The day was long; the night looked like it was going to be even longer.

"I'm starting to think I should start over. Again," Bashir said philosophically, toying with one of the analyzers. "Work with the basics. Drag in some beakers and petri dishes and pipettes, an old-fashioned microscope, maybe some leeches and bread mold, and start over at the beginning of medicine."

Aya Kato giggled.

"You find that humorous?" he demanded.

"Not really." She giggled again. "I think I'm just tired. Leeches."

"Exhausted, would be my diagnosis," he returned. "And becoming giddy with it! So you like the idea of leeches?"

The young woman laughed out loud. "I hate leeches! Don't know how the Denobulans can stand them!"

Bashir scowled. "The Denobulans are responsible for hundreds of medical advances. Including bringing leeches back into the generally acceptable pharmacy."

"Maybe -- but not on me!"

Julian didn't respond; the humor faded as abruptly as it had come on.

After a moment, Kato said, "I'm going to get a raktajino. Can I get you one?"

"Make it double strong."

"And extra sweet?"

"No," he made a face. "I've had so much of that the last few days, I don't think I can stand too much sweet tonight."

"Right." She smiled briefly, a ghost of the bright sunshine she'd brought to Cardassia a few months before, and headed for the nearest replicator.

Julian sat back to study the medical data they'd collected from weeks of dealing with dying Cardassians, and the last day of discovering a handful of survivors, the four they'd known about that morning, and the seven more they'd tracked over the course of the day. Eleven recovering survivors -- with no apparent medical or genetic or physiological connection. Even his genetically enhanced mental processes were hitting stone walls.

He glanced at the main computer terminal, wondering if there was any other information that could be coaxed from it, any other connections that could be made.

He'd read just enough of Moset's work, in that moment before he realized whose article he was skimming, to know that the Cardassian had done research along a potentially useful theoretical line.

No way was Julian Bashir going to tread that line. No way in hell.

But damn, it was so tempting....

He deliberately swivelled his seat to face away from the terminal, resting his feet on another chair and focusing on the comparative physiological data.

So far, it looked like they'd be able to synthesize something from the analysis of the survivors' cells. But until they knew exactly what they were working with, and why, they couldn't be sure what specific factors they should work from. At least eleven survivors gave them a little more to work with.

Lt. Kato set the raktajino at his elbow. He reached for it absently.

All right, start broad, rule out the basics.

"Computer, let's run another environmental comparison, full database Plague One Alpha," he instructed. "Crosscheck all known local dietary, atmospheric, and environmental factors. Save all results and download to personal files."

He waited, sipping at the hot beverage. The cup was empty by the time the computer spoke.

"Survey complete. No relevant correlations noted."

Nothing in the local diets, water, air, or soil. Consistent with previous surveys. He'd expected that much. The disease was too widespread. But he knew there had to be a correlation somewhere.

"Computer, physiological and medical history comparison, same database." He rubbed his eyes. "Save all results and download to personal files."

This took longer. He was on his third cup of raktajino when the computer finally gave a response.

"Physiological and medical history comparison complete. Medical histories report all survivors have history of Rumassa fever as children. No other correlations noted."

Nothing significant, again. Rumassa fever was as common as ... as the common cold, among humans. Julian sighed deeply in frustration. With only eleven survivors out of thousands, maybe it was wishful thinking, but dammit, something had to click, eventually.

"Blood chemistry? Genetics? Impact of body temperature?" Aya threw out possibilities, peering intently at her own terminal.

"Why not? Computer," he began, skimming the downloaded information in his PADD -- then paused.

Julian stared slack-jawed, stunned at the revelation that had just hit him. He quickly began pulling data from the files and comparing the information.

"Julian?" Aya looked concerned. "Doctor?"

Called back to the present, he slowly sat up straight. "This is it, Aya."

"It?"

"I think we've figured it out. Look. We've identified this mutated virus -- it's the trigger, causing a very specific cellular breakdown to occur in the pulmonary system."

Aya blinked. "Yes, we know that...."

He stared intently at her. "But only in people who have a previous history of Rumassa fever."

She shook her head. "We looked at that. Rumassa fever's a childhood disease here, over ninety percent of adult Cardassians have had it!"

"Yes -- that's why so many people are sick, and we couldn't figure out why it seemed only a small handful didn't contract the disease. My theory was that the childhood fever left vulnerability to this disease, we couldn't figure out why. But it wasn't the fever that made them vulnerable. Yes, the fever and the plague are connected, but not the way we thought. The factor we overlooked before, the difference between contracting and dying from the Dominion plague, is this gene sequence! Here, see? Everyone with this particular gene sequence has survived!"

He ran a quick comparative scan of the handful of Cardassian medical staff still working at the clinic, who hadn't come down with the disease.

"See? All of those who are recuperating have this specific gene sequence...." He pointed at her terminal.

