After the tent came down, none of them really slept. Fortunately, the tent material was light and strong — none of them had been injured, and it continued to keep the rain and wind off them, although they felt pummeled by the constant monotonous stream of heavy drops. At least they hadn’t blown away.

With the rain ending and a gray morning dawning, Aya squirmed out from under the blanket covering and pushed her way out of the collapsed tent. She stood up and stretched, then grimaced and caught herself as her feet slid in the muck that now covered the fabric of their shelter.

Aya looked around dismally, feeling as depressed as most of the people she saw. She estimated it would take days to set up the tents and shelters again. It would take longer to clean up the rest of the mess. And since there had likely been toxic substances in the dust, decontamination would likely have to be a serious priority. It was an incredibly daunting situation.

Added to the problems they were already trying to deal with, she felt a moment’s hopeless desire to sit down and cry.

Her natural determination and positive attitude took over. With a deep breath, Aya reached back into the tent to help Ocela and her mother-in-law get the children out.

The women who had given her sanctuary stared around in mute shock.

“Stay with the children, keep them together, make sure all of you are okay,” she suggested softly. “Don’t let them eat or drink anything around the camp or the city — it’s probably contaminated. We’ll have a medical team here soon, and supplies.”

Ocela nodded her head jerkily, then picked up her little girl and sat down.

Louder, Aya continued for the benefit of the others who were standing around, uncertain what to do. “Everyone should do that — any food and drink here in the camp could have been contaminated by the rain, and we don’t know yet what might be in this muck. Don’t eat or drink anything you had here in camp — only trust fresh food from the replicator stations, make sure you aren’t poisoning yourselves and your children!”

A few people stayed near Ocela’s family. Others continued their feeble efforts to pick up the camp, or clustered together, talking, in varying degrees of despair, anger, or frustration.

Not sure herself what to do next, Aya began tugging at the tent, to see if it was still water and air tight, and if it could be righted and set up again.

“So, come to gloat over yet another difficulty for Cardasssia?” a harsh voice interrupted her.

Aya glanced over her shoulder. It was one of the soldiers bunked in the camp. He stood, his expression belligerent and sneering at he glared at her, feet apart and arms positioned as if he were about to tackle her. She noted his soiled boots and knees, which suggested he’d already stumbled in the mud.

“I am here today for the same reason I was here yesterday,” she replied reasonably. “To rebuild Cardassia.”

“To rebuild,” he sneered. “Because of course Cardassians are incapable of rebuilding for themselves!”

“We offered our help freely, and it was freely accepted—”

“By whom? Who has the right to speak for Cardassia now?”

That gave her pause. The political situation on the planet remained uncertain.

He spoke louder, with more arrogance, realizing he’d scored a point. “You listen to whoever says what you want to hear, and you don’t care what the real people of Cardassia want!”

Aya hadn’t heard anybody directly tell her the Federation aid wasn’t wanted — it was more frustration and resentment at the need, and for some, a sense of occupation by offworlders. She suspected this soldier was more looking for trouble than trying to make a real political statement. But still....

Aya knew she should keep her mouth shut and wait for more of the relief team to arrive, but she was too tired, hungry, thirsty, and dispirited after the night she’d spent, to put up with it.

“If, when you have formed a government of the Cardassian people,” she emphasized, “that government tells us to leave, we will leave. Until then, I suspect there are plenty of Cardassian people more than willing to accept a little food and shelter and help with cleaning up. Now, how about you? Care to help clean up, or are you just going to stand around and insult the ones who came to help you, while your people suffer?”

The man’s eyes flashed angrily, but he glanced sideways. A quick look in that direction revealed a Cardassian named Mondrig, a man she recalled to have been involved with the Ferengi slavers. So he was behind this scene? He smirked at her.

“Yes, we’re suffering!” someone else shouted, drawing her attention — it was another of the soldiers. “So where are the rest of our would-be saviors? How come your people aren’t here to help us now, when we have nothing left?”

“They’ll be here—”

“What good are your promises? You promised your technology would save us from the storm!” another yelled. “You lied to us! Now we have not even tents, and our children sleep in poison mud!”

Aya whirled at the new voice. She felt surrounded, and the quick move made her feel a little dizzy.

Other voices began to sound threatening, and she saw anger and uncertainty on the faces of the people starting to gather around them.

