Chapter 8

“Ooooh....” His head was killing him.

“No new injuries. I think he just bumped that bruise from yesterday,” he heard a brisk, nearby voice say. Ptacek. “He’ll be fine. Next....”

The voice moved away.

What had happened?

The memories came flashing back. The riot, the mob pushing them back, Blake injured, Jake in trouble....

Bashir tried to sit up, then realized he was already leaning against something — the wall of the clinic. Looking around, he could see that the situation seemed to be under control. More Federation security were patrolling the area. The medical staff from the clinic were doing triage to check for injuries, and occasionally, he saw someone ordered inside; he presumed those were more serious injuries.

A large number of Cardassians were present as well, picking up their fellows and, amazingly, cleaning up the courtyard. Directing them was a vaguely familiar-looking woman in coveralls, a civilian, her long black hair tied back and up. Every now and then she paused long enough to either scold a rioter or encourage one of the others.

“Hey, Julian!”

He looked up. “Jake.” Seeing the young man, apparently uninjured, brought a sense of relief. He held out a hand. “Help me up?”

Jake grinned and pulled him to his feet.

The second’s wooziness passed quickly.

He remembered. “Aya? We should—”

“I already checked. She’s fine,” Jake assured him.

Another relief. “Good,” he said with a sigh. “Blake? He was injured....”

The younger man gestured toward the clinic. “They’re mending his arm.”

“Good, good....” Bashir closed his eyes, leaning back against the wall. He’d frozen when he saw Blake down, vulnerable. He’d been in firefights before; he hadn’t frozen then. Was this place wearing him down that much?

“Dr. Bashir.”

He opened his eyes again. The Cardassian woman now stood beside them.

“Hello.” He thought for a second. “Professor Natima Lang?”

She smiled, a little tightly. “That’s me.”

“Where’d you come from?”

“The University.” She glanced around. “I heard there was trouble. Came to see if I could help.”

“You brought some friends, too, I see.”

“It’s good to have friends,” she noted.

“Yes. What about the rest of the city? What’s going on there?”

“From my information, your clinic was the mob’s destination. There was some damage on the way, but considering what we just went through, frankly, it’s hard to tell the difference.”

One of the rioters staggered up, his entire chest, face, and right side of his body smeared with muck from his fall when the Nightingale stunned everyone. “You’re supporting the Federation!” he blustered, all but in her face. “They’re destroying Cardassia!”

She looked at him calmly, wrinkling her nose. “Mondrig, you’re an idiot. We destroyed Cardassia all by ourselves, in letting the Dominion here and thinking that we were infallible and nothing had to change. These people came here to help us, and all you’re doing is trying to destroy what good they’ve done for the rest of us because they won’t put you on a pedestal. Why don’t you go clean up, you’re filthy.”

The students who’d been helping Lang watched avidly. A small ripple of laughter circled them.

Mondrig first went pale, then his skin deepened into an angry deep slate color. “This won’t be the last time the Federation fails....”

“Oh, you’ll make sure of that?” Lang cast a sideways glance at Bashir. “I understand the emitters that would have protected us, failed unexpectedly. I don’t suppose you know anything about that, do you?”

He snorted contemptuously. “What do you know of the needs of war—”

Silence spread around them as the possibility sank in.

“Needs of war?” Lang repeated slowly, staring at him, obviously not expecting that answer. “You did it, didn’t you? You made them fail. It was more important to you to make the Federation look incompetent, than to protect our people. You deliberately exposed our entire population to that storm....”

Bashir felt sick to his stomach. Despite having been attacked near the emitter, he still hadn’t wanted to believe someone was willing to put tens of thousands of lives at risk out of hatred and greed for power. He immediately realized he should have known better. Hatred had been used to justify the ends and the means in far too many situations in history. And greed for power had often blinded men and women to the people around them.

Before he could find words, the professor spoke again.

“I think you’d better leave,” Lang said in a very quiet voice.

Mondrig turned, as if looking for support somewhere in the crowd. He met only shocked and angry faces, mingled with disbelief.

Furious, he stalked away.

* * * *

Lausten and a pair of his techs had gone out to check the emitters that morning, before any sign of trouble. They returned shortly after the riot was quelled. Lausten immediately reported to Bashir at the clinic.

“Sabotage,” was his flat statement. “No question. The emitter was damaged. Deliberately.” He took a sideways glance at the courtyard in front of them. “What happened here?”

“Another deliberate form of sabotage,” Bashir said briefly, rubbing the back of his head. “But it seems to be under control. Can the emitter be fixed?”

“No, it would have to be replaced. But hopefully, we’ll have figured out something else before the next storm comes along.”

“What about the other cities and towns in the path of the storm?”

“Actually, the rain probably took out the worst of what that storm was carrying — although there’s plenty more high up in the atmosphere just waiting to make its presence known. So it won’t be as bad when it hits next; gives us a bit of a breather. Anyway, Meyer will be using the force field system at Laemit City, day after tomorrow. We’ve learned from our mistake; he’ll be keeping guards at the emitters. We won’t assume that the Cardassians all wanna be saved,” he concluded with a grimace.