"And that precise sequence doesn't appear among the dead," Aya said intently, following his reasoning and running her own crosscheck. "So that gene may be the reason some are surviving this disease."

"One possible reason, anyway. And see? None of the sick have a double of that particular gene!"

"It may protect them?"

"Yes! Cardassians with a double of that gene sequence are protected from the plague -- as I believe they were protected from Rumassa fever. The survivors of the plague are recovering because of the single gene. It's their genetics -- and I think we can mimic it in others, create an antigen. We can cause the same reaction in those without that gene. We have a cure -- or we will by morning...." He threw down the PADD. "We need Vak, Eske, and M'at -- wake them. Here, let's get to work...."

* * * *

The square before him was empty except for the shadows in the dimly-lit and scarcely occupied section of town. Mondrig waited impatiently, with increasing anxiety. His knee ached in the cool night air, a lingering pain from his encounter with Kehin and the girl a few nights before, reminding him of indignities and rejection with every throb.

Finally, his quarry appeared. The man, wearing a long dark cloak that hid his features, hurried along the street, pausing every now and then to look around and listen before moving on.

"Pa'Lain, you're late!" Mondrig grumbled as the man finally joined him inside the entrance to what had once been a minor government office.

The taller Cardassian kept looking behind him, his dark eyes darting around the shadows. "I had to wait until I was sure no one was watching me. The human security chief came to our door today, looking for you!"

"The one called Blake?"

"Yes, that was the one."

"What did you tell him?"

"Nothing!" the man replied in alarm. "I told him nothing, that I knew nothing! I was afraid he would arrest me and drag me away, or take my family...."

Mondrig scowled. The Federation was getting too close.

"Should I have told him some story?" Pa'Lain asked, seeing his expression.

"No. You did the right thing," Mondrig assured him. "They would have arrested you if they thought you knew anything. They are so desperate to bring us down, they would create false charges against you if they even suspected that you knew."

Relieved, the newcomer handed over his package. Mondrig accepted it eagerly.

"What shall I do next?" he asked.

"Go home," Mondrig told him. "Your job is done, for now. It's up to me to complete our mission -- and soon, the Coterie will flex its power. Then, you can claim your rightful reward for your role."

After another careful study of the square, Pa'Lain vanished out into the night.

"There was a time," Mondrig muttered, weighing the package in his hand, "when I thought Blake might be useful. He hated Bashir. He didn't want to be here any more than we wanted him here. I thought I could lead him into helping our cause, one way or another. Now I know better. He's become as dangerous an enemy as Parn and Bashir."

* * * *

Morning seemed unusually bright and optimistic. In one of the smaller plague wards the medical staff moved among the sick, pausing to speak to each patient. Hope gave a lift to the footsteps even of those who hadn't slept a moment through the night.

"We may have a cure," was the quiet statement, firm with conviction. "We haven't had time to test it outside of the computer simulations, and we can't be certain, yet, that there won't be side effects or long-term consequences."

A lingering stare, a restive frown, or dull incomprehension.

"But we now have seventeen people in the relief clinics that are recovering from the Dominion plague. We think we know why. And we think it will cure you, too."

A slight widening of the eyes, an outright look of amazement, a flare of hope.

"Are you willing to try it?"

Not a one refused.

With everyone in the ward injected, the doctors gathered at the entrance, while the nurses and technicians continued to monitor the patients.

"Now the main wards," Bashir decided. "Start with those in the most critical condition."

"Shouldn't we wait? What if there are unexpected side effects?" Ptacek asked.

"There won't be," the human replied with certainty. "And even if there were, they'd be no worse off than they are now. At least they'd have hope." He glanced around. "Aya should have the next batch ready; I'll meet you on level two."

Bashir headed for the lab for another supply of hypos. He didn't expect to run into Garak, almost literally, in the corridor.

"My dear doctor!" the Cardassian exclaimed with a wide smile.

"Garak." Bashir couldn't help sounding awkward. A beat. "I ... didn't expect to see you in the clinic."

Garak observed him for a moment before speaking. "You're still angry with me for not revealing the contents of those ancient texts."

"Not angry so much as sad and disappointed that you feel your people can't handle the truth."

"Oh, my dear doctor, I've had a lifetime of observing the deepest psyche of my people. I know full well their weaknesses, what they can and cannot handle, and when."

"Based on your observations of people like Dukat, Parn and Madred?" Bashir sighed. "I suppose you've made decisions about the nature of humanity based on your observations of me and my weaknesses?"

Garak's response was unexpectedly serious. "Strangely enough, Julian, you seem to be able to turn your weaknesses into strengths. Humans have surprised me, many times, and perhaps none so much as you."

Shocked, Julian could only watch as Garak nodded a farewell, then continued on his way.

After a long moment, he mentally shook himself. There was too much to do, this morning, to spend time pondering Garak's words.