Someone grabbed her arm roughly. It was the glinn. “Where are all the supplies you promised us? Where is the help?”

The crowd was becoming increasingly restive, gathering around Mondrig, the glinn, and the woman.

Madred smiled tightly, satisfied with what they could see. “Mondrig believes he can create a public disturbance against the Federation team and discredit them.”

“An excellent idea,” agreed the legate, nodding. “Things certainly appear stirred up.”

Madred focused on a man standing at the bottom of the low rise. He raised his arm in a quick gesture.

The man nodded and turned away, sliding as he did so, but catching himself before he fell in the muck. Then he hurried into the milling crowd.

Parn glanced idly across the scene. “Mondrig’s doing his job well.”

“He makes a good puppet.” Madred grinned without humor. “And he’ll be easily sacrificed should it be necessary.”

“Along with the glinn and the men you stationed in the camp?” asked a new voice.

The Cardassians turned at Garak’s approach.

“Greetings, tailor,” Parn smiled, his heavy jaw raised in some contempt. “Do you still throw in your lot with the Federation?”

“My loyalty, as always, is to Cardassia,” Garak admonished genially, his face betraying no other emotion. “But tell me, legate, were these soldiers stationed in the camp to ensure that a riot would break out at the appropriate moment, or merely to forestall any efforts that might lead to the people supporting any but the Directorate?”

“They are there to do what’s necessary for Cardassia. We did not cause the wind or rain,” the legate replied dismissively. “So, you’re not about to rush down to the deliverance of the Federation scientist who was foolish enough to be caught in the middle of this?”

The trio glanced reflexively down at the crowd. Mondrig was gesturing toward the city, and people seemed to be listening to him. The glinn was dragging Aya behind him; her sunrise-red hair and human gold skin stood out among the dark-haired, gray-complexioned Cardassians. She looked too dazed to fight him, not that she would have had any likelihood of escaping the mob if she did. Nor, in the crowd, was there much likelihood of anyone reaching her side to rescue her.

“I think not,” Garak replied simply, and turned away.

They watched him walk back toward the city.

Madred observed, “He may be useful yet....”

“Garak was ever one to see the way of the wind. But we will wait for him to come to us,” Parn ordered. “For now, let’s go back to the city ourselves. It might be best if we were not seen to be participating in this ... situation.”

People were taking up the shouting, Mondrig saw with satisfaction. They would not need much more prodding. Then he saw one of the glinn’s men pushing his way through the crowd. When he saw he had Mondrig’s attention, he lifted a hand in a quick gesture, and nodded.

Madred and Parn had given their approval.

“The Federation has supplies!” Mondrig shouted, pointing toward the city. “Why haven’t they given them to us? No, instead, they hoard them, and dole out food and water and supplies as they see fit, to make sure we know we are a conquered people, a beaten people! And just to make certain we hear the message, they let the storms batter us and our children to make us dependent on them!”

The glinn dragged the Federation relief worker to him. “We are not conquered, we are not beaten, we are not dependent on offworlders!” the officer howled.

The other soldiers scattered in the crowd, some of them dressed as civilians, made sure there was an answering roar, quickly joined by others.

“We should take their supplies! Reclaim our world! We can decide our needs, and how to meet them!” He grabbed the woman’s other arm, lifting; the glinn quickly jerked up the arm he held, raising her off her feet. She dangled between them as Mondrig continued. “And we should tell these offworlders, these occupiers, these deceivers, these would-be conquerors, that they are not welcome here!”

He sneered at her, dropping her arm; she fell against the glinn. “They should go! And if they will not leave, we will make them! Or they can pay the price for their arrogance and deceit!”

Somebody in the crowd threw something; the woman reflexively ducked against the man who held her.

The glinn laughed mockingly. “You value Cardassian protection, woman? So did Bajoran women, when we were there!” His eyes glinted with memories.

Mondrig felt a flash of annoyance. His plan called for the mob to turn on the relief team in the city and take or destroy their supplies, not to allow one glinn to relive earlier glory.

“We must tell them all!” he interrupted with a shout, grabbing the woman’s arm and pulling her away from the glinn. “The Federation must leave! Even her! They must no longer sully the soil of our home! We must take what we need, as Cardassia always has! Now! To the city!”

Provoked to a frenzy of anger and despair, after the night they’d just survived, the people followed.

He walked down the dark, endless corridor. Where did it lead? Why was he here? He was following something — or was he trying to leave something behind?

