"What's gotten into you?" Kira asked, smiling back at him.

"I think I've finally got the replicators on the Promenade working," O'Brien answered in a tone that almost asked for applause, "and I think they'll stay that way."

"That's wonderful," Dax said, not even looking up from her station. "Now you'll have time to work on Upper Pylon Three. The lights seem to be malfunctioning."

O'Brien looked crest-fallen. "Emergency lights?" he asked, but he already knew the answer. His life couldn't possibly be that easy. He'd been repairing malfunctions in this station from day one. In fact, he'd awoken this morning to a long list of repairs that had been carried out during the night and a list, only slightly shorter, of things that still needed fixing.

"Afraid not, Chief," Dax replied, sympathetically.

But Kira, still looking rather amused, announced, "I've been getting calls from six angry Klingons who are not happy with running into the walls. One thinks he broke his nose. I'd tell him to go to the Infirmary, but he can't find it."

"Send Bashir up there," O'Brien retorted, though he wasn't sure the doctor could have found them either. Without emergency lights those corridors would be as dark as caves. He walked over to his own console and stabbed at a few lighted displays. "Ah," he sighed. "It's not that bad." Most of the other problems had been minor as well. He punched a few controls and rerouted power to the lights in Pylon Three. Then he smiled triumphantly as his console indicated that light had been indeed restored to the pylon.

"Oh, hell." His smile abruptly faded. "If it's not one thing, it's another."

"What now?" Kira asked.

"The gravity," Dax called from her station. Both she and Kira were trying to keep from laughing. But then Kira was answering more angry calls from the people in the corridors.

Lights began to flash red on O'Brien's console. He'd have laughed, too, if it wasn't so annoying. And if he didn't have to fix it. The artificial gravity had become cut-off in the pylon. Luckily, emergency systems were in effect to keep people from floating all over the rest of the station. He picked up his tool kit and headed for the turbolift, just as he heard Kira calling for medical personnel.

"And bring your gravity boots," she added.

"Oh, I can bring gravity boots," Dr. Bashir replied as he prepared his medkit, "but how do you propose I get the patients down from the ceiling?"

"Just keep telling yourself it's an adventure."

Julian could hear Kira's amusement over the communications system. "Seriously, now," he began, "what will I be dealing with?"

"Klingons with bumps and bruises mostly. At least one has a broken nose. O'Brien's on his way. He should have the gravity restored soon. Good luck. Kira out."

Bashir checked the chronometer as he reached for his tricorder. 0931. Still early. It didn't look as if he'd be bored today. He called for two medical technicians to follow him and headed for the turbolift. The med-techs met him at the lift, but the doors closed only half-way after they'd all stepped inside. One of the med-techs jabbed at a control on the wall, and the doors closed slowly. "Upper Pylon Three," Bashir said softly. But instead of the turbolift moving, the lights went out. The second med-tech said something in Bajoran. Bashir was sure she was cursing. Then amber emergency lights replaced the darkness, and the lift began to move.

"Murphy's Law," Julian said, recalling something one of his professors at Starfleet Academy always used to say.

"What's that?" the first med-tech asked.

"A twentieth-century Earth saying. 'Whatever can go wrong, will go wrong.'"

"That Murphy sounds like a wise man," the Bajoran woman said, with just a hint of cynicism. The turbolift doors jerked open, throwing bright light from the corridor inside.

Bashir felt himself become weightless as he stepped from the turbolift, but his boots held him securely to the floor. O'Brien was doing his best to kneel near an open panel. "Lights are out in the turbolift, Chief," Bashir shouted over the commotion.

"Oh, hell," O'Brien said in reply without looking up.

Bashir quickly assessed the situation. Nearly a dozen Klingon warriors were floating near the ceiling. Nearly all were snarling angrily. Many were cursing in Klingon and being generally counter-productive.

"I'll have 'em down in just a minute," O'Brien yelled. "I'll try to make it gradual, so they don't all come crashing down." Technicians were trying to calm the Klingons so that they might not injure themselves when the gravity returned. The med-techs joined in the din, offering their assistance to the general uproar. A few of the Klingons saw the wisdom in the help they were offered. They took the hands the technicians extended and pulled themselves closer to the floor.

Most, however, seemed more interested in their pride than the help of mere technicians and med-techs. One, a female, kicked the poor man who was trying to help her. But given the state of gravity, it did her more harm than good. The man swayed backward slightly, gripping his stomach where she had planted her booted foot. The woman, however, went careening into the wall on the other side of the corridor.

