florist signing for a shipment of Kaferian lilies, just as Mr. Modo was processing an order—intended for you. Imagine my delight when I learned it was a birthday present from someone on Bajor. As a good citizen, not to mention the senior Ferengi diplomat in residence, I volunteered to bring it to you personally.”

“Is that right,” Vaughn said, as Quark’s other hand emerged, holding a narrow cone of festive paper wrapped around a single, long-stemmed flower. There was a note card attached, and an isolinear rod taped next to it. The flower, Girani saw, was an esaniblossom.

Vaughn thanked Quark as he took the gift, unsealed the note card, and smiled faintly when he read the contents. Quark’s futile attempt to inconspicuously lean over far enough to read the note told Girani that at least he hadn’t scanned the message before bringing it to the commander.

Vaughn refolded the note and detached the isolinear rod from the giftwrap. “What’s this?”

“Compliments of the Ferengi Embassy,” Quark said.

“You mean the bar.”

“Just present it to any member of my staff to receive an hour of holosuite time at our special birthday discount. And two free drinks.”

Vaughn raised an eyebrow. “Top shelf?”

Quark laughed. “That’s a good one. I’ll have to remember that. Oh, I almost forgot to mention: For a small fee, you can get an official proclamation from the Ferengi Alliance declaring this Elias Vaughn Day. It comes with a certificate.”

“Pass.”

“A smaller fee will get you an official birthday greeting from the Grand Nagus.”

“You’re enjoying your diplomatic appointment far too much, do you realize that?”

“Take joy from profit, and profit from joy. Rule of Acquisition Number Fifty-five.”

“My mistake,” Vaughn said. “But I’ll have to pass on that offer as well, I’m afraid.”

Quark made a disgusted noise and shook his head. “No offense, Commander, but your people have no idea how to celebrate a birthday properly.”

Vaughn shrugged. “We’re only human.”

“My point exactly. Would it kill you to spend a little more time in my bar?”

“Don’t you mean ‘embassy’?”

“Quark’s is a full-service establishment,” the ambassador said. “I’m just trying to reinforce that fact among the station populace.”

“And you think having the station’s second-in-command decide to celebrate his birthday there will encourage others to do the same,” Vaughn guessed.

Quark spread his hands. “Well, after all, every day is somebody’sbirthday.”

“True enough,” the commander conceded, raising the esaniflower to his nose and gently breathing in its fragrance. “As it happens, though, I have a prior commitment this evening. Some other time, perhaps. Thanks for the gift.” He gave Quark’s shoulder a friendly pat, and nodded to Girani as he strode out of the exam room. “Doctor.”

As Vaughn exited, Quark seemed to notice Girani for the first time, a new gleam forming in his eye. “Doctor! When’s your birthday?”

Hovath

Hovath awoke to darkness and the taste of blood. Pain nested behind his eyes, its sharp black beak stabbing his brain. His lower lip was numb and felt twice its usual size. His face was sore, and cold on one side. Through his cheek he felt a low vibration, one he recognized: the deckplate of a spacecraft at warp.

Light assailed him through his eyelids, an instant before his mind registered the sound of a switch being thrown, the echo reverberating off metal walls.

“Up,” a harsh voice demanded, just as he felt rough hands grab hold of his vestments and force him into a hard chair. Hovath struggled to open his eyes against the glare, saw that he was sitting at one end of a plain metal table in the midst of an otherwise dark room, a light on the other side shining directly into his face. The stabbing pain behind his eyes grew worse.

Then it all came back to him.

Shards of memory broke through the fog: alien faces, the heat of the explosion, the light of the village burning, screams of agony, the scent of death.

“Iniri!”The wail of grief tore itself from the rawness of his throat, sending him into a fit of dry, painful coughing.

I’m alive. Why am I alive?The crushing knowledge of what had befallen his people was proof that he wasn’t dead…unless death was not the thing his faith maintained. Though the concept of an afterlife defined by eternal loss and regret was alien to Bajoran thinking, Hovath knew it was powerful idea in human mythology. They had names for it. He knew one of them: hell.

“Ke Hovath,” another voice said, softer than the first, female. But not his wife’s. Iniri!

Then a different horror seized him: They knew his name! Prophets help him, they knew his name! They had killed everyone, his friends and neighbors, his family, they had burned the village to the ground—but they had taken him, kept him alive. They wanted him!

“Why?” Hovath found the strength to ask before another coughing spasm took hold.

“Let him drink,” the woman said. A second later, a sipstick touched his lips. Cool water flowed over his dry, leathery tongue, bringing some relief from the choking taste of ash. He began to drink greedily, becoming aware of two figures on his right and left, standing over him.