Chapter 1

There hadn’t been much left of Lakarian City, after the Dominion attacked it in the closing days of the war as an object lesson for the Cardassians about the cost of resistance. Millions of Cardassians had died. The center of the city had been melted and cratered with the energy of the weapons turned on it. Through the suburbs, structures had fallen outward almost in waves, flattened by the force of what hit them; only rubble remained, barely enough to have recognizable buildings, here and there. Only on the very outer edges of the city did the shells of homes, offices, barracks, schools, and hospitals stand, surrounded by broken streets, shattered foliage, and fallen memorials.

But what had been left from that attack, was now buried beneath the sand and grit deposited over it by a wind storm, the likes of which there was no parallel in the extant records of Cardassian history. It had left a weird landscape, gray and almost lunar. Bits of rubble jutted through the surface, often so caked with concrete-hard dust as to be unrecognizable. Other bits gleamed with wicked shards, slivers and fibers of volcanic glass. A heavy haze continued to hang over it all, as if the dust-saturated clouds deliberately refused even to let the sun shine over the ruins.

The Federation team moved cautiously through what remained. They were all clad in protective suits, with filtering face masks, and carried tricorders and other monitoring equipment.

There was no life. If any Cardassians had survived the Dominion attack and tried to stay near their home, the storm had driven them away or killed them. There was no plant life, not even the gray-green scrub that should have been ubiquitous in this area. They couldn’t even pick up any insect life. The city was dead.

“My God, who’d have thought it could be so bad?” one of the techs commented, a little awe-struck. “You’d barely know there’d been a city here.”

“Keep your masks on,” their superior cautioned. “There’s a lot of volcanic ash in this, and a whole cocktail of toxic chemicals in the soil and the air. And make sure you’re walking on a solid surface — there are probably underground levels of buildings with not much of a roof support, under a thin layer of powder, and we don’t want anybody falling through.”

The rest of the team nodded, and spread out, resuming their tricorder scans.

Trey Lausten turned his gaze westward, where foothills began a majestic rise to a towering mountain range. There were volcanoes in that range. There were also a number of gaps and gashes through it, long, deep valleys that had been used to traverse the range, from Cardassia’s ancient days up until the present. It was the reason Lakarian City was where it was, and why it had grown to its pre-destruction size.

He expected that one or the other of those high valleys was the reason the building storm had finally struck here with such fury. The winds of the pressure fronts building over the continent had been funneled by the valleys, forced together here above Lakarian City. There had been volcanic activity almost constantly since the Dominion massacre; there was an appalling amount of ash and chemicals high in the atmosphere, along with other microscopic debris from the final attack. The windstorm sweeping down from the mountains had carried along a huge amount of it, and dropped it here.

“So this is what we could be looking forward to, at Cardassia City.” The tech’s voice was a little shaky as he rejoined his senior officer.

“Unless we find a way to stop it,” Lausten said with determination.

“Do you think we can?”

“We can,” he assured the young man. “We’ve got the best technology and minds the Federation has to offer. I just hope we have enough time...,” he finished more softly.

The youth nodded resolutely and moved away again, treading carefully through the ankle-deep dust.

Lausten joined Tejral, crouched over what was apparently the near-petrified remains of a shrub. He’d invited the man on the day mission because of his background in eco-restoration.

“Well, Shane?”

Tejral looked up solemnly. “You’ve got to have something to save — or you might as well try a genesis,” he said, using his profession’s slang for a complete terra-forming and introduction of new species on a planet that was dead or had never had life to start with. It was a pessimistic assessment.

Lausten bit his lip and moved on, scanning the area again for any sign of living plant, animal, or insect, anything to suggest the land could still support life — something to prove there was hope for the region.

Nothing.

* * * *

The chamber appeared modest in size, but that was deceptive. Beyond this room, it extended underground for dozens of meters, a succession of vaults, passages, and stairs. Unlike the structures on the surface of the planet, it had been undamaged when the Founders turned on their erstwhile Cardassian allies in the last battle of the Dominion war, protected by its depth and the fact that the Dominion occupiers hadn’t known of its existence.

The last time she’d been here, it had been a treasure trove full of relics and artifacts of the Cardassian past, from the time of the Hebitians, loaded in boxes ready for Ferengi transport. It had smelled of age and dust. Now the room was nearly empty. The few remaining items were a little furniture, a shelf set in a corner, and one small open chest containing clothing. There was light and air circulating; he obviously still had access to a generator that could have been put to much better use than powering this underground hideaway. The floor and furniture were clean; there was no dust like everywhere else on the planet. The generator must be powering a force field as well, to keep the grit out.

