Chapter 5

This is impossible. This can't be right.

No matter how hard he tried, Bashir couldn't get the troubled thoughts out of his head. Squinting against the alien light, he turned his head again, carefully, scanning every inch of the landscape.

"This," He shook his head dazedly. "This was a city once..."

"Not what you were expecting, is it?" The young woman beside him, one of the medics that had accompanied him here, gave him a scornful look, as if angry at his lack of understanding. Her blonde hair swung over her eyes as she turned her head; the loose strands whipped across her face in the wind.

Bashir managed a shaky breath. "Not exactly. I mean, I thought there would be at least some sign -- something to show there was life here."

"Why would there be?" The medic smiled bitterly, waving an arm over the scene in front of them. And he found his gaze following her gesture even though he didn't want to see it again -- the place where the capitol city of Cardassia had once stood.

Now there was nothing.

No buildings, no roads. But even more jarring than that -- there was no rubble, no marked plots of land to indicate there might have once been buildings or roads. There was nothing but the gray, cratered planet's surface, as lifeless as Earth's moon, stretching on forever to meet the horizon of a sky burning and rippling with scorching heat. It was as if the city had never existed.

But I was here. Two months ago, I was right here! Central Command was still standing, I remember it, there were people left alive....

The woman snorted. "That hardly makes a difference." Her voice was hard and brittle. "There is nothing left by now. The Dominion made sure of that. You honestly thought it would all be over when they withdrew?"

Bashir's thoughts blurred in an angry confusion of sound and color. He shook his head to clear it. Had he spoken those words out loud? He couldn't remember. "But I don't understand...."

"That doesn't matter either." He turned his head to respond to her mocking voice -- and drew back in horror. Burns covered the woman's face, her shoulders, searing her clothing to her flesh. Pain burned brightly in her ice-blue eyes as she sneered at him. "Nothing matters. You don't matter. It's only just beginning."

He drew in a pained breath that did nothing to ease the knot of fear in his chest, stumbling away from her....

... And jerked awake hard enough to nearly tumble himself off the bunk.

A dream. The tiny panicked voice in his head chanted the words frantically, over and over, reassuring itself long after his logical mind recognized his cabin on the Nightingale. It was a dream. Nothing but a dream. It's over. A dream.

For a moment, afterimages of the nightmare flickered across Bashir's vision, and he concentrated on slowing his breathing, bringing his pulse down to a less frenzied rhythm. His bodily functions responded with comforting precision, and he swung his legs over to sit fully upright. The visions would fade, he knew, if he kept himself active for a while. They would soon recede back to his subconscious mind and he would forget them, for the most part. Some vague emotions would linger at the back of his brain for a while yet, of course, but those he could ignore. And they, too, would disappear in time.

That was his ongoing assumption, anyway.

As he'd done many times before, and as countless dreamers across the galaxy did when woken from sleep, Bashir asked for the time. "The time is 0334 and seven seconds," the computer told him.

Another short night. Julian groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. He was still a bit shaky, and he clenched his fingers around the base of his neck to still them, felt the tension in his shoulders.

"This is getting old," he murmured to the dark, wryly humorous, to push the fear back. How many times had he collapsed into bed at a hideously late hour in the past month, only to be woken from restless sleep by nightmares like this? And not the bizarre, senseless dreams that lost all their menace and just seemed silly two seconds after you woke up. No, these had to be vivid and hatefully realistic -- dreams filled with symbolic images of your fears and uncertainties that any dream analyst would have a field day picking apart.

Particularly when said dream analyst happened to be sleeping next to you when you screamed yourself awake.

Bashir snorted to himself at the irony. Since the end of the war, he had always brushed aside Ezri's concerned questions about his emotional well-being. They only added to his frustrations, he had thought. Now he slept alone, free to wander through the darkest corners of his mind in complete privacy.

And he was missing her questions terribly at the moment. He wished she was here.

He stood; it was somewhat chilly, and he frowned against the discomfort. He didn't like this -- this vague discord that seemed to surface when he let his guard down. He'd felt it on Deep Space Nine for several weeks now, at moments when Starfleet's insufferable busy work didn't keep his mind occupied. He'd be eating, or walking back to his quarters, or drifting on the edge of sleep -- and there it was. Some thought or instinct that seemed to berate him for his own uselessness. It would yank his attention to the crises on the horizon and demand that he do something, take action to stop them -- even if that action was next to impossible.

