Chapter 2

The meeting was over. Bashir should have been reviewing the data from the other relief team vessels, but he couldn’t face it yet. Instead, torn between weariness and frustration, he headed out into the city. He intended just to walk and try to think, but he found himself making a beeline for the memorial garden of ruins and plantings that Garak and a small group of others maintained.

The memorial grounds were empty. He wandered along the paving stone paths through the rubble-crafted obelisks and arches. The marks of the recent storm showed in the layers of mud that crusted the structures and weighted down the plants between them.

The doctor paused in an area that had been partially cleaned. Here, the stones had been swept clean, and dust brushed out of the crevices and ledges of the sculptures. The plants seemed to spring up from the ground, their leaves free of storm residue and presumably detoxified. He knelt to study a group of delicate orchid-like flowers that almost glowed brilliant green and colorful in the gray-toned grounds. The presence of plant life seemed to cool the air; even the heat radiating into his knees from the paving stones seemed less oppressive than in the city streets.

There was fauna as well as flora here, too, he could see, in the form of a number of insects of various types. As he touched one of the larger leaves, he also spotted what appeared to be a nest of some small newborn rodents clustered under its protection. He rocked back on his heels without disturbing them.

Cardassians did this themselves, without any help from us. They decided this was a priority, and they took care of it. He stared down at the deep purple blossoms that had been rinsed with obvious care.

“Greetings, my dear doctor.”

“Garak! Hello,” Bashir stood up hasitly and greeted the Cardassian as the other man appeared beside him. He hadn’t seen his friend the last few days. Garak was wearing a simple, dark, solid-colored tunic and trousers, a far cry from his previous, more elegant apparel, and covered with a gardening apron of sorts. “Good to see you again.”

“And good to see you, my friend.” Garak cocked his head. “You look tired. More so than usual.”

“From more of the usual, plus clean up,” he replied briefly. “But you, what have you been up to? I haven’t seen you since the day after the riot.”

“Oh, I assure you I’ve been keeping myself occupied,” the other man replied a bit evasively.

Bashir couldn’t help a small snort. “We’ve all been doing that.”

“Actually,” Garak continued before the human could ask any questions, “I’ve been trying to keep a finger on the pulse of the current political situation — a rather daunting enterprise, if I do say so myself!”

“Hoping to prevent any more riots?”

“Among other things.”

“Have you gleaned any useful information?”

“A great deal, actually. However, at present the various facts are not well connected to each other, making it difficult to piece together an accurate puzzle. I fear I shall have to redouble my efforts.”

“Fear?” Bashir laughed. “I doubt you ‘fear’ having to put together pieces of the Cardassian political puzzle — more likely, you’re relishing it!”

“I will confess to finding it an excellent way to hone my mental faculties to a degree I’ve not employed for some time. But come, let us walk.”

Bashir let himself be guided along the path. “So what have you heard of Mondrig’s people?” he pressed. “What’s his next plan?”

Garak chuckled nastily. “The Directorate? Hardly Mondrig’s people! And what little influence he held among them seems to have blown away with the storm. From what I understand, Legate Parn and Gul Madred, the true leaders, have disowned Mondrig, and continue to distance themselves from his actions.”

The spy-turned-tailor-turned-freedom fighter-turned-caretaker paused and pulled a cloth from one of his apron pockets. He kept speaking as he wiped dried mud from the jagged upthrust edges of a small sculpture that seemed to have once been part of a larger work.

“Parn and his people are also working around the clock to control the damage that Mondrig did to their reputation. Between the Ferengi slavers, the sabotage of the emitters that could have saved the city from the worst of the storm, and the failure of the riot afterward, the Directorate is a bit ... tarnished, at present. With the continuing evidence of the Federation’s good will and sincere efforts to help us, I believe Parn is scrambling somewhat.”

“That’s a relief to hear. Hopefully we won’t have him trying to drive us out again, at least for the near future.”

“He is more concerned with not being driven out himself — but I suspect that will be only a temporary setback. He and the Directorate are still a force to be reckoned with, and our people know that.”

“I’ll take whatever time I can get, and hope it’s enough. So what about the other groups? What was the big one — the Reunion Project?” Bashir continued.

“Ah, yes, the Reunion Project. They are a mixed group indeed,” Garak acknowledged. “Military, civilian, and ... other. Their most visible current leaders are Gul Malyn Ocett, and Professor Natima Lang, who I believe you may recall from her brief time on Deep Space Nine, as well as her efforts in quelling the recent disturbances.”

“Yes, I remember — and I was glad she came to our assistance. I am surprised, however, to hear that she’s working with the established military in any capacity! And considering her history as a dissident, I’m equally surprised to learn that they’d be willing to work with her!”

