On the chance that Rekel wasn’t able to make a connection with the Reunion in time, Garak chose to seek out one he knew he could locate quickly and quietly, without fanfare. Leaving the clinic, he headed for what remained of the University of Cardassia City, avoiding the gathering crowds as much as possible without slowing himself down, to avoid being caught up in the degenerating situation.

Natima Lang had been a professor at the university, several years before. She’d been forced to flee Cardassia when her political views became too well known, and too much opposed to the government. She had come to Deep Space Nine, briefly, with two of her students. Their meeting then had not been the most affable, but ultimately, she would not have survived and escaped without his intervention.

Not, he suspected, that she would consider him a true friend or ally.

The university was as battered and filthy as much of the rest of the city. Several structures had been badly damaged in the final Jem’Hadar massacre. Surviving faculty and the few students who hadn’t gone searching for family, had been repairing what they could. The storm had undone as much of their work as it had in the rest of the city. A number of statues and memorials had fallen. Braced walls had slipped and cracked. Outer walls were streaked with gray, black, and brown, where the rain had run. The walks and porticoes were slick with muck. Branches of trees and shrubs hung low, weighted with the toxic silt that had fallen, as though with ice.

He found Professor Lang in one of the former lecture halls, directing several students in starting clean-up. Half of the roof in the structure was gone. He noted with approval that she was wearing coveralls and gloves, which were already stained. Her long hair was bound up to keep it out of the way.

She obviously wasn’t above physical labor.

“Professor Lang,” he called softly as the young people began their assignments.

She glanced his way, then did a double-take.

“Garak,” she said.

“Do you have a moment? I need to speak with you on a matter of some urgency.”

Lang hesitated. “What is it?” She kept the distance between them.

“There’s a mob moving upon the clinic. Instigated by Mondrig.”

She sighed in exasperation. “What does the Directorate hope to accomplish in that?”

Garak stepped closer, lowering his voice. “If I understand correctly, I believe they hope to drive out the Federation relief team to ensure that the people of Cardassia aren’t contaminated by Federation ideology. So that we can retain the purity of our own ideals.”

“Our ideology brought us into this situation. But the Directorate wants to maintain its own power, that’s all. No matter if that hurts our people.” She began piling debris that had blown into the hall through the open ceiling during the storm.

“So you will come?”

She paused and stared at him, blinking. “Come? Come where?”

“To the clinic. To urge the people to show restraint, to think about what they’re doing. To stop the riot before it gets out of hand.”

“Me— You want me to stand up and stop a mob?”

“The voice of the Reunion Project must be heard in opposition to violence.”

Now she laughed, standing there with her hands on her hips, shaking her head in bemusement. “Garak, you overestimate our current support!”

“Professor—”

“We’re still organizing, we need the right moment.”

“Someone has to stand up and counter Mondrig’s propaganda! Or else you’ll wind up waiting so long for the right moment that it will be too late — or there will be nothing left of our world to save!” Garak urged.

Lang shook her head again. “We know Mondrig to be Parn’s face to the world. Even after his actions with the Ferengi. Parn may keep a public distance from him, but we know who he works for. And Parn has much of the military supporting him. He won’t hesitate to use it against us, as he has in the past.”

“My dear, I think you’ve become too used to lurking in the shadows and thinking three times about everything you do. You have taught ethics — now show that you are not afraid to put them into practice!” he pressed.

She looked past him, her expression intent.

“Or will you wait until the Directorate has cowed all opposition, and taken charge — and then be forced to flee your home again, or lose your life and the lives of those who trust and follow you?”

Her lips tightened in anger.

“Are those young associates of yours still with you?” he asked, apparently changing the subject but driving home the point. He knew what had happened to the two students who had fled into exile with Lang. The Obsidian Order had gotten to one of them; the other had tried to return home during the Dominion occupation to organize a resistance cell. Both idealists were dead.

She swallowed, her face set.

“Would you see that Cardassia rise again?” he continued with smooth steel in his voice.

“That was your Cardassia,” she replied in a voice thick with pain and anger. “Why do you want to see it gone?”

“Because I have seen where it led us. Will you come?”

