Though she was sorely tempted to ignore Shakaar’s gesture, Kira took the proffered hands. Her position as the station’s commander was tenuous enough without offering insults to Bajor’s highest political leader, however misguided his recent actions might be. She even managed to smile fractionally, if only for the benefit of everyone who stood by, watching and listening.
“First Minister, Second Minister, I hope that you had a safe and pleasant flight.” She hoped that the ice in her tone was not too noticeable.
Shakaar withdrew his hands and clasped them together. Kira caught a fleeting glimmer in his eyes that told her he sensed her discomfiture in his presence—and that he either didn’t give a damn about it or else positively enjoyed it. What was happening to the man she had once loved and followed into battle against the forces of the Cardassian Occupation? She knew well that there were some among her people for whom, sadly, the war they had fought all their lives would never be over. She had always thought of Shakaar as being beyond such vendettas. Could he be one of those unfortunates whose Occupation-inflicted wounds would never heal?
“The flight went without incident, Colonel,” Asarem said, her tone somewhat tart. Kira wondered if Asarem had noticed her nonverbal exchange with Shakaar. She also wondered how hard the second minister was really working to persuade Shakaar to return to the negotiating table with the Cardassians. Kira realized, of course, that her assessment of Asarem might not be entirely fair. Like Kira, the second minister had a public persona to live up to. And Shakaar had always been difficult to persuade when his mind was made up. Just after the end of the Occupation, when he and a group of his fellow Dahkur Province farmers had defied orders to relinquish several government-owned soil reclamators, Shakaar had proved yet again to be one of the most doggedly stubborn men Kira had ever met. He had not only prevailed in that conflict, but had earned enough public sympathy to be elected Bajor’s first minister.
Asarem continued, “Our passage from Bajor gave us both time to meditate on the historic nature of tomorrow’s ceremonies, and what the coming changes will mean to Bajor. I’m certain you are as enthusiastic about this ceremony as we are, and that you share our feelings of happy fellowship.”
Noticing a subtle tensing in Asarem’s body language—and Ro’s quizzical stare—Kira decided that the safest course of action was to keep things moving.
“Certainly, Second Minister. It isa momentous occasion.” Gesturing toward Ro, Kira added, “You both know Lieutenant Ro Laren, Deep Space 9’s head of security. She’s also in charge of making sure that all the dignitaries attending the signing ceremony have a safe and enjoyable time.”
Kira kept pace as the group followed Ro’s lead into a turbolift. She saw the “pilot” conversing with Sergeant Etana Kol, who had gracefully insinuated herself into the group of aides behind the ministers, even as Ensign Charles Jimenez took point near the exit. As the lift made its way coreward, Ro began explaining to the ministers and their retinue where their quarters would be, what new security measures had been taken, and where the signing of the Federation entry document would take place.
As they entered the Promenade, Ro pointed in the direction of the Bajoran temple. “And of course, you both know your way to the temple,” she said lightheartedly.
“Yes, weplan on going there to commune with the Prophets later this morning,” Shakaar said. Kira avoided looking in his direction, but she knew that his comment had been directed toward her alone. Though this wasn’t the first time he had rubbed her nose in her Attainder, it still stung. She decided she’d be damned if she’d give him the satisfaction of showing how deeply his words had cut her. What is his problem these days?
Kira recognized several of the Bajoran security officers in plainclothes, loitering about the Promenade. She also saw a larger than normal contingent of uniformed guards, both Bajoran and Starfleet. Ro really hadbeefed up security. Kira prayed it would all prove unnecessary in the end.
Passing Quark’s Bar, Kira saw Taran’atar standing just inside the doorway, as if unsure whether or not he wanted to enter. He was standing so still that he might as well have been a statue guarding the entrance. She doubted Quark would allow him to remain perched there for long, scaring away his customers. On the other hand, many of Quark’s regulars and others who frequented the Promenade seemed to be getting quite used to seeing a Jem’Hadar moving about—or standing statuelike—in their midst.
“In or out, Taran’atar,” Kira heard from behind as the group neared a passageway leading to the guest quarters. It was Quark’s unmistakable high-pitched voice. Ro half turned at the sound, and Kira thought she saw her cast a fond look in Quark’s direction.
“In or out, Taran’atar,” Quark shouted from the end of the bar. He might not even have noticed the Jem’Hadar, except that he had looked out into the Promenade to see the contingent of dignitaries walk by, along with Kira and Ro. And then, in the midst of a particularly salacious thought about the contours of Ro’s uniform, he saw the giant creature standing to the side of the doorway, stock-still like some giant stone slibutstaring down at the Sacred Marketplace from its perch atop the Tower of Commerce.
Taran’atar glanced in Quark’s direction but did not move. Quark walked toward him, more comfortable with the gigantic, pebble-skinned humanoid since the Jem’Hadar had started buying time in the holosuites for his physical exercise. “Come on, Tarannie, I can’t have you just hovering there in the doorway. You’ll scare off the paying customers. Either in or out.”
The Jem’Hadar lumbered in and took a seat, precariously balancing his body on one of the bar stools. Morn’s stool!Quark rolled his eyes, glad for once that his best—and most talkative—customer had not yet come in for the day. He hated to think what would happen if Morn and Taran’atar got into a scuffle over the seating arrangements.
“Hey, Tarannie, you’ve just staked out Morn’s regular stool. He isn’t in yet, but you might want to know for future reference.” Taran’atar gave him a blank look.
“I did not see his name on this stool,” Taran’atar said. “I wasn’t aware that he owned it. I thought youwere the owner of this establishment.”
“I doown the place. It’s just that Morn doesn’t like to sit anywhere else. You know, people have favorites.” Taran’atar continued to stare at him in evident incomprehension, so Quark decided to let the matter drop, at least until Morn arrived. “What can I get you?”
“I wish to have the same drink you made for me last time I came here. The brown and white one.”
Quark screwed up his face in distaste. “The root beer float? Ugh, I can’t figure out what hew-mons see in that stuff, much less what youget out of it.”
He nevertheless passed Taran’atar a large tankard of the frothy brown liquid, in which two lumps of vanilla ice cream floated. He watched in both wonderment and revulsion as Taran’atar lifted the noxious potion to his lips and downed it in a single swallow. After a nod from Taran’atar, Quark immediately set about filling a second tankard and handed it over.
Quark usually made it his policy never to question a client’s tastes. But as Taran’atar started in on his fourth helping, Quark found he could no longer restrain himself. “Wouldn’t you rather have a nice, slimy Slug-o-Cola instead?”
“No,” Taran’atar said, in between quaffs, “I would not.”
“Hmm. Well, you’re sucking those things down like they’re the last vials of ketracel-white in the whole quadrant.”
Taran’atar paused, apparently contemplating his rapidly expanding collection of drinking vessels. Then he fixed his hard pale eyes on Quark. “I’m one of the very few of my kind who has never required the white.”