A steady light breeze cascaded down through the ruins from the east; otherwise the valley was eerily quiet. Everything was slickly coated with grit, shimmering dully in the cool, thin mountain air. In the silence of the dead city, surrounded by brooding mountain peaks on all sides, the Federation team spoke as little as possible, feeling breathing to be almost an intrusion that might wake something better left sleeping. In their protective environmental suits, the team members were unrecognizable as they moved through the desolate site.

One of the figures worked his way through the afternoon shadows of a sheer cliff wall. Suddenly he paused, then raised his tricorder higher to scan the rock beside him.

"Well, I'll be a sonuva...."

"Trey?" another figure called sharply.

"Here, Shane!" the first called, elation in his voice. "I'll be damned, look what I found!"

Tejral joined Lausten before the cliffside. "What is it?"

"Look at this." Lausten's voice had dropped and was now barely above a whisper, his tone carrying elated awe. "Look at this...."

"What am I looking at?" Tejral passed his own tricorder over the wall. His hand froze, then he passed the tricorder over the crevice in the rock again.

"See it?"

"Yes. Lichen," Tejral replied reverently. "There's lichen growing in there."

"Crustose form. An endolithic species. Reading healthy. Amazing. The dust and everything in the atmosphere doesn't seem to be killing it," Lausten noted, double-checking all his readings.

The rest of the team began to gather around.

"We're excited about finding lichens?" one of them asked, a little dubiously.

There was a grin in Lausten's voice. "It's alive, kid. In spite of it all. There's life in this place. In all this cold poison, there's still life here...."

Rekel made her way unchallenged through the bustle of activity that surrounded the Directorate's headquarters. She knew the people there who were worth knowing, and they knew her. Inside the structure, she went directly to Legate Parn's office, passing several security checkpoints without pausing. If she'd been unexpected or unwelcome, she would have been stopped a dozen times over.

As she'd expected, Parn was waiting for her, sitting at the desk where she always saw him. She found herself wondering, suddenly, if he lived in that room. She knew she would never be able to constrict her life by the confines of an office.

Unless, of course, duty demanded it. She fervently hoped that would not happen.

"Report!" Parn barked in his deep bass voice, after a single penetrating stare at her.

"Garak continues to work in the memorial garden," she stated efficiently, beginning with the enigmatic man who Parn seemed fixated on, at times. "I've not heard of him supporting any of the political groups, publicly or privately. But I'm afraid my contact with him has been more limited recently. He's not been at the clinic since the tomb was opened, and he's had no contact with any of the political leaders or with Bashir. The only other Federation leader I'm aware of Garak speaking with was Dr. Ptacek, and that was on a purely personal level for her, regarding some orphans."

Parn grunted. "Rumor has it there are those who believe that some of Garak's previous contacts with Bashir were on a 'purely personal' level."

She bit back the scornful response that first came to mind, instead noting, "It is not beyond Garak's abilities to seduce a Starfleet officer if he felt it furthered his mission. But in this case I believe their security chief allows his ... 'purely personal' antipathy for Bashir to cloud his view of reality."

"Hmmm." A beat. "What do you hear of the election?"

She hesitated a second. "At the moment, too close to tell. The majority of our citizens seem somewhat evenly divided between the Directorate and the Reunion Project, with the rest scattered among the lesser groups. It is more difficult to learn which way the followers of the Oralian Way will vote -- they are less involved in politics, and it doesn't appear that their leaders are directing their followers toward any specific government involvement."

"You've been using your position to support the Directorate, of course?"

"As much as I can, without raising suspicions. The Federation continues to monitor all communications."

Parn smiled humorlessly. "As we continue to monitor theirs."

"They profess that they are impartial and are merely trying to ensure that all who wish to, can be involved in the process so that the election represents the true will of the Cardassian people. However, I think it clear that they would prefer the Reunion Project to have a majority role in the new Council."

"Very clear," the legate grumbled. "Do they openly support the Project, or are they devious in their support?"

"Neither, in my observation. They are not involving themselves openly in any of the political groups. However, in talk among themselves, they are more open that they believe the Reunion Project offers more opportunities for Cardassia. They believe Lang and Ocett's people will support the relief efforts, after the election, while the Directorate could order the Federation to leave. They also believe that Reunion control of Cardassia will result in ... more peaceful relations with the Federation, in the future."