“Gul Ocett and Professor Lang are allies of necessity. That doesn’t make them friends, and it certainly doesn’t mean they agree on every subject, even the subject of how best to rebuild Cardassia.” He gave Bashir a sideways stare. “Of course, there are many others involved in the Reunion Project, but they are the most visible. At the moment.”

“Are you one of the less visible ones?” Bashir speculated.

“My dear doctor,” the Cardassian laughed, “neither of their leaders would trust me out of their sight or behind their backs — and there are others working with them, who would not trust me if I were dead.”

“I see. People who know you,” he responded almost daringly.

“Indeed,” was the benign response. Garak slid the cloth back into its pocket and brushed the clingy gray dirt from his hands before moving on, not taking the bait.

“What about the Oralian Way?”

Garak seemed the slightest bit startled. “I wasn’t aware you knew of them.”

“They were the ones you took me to see, weren’t they? The ones who danced to greet the dawn of a new year? The only group among the apparent dozen or so involved in the current power struggle, that you haven’t mentioned to me?” Bashir gestured at another sculpture, topped with a circular image. This part of the memorial, unlike most of the rest, was already spotless. “Are they the ones for whom this design has special meaning?”

After a moment, Garak nodded. “You are really becoming quite observant, doctor. Yes, members of that group are maintaining this part of the gardens. They are more religious than political, but they are involving themselves in the rebuilding process.”

“And who are their leaders?”

“A young woman named Kel is highly respected among them, and her suggestions generally heeded,” the Cardassian said slowly. “As are ... the woman at the new year ritual — her name is Beremi — and a man named Limorin, somewhat to my surprise. He has managed to maintain a low profile in that respect.”

“And what are their goals?” A pair of six-legged voles scuttled across the path in front of them; he paused reflexively to let them pass.

Garak pondered a moment. “They are ... obsessed with history. Ancient history. And the development of ... a more spiritual Cardassia.”

He didn’t seem to want to add any more information; Bashir decided not to press it. “Any other groups we should be paying particular attention to?” he asked instead.

“These three are the main players to watch, at this point.”

“Better three than thirty, I suppose,” the doctor concluded with some resignation.

“Speaking of the Oralian Way and their interests, tell me, doctor, are you familiar with the history of Cardassia?”

That was an unexpected change of topic. “Not much. Recent history with the Federation, of course, and a few bits and pieces I’ve picked up here and there. Did you have a particular period or individual in mind?”

“Are you familiar with the history of the Dumerik family?”

Bashir thought for a moment. “No, I’m afraid not. I suppose they’re one of those multiple generations of loyal Cardassians who spent their lives in service to the state, while raising up their children to do the same, before dying heroically?” he finished as dramatically as he could, recalling his exposures to the Cardassian repetitive epic, and Garak’s fondness for those tales.

“Not ... exactly.”

“Oh?”

“Well,” Garak acknowledged, “that is the official line, and the truth as far as the vast majority of Cardassians know it.”

“Truth, as far as the majority knows? I presume from the way you’re talking, that you’re not part of that vast majority?” he asked, puzzled. “Are you saying something else is true?”

“Truth can be ... very flexible, at times.” The Cardassian sounded almost introspective. “ Sometimes the truth we have known all our lives ... isn’t true at all.”

“Knowing you has certainly taught me that.”

Again Garak refused to take the bait, instead stating, “Remind me, when we have more time, to tell you the tale of the Dumerik family.”

“The truth the majority knows, or the flexible truth — or both?”

“Which do you most expect from me?” The Cardassian chuckled deep in his throat, a rather tantalizing sound, to Bashir’s thinking. “So, my dear doctor, are you interested in ... a mystery?”

“You mean a Cardassian enigma tale?” Bashir countered. “I’m not sure I have time for it—“

“Ah, yes, the daily responsibilities involved with saving a world from disasters of its own making.” The doctor had the distinct feeling that Garak was mocking him, a little, but gently. “Very well, doctor, when you have more time. And now, I fear that I too have responsibilities which must be tended to.”

He gestured around the memorial garden. “Feel free to replenish your spirit here, as so many of our people do, for so long as you need. We will speak again, later. And if you have time, you may wish to find a copy of In the Shadow of Glory — it is interesting reading.” Wearing that enigmatic smile, the Cardassian pulled the cloth from his pocket again, and vanished among the sculptures.

Bashir let him go, trying to decide if Garak had been serious with the offer of a mystery to solve, or if that had been an invitation to more word games — which, he admitted, could be just as involved and layered with clues as any mystery. Either distraction would be welcome — but he knew he really had time for neither. Not today. Nudged by the reminder of time passing, and that he’d already been away from his waiting reports for over an hour, the doctor reluctantly turned his footsteps back to the clinic.

