Chapter 7

The dust seemed especially thick and dry that night. Commander Blake couldn't help coughing a little as he made his security circuit around the makeshift hospital and collection of tents that comprised the Federation medical base. The deep shadows were as heavy as the air. If there were stars in the supposedly clear sky, he couldn't see them, not tonight. It was cooler, too, and windy; after sunset, the atmosphere had an unpleasant, clammy feel.

As if anybody would be out here to need guarding, he thought resentfully.

For a moment, he paused in the sheltering remains of a blasted wall and allowed himself the luxury of several bitter thoughts. Rubbing his hands together, he tried to rid them of the layer of grit that clung to everything. He hated this place.

Crunch.

All other thoughts vanished in duty. Blake silently lowered himself to a crouch, weapon drawn, and listened intently. The noise - the footstep - was not repeated. Either someone had paused or that someone was now walking more quietly.

He waited. Sooner or later, he was sure, the person would step on another piece of debris or stone and give away the location. From where he crouched, Blake could see across the rubble-strewn avenue. He watched for movement among the shadows, stifling another urge to cough.

Crunch.

There - a movement in the darkness. Blake rose in a smooth motion. "You! Show yourself!" he ordered.

Silence. He kept his phaser trained on the dark shape. "I won't say it again."

The figure finally stepped into view. It was a Cardassian, as he'd expected, wrapped against the night temperature that was no doubt uncomfortably cold to the heat-loving species. The garment was hooded - he couldn't see who was under it.

"Who are you?" Blake demanded. "What are you doing here?"

The Cardassian replied with equal scorn. "Can't a man even walk to what passes for shelter without permission from the almighty Federation?"

Blake snorted a laugh of disgust. It turned into a cough. "It seems not."

"Well, by all means," said the other. "It is poor fortune indeed, if Cardassians are allowed to be without escort in the streets of their own city."

It took only a second to place that derisive voice. The commander narrowed his eyes. "You're Mondrig, aren't you? The leader of that one group - the Directorate, was it?" Blake didn't add "the slaver who worked with the Ferengi," although that rumor was making its haphazard way through the population. He wondered briefly how many Cardassians believed it - or cared.

"Yes. And you are Security Commander Blake." Another gust of wind funneled down the street. Mondrig shivered and took a step closer. "If you have more questions, may I at least join you out of the wind while you ask them?"

There was a fraction of a second's pause. "Sure, why not?"

The Cardassian stepped into the darkness beside him. A swirl of dust followed him like a haunting shadow, keeping step. Mondrig pulled his jacket more tightly about himself. "You are out here tonight on Bashir's orders?"

Blake glanced toward Mondrig, then looked away. "Might as well be," he said flatly.

"Your Dr. Bashir seems determined to interject himself into matters that are none of his affair," Mondrig commented. His own gaze shifted off to somewhere in the distance.

You got that right.... Blake scowled at himself and clamped his jaw shut. No matter what his thoughts, they were none of the Cardie's concern. Blake despised slavers on principle. That disgust warred with personal antipathy toward the Cardassians, who deserved everything they got out of the war. Both feelings warred with his hatred of Bashir.

"If not for him," Mondrig said, gently pressing, "it sounds like we would both be going about our own business."

"This is a pointless conversation," Blake retorted. "He's making a career out of interfering with other people. Even good people," he couldn't help but add.

The Cardassian nodded. "I will not assume you include me in that category, but I assure you I share your feelings. He is an interloper determined to inflict his unwanted views on others. We would both be better served if he were no longer here."

The tone of that last remark was suspect. Blake returned his gaze sharply. "Are you threatening our medical officer?"

"No, no, of course not," said Mondrig, lifting his hands in a placating gesture. "I am merely speculating on how things could have turned out differently - a common thought to many of my people."

Blake didn't answer; Mondrig continued. His voice was low and thoughtful, and had a persuasive quality to it. "I cannot help but wonder how our paths might have gone, had Bashir never taken Cardassia as his personal cause. I wonder if Starfleet would have even come here without his influence - and whether your superiors would have sent you elsewhere." He paused. "There are, I'm sure, other places where aid is needed - are there not?"

The echo of Blake's own thought was disconcerting. He stiffened.

Mondrig nodded; the silence answered his question. His look was almost one of sympathy. "Times are changing so quickly now," he said. "They have gone ill for so long - one can only hope things will turn for the better soon. One could even speculate as to what event might bring about such a change.... "

Blake cut in, rough-voiced. "You've speculated enough. I thought you said you were on your way home."

The dark eyes gleamed, ever so slightly. "Such as it is, yes."

"Then get going -- and next time, take a different route." He couldn't read the other man's expression, hidden as it was in the hood - not that he read Cardassian expressions well anyway. He preferred not to have to read them at all.

After a few seconds, Mondrig shrugged and turned away. "Good night, Commander Blake. It has been ... interesting, speaking with you. I feel I have learned something about humans. And that is the first step to understanding and working together."

"Good night," said Blake distinctly.