The first of the mob pushed into the courtyard. They paused at seeing the small but determined Federation group — four security officers, two doctors, and four others, all armed. For a few seconds they faced each other.

There was movement in the crowd as people pushed for position. A man dressed as a soldier stepped forward, dragging Aya with him. He shoved her in front of him.

One of the nurses gasped and reflexively stepped forward, her weapon dropping.

“Eske!” Bashir hissed.

The woman froze.

Aya stumbled and fell, sliding across the scummy stone.

Several of the rioters began edging to the side, variously calculating and angry expressions on their faces.

“Take out the ones trying to flank us,” Blake ordered in a low, carrying voice.

Five quick shots took them down.

For a few seconds, it looked as though the crowd might actually back away. Then a man in the front took the initiative.

“We are Cardassians! We don’t need aliens telling us what to think and do on our own world!” he howled at the top of his lungs. With a metal bar probably taken from a damaged building, he ran forward, the bar raised in both hands as a weapon.

Storie dropped him, but it was as though his movement was a signal; in singles and then groups, the mob pressed forward.

“Fire!” the commander yelled.

The first few moments, they held their own. Blake’s security team picked off as many of the leaders as they could with practiced accuracy. With Jake and Ptacek covering them, Eske was able to help the dazed Aya to her feet and pull her to the door of the clinic, handing her off to a medic before turning around again.

But the crowd didn’t stop; they kept coming in, stumbling over their own comrades and throwing themselves physically at the Federation citizens, overwhelming them by sheer numbers. The tide turned. More people swarmed into the courtyard from the street. It turned into a brawl, plain and simple — weapons knocked away, many now resorting to hand to hand struggles, people falling over the stunned and injured forms of others. Those who still had phasers were barely protecting themselves, and were unable to help each other.

Several security officers arrived from the nearest replicator station, adding a helpful crossfire for a few moments, but also meaning those still with weapons had to aim more carefully to avoid their own people. The mob split to attack them as well. One of the officers was disarmed and picked up, passed over the heads of the crowd for several seconds before being thrown down somewhere.

Bashir felt a lump in the pit of his stomach. The Federation team was being pushed back.

He saw Storie’s head jerk back as somebody grabbed her hair and pulled. Off-balance, she fell backward; a Cardassian grabbed her weapon but threw it like a rock instead of turning it on the security team.

A thrown piece of rubble struck Eske in the ribs; the nurse clutched her chest and dropped to her knees. Tejral grabbed her collar to pull her away from reaching arms; then the crowd shifted and Bashir lost sight of them.

He heard a howl of pain, and glanced aside to see Blake, down on one knee, face contorted. His phaser was gone. The way the man was clutching his arm, and the odd angle, revealed that it was broken; someone had hit it, hard. The attacker stood there, looking grimly satisfied, then lifted his club again, this time obviously intent on bringing it down on Blake’s skull.

Bashir stared, for a second frozen. Then he wheeled and fired, and the Cardassian went down.

Two steps and three shots brought him to Blake’s side. The man was back on his feet, looking around for his weapon.

“I’ll cover you! Get inside!” the doctor ordered.

“Gimme my damn phaser and shut up, mutie,” Blake growled, picking up his weapon with his left hand and resuming firing.

Cursing to himself at the man’s contempt and stubbornness, Bashir looked back at the courtyard. It was just a matter of time, anyone could see that. The rioters would break into the clinic and the store rooms. More people would be hurt, likely killed.

At the moment, he could think of only one way to stop it.

His back to the wall, Bashir hit his combadge. “Nightingale! Are you there?” he yelled.

“We’re here,” returned a voice tight with anxiety. “What’s going on—?”

“Commander Kreiger! Wide angle stun! My combadge as a mark!”

“But that’ll include you and most of the clinic!”

“Yes! Stun everyone!”

He saw Jake, locked hand-to-hand with a Cardassian, fighting over a strip of building material. The barrel-chested Cardassian was pushing the slim human back; Jake was barely keeping the big man from swinging the strip with him flying at the end. Behind Jake, he saw another Cardassian, his expression furiously fixed on the young man, raising a chunk of rubble like a club.

“Oh my God, Jake! Kreiger! Do it! Now!”