5

JAKE AND WEX HAD GONE ON TO QUARTERS OF THEIR OWN, WHICH WAS just as well; Opaka Sulan was still absorbing what they’d heard along their walk to the living area of the station, supplied by a local vedek, a man named Capril, who’d recognized her as they’d passed his shrine. Capril had been only too eager to share the events of recent days

and, no doubt, from the excited shine in his fervent gaze, to spread the word of her own return. Much as she’d wished for time alone to readjust to Bajor, it seemed that events and attitudes weren’t going to allow for it.

The Ohalu prophecies. The return of the Tears, thank the Prophets. The first minister, murdered

.

Opaka sat on the edge of an overstuffed chair provided with her rather opulent living area, thinking of how different Bajor was now, how different it was sure to become in the days ahead. Any one of the three events described by Capril would have far-reaching effects on the Bajoran people; two of them, at least, were positive changes to Opaka’s view—obviously, the return of the Orbs, and the discovery of the Ohalu book

although the vedek hadn’t been nearly so excited about the book. It seemed that the ancient tome of prophecies had caused something of a rift in the spiritual unity of the people. Capril had been quite adamant about the horror of it all, that this heretical text was turning the once faithful away from the Light of the Prophets.

Jake’s prophecy, given to him at B’hala. The passage that had led the Emissary’s son to her had been from this Ohalu book, she was certain of it. From what she’d been able to glean from Jake and now Capril, the Ohalu prophecies were all turning out to be true

and they didn’t extol the Prophets as gods, but rather as teachers of alien origin. That this has caused a rift was understandable.

Before she’d left Bajor, she, too, would have disdained such a book as heresy

and she had little doubt that the vast majority of the Bajoran people did so now, clinging to their faith in the Prophets, afraid to expand their boundaries. But

in her eight years away, far from the gentle, daily routines of self-referential worship and meditation, what had she learned, if not that truth was a matter of perspective? Why couldn’t the Prophets be gods and aliens? The Eav’oq, the race of Gamma Quadrant beings that she and Jake had been led to discover, called the Prophets “Siblings,” seeing Them much as Ohalu apparently had—beings to learn from, not just to worship. Opaka knew the love of the Prophets, she had felt Their Touch, but that didn’t necessarily mean that there was only one way to understand Them.

Strange times ahead, she was sure. The Cardassians had returned the sacred Orbs, inspired by a vedek she hadn’t known before, one Yevir Linjaren. In spite of his lavish praise for Yevir, Capril had flushed when she’d asked him about this new vedek’s history

and had then stumbled over her title, stuttering out the word “kai” as though it were poison. Opaka had smiled, and explained that she was only Opaka Sulan now, but Capril had not been eased

which suggested to her that Yevir Linjaren was favored to be the next kai. The title meant nothing to her personally anymore, and though it was not a position one retired from—a new kai was elected only when the old had passed to the Temple—she had no desire to interrupt the current evolution of Bajor’s spiritual leadership. If the people wanted Yevir, they should have him.

Except

does he also fear the Ohalu text? She hoped not, hoped that a man who could bring the sacred Tears of the Prophets home, thus forming a union of peaceful intent between Bajor and Cardassia

Such a man would surely be open to new ideas, to change. Wouldn’t he?

Opaka sighed, feeling overwhelmed by the circles within circles, unclear on what her role was to be, if any. The Prophets had brought her back for a reason, and she was willing to accept any responsibility that They had planned for her

but she was only mortal, and not such a young mortal, either. That Shakaar Edon had been killed, only moments after the Orbs were presented by Yevir, only months after this Ohalu book was discovered—it was difficult to accept so much so quickly. At least when Jake had helped her catch up on the years she’d been away, she’d had some time to think it over, to let the information become thought, to become the beginnings of memory

.

There was a signal at the door. Opaka stood, stretching her back as she walked to answer it, feeling every one of her years. It would be Kira Nerys, of course; still more information to digest, though she’d been expecting the visit. Even with all the trappings of chaos that had greeted the Defiant’s arrival, Opaka had seen and sensed the turmoil of the Bajoran woman’s pagh

and the missing earring could not be overlooked.

The door slid open at Opaka’s touch, and there she stood, smiling and anxious and obviously very tired. Opaka welcomed the colonel in, remembering Major Kira, the brash young resistance fighter who had struggled to contain her own violence once the fighting had stopped. Opaka hadn’t known the major well, but had known so many like her

clinging to faith with the rabid intensity of the brutalized, growing to adulthood in an atmosphere of deprivation and destruction. Once the Occupation was over, the roots of struggle roughly cut away, these children had faced a loss of identity, had been left to find themselves in a new context, many of them so damaged by the old that they could barely see, let alone seek.