Bashir rushed over to try and offer his assistance. "Please," he shouted. "The gravity will be on in a few minutes. The closer you are to the floor, the less you have to fall."

"Who the hell are you?" the Klingon woman barked contemptuously, clutching her shoulder.

"I'm your doctor," Bashir answered firmly. "And I wouldn't want you to be injured further. Now give me your hand," he continued, extending his hand in her direction, "unless you're afraid of me."

That drew a snarl from the woman, but the Klingon male beside her laughed quite heartily. "I'm not afraid of any human," she hissed, spitting out the last word.

Bashir stood firm. "Then give me your hand."

The woman growled, baring her teeth, but extended her good hand toward the doctor. Bashir tried not to show any reaction to the strength of her grip as she clamped down on his hand. He pulled her down toward him, just as the gravity kicked in, and it wasn't gradual. The woman fell only a few feet and was able to land on her feet. A few of the others thudded loudly as they fell to the deck.

Bashir was tending to the female's shoulder when one of the med-techs called to him. "Doctor, we may have a concussion, here."

Bashir wondered what anyone could possibly have been doing in zero gravity to manage a concussion. He grabbed the nearest technician, who was still smarting from the Klingon's boot. He thrust the instrument he'd been holding into the man's hand, and moved it toward the woman's shoulder. "Hold this here," he said, showing the technician what was needed. The man seemed nervous about the whole situation, but Bashir did not give him time to argue. He walked away, leaving the man with his snarling assailant.

Maylon pushed his chair back from the counter and sighed heavily. "Done!" he said aloud. He and Dr. Pynar had just finished purging all traces of the virus from the medical computer. It hadn't been easy. They'd been working for six hours straight. But now it was clean, and, more importantly, it was disconnected from the main computer. It would not be reconnected until they were absolutely certain that it could not be corrupted again.

Beside him, Dr. Pynar put her arms straight out behind her, laced her fingers, and stretched her shoulders. She threw her head back to stretch her neck as well. "Lunch?" she asked Maylon without looking over at him.

"You bet," Maylon answered. "What are you in the mood for?"

"I'd like something Klingon, actually."

Maylon gave her an amused look. "I didn't think Zeons liked Klingon food. None of the ones I've met do anyway."

"Well, I do," she answered defiantly. "Well, as long as it's not still moving."

Maylon laughed. "Klingon it is then. But let's go to the station. I wouldn't trust the replicators here. Besides they've got the real thing there."

"Fine, but let me call my brother." She touched the insignia on the front of her uniform. Nothing happened. Just as she was about to give it another try, it chirped as usual. She crossed her fingers. "Medical to Commander Pynar."

"Pynar here," came the answer. "Is there a problem, Doctor?"

"No. I'm just calling to see if you're ready for lunch. How are things up there, Trafe?"

"Lieutenant Jeffrey thinks he's just about got the answer. Let me see if I'm free. Commander?"

Maylon and Pynar could hear the bridge conversation over the communication line. "How's communications?" Commander Lairton was asking.

"I've just about got it. A minute or two more, I think."

"Finish that, Trafe, and you're free to go."

"Thanks. You get that, Trayla?"

"Yes, we're going for Klingon on the station. We'll save you a place."

"Okay, I'll meet y--" Suddenly the lights and nearly everything else went out in sickbay, and, from the sounds over the commline, everywhere else, too.

"Defilers!" The usually calm and friendly voice of the computer spat venom with the word. "You shall not defile the Celestial Temple!" And then the power returned.

"Shit!" Commander Pynar's voice still came over the commline.

"Jeffrey, report!" Commander Lairton ordered.

"It must have had a secondary trigger. Whoever planted the virus knew we would try to clean it out."

"And we hit the trigger," Commander Pynar concluded. "It doesn't look like I'll be meeting you for lunch, Sis. How's Medical?"

Maylon and Pynar were running a diagnostic just then. "We're all clear here," Pynar answered, looking over at Maylon. Maylon nodded as the display confirmed that the medical computer was functioning within normal parameters. "We're not connected to the main computer."

"Good," Commander Lairton said. "Keep it that way for now."

"Yes, sir," Pynar replied.

"Bon appetit!" Pynar could hear the sarcasm in her brother's voice.

"Medical out." She turned to Maylon. "Let's get off this ship while we still can."

