Fabian Stevens and Tarsem Johal stood above the treeline, perched on a rocky outcrop that allowed them a vantage point over the village far below. Coroticus III was a class-M world, and Stevens allowed himself a moment to breathe in the scent of alien pine drifting up on the mild wind. This almost makes it worthwhile, he thought. The S.C.E. was to begin the process of rebuilding a dozen cultural observation posts on pre-warp worlds throughout the sector, with the da Vinci handling Coroticus III and Sachem II. Stevens was leading a small team on Coroticus, training a group of young technicians in the process before they could be left on their own, while Corsi located the Dominion headquarters for the planet and Abramowitz observed whatever cultural contamination the Dominion might have left behind. It was not a mission that promised to be much of a challenge. At the same time, escape was impossible; the da Vinci wasn’t due to pick them up for seven days. The ship was now dropping off another team—with P8 Blue, Chief Hawkins, and Bart Faulwell in Stevens, Corsi, and Abramowitz’s roles, respectively—then would report to Avril Station for a week to conduct upgrades on their outdated systems.

“You’re not pleased to be on this assignment.” Johal’s smile was gentle.

Stevens dragged his attention away from the scene below. “I’m sorry if I seem distracted, Commander. The S.C.E. is happy to assist however it can. That’s what we’re here for.”

Johal shrugged, the smile never leaving his eyes. “Rebuilding duck blinds is hardly a challenge worthy of the Corps of Engineers. Nevertheless, your expertise is appreciated. This sort of mission hasn’t been the highest priority lately, but it is what we’re out here for. Exploration. Discovery.”

Stevens nodded. High above them, a dark green bird floated serenely. There was nothing Stevens could see that even hinted at this world’s recent past as a Dominion conquest. Of course, that didn’t mean Coroticus III wouldn’t reveal some scars eventually. Rebuilding Starfleet’s observation posts here wasn’t simply meant to resume the original mission. It was to study the effect of alien conquest on a pre-warp civilization. “We take that duty seriously, sir. You’ll be back at work in no time.”

“I won’t be staying on when the post is up and running again. I’m only here to patch things up, and then only because I know the place better than anyone else.” His eyes lingered on the vivid forest, and beyond toward the purple mountains in the distance.

“So, what is your next assignment? Or should I say, where?”

Johal chuckled. “Picking strawberries.”

“Strawberries?”

“An Earth fruit. A delicacy the galaxy over. The Mizarians will pay almost any price for a kilo of strawberries.” He shrugged, smiling faintly. “It acts as a mild narcotic for them.”

“I know the fruit, Commander. I’m guessing that Starfleet isn’t assigning you to strawberry duty?”

“Good guess, Mr. Stevens. My sons own a large farm on one of Shiralea’s moons. Turns out the equatorial belt is virtually perfect for strawberries. Just as good for blueberries in the right season. My whole extended clan lives there: sons, daughters, grandchildren, various in-laws.” He paused to allow a faint, wistful smile. “And my wife.”

“It sounds…idyllic. Very idyllic.”

Johal laughed. “No need to be polite, Mr. Stevens. It’s not for everyone.”

“No, sir, it isn’t. I tried it, before the war started. It didn’t take, and I found myself off Rigel and on the da Vinci before I knew it. If you don’t mind my asking, if retirement beckons, why not leave this assignment to one of your officers?”

Johal looked out at the vista before them. “My tactical officer died destroying the post so that it wouldn’t fall into enemy hands. My first officer was lost when the Ogun was destroyed a few months later. She’d been reassigned as a yeoman. It was only supposed to be until the war’s end.” He smiled faintly. “It just goes to show that you can never take anything for granted.”

Stevens remembered Salek and Chan Okha, who died during the war, and 111, who died shortly afterward, and Ken Caitano and Ted Deverick, who died just a couple of weeks ago, and Diego Feliciano and Stephen Drew and all the other crewmates who died at Galvan VI—including his best friend, Kieran Duffy. He whispered, “Amen.”

Domenica Corsi, head of security on the U.S.S. da Vinci, sniffled and pinched her nose in annoyance. She growled softly, but the growl became a kind of peep before ending in a surprisingly delicate sneeze.