"While the Directorate will be a more militant threat, based on us, its leaders."

She nodded affirmation. Parn was definitely keeping informed of personal discussions among the Federation personnel. She thought she knew, now, which of the Cardassian volunteers at the clinic and the other relief stations were reporting back to the legate, as she was. But there could be some she had missed.

She wondered if she would ever be trusted enough to actually be told who the others were.

"And what of Mondrig? How is our cave vole faring?"

She made a distasteful sound. "I must report that I am no longer in direct contact with him."

Parn eyed her. "He stepped above his station with you?"

"Yes," she admitted, unsure how the legate would respond. "It reached a point where I felt I had no choice but to acquiesce to his desire or to end direct contact with him." Rekel hesitated before continuing unwillingly. "If it would better serve the Directorate that I return to him, I still have contacts among his Coterie, I could let it be known that--"

"No, no." The legate shook his head. "You tolerated his advances long enough. There are some sacrifices that are unnecessary. Especially at this point. You have done more than your duty with him."

"Thank you," she said with more fervor than she realized.

"Continue, however, to maintain those other contacts. We no longer need to direct him, but I think we will still want to be aware of his activities, with that pathetic Coterie."

"Yes, Legate."

"Do you have anything else to report?"

Rekel considered. "I believe the Federation teams are making progress in their bioremediation plan. The most recent information is that Tejral and Lausten are planning to commence experiments in the next few days. If successful, they may be able to implement their process within a month."

"Within a month...." Parn rubbed his thumb over his thick lower lip.

"Our world desperately needs their research to be successful," she reminded him. "But if you wish ... certain delays in their progress--"

"No, no," he waved the suggestion off. "You're right, we need their work to be successful, for our world's sake. And if it cannot be implemented for a month.... Time enough. The election will be over by the time they show success or failure. But you may want to plant rumors, as we have with the Federation's other operations, that talk of future success is premature and perhaps politically minded, with a vote so soon, and that the timing of their plan is questionable. We have to keep the people suspicious of the Federation and its motives, and uncertain of their assistance."

She nodded. "I'll see to it."

"You may go."

Jake paused to wipe his brow; his sleeve came away damp and dirty. Moving supplies and equipment around the clinic was almost a full time job. Patients came and went, whether recovered, moved to other facilities, or dead; equipment was beamed down from the medical ships and set up in the labs; supplies were brought down, inventoried, rearranged, and used. It was certainly a hot job, sometimes dirty, and always demanding. Inside the windowless, airless chambers below the main clinic, it drained breath and energy more than working in the outdoors or the upper levels.

"Aren't you supposed to be writing?" a familiar voice interjected.

"Hey ... Vak," he panted. "Thought I'd ... do more good ... here ... this afternoon...."

"From what I hear," the Bolian commented, gesturing at the stacked crates, "your stories have been doing more good than moving a dozen mountains like this. Here, have some water."

"Well ... everybody needs a break ... now and then...." Jake accepted the flask and leaned against the wall, catching his breath before taking a drink. It was still hard to write. Every time he tried, the image of a dead Cardassian child took over his thoughts.

"This hardly seems like a break! Come on, Jake, let--"

"Is this where the biobeds are stored?" a deep voice interrupted, echoing oddly in the long chamber.

The two young men glanced up.

At the entrance to the chamber stood a huddle of seven Cardassians. All were clad in military garb, standing almost at attention. The leader, wearing glinn insignia, stood in front of them.

"What are you doing here?" Jake asked, unable to hide his suspicion -- were these Directorate troops, helping themselves?

"The Andorian doctor has ordered three additional biobeds and another quarantine field generator brought up to the far wing for plague patients."

"You're working with plague patients?" Vak interjected. "But you're Cardassian! You're susceptible--"

"We are Cardassian soldiers. We are not afraid of illness," the glinn said haughtily. "Where are the biobeds?"

"Okay...."

Vak and Jake traded glances; Jake stood up while Vak checked the supply PADD.

"We'll help you move them. Right this way--"

"Nor are we too weak for manual labor or afraid to dirty our hands," the glinn interrupted again, impatience and a hint of contempt in his voice. "We do not need your help. Simply direct us to the equipment we were sent for, and continue your conversation -- until you are sufficiently rested."

"I think I'm not gonna like these guys," Jake muttered as the soldiers trooped past in lockstep.

"I already don't like them," Vak muttered back.