The Replimat was busy. Good, Bashir thought, the replicators must be working properly. He hadn't eaten since the day before, and his stomach nagged at him with aches and rumbles. Bashir scanned the restaurant for a familiar face. Then he noticed Dax, sitting at a table with one of the waiters from Quark's bar. The waiter smiled as he stood, uncovering his pointed, uneven teeth. Dax saw Bashir then and waved for him to have the seat the Ferengi was vacating.

"How's the food today?" Bashir asked as he slid into the chair across from her. "It looks quite good, but looks can be deceiving."

"You don't have to worry this time," Dax replied, smiling serenely. She always seemed to smile serenely, Bashir thought, like she knew something everyone else didn't. Of course, having lived seven lifetimes gave her a degree of wisdom most twenty-nine-year-old women didn't have. "The food is fine. O'Brien seems to have mastered the replicators."

"Great. I'm starving."

A waiter came and Bashir ordered. The waiter returned quickly with his plate. "Thank you," the doctor offered. He lifted his fork and took a bite of the perfectly brown, juicy piece of meat in front of him. He closed his eyes in delight. "For this," he said, "O'Brien deserves a commendation." The salad looked good, too.

"Or at least our eternal gratitude," Dax added.

"I doubt the replicators will last that long." Major Kira Nerys had walked up behind Dax. "We've had problems with everything from the lights to air density this morning. Mind if I join you?" she asked.

"Of course not," Dax answered. Bashir noticed someone getting up from the table next to him, so he grabbed the man's chair before anyone else could have it. He pulled the chair to Dax's table and offered it to the major. She took it without showing any gratitude to Bashir. But he was used to that. Kira didn't like him very much.

"You seemed to be in awfully cheerful moods this morning," Bashir addressed the women seated with him. Both gave a slight chuckle, remembering.

"I guess so," Dax replied. "I suppose we had such a good time last night that it just carried over. The situation just struck us as funny."

"O'Brien had just fixed the replicators when the lights went out in Pylon Three," Kira explained. "He just fixed that and the gravity cut out."

"I could just imagine those Klingons running into the walls," Dax added, speaking more to Kira than the doctor. "How was it up there?" she asked Bashir.

"Do you mean before or after the Klingon woman kicked Ensign Darnen in the ribs?"

Kira looked up suddenly. "Doctor Grant," she smiled pleasantly, grabbing another chair. "Please join us."

Bashir almost choked on the salad he was eating. With their talking and the noise of the crowd, he had not heard anyone walk up. He tried to hide his reaction and grabbed his glass of water. He thought he caught sight of a glance from Dax, but she was greeting Dr. Grant when he looked up. No one else seemed to have noticed.

"Ah," Dr. Grant said, extending his hand in Bashir's direction, "you must be Doctor Bashir. I believe I've seen you with our Doctor Maylon and the lovely scientist here on the Ranger."

Bashir tried to act naturally and shook the hand that was offered. "Yes, Maylon was kind enough to give us a tour." In his own mind, he had to choke out each word, though he sounded normal to his companions.

"An interesting character, that one," Grant said as he pulled his chair closer to the table. "How is it that you know him, if I may ask?"

Bashir was in the middle of a bite of food, so Dax answered for him. "They were roommates at Starfleet Medical."

"I'm sorry," Grant remarked, giving Bashir a knowing look. Julian caught himself smiling at that, and quickly took another bite of food. He didn't want to smile at anything Grant said. He didn't want to like him in any way.

"We missed you at dinner last evening," Grant was saying. "I do hope the lieutenant here relayed my invitation."

"Yes, she did," Julian replied. "I was much too busy. I'm sorry. We received quite a bit of new equipment for the Infirmary. I wanted to check it all in."

"You're a dedicated doctor. That's always reassuring," Grant said warmly. "You seem quite young for Chief Medical Officer. You must be very good."

"I was the only one who wanted this post," Bashir answered coldly. He hoped to appear disinterested. Perhaps the conversation would turn to Dax or Kira. Then he could finish his lunch quickly and find an excuse for going back to the Infirmary.

"He's just being modest," Dax said. "He graduated second in his class. He's a very good doctor."

Grant appeared to have noticed Bashir's aloofness. "I didn't mean to question your qualifications. Please forgive me if I've offended you."

"No offense taken," Bashir answered, but his manner was still cold.

Dax had noticed, too, and she looked at him with something between concern and confusion. "Doctor Grant mentioned to me that he might know your family, Julian."