A rustle caught her attention, and she turned in time to see a small man come out from behind a heavy curtain that imitated rock so well, it would have passed a quick glance.

“Rekel. I’m so glad you could come today.” His presuming smile grated.

“When I received your message, I had to come,” she answered, keeping annoyance from her voice.

Mondrig nodded. “I thought you would. That’s why I got this.” He went to the shelf and collected a bottle and two glasses. Glancing back at her and seeing her studying the bottle, his smile widened.

He set the items on the table, then opened the bottle. The thick, sweet scent of prime aged kanar wafted through the chamber as he poured. Rekel couldn’t help breathing deeply of the aroma. Obviously, he still had access to a replicator as well as a generator; but she’d never known a machine that could create so rich and real a scent—

Mondrig noted her reaction; his smile widened and the hollows at the sides of his neck flared ever so slightly. He handed Rekel one of the glasses and picked up the other for himself.

“It’s not replicated, my dear,” he said conversationally. “Enjoy.”

“Not replicated?” She didn’t drink. Unreplicated kanar of any kind was all but impossible to find, these days, unless one had a great deal of well-protected wealth, the highest connections, or the power to command those with connections and wealth.

“No.” He held up his glass; the almost syrupy-thick, dark blue liquid caught the light and seemed to suck it into itself. “This is real kanar, from Lakaria Province.”

Knowing the reaction he expected, she lifted the glass to savor the scent for a moment, her eyes closed. Then she drank. It tasted as rich as it smelled. It had been a long time since she’d had kanar this good, and real, not replicated.

“How did you—“ she began.

“How did I obtain such a delicacy, in current times?” Mondrig finished, his expression secretive and a little superior. His glass was already empty. “It helps to have ... connections in the right places.”

“The Directorate.”

“Yes.” He poured himself another glass, and topped off hers, although she’d only taken a sip. “A small reward for your services in reclaiming the Hebitian artifacts from the Ferengi, my dear. I think you’re entitled. And for keeping their payment — they could hardly claim their money back after being caught stealing our children and our past.”

“True.” She nodded, smiling a little at the memory of the Ferengi DaiMon’s outrage.

“That was truly well handled, by the way. I must applaud you for it,” he finished, then emptied his glass again.

“We all do our part,” she demurred, briefly eyeing the bottle of kanar. “But I’m surprised that someone of your abilities continues to stay here, in these chambers, rather than ... becoming more publicly involved.”

“That seems to be my part, protecting the artifacts, in secrecy, until we can use them or sell them.” He paused, staring into his glass, his eyes hooded, his voice turning sarcastic. “So good of them to let me stay here, and all I have to do to earn this warren is guard the artifacts from scavengers or ... other forces.”

“The artifacts are still here?” Rekel sipped again, appreciating the sweetness on her tongue, loathing the source.

“Yes.” He gestured at the curtain. “Secured in the deeper vaults, protected by force fields, and by my presence here. As if I were a servant like my parents, a watchman and cleaner. They love to remind me....” He changed the subject. “You never saw everything the Ferengis were taking, did you? Come, Rekel, let me show you!”

“Your parents were of the servant class?” She followed him through the curtain. She hid the ingrained contempt for that caste, bred into her from generations of family service in the military.

“Those days are over,” he spat, then paused to run his fingers along the wall, wiping off a smudge as he led her along the downward-sloping hall. “That filth is a thing of the past.”

They passed a force field that went down as they walked through it, then immediately came back up.

“Keeps out the dust?” she mused.

“Yes. Along with anything else, on another setting. We’ve been able to upgrade our internal security, among other things, with the help of the Federation,” he said with satisfaction.

“Oh?”

“Yes. They … helped … with a few components we hadn't been able to scavenge before. Now with the power grid up, we don't even have to rely solely on our own stores anymore." He stopped in front of a strangely gleaming wall — she recognized the specialized force field — and announced, “Mondrig, alpha prime one one Sudari.”

Rekel jolted at his use of her personal name in his code, but quickly controlled herself.

“Identity confirmed,” came back a computer voice, and the field went down.

They stepped inside a treasure room. The chamber was stacked with boxes, all neatly labeled to identify the objects within. Deep shelves lined the walls. They were cluttered with statues, jewelry, what appeared to be musical instruments, items of stone and metal of unknown purpose. Lining others were more fragile materials, fabrics and undeciphered texts in ancient Hebitian writing. Entire murals rested in long cases with force field covers.

Rekel caught her breath. There was so much, and such variety.... She stifled the urge to touch, to pick up, to caress.