Most of the time, the restless feeling could be ignored, with an effort. Mundane as his work had been for the past few weeks, he had done it efficiently, as he always did. He'd even managed to enjoy himself a reasonable amount of the time; being with Ezri, or swapping banter with his medical staff as they worked.

A smile tugged at Bashir's mouth as he thought back; indeed, with the explosive addition of Commander Alden to the crew, his own enigmatic problems had been all but forgotten in the excitement.

But not disregarded completely. Even now, some days that instinct would lash out in its own frustration and make itself known. He would feel agitated, or inexplicably angry.

He would dream.

Julian drew in a breath, held it for a moment, then exhaled slowly. He felt more awake now; tired, yes, but functional. He couldn't quite remember who that burned medic in his dream had been. Given half an hour, if he was careful to keep his mind busy, he wouldn't remember the burns at all. Provided, of course, that no stray detail would come along to trip his memory. He wouldn't remember.

Then he forced himself to lift his head and gaze steadily into the shadows of the room. There was, of course, a crucial difference in his favor between the past few weeks and now. Now, he could live with that restless instinct. He could live with it because he was here. He'd made it to Cardassia, he could do something about it.

"Computer, lights." The resulting glare hurt his eyes, but he blinked past that and moved on. He had two hours before the rest of the crew would be up and preparing to beam down to Cardassia. There was plenty that he could do with two hours.

***

A sparkle of energy-to-matter, and Bashir's away team stood in the dead end of a wide, empty alley, strewn with the odd piece of litter, but with the somewhat-clean look of any maintained busy outdoor area. Bashir waited just a moment to let his eyes adjust, then took a closer look around.

The early morning light was faint here, the dust-filled sky pale and blank. The four of them could stand side by side if they so chose without touching the plasticrete walls of the buildings to either side of them. The doctor remembered that before the war ended, the building to the left had been used as a well-appointed Dominion barracks for the Vorta and Breen, who rated better, more private rooms than the Jem'Hadar. The other had been some sort of office building. All the structures in this part of the city were built high and grandly imposing, testaments to the might and glory of Cardassia. He briefly wondered how many were spared in keeping the Founder safe, but a man's shout from beyond the open end of the alley distracted him.

The shout faded and a jumble of voices drifted into them, lightly echoing back and forth between the walls. A roar of agreements rose from an unseen audience. It sounded like someone was giving a speech.

Better to try and make contact through official channels before investigating the crowd beyond the alley, he thought. Dr. Bashir gestured to the tricorder at his science officer's waist. "Mr. Lausten, we should see if anyone can hear us any better on the surface."

Lausten nodded, then flipped out his tricorder and tapped his comm badge. "I'm rotating through the frequencies now." He pursed his lips, holding in a puff of air before it could escape. His forehead crinkled down as his large nose crinkled up, his tanned face the very picture of engrossment, and of a man having no luck.

Having felt that way himself so many times, Julian wanted to give him a supportive clap on the back. What the hell, Lausten hadn't ever been directly hostile towards him; he probably wouldn't mind. "Keep trying."

Lausten looked up at the gesture and smiled at him for a second before returning his concentration to his tricorder.

"Doctor!" Lt. Storie straightened abruptly from pulling her brown hair more tightly into its ponytail, her hand leaping to the hilt of her phaser.

Bashir automatically went for his own weapon in response to her warning, but backed off when he saw that what had alarmed her was a teenaged Cardassian boy in a torn brown tunic and slacks running toward them, completely unafraid. "A transporter!" the boy exclaimed. "I didn't realize anyone had gotten one working."

Julian hadn't realized that there had been anyone close enough to see them beam in. He supposed the boy had been listening to the speech just out of their line-of-sight, maybe hiding around the corner until after he'd seen who materialized.

The Cardassian suddenly stopped in his tracks and looked them over again, his expression more wary. "Wait, you're not any of Tejral's men, are you? I haven't seen you around before."