Madred returned to his home, a deceptively modest structure that had survived the Dominion's genocidal assault. It hadn't been his home before then, but none of its previous occupants had survived to contest him when he laid claim to it.

The house was quiet.

"Yulani!" he called, laying aside his breastplate. "I'm here!"

No response.

"Yulani!" His voice rose in irritation. "Where's my rokassa juice?" The housekeeper knew he wanted a beverage as soon as he arrived at home, relaxing but not alcoholic, to keep him sharp.

Perhaps the woman was with Jil....

"Jil?" he called, striding toward the rear of the house.

Silence seemed to watch him. Sudden fear crawled up the side of his neck, the more disturbing for being so alien a feeling to him. Where was Jil?

Dr. Bashir studied the results carefully for a few moments, then regretfully shook his head. "The resonance tissue scan shows negative. No impact."

The microbiologist sighed as her shoulders drooped. "Nothing seems to work," she complained, frustrated. "The resonance scanner doesn't show a specific pathogen that could be a cause of the plague; we can't isolate a virus, a germ, or a bacteria that's different from the normal population or the usual types of illness. The phoretic analyzer doesn't reveal anything in the biochemistry of any of our patients that could account for it. We can't stabilize our patients for more than a few hours. Boosting their immune systems doesn't work. We haven't been able to come up with a cure, a vaccine, even a temporary medication to give their bodies time to develop antibodies. The best we've come up with is a maybe-palliative..."

Julian tapped the side of the tissue scanner. "Until we're sure what we're dealing with, we won't be able to fight it. No matter how many tissue samples we've run through this thing, we haven't gotten consistent results. The bronchial cells become fragile, start breaking down -- and we don't know why."

"I don't suppose the problem could be in our equipment? Contamination, aridity, maybe?"

"How many diagnostics have you run?" he countered.

"Today? Two," she admitted. "Full spectrum, on everything in this lab." She gestured around the equipment-crowded chamber. Three medical technicians worked at various stations, all clad in sterile overalls the same as they were to ensure the chamber remained uncontaminated. "It's not the equipment that's failing, it's us. Somehow...."

"There are moments I wish this was a Dominion plot, and not just a side effect," he said. "Starfleet Medical was able to talk to the female Founder. She denies any responsibility for it, and we have no choice but to believe her."

"Yeah." Aya glanced again at the equipment around them. "All this advanced technology, and it's not giving us answers either."

"At times," Bashir confessed a little wistfully, "I feel more like a piece of equipment myself than a human being A biomechanical machine crafted to meet certain specifications by my parents and the doctors who modified me. I sometimes wonder what would have happened if I hadn't met those expectations."

She stared at him.

Bashir shook his head. "Sorry. Never mind. I know I'm not a machine -- a machine wouldn't bo so damned exhausted. I'm just feeling as frustrated as everybody else."

"We need a break. Let's get something to eat," Aya suggested.

"What about your latest tissue run?"

She made a face. "You said it yourself. Negative impact. Let's get away, get a fresh perspective."

"Dr. Bashir!" The woman at the airlock entrance to the lab was wide-eyed with disbelief.

"What is it?"

"Gul Madred," she gulped. "Gul Madred is here!"

"Gul Madred!"

"He's demanding to see you! He's not alone! Hurry!"

Bashir followed Eske to the admitting room of the clinic, formerly an antechamber of the judicial building.

The gul stood in the middle of the room, haggard and ashen, appearing uncharacteristically half-dressed without his military breastplate. In his arms, the gul carried a young Cardassian woman, perhaps still a teenager. She seemed unconscious, limp, barely breathing, with visible sweat on her delicately molded forehead.

The other staff kept their distance, some suspicious, some fearful.

"Gul Madred." Bashir mentally braced himself for trouble as he approached.

"Bashir...." Madred held out the woman, entreating. "Jil... My daughter.... My Jil.... She's sick. Save her, you've got to save her. Our doctor won't even see her. You're the only one who can help...."

He took the girl in his arms, staring at her. Her color, her sweat, the shallow breathing -- he knew what it meant. Madred's daughter had the plague.

"Bashir!"

Julian was already moving. "Eske! Isolation unit! Standard procedure!" he snapped. "Madred! You're going into quarantine until we know if you're clear! M'at, take readings of this chamber and the entry hall -- and then sterilize it all!"