In the scant shade of a handful of scrubby bushes, Garak watched the human doctor leave the memorial garden that he had made it his personal mission to maintain. He knew Julian Bashir. He knew there was little that would entice the human more quickly than the hint of a mystery.

Then he turned his attention back to cleaning one of the memorial sculptures, vigorously rubbing the dried mud from the curves and projections of its markings.

“Garak.” The familiar voice was barely a whisper in the breeze.

“Here, Rekel,” he replied as softly. He shook out the cloth he’d been using, but continued to study the monument as though it were his sole focus, not even looking around to see where she might be standing. “Have you been able to check on information I asked for?”

“Yes.”

“Excellent. And?”

“The archives refer to the heirs of the flyers in a few footnotes as either mythical creatures from an early, superstitious age, or a cult group that had to be suppressed because of practices that endangered children, undermined society, and encouraged anarchy.”

Garak frowned a little. “And Tarmer?” he breathed.

“An obscure historian by that name is supposed to have died in a mental institution over five hundred years ago. His work is considered to have been written out of his mental illness or a chemical addiction, and is dismissed as poor scholarship, wild fantasy, or both.”

“Indeed.” He concealed a grimace, knowing what that likely meant, and also knowing he would have to take it into consideration. “You had no difficulties ... locating the information?”

“No.”

“Thank you.”

Though he couldn’t hear her move, he sensed that she was gone, only a few seconds later.

It was a surprise to him, then, to hear light footsteps touching stone and coming closer. He turned his head to see a young, thin Cardassian girl. He recognized her from the clinic, where she and the boy continued to spend a great deal of time. Her name was Ibis, one of many orphans in the city. And she and her friend were the ones whose book he’d “appropriated” before the riot. He wondered if she had been watching him, and if so, for how long.

“What are you doing here?” he asked abruptly.

“I wanted to see the memorial,” the delicate child said with dignity beyond her years.

“Indeed. Well, then, come, let me show it to you. But where’s your friend, Kehin? I always see you two together.”

“He’s busy. He’s always busy these days.” Her brow ridge puckered slightly in disapproval as she walked beside him.

“I’m surprised he’s leaving you alone. These are dangerous times to be alone. Especially for a child.”

“Not so dangerous as they were, when the Jem’Hadar were killing us,” she said quietly. “And now our world is becoming better. Your friends from the Federation are helping.”

“My friends?”

“Yes,” she replied with certainty. “But I worry what we will do when they are gone.”

“What we will do,” he assured her, “is continue to rebuild our Cardassia.”

Ibis finally flashed a smile. “I know we will. You’ll make sure we do.”

Garak was taken aback. “Oh, child, I think you give me too much credit.”

“I have heard Dr. Bashir say so.”

That touched him unexpectedly. “Dr. Bashir is ... very intelligent.”

Ibis nodded sagely. “For a human, yes. I have heard people say so.”

They had left the restored area of the memorial garden, and were now walking through a section that still lay thick with dried or drying muck.

The girl stopped and frowned at a column. “It’s still dirty.”

“We’re cleaning as best we can, in between all the other things we have to do to help our people,” he replied a little reprovingly.

She studied it a moment more, then looked up at him. “Can I help? At the clinic, the Federation people tell me I’m too little to help, and that I should go play and be a child — but I want to help rebuild Cardassia. I can clean, I know how, and I want to do more than wash dishes.”

“I would welcome your assistance,” he said heartily, “and the assistance of anyone who has time and willingness to help. Come, I can find you a cloth and an apron to protect your clothing, and show you how to use the detoxifier.” The small tool didn’t cover large areas, but the ones he’d been able to scrounge were proving invaluable in his personal mission.

As they headed for the shelter that had once been a garden shed, the girl’s next question set off mental warnings.

“Garak, do you know who the heirs of the flyers are?”

“Why do you ask?” he parried.

“I heard of them in a book, but the book didn’t say who they are.”

“I see. I’ll tell you what, after I show you how to help me, we can discuss them....”

The Bolian reinserted the last isolinear rod with a flourish, then rose from his knees and turned to the small cluster of Cardassians with a pleased grin.

“Finished!” Vak announced. “You should be back on line and hooked into the main computer network. And that’s all there is to it. Think you can remember how to fix it?”

Restrained smiles and nods were the response from most of the generally young group.

“Thank you,” the professor replied with dignity. “Your help is appreciated. I know this isn’t your primary area of expertise.”

“No problem, professor. That’s why we’re here, to do what we can, medical and technical.” As the students dispersed to resume their tasks, Vak looked around, nodding his head at the sheet of thin fabric that formed one wall of the computer center, billowing gently in the warm afternoon breeze. “There seems to be a lot of damage here,” he observed.