* * * *

Mondrig had managed to snag an orderly's uniform through one of his Coterie members, who knew somebody who used to work in a medical facility. The outfit was a little large, but it was the right color and style. He kept his head down and walked with brisk determination, as if intent on some chore.

He carried a heavy bag that had been a medical kit, obtained through the same source as the uniform, before he dumped out its contents and replaced them with his weapon.

Nobody looked twice as he made his way through the clinic toward his target.

He overheard two of the Federation staff grumbling about problems with the sensors and transporters, and having to use shuttles for personnel transfer.

Mondrig allowed himself a grim smile. It must be a sign. His plan was working perfectly.

* * * *

Blake hated feeling like he'd been on a fool's errand. After fruitlessly chasing Mondrig through the night, he was now trying to locate Rekel with an equal lack of success.

"I'm looking for Rekel. One of the people at the communication center said she'd come here."

The medic looked up from his station. "I have not seen Director Rekel in the clinic this morning," M'at stated with typical Vulcan precision. "I will however tell her you are looking for her, should I see her."

"Thanks," Blake muttered. He stepped back and touched his combadge. "Storie, anything to report?"

"No, sir," came the response. "We took that technician, Pa'Lain, into custody, but so far he's not telling us anything about where Mondrig might be, or what he's got planned."

"He lied to us yesterday. Keep questioning him. I'll keep looking for Rekel."

Blake strode through the clinic, his bulk and glowering expression sending all but the largest and most determined residents scurrying out of his way.

As he passed a storage closet, the door slid open. A Cardassian in the garb of an orderly stepped out.

Blake barely glanced at the man. The man looked down, hunching his shoulders. Between one step and the next, Blake realized there was something familiar about the man, about his stance, his profile. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the man look his way with a shifting expression. By the time his foot touched the floor again, he knew.

"Mondrig!" Blake whirled, drawing his phaser.

For a second the Cardassian froze, then he slowly began to smile.

"Korbath Mondrig, you're wanted for questioning--"

"Oh, I'll answer any questions you care to ask, Commander Blake. So long as you ask them quickly enough."

"What the hell...."

"Hell. A human concept," Mondrig sneered. "Consumed in fire for all eternity, isn't that it? How appropriate, then, that I have set that in motion!" He gestured casually into the chamber he'd just left.

"I won't be distracted that easily," Blake sneered back, his phaser still in hand. "You're a criminal -- kidnaping and selling children, murdering innocent people, sabotaging the array that might have protected your whole city from that storm. And that's just for starters, I'm sure you've done more and probably worse!"

"To the contrary, I've done you a favor, if you'd half the brain to see it!"

"A favor!"

"I'm giving you the chance to go home. Isn't that worth something to you?"

Blake stared at Mondrig as if he'd lost his mind.

"Well, it's true, isn't it? You don't want to be here, you've never wanted to be here! And we, the true Cardassian people, don't want you here either. This will send your people home!" Mondrig shouted viciously. "It is the will of the Coterie of the Cardassian People!"

"The will of the Cardassian people...." The human snorted in disbelief. "You don't think your people have been through enough? Why do you think we're here?"

"Those of you who don't leave, will die!"

"What are you talking about?" Blake said impatiently. His aim remained steady.

A deadly smile crossed the Cardassian's face. "I have set a bomb to destroy this place. You have ... ninety of your human seconds to flee. See how considerate I am? I give you a warning of what will happen and how long you have."

Behind him, Blake heard a shocked cry.

He whirled, expecting to see more Cardassians moving to attack him.

The blue-skinned Bolian stood beside the door, staring into the storage room.

Now that he looked, Blake could see it. A shelving unit had been pushed aside, and a panel had been removed from the wall. There was something wired into the power conduit. Blake's experience confirmed what Mondrig had boasted -- it was a bomb.

Steps rushed past them -- Mondrig was running, laughing as he disappeared down the corridor.

"General alert, Blake to everybody -- get out of the clinic! Now! There's a bomb, get everybody out you can, but get out now!"

Vak ran into the storage room.

"Ensign, get away from that! Get out of here! That's an order!"

"Ninety seconds," he said in a rush. "Maybe I can defuse it!"

The young Bolian threw himself to his knees beside the bomb, peering at it wildly.

"We should call the Nightingale--"

"Still can't use transporters!" Blake reminded him.

Running. Mondrig was running. The seconds were ticking.

Blake realized with crystal clarity that there was no time to do anything more. He could run or--

"It's gonna go!"

No running. He could only think of only one thing there might be time for.

Blake pulled Vak away and threw himself over the bomb, trying to yank it away from the conduit. It might at least limit the size of the explosion and the shrapnel.

"Get out!" he yelled at Vak.

The young medic stared in open-mouthed shock for a second, then understood what Blake was doing.

But he didn't obey.

The human felt the slighter youth's weight half-atop him as he desperately, reflexively, hit his combadge--

"Blake to Night--"