Back at the clinic late that afternoon, Bashir was still restless. He couldn’t focus. Garak had deliberately teased him with his hints of truth and mystery, he was sure of it. And short of asking his Cardassian friend outright, which might or might not gain him an honest answer, he would have to find the information somewhere else. Which, he suspected, was part of Garak’s intent.

He studied the computer terminal at his desk.

Well, what else was it for, if not to provide information?

“Computer,” he began. “Historical data on a Cardassian named Dumerik, please.”

The terminal made a small clicking sound. “Cardassian archives contain six entries for individuals named Dumerik, of notable relevance to the planet’s history. Please specify the required individual,” the computer responded in its dispassionate feminine voice.

“Six? I wonder which one he meant....”

“Unable to speculate. Information is not available—“

“All right, that wasn’t a question for you, computer.” The machine went silent. He considered for a moment. “Computer, identify each of the six individuals named Dumerik in the historical database. Basic biographical data only.”

With another brief click, the computer responded. “Laemen Dumerik, biographical information not available, leader of the Cardassian governing body for an unknown number of years, circa Earth year 1676 by old European reckoning.“

Click. “Alont Dumerik, grandson of Laemen Dumerik, born circa Earth year 1680, leader of the Cardassian governing body for an estimated fifteen years commencing circa Earth year 1726. Recorded as having personally commanded the military force which conquered the Jiffrian people in Earth year 1737; location of Jiffrian homeworld is unknown. Died circa Earth year 1741.”

That clicking was going to be irritating, if the computer was going to make noise every time it accessed the historical databanks. He’d have a technician look at it later, if someone could be spared from more essential duties.

Click. “Krail Dumerik, son of Alont Dumerik, born circa Earth year 1721, leader of the Cardassian governing body for an estimated twenty-three years commencing circa Earth year 1766. Identified in the historical records as having ordered the Cardassian invasion and occupation of a planet called Pellas III, location unknown. Died circa Earth year 1800.”

Click. “Resellen Dumerik, son of Krail Dumerik, born circa Earth year 1760, leader of the Cardassian governing body for an estimated twenty years commencing circa Earth year 1796. Identified in the historical records as having commanded the invasion of a planet called Pellas II, location unknown, and the subsequent extermination of one-quarter of its population as punishment for resistance. Died circa Earth year 1821.”

Click. “Morig Dumerik, grandson of Resellen Dumerik, born circa Earth year 1807, leader of the Cardassian governing body for an estimated seventeen years commencing circa Earth year 1846. Identified in the historical records as having consolidated Cardassian rule of the Pellas system and having put down a rebellion among the Jiffrians. Died circa Earth year 1863.”

Click. “Alonil Dumerik, son of Morig Dumerik, born circa Earth year 1845, leader of the Cardassian governing body for an estimated three years commencing circa Earth year 1876. Died circa Earth year 1880.”

A bloody family history, he thought. “There are no more definite dates available?”

“Negative. Source information indicates all Cardassian dates prior to 2161 are of uncertain veracity at this time.”

“Any speculation on the locations of the Pellas and Jiffrian planets? They can’t be far from Cardassia, considering what the level of their technology must have been, at that point.”

“Negative. Insufficient evidence to speculate.”

“What is the source of information on the Dumeriks?” he asked curiously.

“The Federation historical database.”

“And where did the Federation obtain its information?”

“Information has been obtained from Cardassian historical archives.”

“So it might not be accurate,” he couldn’t help saying.

“Unable to speculate. Federation information is only as accurate as its underlying data source.”

He nodded and leaned back thoughtfully. Recalling Garak’s suggestion, he then asked, “Computer, identify a work of Cardassian literature entitled In the Shadow of Glory.”

“In the Shadow of Glory is an example of the Cardassian repetitive epic, concerning ten generations of a family named Dumerik, purportedly based upon a historical family by that name and their service to the Cardassian government over a period of several hundred years.”

“The same Dumerik family you previously identified for me, who led the Cardassian government for so many years?” At least the literature database didn’t click.

“Affirmative.”

“Is the novel accurate?”

“The novel is literature. It is not history.”

“But could it be an accurate portrayal of that family’s history?”

“Unable to speculate. There is insufficient information available to determine its accuracy.”

“Thank you, computer. End query.” He paused, contemplating. “No wonder Garak wanted me to read that book. But what’s so important about the Dumeriks that he wants me to know about them? And which one of them? How like Garak, to give me too many threads to follow, and not enough information about any of them.”

Ibis spent most of the afternoon in the memorial garden, then returned “home” to rest for a little while before the evening meal.

“You left,” came the accusing voice as she crawled through the small opening into the shelter the two children shared when they weren’t at the clinic. “Where were you?”

Ibis tried to sound tranquil and adult. “I was busy, helping clean the memorial.”

“Garak’s memorial?”

“It’s a memorial for all Cardassians, a shrine for who we are and in honor of what we’ve lost. It remembers our parents and families who died. It’s a link to all our ancestors.”

“Not if Garak made it! You should stay away from him! He can’t be trusted! You don’t know what’s going on and neither does he!” Kehin insisted heatedly.

“He knows who the heirs of the flyers are,” she retorted.

“He does not!” Kehin shouted.

“You won’t even listen! The only one you listen to now is the man that gave you the book — and Garak knows things he doesn’t, so you’re listening to the wrong person!” she shouted back, her normally soft voice gaining unexpected volume.

