She kept Thriss’s secret. But she had never fully trusted Thriss since.

“You must hate us for what we did…” Thriss’s voice trailed off.

“I could never hate you,” Dizhei said, she hoped convincingly. A maintenance worker emerged from a supply closet. He nodded a polite greeting. Dizhei waited until he’d passed before saying, “We can’t talk here.”

Guiding Thriss farther away from the corridor, Dizhei found a darkly lit nook offering them greater privacy. “You know I’m not my zhavey’s only shei,” Dizhei continued in a husky whisper. “Having had two siblings go before me, I saw some of what goes on after the shelthreth.I think I understand better than Anichent. He sees things narrowly. He sees our obligations as being precise, exact—not negotiable. Anything that he perceives as undercutting our greater purpose pains him.”

“Which is why he wasn’t happy when Shar took this assignment so quickly after the war. Instead of coming back to Andor,” Thriss observed.

Dizhei nodded. “And why he’s never been happy with the risk you and Shar took.”

“Has he always known? I mean, like you?”

“Anichent probably knew on some intuitive level, but he didn’t know, in fact, until Shar left for the Gamma Quadrant and I told him.”

“Is that why he’s been more angry with me than usual?”

Dizhei nodded.

“I’m so sorry, sh’za.”Thriss leaned forward and brushed her lips on Dizhei’s forehead. “Believe me when I tell you that I want what’s best, too. I can’t wait to become a zhavey,but I don’t think I’ll be very good unless I have lots of help from you.”

Dizhei knew that Thriss meant well; she didn’t want to hurt anyone. If Dizhei could believe Thriss, their lives would be considerably simpler. But Dizhei had spent too many years following behind her, mending whatever Thriss had carelessly broken, to accept her bondmate’s word. She thought about pursuing the conversation further but after taking note of the time decided they needed to move on. A quick hug would have to suffice.

With a gentle, but firm hand on the small of Thriss’ back, Dizhei steered her toward Matthias’s office. Keeping Thriss focused on most pressing concerns had always been her role and Dizhei anticipated it would take her soft-glove discipline to assure that they all ended up back on Andor as soon as possible.

Word of the proposed exhibit spread quickly through the station community. Daily, dozens of private petitions filled Kira’s message queue before lunch, variations on requests that the art be placed as far away from/as close to, their quarters/place of business/place of worship as possible. As she considered the list of spaces available for the Ziyal exhibit, Kira concluded that no option would please everyone. A curator from the Bajoran Museum in Ashalla would be arriving tomorrow, but Kira, who had the final decision, planned to consult with the expert before making a public announcement. At least that way, she would share the blame.

As much buzz as was floating around the station regarding the exhibit, the peace talks figured even more prominently in conversation. Kira’s curiosity was piqued—she hoped to find the time to drop by and see the delegations in action—but snarls in the implementation of yellow alert protocols often required her personal attention. On the surface, those who saw Deep Space 9 as a spaceport understood the importance of increased security, but the pragmatic reality of changing plans, rescheduling deliveries, changing course or having cargo inspected inconvenienced more than a few ship captains. People tended to be very accommodating—as long as they didn’t need to do the accommodating. Until her day-to-day duties became less laborious, Kira had to be satisfied with ops gossip if she wanted to stay updated on the battle of wills between Lang and Asarem.

Because the talks weren’t public, the only record of the goings on came from individuals who had been in attendance. Eavesdropping on two Militia corporals, Kira learned that the first few days of talks had accomplished little. She hadn’t expected that the gulf separating Cardassia and Bajor would be bridged overnight, but she thought that Asarem would at least take a step. Find consensus on something, like come to an agreement about when to come to an agreement! From what she could gather, Lang’s methodically planned agenda outlined discussions on issues ranging from sharing medical technology to assuring the rights of Bajoran nationals while on Cardassia. Asarem’s approach had been to nitpick every detail and definition Lang raised.

The days allegedly played out thus: Lang would explain Cardassia’s concerns, what their position was on the issue and where they wanted input from Bajor. She would then look to Minister Asarem to elucidate the Bajoran response. So far, the breadth of Asarem’s commentary consisted of variations on: “That sounds reasonable. I’ll take it under consideration. What else would you like to discuss?” That Asarem was listening was positive; that she wasn’t engaged in dialogue was puzzling. During her days in the Chamber of Ministers, she’d had a reputation as a tenacious debater and orator. To sit in a chair, hands folded in front of her, watching impassively—didn’t sound like Asarem. It was distinctly possible that the minister’s approach wasn’t being fairly represented.

This, Kira knew, having based her suppositions on snippets of second-hand accounts, was a situation she planned on remedying as soon as possible. Because she anticipated being busy with the curator in the morning, she planned on dropping in at the end of her shift. As seemed to be the case every day, a situation arose that prevented her doing as she’d planned. Irregular Core readings troubled the engineering staff and they requested she remain in ops, should an emergency decision be required. Since the Core transplant, the engineering crews had been especially vigiliant, always on the lookout for the one item they might have overlooked; Kira appreciated their thoroughness. When the diagnostics concluded, the acting chief engineer was satisfied, allowing Kira to escape. Though the hour was late, it wouldn’t be unprecedented for the delegations to still be working.

Rounding one of the last corners before the conference room, Kira encountered the retinal scanner and voice imprint unit Ro had felt so strongly about installing. Lang had repeatedly reassured them that such precautions weren’t necessary; she felt as safe as she could under the circumstances. Though safety was a concern, Kira knew Ro’s primary motive in installing a checkpoint wasn’t to protect the diplomats. She reasoned that if someone wanted to assassinate a member of either delegation, they’d have easier access from a location other than the conference rooms. No, Ro intended to monitor who went in and out of the conference rooms at all hours, should questions arise. Those authorized to pass had been approved by Lang, Shakaar and Kira. No one else needed access. Unauthorized personnel attempting to maneuver past the checkpoint would be stopped and interrogated.

On her way down the hall, she passed by a cleaning team—a couple of Bajorans she recognized as having worked in the Habitat Ring public areas—but otherwise, the sector was utterly silent, save the sound of her footfalls.

The talks must be over for the day,she thought, disappointed. Kira resolved to return first thing in the morning, when an odd scent attracted her attention. Ozone. Burnt synthetic materials—not organic. Maybe one of the nearby labs had a waste disposal problem, sending the aroma wafting through the air ducts. She resisted the impulse to call for an environmental systems diagnostic, choosing to investigate the situation herself. Scorch permeated the air the closer she came to the conference room. Wondering if a replicator was malfunctioning inside, she deactivated the door lock, grateful when a billow of smoke didn’t greet her.