He listened intently. Footsteps. There were footsteps. Where were they coming from?

Laughter.

He whirled, and found himself standing at the door to his own quarters. Staring across the room, he saw the familiar black-clad man sitting in the chair near his own bed.

“You.... Sloan!”

Sloan smiled enigmatically. “Did you really think you were rid of me?”

Bashir woke with a shock, sucking in a great breath of air. For a second he looked around frantically, squinting, wondering where the Section 31 operative was hiding, half-expecting to see him sitting in the chair.

The only person there was Rekel, Garak’s ... friend, aide, assistant, whatever ... standing beside the bed, her hand lightly on his shoulder. She withdrew her hand and stepped back.

Just another nightmare, just another nightmare....

“I’m sorry to have had to wake you, doctor. Are you all right?”

He leaned up on his elbows and met her ever-veiled dark eyes. He had to blink a few times to clear his vision — most likely a temporary residual problem picked up from the storm, he told himself.

“I....” He closed his eyes long enough to blow out the breath and relax his heartbeat, then opened his eyes with a weak smile. “Yes, I’m all right. I ... was having a nightmare, I guess. What is it?”

“There was trouble in the camp. It’s turned into a riot. There’s a mob coming this way.”

“What?” He threw off the blanket and sat up, wincing as muscles ached and scabbed-over abrasions pulled open. “What happened? How did it start?”

Rekel stepped back to the door. “We don’t know yet. Garak was going to the refugee camp to see how much damage was done by the storm. He saw the crowd starting to come this way.” She paused a second. “He reported that one of your people, Kato, was in the midst of the mob.”

His heart all but stopped — sweet, bright, bubbly young Aya, trapped in the middle of a mob. “Aya...? Is she all right? Did they hurt her?”

“She looked unhurt when he saw her. He wasn’t able to help her, alone, so he came back here to warn us they were coming.”

He nodded. “Yes, that makes sense....” he said, still putting the situation together.

“Blake has ordered all Federation staff to the clinic for safety, and is gathering a security team for a rescue attempt. But it’ll take a little time.”

“Tell him to call the Nightingale and beam her out of there!”

“He tried that. With the residual interference in the atmosphere, they’re having difficulty with the transporters.”

“Damn.... I’ll be right there....” He stood up and looked around, muttering curses to himself while holding the hospital robe closed. He felt a little woozy — no doubt the result of getting hit on the head the day before, he told himself. Or maybe from the chemicals he’d been exposed to while out in the storm. He’d have to have that checked when this immediate crisis was dealt with.

“And tell someone to bring me some clothes, unless they want me running around the clinic wearing a sheet for a toga!”

Garak rushed into the clinic, looking around to see the Federation relief team scurrying around to secure their patients in case there was trouble, with security taking defensive positions. He saw Rekel pause for a second to talk to Nurse Eske, who nodded efficiently and went off in the other direction. Then Rekel saw him.

A quick hand gesture confirmed their meeting location.

He met her in the laundry room again, about thirty seconds later.

“This is Directorate work,” he told her.

“I’m not surprised,” she replied drily. “Any instructions?”

“They’re taking advantage of the storm disaster to stir up the people — can we get any of the Reunion or other leaders, someone respected by the people, someone they will listen to, to step in and try to defuse it?”

“Parmak?”

“Too closely affiliated with the Federation relief team — we need someone Mondrig can’t automatically discredit by claiming he’s been suborned.”

Her delicately scaled brows drew together. “Reasonable.... I’ll see if I can reach someone with the necessary authority and respect.”

“Good. Be careful — I’m not sure how thoroughly Mondrig has managed to stir things up.”

“I’ll be careful.” A beat. “Why not you?”

“Why not me, what?”

“Perhaps you could talk to them.”

“My ... history remains questionable, to many. And like Parmak, I suspect I may be seen as working too closely with the Federation team. Besides, I may still be more useful if I remain seen as somewhat independent, unaffiliated with any of the parties.”

She accepted that, reluctantly, but he could tell she didn’t entirely believe it. “Were you able to reach the historian?”

“No. The trouble had already begun, and I wasn’t about to do anything that might cause Legate Parn and the Directorate to look into something I don’t want them looking into.”

“Very reasonable. Shall I come back?”

“No. Stay away from anything visibly Federation. As will I.”