“Only choice,” he nodded. “Which is all there can be at this point.”

“When you meet with them,” I suggested, “just listen. Try to ascertain if they’re willing to risk a civil war. They’re desperate, but not all of them have been made stupid with a desire for power; some of them know how depleted we are. My guess is that the incident here the other night has them worried.”

“Yes, I agree,” the Doctor nodded. “I’d better go over our strategy with Alon. Thank you, Elim.”

“If there’s a man with a disfigured face at the meeting, try to make contact with him. Don’t be put off by his remoteness.”

“Who is he?” the Doctor asked.

“An old schoolmate of mine . . . and Alon’s,” I replied. “He’s a good man.”

“What’s he doing with them?”

“I don’t know, Doctor. That’s one of the things I want to find out.”

“And once I’ve made contact . . . ?”

“If it’s possible, tell him I need to see him.”

“I’ll do my best, Elim.” The Doctor hesitated.

“What is it?” I asked.

“A civil war would destroy us,” he said.

“Indeed.” I could see that he was feeling the weight of his mission.

“You know, Elim, I’m neither a soldier nor a politician. I’m a doctor.”

“I do know that. I also know that we’ve been betrayed by our previous leaders. Our only hope is that men like yourself can offer an alternative.”

“But you have the expertise that can . . . .”

“Doctor, I have the expertise that comes from survival and compromise. There’s already plenty of that on the other side . . . and it’s not an alternative that will create a new and lasting union.”

“No, I suppose you’re right,” he conceded.

“You’re a doctor, yes, and that’s your strength. I’ve learned something about your profession over the past several years. Don’t think like a politician. Think of the planet as a patient barely hanging on to life. Think like a doctor. How would you save this planet?” He considered what I’d said in his careful manner.

“Thank you, Elim. I’ll keep you informed.” He started to leave. A group of people were gathered at a nearby formation chanting names of the dead.

“Ah, Doctor,” I stopped him. “You can’t go to your meeting like that.”

“Like what?” he asked with a puzzled look. Without explaining, I helped him out of his worn outer coat and showed him a ragged tear in the fabric. Despite his protests, I made him sit down and wait while I gathered my sewing kit and repaired the tear.

“Appearances are very important to these people. You can’t let them think you’re oblivious to details,” I said, as I reunited the torn and separated threads.

My suspicions were correct: the more the Directorate pushed their aggressive agenda, the more their support eroded. The appetite for violent confrontation among the survivors simply wasn’t sufficient; those few who wanted to enforce their will by any means found themselves surrounded and isolated by a vast majority who wanted nothing to do with them. In their meeting with Parmak and Ghemor, the Directorate had finally agreed to a “voting competition” between representatives of the Restoration and the Reunion Project in each sector. With few exceptions this modified but radical competition would take place throughout Cardassia on the day celebrating Tret Akleen’s founding of the early Union. This satisfied both sides, since each claimed that the day supported and validated their legitimacy.

The actual procedure of the competition was both crude and complicated. Members of both sides would witness the actual voting at the designated voting areas, and archons would oversee the counting of the votes and adjudicate any disputes. To my surprise, the voting competition in the Paldar Sector would take place at my memorial. This last point was hotly disputed by Legate Parn, Gul Hadar, and Mondrig, but in the end they had to acquiesce because they couldn’t come up with a reasonable alternative (and, ironically, they were outvoted by the others). The memorial had already been established as the only public area in the sector.

Parmak had been able to pass on my message to Pythas, who received it, according to the Doctor, without any response. Ghemor had received no recognition from Pythas, and I think he doubted my claim that this was his schoolmate Eight Lubak. Whatever had happened, his physical disfigurement was a mask that reflected a deeper change. As I worked with my colleagues preparing and setting up the memorial for the following day’s voting competition, I wondered if I would ever see him again. The thought occurred to me that perhaps I should include him in a chant for the dead.

“I think we’re ready,” Parmak pronounced with satisfaction. We had arranged a path that people would follow to insure an orderly progression.

“How many people are we anticipating?” I asked. Parmak and Ghemor just looked at me, and I realized that there was no way of knowing. We didn’t even know how many people were left in the sector.

“Hopefully, tomorrow’s vote will give us an idea,” Alon finally replied. “I think we should get some rest before the competition begins. We’ve done what we can.” It was a wise suggestion, but each of us knew that we were taking a step into the unknown, and sleep at this point was not really a choice. We haddone what we could, and probably it was best if each of us retired to the privacy of his own thoughts. We said our goodnights, and as I watched them leave I felt an enormous gratitude that I had been given the opportunity to work with these men. Once again in my life I felt that I had been resurrected from the dead.

I moved to the constructed formation that stood in the space formerly occupied by Tain’s study and almost directly above where Mila’s body had been sadly abandoned in the basement. When I was a boy, I had unending dreams that centered around the memorials of Tarlak. As I lay on my pallet in the basement of Tain’s house, I would plan the scenario that would play out when Tolan took me with him to Tarlak. It would always involve me as the hero paying homage to a comrade fallen in a battle where we had both distinguished ourselves. I would tell the gathered assembly of notables every detail of the battle; people would weep, cheer, listen in stunned amazement as I explained how we had saved the Union from certain destruction. When I had finished, Mila and Tolan would escort me through the adoring crowd. What a terrible irony, Doctor, that those forbidding, impersonal memorials to the heroes of the Cardassian Union should ultimately become transformed into these ragged formations on the grounds of my childhood home . . . and that I would sit here, a middle‑aged man, trying to mourn a fallen comrade who was still standing but barely recognizable. And yet, the irony of a Cardassia reborn with the help of a memorial built from the remains of Tain’s home didn’t escape me either.

“Elim.” The voice was hoarse, strangled, but I knew it was him. He was the only person who could creep up on me like that. I turned, and he stood there–with the help of a walking stick. Behind him was the silent, impassive Nal Dejar. She was obviously his constant companion.

“Pythas.” The same mocking smile.

“Get too lost in your thoughts, people can surprise you,” he rasped.

“Or ghosts from the past.”

“I came close.”

“I was beginning to think I had imagined you at Madred’s.”

“Not very pretty, is it?”

“What happened?” I asked. He shook his head, his mocking smile tinged with bitterness.

“Nothing that hasn’t happened to millions of others. I was one of the lucky ones.” I didn’t press him for details; there was another question I wanted to ask.

“I was surprised to see you at Madred’s.”

“I could tell,” he replied. Pythas looked at me with his one good eye, amused, I’m sure, by my barely contained curiosity.

“Are you a member of the Directorate?” I asked.