Bashir shot her an angry look, but only with his eyes. His face remained neutral. He hadn't wanted his first name mentioned. What if Grant remembered? "I doubt it," was all he said.

"Where in England are you from?" Grant asked.

"London," Julian answered, choosing his adopted home instead of his childhood home in Stratford. He'd spent little time in either really.

"Some of my wife's friends were Bashirs," Grant said, "and from that area. Does the name Helen Jones sound familiar?"

Of course, Julian thought angrily. "Not that I can remember," he lied, still eating. "London's a big place." Something hurt in him to lie about his mother. But he didn't like where this conversation was going. Grant was too close to the truth. What would he do, Bashir wondered as he stared at his plate, if he found out he was talking to his son? He remembered the furious, wild eyes of the man from the night of the fire, the iron grip of his hands as the man shook him. He felt heavy and tired then. The whole table seemed to be silent for a moment. When he looked up again Dax was watching him. This time he was sure it was concern. Kira looked confused and perhaps slightly amused.

"Are you feeling alright?" Grant asked with his own degree of professional concern.

"I'm fine," Bashir answered. "I guess I'm a little tired." He began to put his plate in order to take it away. This whole conversation had gone on too long already.

"You look a little pale," Grant persisted as Bashir stood. "Perhaps. . ."

"I am a doctor," Bashir cut him off. "I can take care of myself. If you will excuse me," he addressed everyone at the table. "I should get back to the Infirmary."

Dax watched him leave and then tried to apologize for him. "I've never seen him like this, really. I don't know why he is acting this way." Julian was usually over-ingratiating. She'd never known him to be rude to anyone in the two years they'd worked together.

"He seems to be preoccupied," Grant stated. "Perhaps he is simply overstressed. He said that he was tired."

"He seemed fine a few minutes ago," Kira contended.

Dax was frowning, her eyebrows pulled down slightly. "Something's wrong. Maybe I should go talk to him?"

"A good friend can often help a great deal, Lieutenant," Grant replied. "But do finish eating. And before you go, I'd like to invite you both to dinner on the Ranger. Please invite the doctor as well."

"Thank you, and I will." Dax's smile had returned. She finished her lunch quickly and drank the last of her tea. "If you'll excuse me." Her companions nodded, and she left the table.

Dr. Bashir was alone in the Infirmary. He wanted to be alone. His patients, both of them, had been discharged earlier that morning. His nurse was excused for lunch and for lack of anything important to do. He leaned back in his chair and propped one leg up on the other. His fingers were laced together, and his hands rested on his leg. He stared blankly at the words on the viewscreen in front of him. It was a numerical listing of those interred in the New Cemetery in Stratford-upon-Avon, England. He'd seen it many times. He'd first requested the list nearly twenty years before.

Most of the names were irrelevant to him: two centuries of names belonging to those who had desired an old-fashioned burial in the Elizabethan town. Most had been historians like his mother. Hers was the listing he had first high-lighted on the screen.

LK-47 Helena Laura Jones Grant, wife of Dr. Alexander Patrick Grant. Mother of three.

Historian, specializing in Elizabethan England. Died: August 3, 2345 in house fire, age 31 years.

He'd once checked the listing just before hers by accident. That plot had still been empty. "Reserved for Dr. Alexander Grant." It was the one after his mother's that had shocked him when he first learned of it.

After finding Grant's plot, he had been curious to see if the whole family had plots. The computer had answered that there were five plots reserved under the name Grant. Two adults, three children--normal. Only two were occupied. That caught his attention. Who else had died? "Helena Grant, LK-47," the computer had said with no more compassion, of course, than it would recite a recipe, "and Julian Grant, LK-48."

He had been young then, twelve years old. He had been angry with his father, hurt by him. But a part of him had still loved his father. That part could have forgiven the man if he had come back for him. But even that part had frozen within him the day he found his own grave. There was nothing left but hatred.

The reflection of light on the viewscreen changed just enough to grab his attention. "Julian?" Dax, he thought, recognizing the voice. He sat up quickly and deactivated the screen before turning around.

"Julian," Dax repeated. "I was worried when you left the Replimat so quickly." She hoped that her voice was gentle, unthreatening.

"I had some work to do," Bashir answered. "I'm sorry if I appeared rude back there."

Dax glanced around the Infirmary from the door where she stood. It was clean and bright, unlike most other areas on the station. The new equipment with its sleek diagrams and readouts clashed slightly with the geometric shapes and dark, earthy colors on the Cardassian displays. Everything seemed to be working fine. The Infirmary was empty. He wasn't busy.