But not this woman, Opaka thought, smiling as the colonel sat down on the couch, the look of exhaustion she wore unable to disguise the strength of purpose that radiated from her fine features, from her straight shoulders and lifted chin. Opaka took the chair once more, facing Nerys, both women still smiling.

“You look well, Colonel. Tired, but well.”

“Thank you, Kai.”

“Call me Sulan,” Opaka said gently. “If I may call you Nerys?”

The colonel’s smile became easier, less forced. “Of course. I’m sorry it took so long for me to get here. I had to get some things organized

and I stopped by to see Jake Sisko. We called his stepmother together.”

“I imagine she was very happy to hear from him,” Opaka said.

“She was. It seems that Jake’s grandfather is on his way to visit, too. Kind of a family reunion, for the birth.” Nerys trailed off, her weariness showing, before focusing on Opaka again.

“It’s so

I’m so happy to see you, Sulan. Bajor will be rallied by your homecoming, and so soon after

but so much has happened since you’ve been away, I’m not sure where to start.”

“Jake was kind enough to fill me in on most of it, on our journey,” Opaka said, trying to keep her tone light. As hard as it was to know some of the things Bajor had experienced, living through them must have taken great fortitude; she didn’t want to open any recent wounds. “I know about B’hala, and the Reckoning

about Winn’s election, and Bareil, and the Emissary’s path, about Dukat and the war so recently waged. Our world has had a time of it, wouldn’t you say?”

Nerys nodded, unsmiling. “There’s more, Kai

Sulan. In the past few months, there have been developments

“

She frowned, searching, and Opaka cut in.

“I was approached by a vedek on my way here, Vedek Capril,” Opaka said. “He told me about the return of the Orbs, and the first minister’s death. I’m very sorry to hear about Shakaar. He walks with the Prophets, I’m sure.”

Nerys nodded again, but didn’t look at her. “I’m certain he does.”

“Capril talked about a book, too, one that was found at B’hala,” Opaka continued, curious at the subtle expressions that flickered across the colonel’s face at the mention of it. “Thousands of years old, written by a man called Ohalu. Capril seems to believe that this book is dangerous.”

Nerys met her gaze again—and was it guilt Opaka saw there? “It has caused problems,” she said slowly. “There’s a small but growing community of men and women who believe that this book offers a choice

a spirituality very different from that which the Vedek Assembly promotes.”

Perhaps this explained the absence of her earring. Opaka wouldn’t have thought it of Kira Nerys, a girl she’d known as deeply faithful, but as she’d said herself, things had been changing; perhaps she’d turned to this new way.

“What do you think, Nerys?” Opaka asked, no judgment in her tone or in her heart. “Do you think this book is heresy?”

The colonel gazed back at her a moment, then seemed to slump within herself, her shoulders sagging, her entire demeanor changing. It was like watching a dam break. “I

I don’t know, Kai. I thought it was, at first

then the Assembly didn’t want anyone to read it, they tried to have it destroyed, and I—I gave it to the people. It’s my fault, I put it on the comnet because I thought—I really believed that it was no threat, that our faith was stronger, and I was so furious with Yevir, with what the Assembly had done and was trying to do

.”

Her voice cracked with fatigue and emotion, trembling with tears. “I was Attainted for it. I’m unwelcome in the public shrines, forbidden to share the faith, and now everything is so wrong, there’s so much going wrong and I feel so alone

.”

Opaka went to her as she began to weep, understanding that there was nothing more that needed to be said, not now. Nerys was exhausted to the point of a breakdown, her tears the lost, hopeless tears of a small child, and Opaka did what she would have done for any crying child. She held her, rocked her, soothed her with meaningless words of comfort until Nerys’s hitched breathing became deep and regular, the young woman falling into a heavy slumber.

After a time, Opaka stood and went to find a blanket, pleased that she had given in to sleep, the only real cure for what was wrong

and glad, too, that she had cried. It gave Opaka real hope, that someone like Kira Nerys had traveled so far from her childhood of anger and defense, had become strong enough inside to admit despair. People who never cried were the weakest of all.

She found extra blankets on a shelf in the bedroom. After covering the colonel, her tear-streaked face at rest, Opaka sat and watched her for a time, thinking.