“I guess that’s something,” Bashir replied with a sigh. “Any estimate on how long it’ll be before we can safely transport again?”

Lausten grinned. “According to the Cap’n, within the half-hour.”

* * * *

“She turned the crowd against us, she needs to be stopped.” Mondrig angrily paced the cavern. He ground one fist into the palm of his other hand, wishing he were pounding it into the woman’s flesh — or better yet, into that Federation doctor’s entrails. A shower, decontamination, and clean clothes had only made his mood the fouler as he contemplated the day’s failure.

The only plus was that Rekel had come to him; he now unburdened his rage with someone he was sure would understand.

“Professor Lang’s arrival was unexpected,” she agreed.

“The Directorate—”

“Mondrig!”

He jumped at the booming voice, not noticing that Rekel barely changed expression, as if she’d expected a new arrival.

Two men in military uniforms entered the cavern, striding with matched steps as though to a drum cadence. Parn and Madred both had set faces, and their expressions were so forbidding that a sane man would have quailed. Mondrig was so caught up in his anger at Lang, he barely noticed.

“Legate!” he began. “Something must be done about that professor—”

A heavy fist swung abruptly, and Mondrig found himself sprawled on the floor.

“What...?” He stared up in shock at Legate Parn.

The heavy-set legate towered over the smaller man, and his fury was unmatched. “Mondrig, you’re an idiot! First that business with the Ferengi slaver — and now I learn that you sabotaged the emitters!”

He tried to defend his action, scrambling back to his feet. “It was necessary to discredit the Federation, to show—”

“Bah! In your attempt to discredit the Federation, you’ve done our people more harm! Bad enough that you let that Ferengi slaver here without finding out his real cargo!”

“We have no way to care for that many orphans! No one would have missed them! Besides, I didn’t know he was—” Mondrig cravenly tried to justify himself.

“Didn’t know...,” Parn all but spat. “You should have known! You tainted us all, leaving us accused of selling our own children! Now you left our entire city in the path of a storm that we could have been shielded from! Bad enough you caused so much damage to what’s left of our home.” Mondrig tried to interject, but the legate raged on. “If you had to do something so stupid, you should at least have kept your mouth shut, we might have been able to deny involvement — but you all but boasted of it in front of everyone! The entire city knows, or will by nightfall!”

“The professor—”

“You had weapons, why didn’t you use them before she could intervene?” Parn cut him off again.

“It was supposed to be a civilian action, the people rising up! We were going to take the Federation guards and use their own weapons against them! Who could predict they would stun everybody?”

“Yet another miscalculation. Yet another failure.”

“But I—”

“I think,” Madred interrupted through clenched teeth, his deep-set eyes glittering as he stared at Mondrig, “that the Directorate has no more use for you.”

That blow hurt worse than Parn’s physical one. Mondrig went pale and nearly staggered. “But—”

The Directorate leaders didn’t waste any more words on Mondrig. Their contempt and impatience all too obvious, they turned away from him and headed out of the cavern with as little fanfare as they’d arrived.

The turn of events had been too quick. He turned to the woman, entreating.

“Rekel...?”

“Rekel!” Parn commanded from the entrance.

She stared at him for a moment more, her face expressionless. Then she turned and followed Parn and Madred out of the cavern.

Mondrig watched them go in silence, shaking with rage, fear, and shock.

“I will prove myself,” he muttered in a ragged voice. “Then they’ll ask me back They’ll admire me. I will do it, all by myself if I must. The Federation will retreat and I’ll become a power on my own. I will find the treasure of the ancients. And I’ll win her. They’ll crawl to me. They’ll see....”

* * * *

“He’s unpredictable. We should keep an eye on him,” Madred muttered as they left the dark caverns behind and returned to the less-dim sunlit world.

“I know,” Parn replied. “And he may still be ... quietly directed. Rekel, see to it. Carefully. We don’t want our names associated with his next failure.”

“Of course.” She nodded acknowledgment of the order, staying in stride.

* * * *

There were no fatalities or serious injuries at the clinic riot. However, the storm had not been so kind in the refugee camp. There were injured; there were dead. As the rioters returned, most shame-faced, they gathered their wounded and dead, and began to clean up, to rebuild the shelters and re-erect the tents. Fortunately, the small structures had been made of sturdy Federation materials; there had been little damage to the actual buildings, as they had come down in entire pre-fab walls or collapsed tenting.

Bashir sent a triage unit immediately, and as soon as he was fully conscious and cleared for duty by Ptacek, and had assured himself that the clinic was secure and in good hands, he joined it.

Jake came along with him.

They studied the site somberly. Between the storm, the riot, and the news that both had essentially happened as they had as the result of one person’s actions, things were pretty quiet. Most of the relief team was sticking together, looking weary. The Cardassians, too, looked dispirited, and seemed to be keeping more to themselves than usual.

“I think I’ll ... get to work,” Bashir said very quietly. His expression was as worn and tired as most of the others. He moved to join the triage team.

Jake nodded silently, not knowing what to say but knowing Bashir wouldn’t have heard it anyway. He looked around for a good place to start. He felt upbeat, and realized he was unusual among the demoralized group.

