Shar smiled again, but in a way that seemed genuine this time. “Have you ever had to speak to one of their investigators?” he asked, his tone a strange mix of curiosity and disdain.

“Not personally,” she said, “but one time, when I was on the Sentinel—” Something moved quickly to Prynn’s right, and she looked in that direction. In the distance, a huge plume shot into the air, a thick, agitated column of smoke—

Not smoke,Prynn saw as the rising mass joined seamlessly to the gray sky above, both obviously of the same composition. She quickly stood up, the ration pack falling to the ground from her lap. As she watched, the column expanded outward, like the result of a massive explosion. “The pulse,” she speculated, but then wondered if her father had managed to detonate the devices—

Dad,she thought, and then realized that she had opened her mouth and screamed the word. She stared in horror at the scene. The gray mass continued to spread outward.

“Prynn,” Shar called. “Prynn!” She tore her gaze away and looked down at him. “The helmets,” he said, and pointed past her. She turned like an automaton, stiffly, not really conscious of her movements. “Prynn!”Shar called again, and she looked out and saw the middle third of the horizon filled now, and the column advancing in all directions. She shook her head, as though waking herself from a dream.

The helmets,she thought, and she finally moved, picking them up off the ground. She raced over to Shar and gave him one. He pulled it on over his head, and she bent and helped him twist it into position and then lock it into place. Then she stood back up and did the same for herself.

The instant before the shock wave struck her, she saw the lid of the survival locker crash closed. Then a wall of increased pressure slammed into her, knocking the wind out of her and carrying her backward off of her feet. She flew through the air like a leaf before a hurricane.

At least five seconds passed before she hurtled back onto the ground, hard. Her head snapped back, hitting the back of her helmet. She gasped for air, trying to catch her breath. The gale rushed past, clawing at the contours of her environmental suit, and roaring loudly in her ears. Below her, the ground began to shake violently.

Prynn inhaled great, desperate gulps of air, involuntary attempts to return oxygen to her lungs. She struggled up onto her elbows, and saw blue electrical charges arcing across the metallic portions of her suit. Ahead, she saw nothing—not Shar, not the bedrolls, not the survival locker, nothing but a great, writhing wall of gray bearing down on her. Her gaze followed it upward, and she saw the cloud cover above descending rapidly toward the planet’s surface. Instinctively, she threw her arms up in front of her face.

Suddenly, she was surrounded by the thrashing, penumbral mass. The pressure around her increased, and she felt her environmental suit pushing in on her on all sides.

Her last conscious thought was of her father.

65

Quark stood behind the bar, motionless and staring at the display on the companel. He knew what was coming.

“During the past half-year,”Shakaar said, “I have spent time touring Federation worlds…”

This evening, the bar was busier than it had been in a long time, with a virtual mob surrounding Hetik at the dabo table. Earlier, the hum of voices, the ring of glassware, and the delicious clink of gold-pressed latinum had combined in a way Quark had come to think of over the years as the sound of success. But after Shakaar had begun his speech, the mélange of noises had dulled as the attentions of his customers had been drawn first to Shakaar’s voice, and then to his image on the companels around the bar and out on the Promenade. Bajorans had mostly been the ones initially distracted from their drinking and gambling by the first minister, but before long, almost all of the bar’s patrons had stopped to watch and listen to Shakaar.

“Today, here aboard Deep Space 9,”the first minister continued, “a summit commenced to consider that petition. Attending along with me are ambassadors from Alonis, from Trill…”

“Yeah, yeah,” Quark said, waving his hand in front of the display. “We know who the players are.”

“Shhh,” Treir said beside him, slapping him lightly on the arm.

Quark’s mood plummeted by the second as he watched Shakaar delivering his address from the station’s wardroom. I can’t believe I served that man drinks there,he thought.

“There have been many struggles for our people in the past,”Shakaar went on, “but now we look to a bright, positive, and peaceful future.”He paused—rather melodramatically, Quark thought—and Quark knew that the moment was at hand. The summit had only begun today, he had only found out about its purpose a few hours ago, and yet here the first minister was, already making the announcement. After all these years in the bar, and after all that he had been through on the station, Quark’s time here was finally at an end. “Today,”Shakaar droned on, “I am happy to report to you that Bajor’s petition for membership in the Federation has been approved.”

The bar erupted, cheers and applause going up from the Bajorans present. And probably the Starfleet types too,Quark thought bitterly. He did not bother to look around or listen closely enough to find out. He remained frozen behind the bar, glaring at the image of Shakaar on the display. Amazingly, the oaf kept talking, obviously not understanding either the value of a good exit line, or the dreariness of an anticlimax.

At last, Shakaar finished speaking, and the companel blinked into standby mode. Quark continued to stare at the screen. “I guess that’s really something,” Treir said next to him, reaching up and touching him on the arm. Quark shrugged her hand away, then reached forward and jabbed at the companel’s controls, deactivating it.

“I’m sorry,” a voice said softly behind him, perfectly audible through the buzz that now filled the room. He turned to see Laren sitting at the bar, her hands folded together in front of her. He had been so preoccupied with the announcement that he had not even heard her come in. An expression of concern dressed her features, which touched Quark. Even with the difficult decisions that lay ahead in her own life, she still managed to feel badly for him.

Laren looked at Treir, who still stood next to Quark. There seemed to Quark to be no animosity in the look, but it also seemed clear that Laren wanted Treir to leave the immediate area. “Uh, I need to go see if Hetik needs any help,” the dabo girl said at once, and she quickly moved away.

“So,” Laren said once Treir had left, “what are you going to do?” They had each asked the same question earlier, when they had spoken in her office, but neither of their answers had been terribly specific.

Quark regarded Laren for a long moment, appreciating her strong features, the girlish cut of her hair, and the closeness that he had begun to feel with her. He suddenly felt the urge to make a bold gesture, not to impress her—not for her at all, really—but to symbolize for himself the new and indeterminate path down which his life had just begun to travel. He smiled broadly, then reached back and touched a control on the companel. Two loud chimes rang through the bar, and the lively hum of conversation faded. “The next round of drinks,” he called loudly, locking his gaze with Laren’s, “is on the house.” Another cheer went up in the bar, actually even louder than the one following Shakaar’s announcement.