Attainted, by the Assembly, by this Vedek Yevir. For exposing Bajor to a piece of its own history

a religious text that defied the Assembly’s beliefs. What kind of place had Bajor become, to be led by such people? And how would these leaders accept the news of the Eav’oq, the peaceful, beautiful beings on the other side of the Temple that also benefited from the love of the Prophets, but called them by a different name?

Bajor was on the brink of great change, there was no question. The question was whether or not the people were ready to go forward, if they were strong enough in spirit and faith to embrace something different from what they’d known.

“You are, child,” Opaka whispered, and Nerys slept on, unaware, perhaps, that she represented what Bajor could be

at least to one old woman, who was returning to a home she knew but did not know, not anymore. All she could do—all anyone could do—was hope.

Ezri watched the Promenade, watched the small groups of morning people as they walked by the security office, their faces drawn and too pale. There was an air of anxiety that she could feel, that radiated from each man and woman who passed, mostly Bajoran—a sense that something vast and unpleasant was ahead, something that would leave no one untouched.

Most of them don’t even know about the parasites. Is it the Federation, is that what they fear? Ezri wondered, leaning against a pillar outside the office. Only weeks after finally having their petition for UFP membership accepted, Bajor was dealing with the loss of their first minister and a lockdown of the severest order, at least partly patrolled by armed Cardassians. If she were a citizen of Bajor, she’d certainly be wondering if this was what they had to look forward to, as Federation members. It made her question whether or not Starfleet had the right idea, not telling the people the truth about the threat. The security reasons were sound, even necessary, but the trust issues being raised weren’t exactly conducive to the bonding process.

Case in point. A pair of Cardassian soldiers stood near the entrance to Quark’s, talking quietly, and the Bajorans that passed by either glared at them or looked away; there didn’t seem to be a middle ground. Containment was necessary, but it was going to cost.

After a restless night mostly alone in Julian’s bed—he’d stayed at the lab until very late—she’d arrived at the security office a few minutes early for her meeting with Cyl. A quick glance inside told her that Ro Laren was busy, surrounded by a number of padds, a frown deeply embedded across her brow. Not wanting to disturb her, Ezri had decided to wait outside. There wasn’t enough time for a real distraction from the meeting with Gard, to hit Quark’s for a warm drink or visit Ziyal’s art exhibit in Garak’s old shop—an exhibit that was plainly deserted—but she was disturbed enough by the Promenade’s atmosphere that she was on the verge of bothering Ro, after all

Taulin Cyl stepped off the nearest lift and walked toward her, wearing a reserved smile. Ezri reflexively matched it as they exchanged pleasantries, still not sure how to treat the symbiont of one of Dax’s children. They lingered outside the security office, Ezri sensing his reluctance to get to business, feeling it herself. It seemed like they had a lot to talk about

so why was nothing coming to mind?

“You were trained as a psychologist?” Cyl asked, breaching the topic before she could think of anything. “And before that, you were in sciences, I gather. How many hosts since Audrid?”

“Five. Jadzia Dax was the science officer here, she was before me. I was a counselor, but since the end of the war, I’ve found myself drawn to command.” She straightened her red collar, smiling. “Let’s see

before Jadzia there was Curzon, he was a diplomat, I suppose you’d say—”

Cyl nodded, his expression wry. “I know about Curzon.”

Ezri decided not to ask. A lot of people knew about Curzon, and a lot of what they knew wasn’t exactly flattering. “There was a, ah, musician, briefly, before him

and a test pilot just after Audrid, Torias. What about you?”

“Three, since Neema,” Cyl said. “A professor—forensic science, actually—and a xenobiologist. I’m a military advisor, now. Career. On a leave of absence, technically.”

Ezri nodded, not sure how to ask what she wanted to ask, finally deciding to blurt it out and live with the consequences.

“Was Neema

did she do well?”

Cyl hesitated, then nodded slowly. “She lived to be very old, and very wise. She had two children late in life, both girls, and a husband who loved her—he also taught sciences at the Ganses University. Neither of their daughters joined, but she was very proud of them; Kiley, she was the oldest, became a professional dancer, part of the Balinsta troupe. And Toshin ran her own business, a consulting firm. Very successful, too.”

Ezri was fascinated, hearing of grandchildren she’d never met

and relieved, that even after such turmoil between Audrid and her daughter, Neema had gone on to have children of her own.

“Neema

she missed Audrid for the rest of her years,” Cyl said. “She had great respect for her mother.”

