Bashir somberly contacted Aya, at the Gemelen farmstead. “It’s not good. Several of her symptoms correspond to those of the early stages of the plague we’re seeing in the refugee camp. The illness apparently has a wider dispersion than we’d hoped.”

He could hear her expression fall from the tone of her voice. “But I thought Jake said she’d been sick for weeks — the bad one seems to kill quicker than that.”

“Her condition has been complicated by a pulmonary infection that appears to be chronic, from the inflammation and scar tissue already built up in her lungs,” he acknowledged. “I suspect that’s what confused the initial diagnosis.”

“Julian, I can’t see something like this disease arising spontaneously at different locations around the planet,” the microbiologist observed.

“Nor I. Which likely confirms that it’s another little Dominion farewell gift to the Cardassian people.” Like the Teplan blight, if it was intentional, and not an unexpected side effect of something else they did, he finished silently to himself. “You might as well get back here. You’ll do more good in the lab than looking for something that’s probably all over the planet.”

“I’ll be back in an hour. If there’s a pulmonary infection too, I should get some more pollen and dust samples in case we need to nail down a source for that.”

“Good thinking, Aya. I’ll see you in an hour.”

That ended the conversation. Bashir leaned forward, resting his forehead on his steepled hands.

Another innocent child....

The next four days passed in a haze. Aya returned from the farmstead with no useful information. Jake found himself alternately hanging around the lab where Aya and Julian spent a good part of their time buried in research, and wandering disconsolately around the ward where Jeila and the daily increasing number of plague victims were cared for, behind their sterile force screens.

Herem made it plain he resented Jake’s presence, but Jeila still greeted him with shy smiles and shining eyes. After Jake’s first visit and the way it obviously uplifted Jeila’s spirits, Herem didn’t have the heart to order him out of her chamber.

The girl’s wracking cough had subsided into occasional short hoarse fits, but the bright blue of her eyes seemed to fade from one day to the next, shading into gray. The sides of her throat slowly swelled, as Jake knew several organs were as well, from Julian’s somberly delivered medical information. Her energy level dropped and she developed a fever that was increasingly difficult to control.

On the far side of the energy screen that created a sterile field to protect others from the plague, Herem’s gaze grew more worried. The kotra game board and pieces that one of the nurses brought in to try and keep the boys occupied, lay ignored.

Herem made a decision.

Dr. Ptacek brought the latest patient reports to Bashir in the med lab.

“You look exhausted,” he noted, at the droop of her antennae and the dark blue flush around her eyes.

“So do you.” She tried to stifle a yawn. “Have you slept in the last seventy-five hours?”

He ignored the question. “Any word from Captain Westfall?”

Ptacek nodded. “Yes, we’ve got two dozen volunteers coming down from the ships.”

“Well, that’s a plus.”

“Not as much as we’d hoped. As widespread as this disease seems to be, the net result is only one or two people per relief station. If any more people came down, there wouldn’t be enough crew left to man the relief ships and continue the bioremediation research for Lausten and Tejral. We simply don’t have enough people here to take over everything the Cardassian volunteers have been doing in the clinics — and that doesn’t even begin to address what happens if the food, resource, rubbish, and construction crews simply stop showing up.”

Bashir groaned.

“We do have one new volunteer here.”

“Who’s that?”

“Dr. Parmak wants to be released to work in the plague ward.”

“What? That’s ridiculous, he can’t do that.” Julian replied, preoccupied.

“He makes a good argument otherwise,” she told him. “He’s willing to do it, he’s still got the strength for it, he’d set a good example for other Cardassians, and he wouldn’t have to risk either exposing himself to the illness, since he already has it, or risk exposing his patients, since he’d only be treating others who are in the same condition he is.”

Bashir couldn’t argue against the logic in that. Sighing, he began to review the medical updates.

“Hmm, no new patients today, for the first time in weeks. That’s a good sign.”

“I wish it were,” she answered reluctantly.

“What do you mean?”

“One of our aid station medics reported that he’s hearing rumors of sick people who are staying with their families and friends, hiding, or else leaving the city, alone, so as not to infect anyone else.”

“What?” Bashir snapped.

“They know we don’t have a cure, and they’re losing confidence that we’ll find one. So they’re just not coming to us any more, if they think they have the disease.” She hesitated. “Even worse, there are mutterings that some Cardassians believe the disease didn’t appear until after we did.”

“So?”

“Some are starting to wonder if we are the cause.”

Julian swore.

Nobody in Cardassia City paid much attention to the Cardassian youth moving uncertainly through the streets, trying to reach his destination without risking speaking to anyone. Herem had learned a little about the city over the past few days, and he had a general idea of his goal, from having listened carefully to people talking. He was good at listening. But he had learned, in the Jem’Hadar attack and after, that there were times when being unseen and unnoted was the best thing.

He finally reached the building he’d been told contained the main Directorate office for Cardassia City — the old Central Command offices, preserved in the final attack because of the Founder’s presence there, and intact.