Carol Abramowitz glanced away from her padd, her fingers poised over the keys mid-task. “Is something wrong, Commander?”

Corsi glanced up at the cultural specialist, a look of mingled guilt and defiance on her face. “No.”

Abramowitz watched for a moment as Corsi sniffed repeatedly. To her surprise, Corsi broke first, pulling a handkerchief from her pocket and wiping her nose. Above the handkerchief, her eyes glared. “Do you have a cold, Commander?” Abramowitz tried to keep the amused disbelief from her voice. “Core-Breach” was never slowed by anything as commonplace as an illness.

“No.” Corsi looked away to where her team was setting up the research post’s security perimeter. Unfortunately, neither T’Mandra nor Makk Vinx was doing anything wrong with the equipment, and Corsi couldn’t find any excuse to walk away. “It’s…it’s an allergy.”

Abramowitz frowned. “Didn’t the EMH take care of all that before we left?”

“Apparently Coroticus III has something new, with which my immune system disagrees. I’ll be fine.” She sneezed explosively as the breeze brought some foreign pollen or microscopic feather dust to her nose’s attention.

“Gesundheit,” chuckled Abramowitz.

“That’s a nasty word in Klingon,” muttered the security chief, stalking past Abramowitz and determined to find somewhere else to be.

“I’m a cultural specialist,” called Abramowitz toward her retreating back. “You know that I know that gesundheit isn’t a Klingon curse word.”

“It’s bound to be a curse somewhere.” She walked out of site, down toward the proximity sensors along the hidden path leading to the nearest Corotican settlement.

Abramowitz shook her head, smiling softly despite her sympathy with the security chief. Modern medicine was full of miracles, but the universe was equal to the task of throwing the miraculous offtrack. Something Corsi had said caused her to pause. The Klingon meaning of “gesundheit,” she thought. Corsi was wrong—it wasn’t a swear word. In Klingon, “gesundheit” (properly, ghISong Heytlh) simply meant a calendar. A particular type of lunar calendar that had gone out of favor after the destruction of Praxis, but the point remained. Yet that wasn’t really what Corsi had said that made her consider. Rather, it reminded her of a conversation she’d had with the da Vinci’s captain, David Gold, just before they’d been beamed down to the surface of Coroticus.

Gold had asked her to stay for a moment after the mission briefing. The cultural specialist paused at the door as the others filed out. “Yes, sir?”

“I wish I had two of you, one for each team. I’m sure Faulwell will do fine on Sachem, but we don’t know the depth of the cultural contamination in these places.” Bart Faulwell was the da Vinci’s linguist, and although his profession demanded a certain knowledge of cultural issues, Carol was the ship’s acknowledged expert. “The Federation has barely begun rebuilding itself, much less the pre-warp cultures under its care. But reports indicate the Dominion was more involved with the locals on Coroticus. Your observations will be crucial.”

“Firsthand observation of a pre-warp civilization.” Abramowitz whistled. “I considered becoming a proper archaeologist, once. Patient observation, good old-fashioned field work, that would be the dream life.”

“Well, I wouldn’t expect dreams when the place has been under Dominion rule for over a year.”

Carol waved a hand dismissively. “I doubt they’d make that big a difference to the planet. Coroticus III was a strategic move. There was nothing about the natives which would have riled up the Dominion.”

“Except that they were solids.”

Carol paused. “Well…true. Still, there’s no indication that the Dominion committed any kind of genocidal crimes on Coroticus. During the treaty process, Dominion negotiators claimed not to have interfered with the local populations.”

“But the Dominion doesn’t have a Prime Directive. Unless it’s something about worshipping the Founders as gods.”

The sociologist looked lost in thought for a moment. “Then we should have fought harder to keep them off the planet.”

Gold shrugged. “We didn’t have the resources to protect Betazed, let alone Coroticus or Sachem II. Besides, it was a Prime Directive issue.”

