“Put him in the holding cell,” he instructed. As the man was escorted off, several parting curses and threats were hurled from the Promenade. “Are you harmed?” Odo asked me in his formal manner.

“No, not at all. Thank you for your concern . . . and your intervention,” I replied. He stood for a moment, studying me, trying to divine why I had not been allowed to join the withdrawal. Unlike the others who assumed that because I was a Cardassian I had a choice, Odo knew that I’d been abandoned.

“Was there any damage or theft?” he asked.

“No,” I answered. I knew little about Constable Odo, but I was confident that he would never ask me questions that went beyond his function as security chief. He kept his distance and carried himself like someone who understood exile.

“I will make sure that nothing like this happens again.” Odo gave one last look around the shop, wondering, I’m certain, who was going to do business with a Cardassian tailor. He left with the same lack of ceremony with which he’d entered.

The room was suddenly empty. I studied my reflection in the full‑length mirror. Changes were in order for my new life. For one thing, I thought, I’m too heavy for this gravitational field. I patted my stomach: silence, exile, cunning . . . and less spice pudding.

6

The Directorate wasted no time: a “Restoration Cadre” was established in each sector. Ostensibly its purpose was to maintain order while Cardassia recovered enough “strength of will” to restore its former governing structures. The Directorate presented itself as the legitimate agent of this restoration, and in each sector the Cadre supported the Directorate’s choice of leader. In the Paldar Sector they had chosen Korbath Mondrig.

The reality, Doctor, is that the Cadre functions to intimidate the people of each sector into accepting this restoration and condemn the Reunion Project as a subtle Federation corruption. But instead of submitting to the Cadre’s threat of violence, many people throughout the city–and indeed the planet–are resisting and organizing along the lines of the Project. For these people, a restoration means returning to the conditions that created the rubble and dust that now surround and choke us.

For the first time in our modern history, Doctor, we are faced with a choice between two distinct political and social philosophies. The crucial question is howwe are going to make this choice. Is a consensus achieved by peaceful means? Or do we now go to war with each other?

I had anticipated the current stalemate. I had even anticipated what happened last night, when I was awakened from my usual fitful sleep by the sounds of falling debris. For a moment I thought we were still under Dominion attack. I jumped up and looked outside. Several men dressed in the makeshift Cadre uniform and led by someone I recognized as one of Mondrig’s aides were pushing over the roughhewn memorials. I set off a loud alarm I had created for just this kind of event. After the rally for Alon Ghemor, the grounds had become a magnet for the Reunion. In an amazingly short period of time scores of my neighbors, including Parmak and Ghemor, had appeared. The outnumbered marauders, expecting a violent confrontation, prepared for battle. We had agreed beforehand, however, that violent resistance was pointless; all that would happen would be a further escalation of violence until one side dominated the other and we would be left with less than the nothing we now had.

It was an eerie scene, Doctor: mute witnesses, men and women, surrounding a phalanx of sweating belligerents prepared to fight to the death. Cardassian against Cardassian–a unique and disturbing sight. Some of the marauders were ex‑soldiers following new masters, some were no more than orphaned children. Some probably were in the service of the restoration ideal of returning Cardassia to its former imperial glory. Most were just hungry and desperate. It was a dangerous tactic on our part, Doctor, and as the tense and silent standoff continued I could see certain faces on both sides giving in to the strain. It was only a matter of moments before something happened.

Suddenly one of the younger marauders broke ranks and attacked a man across from him. Several of the witnesses immediately reacted to defend the fallen man.

“Hold!” Ghemor commanded. They did. No one retaliated and the young marauder stood over the man with a confused look. He had hoped, I’m sure, that his action would have been absorbed by an ensuing battle; but now, being the focus of every eye, he had no choice but to accept sole responsibility for his act. When he received neither guidance nor approval from his superior, he found the attention unbearable and ran off. The standoff continued, but now the marauders became restless. The watchful stillness of the witnesses began to unnerve them. If they weren’t going to fight . . . ?

“This is shit,” an older soldier muttered in disgust. He looked around at his companions and at Mondrig’s aide in contempt. “Shit!” he repeated with greater force. His hard face and warrior poise told me that he held no fear of battle. “Shall I fight women?” he asked the aide. To answer his own question he spat and walked off into the night. His uneven gait and low center of gravity reminded me of Calyx.

Mondrig’s aide attempted to salvage the situation, and ordered the marauders to continue the destruction of the memorials, but the older men took the lead of the grizzled veteran and dispersed. The younger inexperienced men realized that they were no match against the organization of the witnesses. And it was this discipline that also reminded me of Calyx. Ghemor had not only learned how to “hold his place” in the Bamarren Pit, he was able to teach others as well.

After the remainder of the Restoration Cadre had made their careful retreat, the witnesses, without any perceivable instruction to do so, began to rebuild the toppled piles. When someone voiced the worry that he wasn’t sure how the formation had looked before the damage, I assured him that it didn’t matter. Dawn was breaking when we completed our repair work, and people began returning to their homes. Parmak, Ghemor, and I stood silently among the formations, inspecting the results of our work in the first light.

“I mean no disrespect, Elim,” the Doctor said, “but the memorial looks even better.” I nodded in agreement.

“Please, Doctor,” I replied. “ ‘Restoration’ is fine for artifacts and museum pieces. When it comes to building a new community, I think what we did tonight is more to the point.”

“And we did it without murdering each other,” Ghemor added.

“How un‑Cardassian of us,” I observed. But we knew this was only one skirmish that had been avoided. Although it had bolstered our spirits for the moment, we could only hope that it was an indication of the battle fatigue of our people, and not an aberration.

Shortly after the incident, Parmak came to Tolan’s shed and informed me that Gul Madred had requested a meeting between the Directorate and the leaders of the Reunion Project. He asked if I would join them, and I demurred.

“Given the circumstances of my last meeting with them,” I explained, “I think it would be best if you and Alon heard what they have to say.” Parmak paused, turning a thought over in his mind.

“You know what they’re going to say, don’t you?” he asked.

“I do,” I replied. “And so do you.” Parmak paused again, the thought deepening as it turned.

“Certainly they’ll offer us some kind of compromise,” he began.

“A compromise that will prove fatal to your ideals, Doctor. And you know that, too,” I said with certainty. “These people are holding on desperately to an idea of power that they refuse to admit no longer exists. They will offer you and Alon important places in theirstructure . . . but there will be no compromise.”