The last was delivered almost shyly, a side to the aging general that Ezri wouldn’t have expected. She smiled, pleased with his bare honesty, reminded once again of Neema.

“She also spent a lot of time trying to research the parasite that Audrid told her about,” he added, lowering his voice slightly. “As did Reck, and Elista, Cyl’s hosts since Neema

and me. We’ve never stopped looking.”

Ezri nodded, feeling some guilt that Cyl had carried on with the search. She’d let it go, Dax moving on to Torias and then to other things. “Did you find anything?”

“Yes and no,” Cyl said. “We found rumors, as I said last night—that there was some real connection between the parasites and the symbionts, a very long time ago. There aren’t any government records, though, and none of my current contacts have been able to find a trace of shared history.”

“Current contacts?” Ezri was surprised, but only for a few seconds. From Cyl’s very presence, it seemed inevitable that there would be a fairly extensive network

and something he’d said a moment ago sunk in, about a leave of absence. Did the government even know he was here? “How many people know about this?”

“Not many, but enough to keep watch,” Cyl answered, matter-of-factly. “You asked yesterday, if I knew this was coming

again, the answer is yes and no. I never doubted that we’d hear about the parasites again, even before their infiltration of Starfleet. There was already a watch group in place, though we were lucky to catch it; the attempt wasn’t common knowledge, and Trill wasn’t the obvious target. Since then, however, the watch has kept a constant vigil, keeping an eye on military movement in the quadrant, and monitoring incoming inquiries and outgoing files, anything pertaining to Trill security and defense

. There are a number of red flags we look out for, but we’ve never really gotten a hit—until just over five months ago, when someone on Shakaar Edon’s ship started sending us the wrong kinds of questions. Shakaar was traveling through Federation territories at the time, lobbying for Bajor’s admittance into the UFP

though we still haven’t been able to pin down where he was prior to his first contact with Trill officials. It was Shakaar asking, though. One of our people insisted that he give his credentials before we would send him anything.”

“Does the TSC know about you?” Ezri asked.

“Not officially.”

“Then how did you manage to intercept Shakaar’s queries? And why haven’t you gone public?”

“I said not officially,” Cyl said. “We have a few low-level people inside

but as you may remember, the TSC wasn’t all that excited about Audrid’s discovery of the parasite, and the government backed them. Ambassador Gandres is a good example—I’ve been trying to talk him into going before the commission, demanding a united action, but he’s terrified, doesn’t want anything to do with any of this. He has his hopes pinned on the Federation making it all go away, and I have little doubt that the rest of our government is firmly behind him. As I said yesterday, I only told him what he needs to know

and he’s fine with that.”

“And the governing council? The TSC?”

“Those at the very top know about what’s happening,” Cyl said. “That’s why I’m here.”

Unoffially. Ezri felt a trace of disdain for the leaders of her homeworld, and tried to let it go. She hadn’t behaved much better, as Audrid or since.

They’re scared, that’s all. Just as she had been, and still was. The very concept of being taken over by some malevolent creature

it was something that went beyond mortal terror, a fear that was primal and deep-seated, perhaps particular to a joined species

doomed to feel what the creature wanted you to feel, the host completely lost, forced to bond with the parasitic mind, its life memories torn away

Cyl glanced into the security office, then back at her. “We should talk to Gard. He’ll be able to tell you more about Shakaar.”

Ezri frowned, feeling a sudden knot in her belly. “I thought—I thought he hasn’t been talking, since his capture.”

Cyl gazed at her evenly, his face a blank. “Gard is part of our organization. I thought you would have gathered that by now.”

“I—no, I didn’t know,” Ezri stammered, not sure if he was telling her what it sounded like he was telling her. She might have suspected it, but that meant

“Are you—did you send him to kill Shakaar?” she asked.

“No,” Cyl said immediately, and though his tone was firm and even, he dropped her gaze for a beat. “We needed Shakaar to be monitored, by someone who knew what to look for. Gard had the security credentials to escort Ambassador Gandres to Deep Space 9 for the signing, he volunteered for the job

and once he’d ascertained that the First Minister was infected—and well past the possibility of salvation—he made the decision himself.”

“But you support that decision,” Ezri said, not sure how to feel, what to do with the information.

“Don’t you?” Cyl asked. “The letter that Audrid wrote to Neema

You know what they’re capable of.”

Ezri nodded absently. She knew. But assassination, hiding in an underground network, operating outside the government’s line of sight

it just wasn’t what the good guys did.