There were a number of men and women loitering about the streets around the building, dressed in civilian garments, but too alert and moving with far too much purpose to be anything but soldiers, to the eye of any Cardassian who had grown up on the militaristic home world. One of them shifted position as Herem walked purposefully toward the open door.

“What do you want?” the man called softly, blocking his passage without actually standing in front of him.

Herem looked up at the burly man without flinching. “I’ve come to see Gul Madred. I know he’s here.”

“Why do you want to see him?”

“That’s no concern of yours.”

The man looked affronted. “Why would the gul possibly want to see a child?”

“I’m not a child! And I need to see him!”

“Go away, child,” the man emphasized, turning away, but making it very clear Herem would not be allowed to pass.

“Wait!” Herem started following the man. “He’ll want to see me.”

The man glanced back at him skeptically.

“Three days ago, he came to Pa’rem’tir City to see me.”

The man paused to peer at him more closely, finally realizing, “You’re that farmer.”

Herem’s jaw tightened in resentment at the casual disdain in his tone — common enough in those from multi-generational military families, for anyone from another strata of their society. “Yes.”

“I’ll check.” The man drifted away for a few seconds. Herem didn’t see him talk to anyone, but after a minute, he glanced around the street, then gestured once for the youth to continue.

No one confronted him again as he entered the old command center.

For a few seconds he wasn’t sure where to go, and stood uncertainly in the high-ceilinged entry hall.

Then a woman approached him, fully garbed as a soldier and making no pretense of being anything less.

“Gul Madred can spare two minutes, when he is finished with his meeting,” she said flatly. She strode back the way she had come without looking to see if he followed her or not.

He hurried after the woman, nearly having to jog to keep up with her deliberately long steps. They went down several corridors, up one stairwell, through several joining rooms, took a lift that seemed from the feeling in his stomach to be going down, then up a sloping hall occasionally punctuated with single steps. Either the old central command was something of a maze, or the soldier was taking a roundabout path to confuse him, Herem concluded.

They finally reached a small chamber with one wall lined with benches that looked like they’d been scavenged from several sources, from their different constructions and heights.

The soldier pointed vaguely at the benches. “Sit down and wait.” Then she vanished through an arch in the far wall; a heavy metal door slid closed behind her and began to glow with a delicate shimmer he recognized as a force field.

Having no choice, Herem moved toward the bench nearest that door, assuming it would likely lead to Gul Madred’s current location. He sat down on the hard ferrocrete and glanced around the room.

There were several alcoves on the far wall, with what appeared to be built-in benches. He assumed at first they were more waiting areas, but after a minute he recognized them as holding cells with low, fabric-covered bunks. The force fields that would have isolated them were down; he wondered if they were still functional, or were simply not being used at the moment, perhaps to conserve power.

As time stretched on, he found himself staring at those three alcoves, remembering trials the family had watched on the planetary vid system, wondering if any of the criminals he’d seen on the monitor had spent any time in those cells, if they had gone from this confinement to their equally public executions.

He shifted uncomfortably. The bench was hard, he told himself.

The arch slid open, and two soldiers stepped out.

Herem jumped.

The soldiers kept walking, paying him no attention.

More long minutes.

The arch opened again.

The same female soldier as before. “Now,” she said brusquely, and turned on her heel.

Herem had to run to get through the door before it slid shut, almost catching his tunic.

They followed another corridor, the woman still setting an almost too-brisk pace, and it was actually several minutes more before Herem was led into the office where Madred sat behind a desk, alone and stern.

“The farm boy,” the soldier said with deference, and disappeared.

“Gul Madred—“

The gul stood up, not looking at him.

“Gul Madred,” Herem began again as the gul moved toward the door.

The officer glanced at him, his already thin lips nothing but a hard slit across his face as he scowled.

“I wanted to talk to you ... about your offer.”

“What offer is that?” the gul finally said arrogantly.

“The...” Herem swallowed. “Your offer to save my sister and provide us a worker for our farm.”

Bitter satisfaction gleamed in the man’s eyes. “That offer ended when you chose the Federation.” He turned away toward the door.

Herem took several desperate steps. “But ... but Jeila’s still sick!”

“If Bashir and Sisko bought you with promises they couldn’t keep, that is not my concern. Going to them was your choice.”

“But ... but.... They say she has that plague! And they can’t help her! If you can help her, I’ll do whatever you want, say whatever you want—“

“The plague? Really? Is the Federation telling you the truth, or are they deliberately lying to keep your sister here, so that Sisko can continue to write his stories about the poor Cardassian orphans and how the noble Federation came to save them?” he sneered, his harsh voice dripping sarcasm. “I wouldn’t be surprised if they come up with a miraculous cure for her, at the last minute, so they can reveal your adoring gratitude to the galaxy.”

Herem reeled back in shock.

“What, you thought their aid came without price, without their own motives?” Madred paused to lean close. “They accused us of using you, but at least we are your own people and would have allowed you to choose your own words and to speak in your own voice. You probably don’t even know what words young Sisko is using to tell what he claims your story to be.”