He saw Blake pulling half a tent out of the muck, looking grumpy, but with his broken arm obviously mended.

“Here, let me—“

“I can do it!” Blake snarled, all but jerking the fabric out of Jake’s hands.

Exasperated, Jake said, “We don’t have to like each other, Commander. We just have to work together.”

Blake looked like he wanted to spit at that platitude, but he didn’t say anything, just kept working on the tent.

“Well, let me know if you could use a hand,” Jake said, and moved to the next shelter. Maybe Blake would regret losing the help; maybe he wouldn’t. But he could make his own choice and deal with the consequences of that choice. That was all any of them could do.

“Aya.”

The redhead barely glanced at him, grimacing as she tried to raise the tent. “Hi, Jake....”

“Need a hand?”

“Yes....” She tugged at the side support. “This is Ocela’s tent. I stayed with them last night. She’s got her daughter and two nephews with her. And her mother-in-law. This is all they’ve got. She helped me....”

With Jake’s help, the shelter was back up in a couple of minutes.

“Thanks,” the young woman said with a ghost of her usual smile, pushing her hair back with one hand.

“No problem.” He looked around for something else to do. There were plenty of opportunities.

But he would do what he could. He could do it. He felt he’d proven himself in a number of ways the past few days. With a newfound sense of energy and quiet certainty, Jake Sisko moved on.

* * * *

Garak was sure Lang would seek him out, after the events of the day. He was correct. Late that afternoon, while he worked at the memorial garden, trying to save what he could of the living things there, he heard footsteps approach.

“Welcome, Professor Lang. I don’t believe you’ve come to the memorial before.”

“I’ve been too busy trying to save our future to worry much about our past,” she said.

“Indeed?” He sat back on his heels. “There’s an interesting human expression about that — those who do not learn from the past are doomed to repeat it.”

“Those who choose to live in the past will never have a future,” she quoted back to him.

“Ah, you’ve studied the humans.”

“Somewhat.” She knelt beside him, studying the delicate orchid he had oh-so-carefully rinsed clean. “Why aren’t you helping in the camp?”

“Because I knew you’d come looking for me, and this seemed a more private place to talk.”

She snorted delicately. “I supposed I shouldn’t be surprised that you’re concerned about secrecy.”

“I said private, not secretive,” he quietly reproved.

“All right, why do you want to talk to me privately, then?” She reached out, almost absently, and began gently wiping off the petals of the flower on the next plant, spreading the leaves.

Garak found himself unexpectedly smiling at her gesture. “You saw, today, to what lengths the Directorate is willing to go, to accomplish their goals and place themselves in power.”

“I’ve never doubted that they would do whatever they had to.”

“But you’re still willing to stand again them?” He leaned a few centimeters closer.

“I have to,” she said with determination. “I can’t stand by and do nothing while they drag Cardassia back into the military dictatorship that it was, where no one is allowed to think and nothing matters but power and glory, generation after generation.”

“Is that how you see them?”

“Yes,” Lang replied with finality.

He moved to the next flower, and carefully began cleansing it. “Then you must act.”

“We will—”

“Now. Before they have time to consolidate their authority. Before they can commit some other form of sabotage and blame the Federation for failing us and destroying our ideals.” He faced her intently. “You have allies. The Reunion Project has strength — Ocett, Parmak, others whose names you may not know, whose abilities you are unaware of. They stand beside you.”

“And yet you worry about speaking to someone in private.”

“Do you trust me?”

“No,” she replied flatly.

“Then why would others, if I were to speak publicly? I am not trusted, by many. Especially by those who have tasted power before, and who knew me then. But you, Professor, you and the Reunion Project must begin to act, publicly. Now. Before it is too late.”

“We plan—”

“Your strategy may be long term, but your tactics must include action now. You must win the people now, let them see that not everyone cowers before the Directorate, or fawns for their gifts.”

She didn’t answer; he let her think for several minutes.

After a bit, Garak asked conversationally, “Tell me, Professor, in your studies of humans, have you read a treatise by an ancient human named Sun-Tzu, called The Art of War?”

Lang looked taken aback, and a little offended. “No, I don’t think I have.”

Very intently, he said, “I recommend it, Professor. For we are in a war, and we must be ready to wage it on all fronts. For the future of Cardassia. Or the violence of the storm we have just been through will be as nothing to the firestorm that will sweep our world.”

They held each other’s gazes for a long time.

“Talk to Gul Ocett about it, I am sure she will say the same.”

“She already does,” Lang admitted reluctantly.

“Consider it, Professor. Consider it carefully.”

Garak turned his attention back to the delicate orchids, nestled at the foot of the monument tower.

He heard Lang get up and move away. Her footsteps stopped for a long moment.

“We’ve been divided, Garak,” she finally said. “Not knowing how best to proceed, what to do next. But I’ll think about what you’ve said.” A beat. “You may be right.” Another beat. “We’ll stop the firestorm. Whatever it takes. For Cadassia.”

As she walked away, her footsteps echoed like the decisive action of a victor in the pages of history.

The End