“The Dominion went building by building through this sector,” Lang said distantly. “A group of students who followed Damar’s call to resist and fight back, made a stand here in their own defense. The Jem’Hadar blasted half the building into rubble — the half on the other side of that sheet — to get to them.”

A moment of silence. “Did any of them survive?”

“Some of them. They were lucky,” she replied softly. “Apparently the order to surrender came as the wall went down. The Jem’Hadar just walked away, left them here. Those who died, were killed by the falling debris.” She turned away from the reminder. “Several of the injured are still at your clinic.”

“I see. We’re doing our best for them, I give you my guarantee on that.” He nodded back at the cloth wall. “Let us know if you need help with ... anything else here.”

She smiled. “I think we’ve got it under control. We are capable of rebuilding most things here, given time and half a chance.”

“I didn’t mean to imply—“

“I know,” she cut him off quickly. “And we appreciate the offer. But some things we need to do for ourselves, if we’re going to come out of this with intact spirits and an intact culture.”

After an awkward moment, the young medic nodded. “Well, I guess I’d better get back to the clinic, then. Dr. Bashir and Dr. Ptacek will probably be looking for me,” he said.

Vak hastily collected his tools and left.

Lang noted an elderly man standing near the entrance as the Bolian exited. He was Cardassian, dressed in simple grays and greens, his silver-streaked dark hair slicked back off his high forehead in the common style. She recalled him being there before, but not his name. She saw him touch one of the stations with near-reverence, then turn and exit without speaking to anyone, walking with a cane.

“Who was that?” she asked one of the students curiously.

The young man glanced that way. “The old man? His name is Limorin, I think. He’s been helping with clean-up here on the university grounds.”

“The name is familiar. Is he a teacher or groundskeeper?” It had been over six years since she’d taught here; she didn’t remember all of the academic personnel.

The student shrugged. “I don’t know. There are rumors that he used to teach here, years ago.”

“I’ll talk to him the next time I see him. If he was a teacher, we might be able to use him here again. We’re short on teachers. So many were killed....” Lang snapped her fingers as recollection triggered. “Limorin! I remember now! He left only two or three years before I started teaching here! He—“ She cut herself off, remembering the reason he’d left, according to the whispered stories she’d heard when she first came to the university.

Then she smiled. If Limorin had truly been a dissident, as she had been, it would mean nothing about his teaching ability — and it might make him even more valuable to them.

She made up her mind to track him down and talk to him, as soon as she had time.

Blake concluded his security report with crisp efficiency. “...And three looters were apprehended overnight in the Akleen Sector. They are believed to have been searching for weaponry in the rubble. The three have refused to identify themselves, and are being held in custody.” He scowled a little. “Hopefully, we won’t have any Cardassian officials showing up to intervene, as they did two days ago.”

Moodily sitting back for a sip of coffee — honest-to-God replicated Earth coffee, not that Klingon sludge so many people insisted on drinking — he brooded over his outrage at the Cardassian legate showing up to insist upon taking charge of four apparent looters, a few days previously. Blake knew something about military men; the four “looters” weren’t civilians who’d been looking for anything saleable, they’d been soldiers. He could see it in their stance and the way they reacted when Legate Parn entered the chamber. He was sure the four had been acting under orders in a search for weapons.

Just what this city needed, more weapons in the streets, in the hands of people who knew how to use them, and who didn’t want the Federation there.

But he’d released the four into the legate’s custody, as ordered.

If it had been up to him....

There was a sound. Something had scraped somewhere, ever so lightly.

Instantly alert, Blake shifted modes. Setting down the coffee mug as casually as possible, he slid his other hand toward his phaser. He rose from his seat and moved noiselessly toward the open doorway.

“Bwah-ha!” He all but pounced — and found himself towering over a thin Cardassian child, staring up at him wide-eyed from the floor.

Blake glared down at the urchin. “You were spying on me!” he bellowed.

The boy shook his head urgently. “No, I was just here, I wasn’t spying—“

He didn’t believe it for a moment. The kid, one of the orphans, was always around. Usually, though, he was hanging around Dr. Ptacek and that Cardassian girl she’d taken an interest in. He had a reputation for being one of the scavengers, one of those who dug bric-a-brac out of the rubble and offered it for sale to anyone who was interested, for a slip of latinum or a blanket—

Feeling uncomfortable, he growled at the child, “All right, all right. Get outta here, kid, you shouldn’t be in here.”

The boy crab-walked back a few feet, then took to his feet and was gone in a flash.

Grumbling to himself, Blake went back to work.

Chapter Three