“I’ve never understood this obsession with the Prime Directive anyway.” Carol folded her arms. “I can never keep it straight, and I did quite well in Professor Gyffled’s class at the Academy. It seems to change from year to year.”

Gold’s eyes twinkled dangerously. Carol could feel a lecture coming, and had nobody to blame but herself. “What’s not to keep straight? Don’t interfere with pre-warp cultures.”

“Or the Klingons. When the Klingons had a civil war, we stayed out because of the Prime Directive.”

“Ah!” Gold smiled, warming to the subject. “That’s because it was an internal matter.”

“Of an ally, and part of the problem was that we were an ally. So we were already involved. It just looked lazy. Or cowardly. What about Bajor?”

“There are different facets and interpretations, but generally it means don’t interfere if you can help it.”

“So maybe the next time the Dominion attacks we should surrender, so that fighting them doesn’t break their natural development?”

The captain frowned. “You’re exaggerating, Abramowitz. I expect you might even be pulling my leg—playing devil’s advocate?”

Carol grinned. “Color me red.”

Gold chuckled. “You remind me of my old friend Gus Bradford. We used to argue about things like this—although, to be fair, I usually took your position.” His smile faded. “Seriously, Abramowtiz, can I trust you with this? Nothing tests our characters like the Prime Directive. I’ve seen it before. Misplaced pity, inappropriate anger. It’s so easy to stand on high and see what’s best for other people.”

Carol nodded. “I’ll do my best, sir.”

Gold was silent for a long moment, observing her and stroking his chin. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft. “Are you sure you’re up to this?”

She suppressed the sudden, irrational spurt of anger. “With all due respect, sir, people have to stop asking me that. I’m a cultural specialist on a Starfleet vessel. This is what I do.”

He held his hands up in mock surrender and smiled. “I know, I know. But you know me, I have to ask.” He let his smile disappear. “Given what happened on Teneb.”

“You mean when I was nearly stoned to death by xenophobic refugees who caught me with a magically disappearing tricorder?” She kept her face expressionless. “I’d completely forgotten about that.”

Gold looked straight into her face for another long moment before shaking his head, chuckling again. “Sorry to have reminded you. If you’re okay, I’m okay.”

“I’m okay.”

He ducked his head in a friendly dismissal. “Okay.”

Now Abramowitz was on the surface of the planet itself, standing in the midst of the forest clearing where the observation post had stood, hidden from the locals. The post was currently visible, the holographic duck blind down while the da Vinci team surveyed the damage done by self-sabotage and time. The emitters had apparently kept working throughout the Dominion occupation, and it was an open question whether the occupiers had found it.

The main post was a series of four buildings high up in the boughs of the large jopka, cedarlike trees that dominated this stretch of the forest. The buildings had been connected by high-tension suspension bridges, which were to be the first things reconstructed. Visual and auditory sensors hidden throughout the region had fed information back to the post’s computers, and secondary posts elsewhere on Coroticus collected similar information about the world’s other civilizations. Those cameras, located in places with heavy native traffic, would have to be replaced last, given the inherent difficulties of working with advanced technology around pre-warp aliens.

The Coroticans were humanoid, and close enough to Terrans on the surface that no cosmetic surgery was deemed necessary beyond slightly tapered ears, at least for the humans of the da Vinci crew. The ears of the Vulcan security guard, T’Mandra, were deemed within acceptable physiological parameters for Coroticus. The locals wore rough clothing, cloaks and trousers, generally in peacock colors, with tall boots reaching to midcalf. Even the men wore some jewelry on the wrists and ears, although they were more heavily bearded than either Federation woman was used to.

In fact, it was one of Abramowitz’s jobs to explore the closest Corotican settlement, Baldakor. While tiny by Federation standards, Baldakor was one of the most important political and spiritual centers on the planet. Further, Starfleet Intelligence believed that the village had been the closest spot to the Dominion presence, and thus most likely to have been affected. Granted, information was sketchy, but that was where she came in.

There was no time like the present to start out on the hour’s hike to Baldakor, although she would need to locate Corsi, her bodyguard, first.

A loud sneeze from behind a nearby copse of shrubs gave her a fairly good starting point.