“The history of our world, in the relics the old ones left behind. All at Parn’s disposal, for whatever purposes the Directorate deems appropriate.” Deep resentment colored Mondrig’s tones.

“Unfortunate,” she murmured, watching him closely for his reaction.

“Of course, he doesn’t realize how much more there is.”

“There’s more?” Rekel couldn’t keep the disbelief out of her voice.

“Much more. I’m convinced of it! This is just the smallest portion. I've been studying our history. It’s clear to me that there are other Hebitian remains to be found. Our Cardassian ancestors went to great lengths to erase them from common knowledge, but the clues are there for anyone who is paying attention. I have someone working on leads right now,” he finished provocatively.

“Indeed,” she murmured, letting him see that she was impressed, but not why. She turned to him. “How can I help?”

He laughed deep in his throat. “I knew you’d say that. I knew you’d want to be part of this. We can both benefit from our past, beyond our world’s dreams.”

His hands were warm on her shoulders. For just a second she let him. Then she shrugged off his touch and stepped away.

“We must discuss this later. In detail. But I have to go now before I’m missed,” Rekel improvised.

“I understand. For now, we must all jump when called. But it will not be long before things change. And I will have earned a place with the Directorate. They’re beginning to see my value. They know they need me. When we win our world back, I’ll be rewarded appropriately, but they won’t know what treasure I’ve already claimed for myself,” he gloated, for a second lost in a future dreams. Then he came back to reality. His hand lingered on hers for a second as he took the half-full glass she still held. “Join me for supper, Rekel. Here. You’ll be glad you did — we have many things to discuss.”

A ghost of a smile traced her face. “I look forward to it.”

* * * *

Garak scanned the plaza in front of the makeshift hospital. He knew, from the position of the sun, that it was lunch time. And that meant it was time to meet Dr. Bashir for the midday meal. Besides giving him the pleasure of Julian’s company for a brief time, it was the only way to ensure that the human took a break and cared for his own nutritional needs, rather than working from before sunrise to the middle of the night trying to meet the needs of every other person on the planet.

Not, of course, that he was doing any differently.

Satisfied that there was no one there requiring immediate assistance, and therefore Julian was likely to actually take time to eat, the Cardassian headed toward the hospital.

As he rounded the corner of the building, he heard a familiar young voice.

“...And the soldiers fought with honor, serving the Cardassian people under the leadership of Camen Ocett, who first brought military glory to the family Ocett. They conquered the Jifrians, and made the name Cardassia to be respected and feared within the near systems. This was in the third year of Alont Dumerik’s tenure as the leader of the Council, when the vaults of the heirs of the flyers were sealed to contain the poison that had spread among the Paldar....”

It was Kehin and Ibis, two of the Cardassian orphans who had nearly been stolen away the by Ferengi slavers. The pair now lived somewhere in the refugee camp, but seemed to spend most of their time around the hospital area. From his position in the shadows, Garak could spy on the children without their seeing him. Kehin was leaning against the wall, reading aloud from what appeared to be an old history text laying across his lap, with the hazy midday light for illumination. Ibis was sitting beside him, her arms circling her drawn-up knees, the warmth of the veiled sun soaking into her slight frame. Little eddies of sand whirled around her with the breezes. There was no one else in sight.

“Who are the heirs of the flyers?” the girl asked in her lighter voice, her expression puzzled.

“I don’t know,” Kehin replied, frowning a little. “I wonder if that’s important....”

“Maybe you could ask Dr. Ptacek,” she suggested.

“Dr. Ptacek won’t know what it means. She’s not Cardassian,” the boy answered, sounding preoccupied.

“You could ask Garak what the heirs of the flyers are,” the girl said. “He might know, or he could find out. He knows how to find out anything.”

“No! I’m not supposed to tell him about the book,” the boy replied obstinately. “It’s a secret.”

Garak’s expression changed from fond pleasure to watchful concern. He didn’t like secrets being kept from him, and he’d had a lifetime of experience in both finding out other’s secrets, and keeping his own.

“Then you’ll have to ask the man who gave it to you. It’s his book, he must know what it means.”

“I’ll ask him when I see him. Hmm, Dumerik’s tenure, conquering the Jifrians, what else was important.... In the fourth year of Dumerik’s tenure, his son Krail Dumerik first entered the service of the Cardassian people, the third of the family line who would one day sit within the Council walls and bring honor to the family name of Dumerik with his service to Cardassia....”

