Olma sat at the table in what Freya had called the Replimat and watched the life of DS9 swirl by on the Promenade. What fragments of conversations she had overheard indicated this drift was, in fact, a strategic location at the heart of an interstellar conflict. She could see the possibilities.

'Not our place,' she chided herself. 'You have enough to worry about back home.' But she smiled. 'You're not a young woman anymore, Olma. You can only handle one universe at a time.'

Someone put a mug filled with steaming fluid down in front of her. Olma looked up to see Freya sitting across from her with her own mug.

"What's this?" Olma asked.

"Tea," Freya answered. "A blend called earl grey favored by the captain of the Federation's flagship." She took a sip. "It's good. Try it."

Olma took a sip and smiled. "Very good. Where did you get it?"

Freya pointed. "The replicator."

"The what?" Olma looked where Freya pointed, but all she saw was a slot in the wall that some people were standing by.

"They have matter-energy conversion technology here," Freya explained. "They can instantaneously make anything they want as long as they have the equivalent amount of raw materials on hand."

"You've used your time well."

"Yes, while Tyr was in surgery, I researched this station and this universe. It's unbelievable what they make public; they almost make Dylan look like a Nietzschean."

Olma chuckled. "I noticed."

Freya smiled. "I know this is strange, me being 'back from the dead,' but I'm glad to see you. But why are you here? I mean, why are you personally involved? You didn't have to-" She broke off, then leaned closer and added conspiratorially, "It's about Isolde, isn't it? Olma, are you-"

"Freya, the less said about that at this stage, the-"

"Ladies? Am I intruding?"

Freya and Olma turned towards the speaker standing by their table; that they hadn't been aware of him demanded notice, though he did not *seem* threatening. He had reptilian skin and, it seemed, two spinal chords. But he also had dark hair and warm blue eyes, and a smile radiating bonhomie.

'Well,' Olma thought, 'a wolf among the sheep at last. I was beginning to worry.'

Freya said, "You're a Cardassican."

"Yes," the Cardasscian said. "And you, I gather, are the visitors from another universe."

Olma nodded. "I am Olma, and this is Freya of - well, for what it's worth, we are formally of Orca Pride."

"A pleasure to make your acquaintance, ladies. If all the females in your universe are as lovely as you, I can't imagine why anyone would want to leave. I am called Garack, clothier by trade. Would you do me the honor of visiting my shop? It's just a short walk down the Promenade. I am sure I that I could find something among my poor wares to compliment your beauty."

"Thank you, Mr. Garack," Olma said with a smile. "If time permits, we'll consider it."

"Ladies." Garack nodded to them and left the Replimat.

Olma followed him with her eyes. "Clothier my ass," she said through tight lips.

Freya nodded. "If he's a humble tailor, I'm a vestal virgin."

"Even if he hadn't been able to sneak up on us," Olma said, "the body language was full of tells."

"Yes," Freya agreed, "but he's quite good. And I did see the shop earlier. Not bad as a tailor either."

"The better to maintain his cover."

"Of course."

"This place does seem to be a hot bed of intrigue, Freya."

"Yes, Olma, no less than five powers are contesting for the fate of half the Milky Way Galaxy, and it's all centered on this drift." Freya's eyes glittered. "I could like it here."

"Unfortunately, we won't be staying."

"No, uh, no, of course not."

Olma noted Freya's stumble, but decided not to pursue it and drank some more tea.