There was an empty chair beside him, and she walked over to it. But she didn't sit down. She leaned her arms against its back. "I've never known you to act that way, Julian. Are you alright?" she asked.

"I'm fine," he answered, smiling in an effort to reassure her.

"That's what you keep saying," she said, studying his face. She sighed as she stood up straight again. Julian appeared tired, drained in fact. And sad. Why sad? When he didn't answer, she added, "Julian, if you need to talk, about anything, you know you can talk to me."

"You'd be my first choice," he said amiably. "But, really, I'm fine. I'd ask you to have dinner with me this evening, but I know your answer. So I'll just ask if you'd like to dine at the same table with me."

He was being stubborn. "I'd love to," she replied. "In fact we've both been invited to have dinner with Doctor Grant on the Ranger this evening. Shall I tell him that we will be there?"

He hesitated. "Who else will be there?" he asked. He appeared to be stalling.

"I'm not quite sure. He invited Kira, you, and me as far as I know. I'm pretty sure he will invite Benjamin, too. They seem to get along very well."

He took a deep breath. Was it Grant? Dax asked herself. "Sure," he said pleasantly. "What time should I come?"

"I'll let you know," Dax answered, and she straightened up to leave. "We can go together."

That brightened him up. "Great. I'll see you then."

Dax left the Infirmary more confused then when she'd come in, but she was starting to piece together the puzzle. She replayed the conversation at lunch in her mind, searching for a clue to Bashir's strange behavior as she walked to the turbolift. He had seemed very startled when Grant had joined them. Almost upset. Why would Dr. Grant upset him?

But that had to be it. "Ops," she said, and the turbolift began to move. She remembered the tour of the Ranger. It was when Grant had passed them in the corridor. Julian had stopped and stared after the man. Then he'd remained silent and glum for the rest of the tour. He hadn't joined them for dinner either.

Kira looked up when she stepped off the turbolift. "What's wrong?" she asked, noticing the furrows in Dax's brow. "Did you find anything out?"

Dax walked over to her so that their conversation would not be heard by everyone in Operations. "He said he was fine. But he's lying. I know he is. He just doesn't act like that. Something has upset him. I think I know what it is. I just don't know why."

"Grant," Kira said, matter-of-factly, not even looking at Dax.

"How did you know?" Dax asked, the amazement apparent in her voice.

"He nearly choked when the man came to the table," she replied, pushing controls and watching displays. "Didn't you notice?"

"Well, yes," Dax responded, sitting down on one of the stools nearby. "I just didn't think you did. Why do you suppose Grant would bother him so much?"

"That I don't know. Grant is a famous doctor and scientist. Maybe he feels threatened professionally."

Dax gave her a sideways look. "You can't believe that."

"No, Bashir's too arrogant to be threatened."

"He's not telling me something." Dax frowned in concern. "He was looking at something on the computer. He turned it off very quickly when I came in."

Kira stopped the work she was doing to look at her friend. "So what will you do, try to find out what he had requested from the computer? I think your old age is making you a bit over-protective. Look, whatever is bothering him, it's his business. He doesn't seem to want to talk about it. If he wants to talk, I'm sure he'll come to you." She went back to watching her displays. "Now what did he say about dinner?"

"He said he'd come," Dax answered, her confusion showing now.

"That is surprising. It should be an interesting evening."

The turbolift rose again. Kira and Dax turned together to see O'Brien step down into Ops. "How's it going, Chief?" Kira asked.

"We're finally starting to get ahead of it all," he sighed. "I'm beginning to think--"

"Chief." Benjamin Sisko stood in the door to his office with a frown on his face. "My comm line just got cut off, and the chronometer in my office is running backwards."

"As I was saying," O'Brien continued, this time including the commander, "I'm beginning to think that all this was someone's idea of a bad joke. I've been fixing things since the day I arrived on this station. But this is different. This is just too much.

"And look at what it is," he said, holding up the PADD in his hand. "Lights went off in corridors, sensors were down on the Promenade and other areas, a mooring clamp was released in Upper Pylon Two, the chronometers are off, gravity has been affected in several areas, climate control has gone haywire, turbolifts have been malfunctioning. . . . But it's all rather unimportant stuff."

"Security reported vandalism on the Promenade," Sisko added, "and on the habitat ring. But these malfunctions just don't sound like our usual Bajoran terrorists."