“I’m tired of this old history,” the solemn, thin-faced girl interrupted, standing up. “I’m going to see Dr. Ptacek. She said I could eat the midday meal with her today.”

“You spend too much time with her,” Kehin complained.

“But you’re always busy,” Ibis responded.

“I’m doing important things!” he argued.

“Besides, I like her. She tells me things.”

“She tells you non-Cardassian things. You shouldn’t listen to her too much.”

“You read too much and let that man tell you what to do too much.”

“But it’s important! And it’s confidential and ... and secret!”

“I don’t care. I’m hungry.” Ibis turned away, heading for the hospital where she could expect to find the Andorian doctor who’d taken her under her wing.

“Ibis!” Kehin called, frowning, but she didn’t stop. After a second’s indecision, he shouted, “Wait!”

“Why?”

“Can I ... can I have lunch with you too?” He was still just a boy.

Now she turned, smiling. “Yes! Come on, then. Ptacek likes you too — you just have to be nice to her a little bit.”

“Let me put my book away....” Looking around, Kehin quickly scrabbled a hollow in a somewhat-carefully stacked pile of rubble that had been cleared from the plaza. He carefully laid the book inside, then covered it with several pieces of stone, before running after his friend.

Garak ducked even more out of sight as they went by.

Then, after they were gone, being carefully nonchalant, he made his way to the rubble pile, and uncovered Kehin’s book.

He studied the book. It was an old history of Cardassia, so old it was still in hard copy form, an actual hand-held book instead of a computer data display. The book itself was hundreds of years old, and it spoke of times centuries before that.

“The heirs of the flyers, in the time of Alont Dumerik...,” he muttered, skimming through the pages that Kehin had been reading. Glancing in the direction of the replicator station where the children would likely be for the next half hour or so, he decided he had time. Tucking the book under his shirt, he hurried back toward his own living quarters.

* * * *

“Hello, my dear doctor.....”

Bashir looked up from his PADD. Garak sounded unusually excited today. “You’re late,” he pronounced.

“I know, and I do apologize for that. But....” He set down the tray and gestured at the PADD. “I can see you’ve been making good use of my absence. What is the concern of the day?” he finished somewhat flippantly, setting a sandwich in front of the doctor.

“Oh, the usual,” the human replied, setting down the PADD and picking up the sandwich with an enthusiasm that acknowledged he was actually hungry. “We’re still not having much luck with the new diseases, and I swear, Aya’s going to pull out every hair on her head by its red roots if we don’t start making some progress soon!”

Garak’s voice boomed through the small room, not much more than a closet, that they’d commandeered for a somewhat private dining room.

Julian bit heartily into the sandwich. As he chewed, he noted that Garak continued smiling, but was silent. That was unusual; it was more common for the Cardassian to begin talking about philosophy, literature, history, drama — everything but their current situation, anything to distract him. It was one of the reasons he so looked forward to these simple lunches, that he knew Garak would have him forgetting, for a precious few minutes, the disaster they were slowly working to repair.

He washed the mouthful down with a gulp of raktajino, studying the Cardassian’s hooded expression, more reptilian than usual.

“All right, Garak, what’s going on?” he asked.

“Hmm?”

“You’ve got something on your mind. What is it?”

“Why, doctor, what makes you think—“

“You haven’t touched your food, not even in that nibbling way you usually eat. You know, savoring every bite, proving to the universe that you have no fear of where your next meal’s coming from.” He wiped his lips with the edge of the wrap that had been around the sandwich, now serving as a napkin. “And more telling, you haven’t said a word since you sat down. You’re obviously thinking of something important. So what is it?”

“What do you think it is?” he countered, his expression enigmatic.

“Oh, something of great consequence, I’m sure,” Bashir replied, then sighed. “But I have to admit, Garak, today I really don’t have the time to thread a mental path through your stories, much as I wish I did. So if you’re not going to tell me, I may as well not bother asking....”

Garak’s hand shot across the makeshift table and caught his wrist before he could take another bite. “Oh, I assure you, doctor,” he said with quiet conviction, “I believe it could be quite important. And I promise I will share what I know with you, when I have learned its significance.”

He released the duranium-strong grip, then picked up his own sandwich. “But you are correct to remind me that meals are meant to be enjoyed, not turned into indigestion by focusing on what may be disturbing.” His expression more genial, he took a dainty bite, then said, “Doctor, have I ever mentioned that I read your human Sun-Tzu’s Art of War?”

“No, you hadn’t. But why am I not surprised?”

The conversation changed, but at the back of Julian’s mind, he kept wondering just what Garak had learned, or was investigating, that he found to be ... disturbing.