But the good guys were supposed to be the TSC, the council, people like Seljin Gandres—and they’ve done nothing. They destroyed evidence, they turn a blind eye to the issue, they avoid action. How else can the watchers function, with a government that doesn’t want to participate?

But

if they don’t want to help

“What will happen to Gard?” she asked quietly.

Cyl’s face seemed to harden slightly. “I’ve asked Gandres to lobby for his release, for remand back to Trill, but he refuses. The Council is behind him, they’ve already promised full cooperation with the ‘investigation’ into Shakaar’s death, and that includes leaving Gard in Bajoran custody. President Maz agrees.”

Gard was stuck with his assassin title, at least until the truth about the parasites came out

and afterward? There might be some leniency, considering the circumstances, but he would be prosecuted. He’d worked for an unrecognized and possibly illegal agency on Trill, he’d plotted and carried out the murder of another planet’s leader, he’d planned to escape. Even knowing that Shakaar was infected, the Federation would have to do something, to show Bajor that they didn’t allow such reckless disregard for the lives of its citizens.

So Gard is left taking the fall, even though this is something our people should have been prepared to handle without a shadow group resorting to such tactics. Gard must have known what could happen to him, if he were caught

and she wondered what kind of man he really was, to accept such a risk.

“Ready to speak with him?” Cyl asked.

Ezri nodded, wishing she felt as on top of things as she needed to be, feeling absolutely uncertain about everything.

Hiziki Gard was resting, lying on his back and staring up at the blank, featureless ceiling of his cell. It was cold, which he actually didn’t mind—for a Trill, he’d always been prone to overheating—and he was bored, which he minded very much. Taulin Cyl had filled him in on the station’s situation when he’d arrived from Trill, and updated him once

but past that, he’d had no visitors except Akaar, the aging Starfleet admiral, who’d attempted to intimidate him into revealing information. Ro Laren had tried to engage him on a few occasions since his capture, usually when she brought him meals, but he couldn’t talk to her, not about what she wanted to know. He shouldn’t have talked to Akaar, either, but at least the admiral had known about the parasites, from the comet incident

and there had been a Federation ship on its way to Trill at the time Akaar had come to him, a parasite in control.

Gard sighed. Nothing to do, nothing to see. The immediate disaster had been averted, the Gryphon stopped in time, and since he hadn’t been authorized to talk, he’d kept his mouth shut since. Cyl was still trying to maneuver behind the scenes, to see how much Trill could help without becoming a focus for the investigation, and Gard didn’t want to make things harder for him.

Goes with the territory, he thought idly, glancing at the seemingly open space at the front of his cell. He was a Gard, after all, and no Gard had ever bothered overmuch with self-interest, not when it came to doing what was right. The problem was, there was still a problem

and instead of making it home to plot the next course of action with his fellow watchers, he’d been caught. He’d been restless at first, and frustrated that there was nothing he could contribute to stop the rapidly unfolding crisis—but now he was just bored. No matter how bad things were, he wasn’t going anywhere, he had nothing to say and no one to say it to. Being frustrated was a waste of energy.

The door to the outer security office opened. In walked Taulin Cyl and a short, attractive female Trill, slightly younger than Hiziki. Ro escorted them in, but after a few low words with the woman, she left them alone.

Gard stood, straightening his rumpled jacket, nodding politely at his visitors as they pulled chairs to the front of his cell. Once they were seated, he also sat, studying the woman. She was joined, and openly curious about him, studying him in turn. He knew her instantly. He’d kept tabs.

“I remember you,” Ezri Dax said without preamble.

Gard nodded. A few years back, he’d heard that Dax’s memories of Joran had resurfaced, memories that had been medically suppressed almost a century before. The mistaken matching of Joran Belar to the Dax symbiont had created a serial murderer, whom Gard had been sent to hunt down.

“You remember Verjyl Gard,” Hiziki said. “My symbiont has a very long history of

” How to describe what he did? “

ah, seeking out criminal elements within Trill society.”

“And without, so it seems,” Dax said.

Cyl finally spoke up. “Gard has never done anything else. I’m surprised Audrid didn’t know about him; the TSC called Gard in whenever there was evidence of a bad joining.”

Bad. That’s an understatement. Though it didn’t happen often, a “bad” joining meant anything from suicide to serial murder. Throughout all of Gard’s lifetimes, its hosts’ specific training had always been to seek out these extremely rare joined killers. Cyl had approached a retired Verjyl Gard shortly before Gard had gone on to Hiziki, nearly twenty years ago

and both hosts had found merit in the loose organization of watchers, particularly considering the government’s blatant denial of its necessity. In a way, the parasites represented the ultimate in joined killers.