From Starfleet's reports, Bashir recognized the name of the leader of the Federation assessment team left here months ago. "No, we've just arrived. We're some of Tejral's reinforcements. Can you...?"

The boy's face sprung into near panic. Before Bashir had a chance to try and calm him down, he wheeled around and ran off, disappearing around the corner, leaving Julian gaping after him. They'd barely met! What could he have said that frightened him off?

Blake stepped up beside the doctor. "Good first contact, Bashir. We've just spooked our first Cardassian."

Biting back a retort, Julian turned to face Blake, but Lausten interposed by putting a hand on Blake's shoulder. "Sir, please, I'm trying to listen."

"...But success and glory only comes to those who work for it. Who fight for it!" the unknown voice cried. "And fight we did. The great Damar led our people in driving the Dominion off our soil!"

"Let's get a closer look," Bashir murmured. "Try to stay out of sight for now."

Everyone walked farther up the alley, staying close to the bulk of the left building in the attempt to shield themselves from being spotted. The direction of the wind changed, a sudden gust flashing through the alley, whipping their hair and uniforms around, and pelting them with fine dirty particles, not to mention an awful stench. Bashir suspected a waste extraction facility somewhere upwind had probably been damaged. He hoped that was a recent occurrence. He'd hate to know the people here had been suffering that smell for long.

When they reached the corner of the building, they stopped to watch. Julian leaned on the wall, supported by his left arm; the stone felt warm even through his uniform jacket. Blake took up position to his right, his arms crossed and an unfazed expression on his face, while Storie and Lausten looked nervously over their shoulders.

"When our leaders decided to ally with the Dominion, they did so because they felt it the best way to make Cardassia strong again. For a while, it did just that."

They could now see the speaker and the entire crowd. The courtyard in front of the Command Center was filled with maybe thirty Cardassians, not many children. The people wore an assortment of clothes in various stages of disrepair and styles that didn't place the majority of listeners in any one social class. None of them seemed to be paying attention to the smell. Their entire attention was focused on the speaker.

"But before long they had entrenched themselves on our colony worlds, and on our home world! The longer they were here, the more sacrifices they wanted from our people. We couldn't have known that we'd end up like this," he spread his hands wide, implying their devastated city, their world, "because we never fully understood them, and what they were capable of. We rushed into the alliance with the Dominion, and when the war dragged on too long, together we rushed to accept the Breen!"

The speaker was physically small, thin and nearly a head shorter than Bashir, with close-set eyes. He stood on a huge chunk of plasticrete that had probably once belonged in a wall and been placed there expressly for its current use. It made his presence seem much more substantial, or at least what was clearly visible from the waist up. The most attractive thing about him was probably the way he spoke -- a voice deeper than he was tall, filled with fervor and the complete certainty that what he said was gospel. Bold movements emphasized many of his points.

"The affection and loyalty of the riding hound are highly prized. But for all our civilizing influences, it is not a Cardassian. It's dangerous to delude yourself that you know its mind. Its true nature is that of a wild beast! And we all know you don't invite beasts into your home. Though ever-present, you're not always reminded of the hound's teeth until it bites you!"

Behind him, Bashir could hear Storie shift her feet nervously. She huffed, standing so close to him that he could feel her breath blow hot on his ear. "I don't like the sound of that." Obviously skeptical, and a little afraid, she asked "Are we really going to try and contact someone out there, doctor?"

"We must take care of our own! And that's what the Directorate does. Trust in its leaders and you shall reap rewards greater than --"

Julian turned around, the wind now battering at his back. "Have you kept that hail on continuous loop, Mr. Lausten?"

The speaker's voice rose in pitch. "As I've said, time after time: There will be more --"

"Yes sir. Still no response."

"All right." Bashir took a steadying breath, then coughed a little. His throat felt gritty and dry. "I have a friend in a different part of the city. We'll try to make contact through him."

"And they will inevitably expect things in return. Do we want a repeat of the 'benevolent' occupation by the Dominion? No, I say! Never again!" The speaker shook his fist in the air.

Julian tapped his communicator to request transport from the Nightingale.

"Never again!" the crowd shouted.

Chapter Six

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