The Cardassian walked for nearly half a block before he vanished into the darkness. His words seemed to echo back and forth between the broken walls. What event might bring about such a change....

Blake grimaced. The anger and still-raw grief washed up and overwhelmed him, almost making him sick to his stomach.

How things could have turned out differently....

The wind surged, churning up the dust. Squinting, he hunched his shoulders against it and continued on. The conversation lingered with him through the hours of his watch - and in the tunnels on the edge of Tarlak Sector, it lingered with Mondrig as well.

The Ferengi have released the Cardassian children they abducted. They have left Cardassian territory. How many children have already been stolen from their homeworld and sold into bondage, however, is still unknown....

With a frown, Jake stopped writing and closed the file. The phrasing of his story was awfully melodramatic, and that was not the tone he had tried for. This wasn't the first time he had tried, either. He set his PADD down and stretched, giving the dim storage room an idle glance. He'd hoped that writing in the solitude of this small space would help him clear his head. It wasn't working out that way; the quiet only served to dampen his thoughts.

In all honesty, though, it was hard not to be melodramatic. The idea of selling children into slavery was disgusting. He wished they'd known earlier, stopped the Ferengi sooner. And yet, a cynical thought pointed out, Cardassians had made slaves of millions of Bajoran children. The irony was close to overwhelming; every aspect of the Cardassian plight dripped with it.

For the moment, he felt like he needed to break away. His editors back on Earth, however, had other plans for him.

"Jake?"

Jake jumped at the voice and turned toward the door. Dr. Bashir stood in the relative light of the outer hallway. Jake could see that he was tired, though he wasn't nearly as high-strung as he had been before the Ferengi left.

"Julian - come in, come in," Jake motioned, and Bashir stepped into the room, edging through the stacked equipment to join him. Jake gestured to his PADD. "I was just writing another article," he said.

Bashir smiled and sat on a crate across from him. "I hope we're not making your task too daunting."

"It's not the task so much as..." Jake's voice trailed off. He picked up his PADD and stared at the words again. "The execution. You know?"

Bashir smiled and nodded, and Jake knew he understood. "Well, I'm not a writer," the doctor said softly. "But I have some idea of how hard it is to put a 'human' face on the story. Especially one like this."

"It looks like I'll be getting more practice," Jake replied with a sigh. Bashir looked up quizzically as he continued. "My editors sent me another project. They want me to tour the outer rim, take a look at the more remote parts, see how those people are living."

"The outer rim. You mean the rural areas."

"Yeah. I'll be traveling the continent a bit, looking for ideas."

Bashir's brow creased; he looked as though he wanted to say something. He let several quiet seconds pass between them. "I'm not sure how I feel about that," he finally said.

Jake felt a slight pang of guilt, but he resolutely pushed it aside. "I wasn't asking your permission. This is my job."

"I know. I know," Bashir said. "It's just … I can't help feeling…." He got up and crossed his arms against his chest. "Kasidy would never forgive me if anything happened to you, Jake."

So that's what it was. After all this time, with everything that had happened, part of Bashir was still stuck on Ajilon Prime. Jake took a deep breath. "I appreciate it, Julian. But I'm not sixteen anymore. I have to worry about this. Not you." This last was put gently, as if to relieve him of responsibility or further anxiety.

The two were silent for another moment. Then Bashir nodded, a bit sheepish. "You didn't come here to linger around a hospital. I understand." He chuckled weakly. "Excuse me while I feel old."

Jake returned the smile. "Sorry."

"It's nothing," Bashir said, shrugging it off. "When do you leave?"

"In a couple days," Jake replied. "There are a few things I have to tie up here."

"Not too many, I hope."

"No, not really."

"In that case...." Bashir hesitated, gathered his resolve, and nodded. "Maybe you can tie up one more thing before you go. Would you do me a favor?"

Jake gave him a curious glance. "I can try."

"I need a report - a feature, maybe - about the colonies on Cheiron IV," the doctor said slowly. "Something to send back to the Federation, put some impact behind a request for further aid in that area. Do you still have copies of the interviews and photographs you took on board the Nightingale?"

"Most of them," said Jake, a bit startled - though not displeased - by the request. Since coming to Cardassia, he had almost forgotten the war-battered Federation colonies in all the turmoil. Now he recalled the grim voices and pained eyes of the hijackers he had interviewed, as if the footage was being played back to him. He shook off the images. "Security still has some of my files, but I have enough to work with."

Bashir nodded. "Good. Captain Westfall still has the post-war footage Hart collected about Cheiron, too. If you think you can take the extra assignment ... " he waited for Jake's nod, "use that and any other material you think would help. If you need anything else, let me know and I'll do my best to arrange it." He paused, and for a second there was a wry look on his face. "I'm sure there are plenty of people willing to speak their minds on the matter."

"I understand," Jake said. "I'll work on it in my spare time and get it to you as soon as I can."

"Great - thank you." The acceptance seemed to remove a burden; Bashir looked grateful and a little more at ease. He stood and made for the door. "I had better let you get back to your article. Goodnight, Jake."

Jake smiled. "Goodnight, Julian."

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