“He’s only telling his people what’s happening here, he’s—“

“He’s telling what he claims is happening, twisting it to fit Federation ideals and beliefs, while parading your sister’s face in a bid for sympathy so his people can pat themselves on the back for their generosity and compassion. Then he struts as the one who makes it possible. After all, we’re merely Cardassians, the defeated, the enemy, children who can’t care for themselves — and they’re the high and honorable Federation, the heroes. They only hear what he wants them to hear, what they want to hear about themselves. And yours are the faces he parades for their edification.”

Herem stared around wildly, looking for thoughts before he could begin finding words.

“And you didn’t even realize it, did you? Fool....”

“I.... No, I....” He gaped.

“I thought as much,” the gul snorted. “And you didn’t think at all. You made your choice, farm boy. Leave. And don’t come back. No matter what happens. The Directorate has no use for the Federation’s puppets.” Madred strode out without looking back.

A moment later, the female soldier returned, her face as devoid of expression as her words were of warmth. “I am to show you the way out. Now.”

Numb, head down, he followed.

In his office, Legate Parn watched on a monitor screen as the young farmer stumbled out, head bowed and obviously in shock and grief.

Madred joined him a moment later.

“On his way. A pity the girl has the plague,” the gul remarked without emotion. “We could have used them.”

“The children may still be useful to us,” Parn noted. “You’ve made it clear that those who cooperate with the Federation cannot later look to us for help when the Federation fails them, and that the Federation’s goals and actions here are suspect. It will make many of our people think twice about supporting them.”

Still standing in front of the desk, Madred continued. “The Federation teams aren’t our greatest threat at this point. The Reunion Project is gaining strength by the day.”

“They gain strength because of Federation aid.” Parn didn’t invite him to sit down. “With the first vote only weeks away, our people need to see that the Federation isn’t their great hope — and with the Reunion Project tied to them, their ability to rebuild our world will be questioned as well.”

Jake sat on a piece of rubble in a shaded corner outside the clinic, restlessly contemplating the empty screen on his PADD. Where was inspiration? Where was the hook for his next story?

All he kept thinking about was Jeila, laying there in that bed, her eyes now dull with fever rather than bright with life and greetings for others. He didn’t want to write about a child dying. He wanted to write about a miraculous cure, and a little girl restored to health.

He wanted a happy ending.

He felt the intensity of the stare before he heard the purposeful footsteps.

Looking up, Jake saw Herem approaching. The youth’s humiliation and fury were palpable; he all but vibrated with emotion.

“Herem? What happened?”

He stopped, a half a dozen steps shy of Jake’s position. His nostrils flared.

“Are you lying?” the boy spat.

Jake was shocked. “Lying? What are you talking about?”

“Are you lying to us?” His voice raised.

“I wouldn’t lie to you, Herem!” he protested. “What makes you think I would lie?”

Herem turned on his heel.

Jake scrambled to his feet and chased him. “Herem, what are you talking about?”

“I’m going to talk to your Dr. Bashir. I’m going to find out if he’s lying.”

Bewildered, Jake stammered, “What do you mean? What do you think we’re lying about?”

Herem spun around again, craning his heavy-ridged neck to glare up into Jake’s face. “Jeila. Are you lying about Jeila?”

The human’s knees almost gave out. “About Jeila? How? We wouldn’t lie about her. Dr. Bashir’s doing everything—”

“But when is he going to do it?”

Taken aback, Jake demanded, “What?”

“When’s he going to cure her?”

He stared down at the teenager for several moments. “If that’s a serious question,” Jake replied, “the answer is, as soon as he can. As soon as he and Aya find a cure. And from observation, they’re working on that cure every day until they drop. Knowing Julian, he won’t stop until he has a cure. For Jeila, and for everybody else who’s sick.”

“How do I know that?”

“Well ... because I’m telling you! And because I know Julian!”

Herem made a disgusted sound in his throat. “Sure. You’re his friend. He’s your friend. You’d lie for him. And he’d help you out.”

Several of the staff were clustering at the entrance to the clinic, looking concerned.

“Herem, what are you talking about?” Jake tried to be reasonable, still unsure what was going on, but the heat was rising in his cheeks and he was embarrassed at the gathering audience. “Somebody must’ve told you something that’s got you upset. What is it?”

“It’s for your press, isn’t it? Jeila’s story? The longer it goes on, the more stories you get to tell. You don’t care about us, you never did! You just wanted your stories!” the boy shouted.

“You knew I wanted to tell your story, it was to show our people who you were, what you were going through here—“ He reached for Herem’s shoulder.

Herem shrugged him off viciously. “Stay away from me! And stay away from Jeila! We were fools to come here! Fools to trust you! I wish you’d never come!” He pushed past Jake and the staff, rushing into the clinic.

Jake made to follow him, but one of the staff caught his arm.

“Let him go for now, Jake.” Aya somberly gestured after the young Cardassian.

“But the things he said, he’s wrong! He’s—“

“I know that, and you know that. But I was at the farmstead with you. Everything he’s done over the past week, and before, has been to get help for his sister. It’s been hard on him, finding out there was no easy answer, from us or his own people. Maybe somebody said something that made him snap. Let him go, let him calm down.”

“He’s looking for Julian.”