Dax nodded. “There weren’t any mismatches in my time on the board, though.”

Gard said nothing. The TSC kept secrets from itself, too, but he saw no reason to disillusion her.

“How much do you know?” Gard asked, turning to the more immediate situation.

“All of it, I think,” Dax said, and Cyl nodded. “You’ve been watching for the parasites, they finally showed up, and you came here to deal with it

but why kill Shakaar? Why not just turn him over to security, let the Federation in on it?”

“It’s better that the reason for his assassination remains unclear,” Gard said. “The night before the signing ceremony, he sent seven separate coded messages to Bajor, from his private quarters here on the station. I think the parasites have taken root down there, and I also think they’re organized enough that Shakaar’s capture would have spurred them to action.”

“What action?” Dax asked.

Gard shrugged. “Terrorism. Mass infection. At the very least, they might have gone deeper underground. Right now they suspect we know, but they can’t be sure. That’s my belief, anyway.”

Dax looked back and forth between the two of them. “Do you really think that the Council and the TSC aren’t capable of handling this information? About what your organization has been doing? Someone has to know something about this mysterious genetic link, and it might be key to figuring out how to deal with the parasites. If the Federation were to approach the president—”

“—then they’d be met by hysteria and denial,” Cyl cut in. “I think it is a genetic thing, Ezri, in more ways than one. I saw it on your face, outside—something about the parasites creates an acute discord in our people, a revulsion, a fear so ingrained that no one wants to go near it.”

“You both did, and the people who’ve watched with you,” Dax said. “And I admit that there’s something about the concept, something deeply disconcerting

but I’m not going to walk away from this.”

“Audrid did,” Cyl said, a trace of bitterness in his tone, so slight that he obviously wasn’t aware of it. “And Dax’s hosts since.”

Dax flushed, but to her credit, she didn’t look away. “I should have pushed harder, that’s true. But I didn’t know. And whatever mistakes I made, I’m here now.”

Gard decided that he liked her. It was a rare person who could accept that they’d fallen short without trying to defend their actions in the same breath.

“I think most of it is the evolutionary connection,” he said, drawing their attention toward himself, addressing Dax. “It’s obvious to anyone with a DNA scanner that the parasites and our symbionts are related. We don’t know precisely how, but it’s also obvious that Trill doesn’t want to know. They don’t want to become central to this parasite investigation, don’t want to be connected to these creatures, in any way.”

Dax started to say something and then closed her mouth, her jaw clenching slightly. Yes, he definitely liked her. She had idealism, but had also been around long enough to understand the reality of how people dealt with fear and stress. As one of his hosts always liked to say, Just because it’s the truth doesn’t mean anyone wants to know about it.

After a moment, Dax sighed and looked at Cyl. “This isn’t going to go away this time, you know. Even if we get past the immediate crisis with things getting any worse

Trill’s leadership will have a lot to answer for, to Bajor and the Federation. I want to report this to Colonel Kira.”

Cyl looked at Gard, who nodded once. She was right. Keeping secrets at this point was counterproductive, and if it meant exposing their watch organization, what of it? It had served its purpose. Trill might even thank them for it, one day

though he was no longer optimistic enough to hope for it. He hadn’t been that optimistic in a long, long time.

“Any chance I could get out of here?” he asked, smiling because he doubted that there was, too restless not to ask. “Or at least get computer access? Limited, of course.”

Dax smiled back at him. It was small, but sincere. “I’ll see what I can do. Now, why don’t you tell me how you knew that Shakaar was infected?”

Gard started in, going over the physical manifestations first, the slight trembling of the fingers, the tendency to rapid eye movements, a sudden propensity for Klingon and Ferengi cuisine—both of which included vermiform invertibrates. Ezri Dax sat and listened carefully, asking the right questions at the right time, and by the end of their little meeting, Gard felt like they might have a chance of getting things under control, after all. Dax was a ninth-host symbiont, and had lived long enough to be flexible; she’d do what was necessary, even if it meant compromising Trill’s strangely insistent denial.

After they left, Gard lay back on his bunk, gazing unseeing at the ceiling once more, wondering if his suspicions about Trill’s history would be proved right or wrong. If he was wrong, no harm done. If he was right, no Trill would be the same again

and their society as a whole might never recover from the truth.