The meeting went on with more recitations, chanting, and readings from something called the Hebitian Records (“Where everything is written,” she claimed). There was a final meditation, and it was over. People rose, but instead of leaving they lingered and spoke to each other. I wanted to leave. The peace I had felt after the “healing” had been replaced by a deep disquietude that began when the “guide” directly addressed her remarks to me.

As I made my way through the crowd, I discouraged all contact others offered to make. I caught snatches of conversation, and by the time I reached the door I decided that it was all sentimental nonsense. Cardassia suffered a great climatic catastrophe–and if we hadn’t been strong and determined to adapt, we would have perished with the weak. And the weak mustperish; otherwise the integrity of the race is compromised and we become the preyed‑upon. Poor misguided Tolan. He was a good man but he was a gardener, and the worst thing he had ever had to do was kill weeds.

“Who sent you?” It was the Guide.

“A friend,” I replied vaguely.

“Ah,” she said with an odd recognition. “You’re a careful man. This is good. We’re not looked upon with favor by the authorities, you know.” She smiled at me, and I experienced an inexplicable surge of hatred. How dare she? How dare she set herself up as superior? This was a superstitious cult that undermined the fundamental tenets of Cardassian life. It deserved to be outlawed.

“I hope you’ll join us again.” She said this with a detached gravity, nodded and turned back to the others. I quickly went up the stairs and back outside, where I felt I could breathe again. As I began the long walk back to the Paldar Sector, I debated whether I should inform Internal Security about the existence of this meeting.

13

Ah Doctor, Dominion weapons have destroyed us, and as we resurrect ourselves the dead and the discredited are returning. After years of toiling in anonymity and exile, I have become a much sought‑after notable. This evening, as I was working on this chronicle, I had a visitor from the past–Gul Madred. I’m sure you know him by reputation; he had a distinguished service record marred only by the unfortunate incident with the Federation Captain Picard. He fell out of favor about the time I was stranded on Terok Nor. I almost worked with him in a proposed joint operation that involved both the Order and the military. It was a daring idea that made too much sense to succeed. The military would behave like a military, and take care of the fighting–and the Order would behave like an intelligence service, and get them the information they needed in order to behave like a military. Madred, however, was a key member of military intelligence and insisted that they did not want any involvement by the Order. He made it clear, however, that he did want certain techniques that we had perfected. We were reluctant, of course, to part with them and after several increasingly acrimonious meetings we decided to part with each other instead. I’m afraid we have never had much regard for their intelligence; the incident with Picard supports our low opinion. If nothing else, an interrogator must have the stamina to outlast his subject.

Still, I was delighted and utterly surprised to see Madred when he appeared at the door. I always regarded him as a cultured and serious man, and despite his troubles of recent years he was still very much involved with the future of Cardassia.

“I’m honored, Gul Madred. I’m also too woefully provisioned to offer anything more than a seat and some clean water.”

“You’re very kind, Garak.” Madred took the offered stool and I poured him a cup of precious water. “How did you find me?” I asked. The harsh lighting in my shed revealed a deeply lined face, with eyes that couldn’t hide an intense almost haunted weariness.

“Your necropolis has become the subject of much conversation throughout the sector,” he replied. “Or is it a memorial to your former mentor?”

“It’s whatever people want it to be. It seems to give comfort to some. For me it meant bringing some order out of this chaos.”

“Yes. And that’s what brings me here. We’ve had our differences in the past, Garak, and at times we’ve come down on the opposite sides.” It was rumored that his was one of the powerful families that had supported Dukat’s alliance with the Dominion. “But I’m hoping that we can find common ground during this transitional–and crucial–moment in our history. We must rise from this.” He gestured toward my “necropolis.”

“One billion dead. We have no choice,” I observed.

“But we must do it correctly!” He was passionate and emphatic. Something was driving him.

“You have no disagreement from me, Madred.”

“I know this. Because, like a true Cardassian, you arebringing order out of chaos–which is more than I can say about others in our sector.” He looked at me meaningfully, and I waited for him to continue.

“You’ve heard of the movement afoot to bring in Federation methods for determining our new leadership structure?”

“No, I haven’t,” I replied without hesitating. I prayed that Parmak wouldn’t make one of his unannounced nocturnal visits.

“Each sector will vote for a leader. Vote,Garak. Which means that a hygiene drone will have as much to say about our future as you or I.”

“Would this be true for everysector?” I asked. I hadn’t realized it had gone this far.

“Yes. And then the six sector leaders would form a council that would determine everything from rebuilding the infrastructure to rearming our military–and each of us would be subject to their decisions!”

“Sounds a bit too simple, doesn’t it?” I observed.

“Simple? It’s unbelievable. Who are these people? Alon Ghemor? A family of traitors. Korbath Mondrig, a rabble‑rouser from the service class. I wouldn’t have these people clean my shoes, let alone make decisions that determine our future!”

Madred had indeed changed since I last saw him; he was more neurasthenic, given to sudden emotional outbursts. I had to be very careful with him.

“What do you . . . suggest we do?” I asked softly.

“I’m in contact with a group of people–I can’t tell you their names yet–and we are in the process of mounting a serious counteroffensive to this . . . Federation model,” he nastily spat out.

“And what would you like from me, Madred?”

“Your support, of course. Unfortunately, it’s going to get rough, and we’ll need skillful operatives.” He graciously nodded to me. “We’re also going to need information. I understand you’re working with a Dr. Parmak who’s very much involved with Ghemor.”

“I was assigned to his med unit. The situation makes for strange bedfellows,” I added.

“Of course.” I found it interesting, Doctor, that for some reason it would never occur to Madred that I would actually enjoy my relationship with Parmak. I had the feeling that he was making an assumption about me that was perhaps reinforced by my involvement with the Order and Tain.

“Our work is winding down, however,” I shrugged. “We don’t see as much of each other.”

“Nevertheless, any information would be useful . . . and helpful to your cause,” he said with obvious meaning. It was at that moment, Doctor, that I knew I would never help these people. How many times while I was exiled on the station did I hear that expression “helpful to your cause”? I’d comply, time after time, but it never seemed that my cause–returning home–was ever advanced.

“And what do you think my cause is, Madred?” I asked with an ingratiating smile. He hesitated; the question wasn’t expected.

“I would think that given the past circumstances you’d want to find favor with . . .” He hesitated again. Who was left? Madred and his group?

“With Enabran Tain?” I suggested. He laughed, but he got my point. How typical of his class (and his military intelligence background) to operate from an outdated model.