“Garak doesn’t know what it means to be a Cardassian!”

“If that’s what you think, then you’ve forgotten how to be a Cardassian yourself!” Ibis about-faced and crawled back out of their shelter, ignoring his calls for her to come back.

Feeling insecure after Garak’s intrusion into his home, Limorin headed to one of the replicator stations for his evening meal. He had a small stash of emergency supplies, but tonight he wanted to be surrounded by other people, to feel safe, to face no more questions.

Reaching the food line, he looked around, hoping to see members of the Oralian Way that he could join. He saw no familiar faces. Sighing quietly, he took a place in line and resigned himself to a long wait.

“Well, well.”

The old man started at the harsh voice. Those in line around him paid little attention.

“My old professor, dear friend. Let’s talk.”

“I was waiting to eat—“

“We can eat together and learn what we’ve each been doing since we last saw one another. Come.” Mondrig grabbed his arm tightly and drew him away from crowd toward a quiet alley. The old professor tried to slow them down by leaning more heavily on his cane, but Mondrig didn’t seem to care. People parted around them, but were mostly disinterested.

When they were alone and unobserved, Mondrig stopped.

“Are there any more copies of the book in the university vault?” he demanded with a hiss.

“What?” Limorin pulled his arm free.

“Are there any more books?” Mondrig repeated impatiently. “Do you know where to find one?”

“No! There was only the one copy! And if someone hadn’t hidden it centuries ago, it would have been destroyed with all the others from that time!”

“I must find another....”

“What happened to the one?”

“Never mind what happened to it, I need—“

“Did you damage it?” Limorin demanded in true alarm. “The book is irreplaceable, a treasure of our past!”

“It could have led to an ancient treasure of value today,” Mondrig muttered.

“That was all it meant to you? You said the Directorate would preserve our past, and that you would never tell anyone how you found it! You—”

“If I had told the Directorate that I found you looting the university vaults of literary treasure,” Mondrig cut in ruthlessly, “you would have been dead that day. I gave you your life.”

“I wasn’t looting! I was trying to preserve whatever was left! You played on my fear, the fear we all had in those first days, that the Jem’Hadar were still waiting just around the corner! You didn’t care about the Directorate or our past or my life,” Limorin retorted bitterly.

“What of it? There’s nothing you could do about it, then or now.”

“I should never have let you take that book in the first place! I thought you would keep it safe for the future — not that you would use it in your own perverted quest for power!” the old man raged, barely controlling his voice. “I should have given it to the Reunion Project, or to Garak — at least it wouldn’t have been in your hands!”

“Garak! The one who’s working with the Federation? If I thought you would collaborate with the traitorous likes of him,” Mondrig snarled back through gritted teeth, nose to nose with the old man, “I would strangle you then and there, and end any chance of treachery!”

Limorin stepped back in alarm, gasping a quick breath as Mondrig raised one clenched fist as if to strike him. He saw the other man fight for control, then finally move slowly back.

“Try to find me more useful information, Limorin. And you just might live through this, you and your friends. You’d better have something the next time we meet.” Turning on his heel, Mondrig left the alley.

Alone again, Limorin simply stood for several long moments, shaking. Then he hurried out of the rubble strewn alley and turned his feet for home, emotionally exhausted but for panic, forgetting about food.

Rekel entered Parn’s office unchallenged, and prepared to wait for the legate’s notice, as always.

Uncharacteristically, he watched her take her usual stance in front of the desk. “You’re late,” he said sharply, his heavy jaw projecting more than usual.

“My apologies, legate,” she said crisply, her alto voice respectful, though she had arrived less than five minutes after his instructed time. “There were some difficulties coordinating some of the Federation relief teams at Laemit City, and our people there would not proceed without our approval of the human plans.”

“We must get a full Directorate office in place there soon,” he growled in his own deep voice.

“We will,” she assured him.

Parn looked up at her, his fingers playing absently with a small wand. She knew that at a touch the wand would eject one projectile blade and click another fixed knife into place, becoming a dangerous weapon; the legate had deadly thoughts in mind.

“Are you familiar with a historian and professor named Kassel Limorin?” he asked.

“I have heard of him, yes. He taught here in Cardassia City, at the University, but resigned from his post a dozen years ago. I believe he was suspected of being a dissident. I have heard reports that he has been spotted at meetings of the Oralian Way cult.”

“I have heard the same,” Parn said, in a tone that almost suggested he was talking to himself. His fingers stilled. “What has Garak heard of him?”

She tilted her head slightly. “Considering his past, I am sure Garak knows of him.”

“Have they met?” His hand moved ever so slightly; the blade end pointed at her.

“Not that I have observed.”

“But you cannot observe him every minute of every day.”

“No,” she admitted. “I have responsibilities, and he would suspect my motives if I tried to be with him at all times — unless you wish my motives to become suspect.”

“No, no, you are more valuable as you are now.... What has Garak done with his time, since the storm?”

She replied without hesitation. “He spends most of his days at the memorial garden, cleaning and repairing it. A number of children and young people have begun to assist him. Some we believe to be members of the Oralian Way, and some are Professor Lang’s people from the university. He also spends a great deal of time at the Federation relief clinic, assisting in any way he can — and continues to meet frequently with their Dr. Bashir.”

“The human leader of the mission.”

“Yes.”