"You're sure the vandalism was Bajoran?" Dax asked.

"Someone had painted 'heretic' in Bajoran on seventeen doors all belonging to non-Bajorans," Kira answered, frowning.

"Well," Sisko said, drawing everyone's attention back to him, "let's be thankful that they're not our usual terrorists. No one's dead. But let's find them just the same. Any ideas, Chief?"

"No, but I wish whoever's behind this was on our side. They know a hell of a lot about engineering. The security sensors were only down for about thirteen minutes last night. They had to have worked fast."

"Major," Sisko turned to Kira, "work with O'Brien. Let's see if we can't find them before they do something more serious. Check with Odo, too. He's working on the vandals. My guess is they're the same people."

Inara Taleyn waved at the young man standing near the jumja kiosk. On the outside she smiled, while on the inside she scowled sadly. Liian looked much too nervous. He needs to grow up, she thought as she walked up to him. He was nearly seventeen, and he still acted like a scared, anxious child when on assignment.

"Did you see it?" Liian asked quietly, trying to keep a straight face.

Inara took his arm, and they began to slowly stroll around the Promenade. "Yes." Inara's tone was slightly scolding. "I saw it. You did fine. But please, try not to look so nervous. You'll have to learn to blend in. They'll be looking for us now."

"I'm sorry, Taleyn." He looked down at his feet, frowning. But then he looked up. The excitement showed again in his voice. "How did you do on the ship?"

She let a smile slip then and squeezed his arm just a little. "Just fine. It was easy." Then she was serious again. "You know they won't just turn around and go home though, don't you? We may have to do more."

"I'll do anything," he said defiantly. "We struggled for sixty years to get rid of the Cardassians. I'll die, if that's what the Prophets ask of me."

"I hope it doesn't come to that." Inara stopped walking and casually took Liian over to a shop window. "Someone's watching us," she whispered. She pointed to one of the items in the window, a latinum earring, very ornate and very expensive. She smiled as she pointed, and Liian caught on and played along.

"Where?" he asked, as he nodded his head and drew her attention to the matching necklace.

"Maybe someday," she said aloud. "There," she pointed now at the silver necklace hanging higher on their left. But in front of the necklace, reflected on the glass, was a human face. Taleyn and Liian lowered their heads again toward the earring. But their eyes remained on the face. He sat at the restaurant behind them. His left hand held a goblet halfway to his mouth, but he didn't drink. He stared in their direction. His companion seemed not to notice.

Both wore blue Starfleet uniforms. Inara could tell that he was from the Ranger, as the Federation uniforms worn by the station crew were different: black with only the shoulders bearing the color of their station. The companion was a woman, if judged by her long hair. The Bajorans could not see her face. She seemed to be talking to the man.

The man was young, with dark hair. He nodded from time to time, but still he stared. Inara got the feeling that he was playing the same game as they. But why would he be staring? Had someone seen them that night? Inara knew that no one had seen her as she boarded the Ranger.

Inara took Liian's arm again and led him away from the window. She watched the reflection from the corner of her eye as she walked. The man continued to watch. "Were you seen last night?" she asked quietly.

"I don't think so," Liian replied. "There was no one on the Promenade except at the Ferengi's bar. I wasn't even over there. Do you think he knows?"

"I don't know. But," she hesitated, not knowing how to put her feelings into words. She took the chance and looked back over her shoulder. The man was still watching, and he caught her gaze. His glass raised slightly as if in tribute. He smiled and then looked away. Inara turned away and walked forward again.

"But what?" Liian asked as they rounded a corner.

"I--" Inara gasped, then she regained her composure. "I . . . I'm sorry," she stammered at the Cardassian she'd just run into.

The Cardassian smiled a large beguiling, grin. "No need to apologize, Madam." His voice was gracious. Inara recognized him as the tailor, Garak. She also remembered the rumors about his being a spy who'd been left behind by the withdrawing Cardassian force. "I must watch more carefully where I walk," he said. "Please excuse me."

"Of course," Inara answered, still taken aback. Garak bowed slightly to take his leave and then walked away.

As the turbolift rose, Dax was surprised to see the Ranger's captain step down to the level of Ops. He was a big man, well-muscled and tall. His blond hair was clipped close to his head, but not unattractively. He carried a tricorder with him. Captain Gerin noted Dax's awareness. Everyone else seemed too busy to be bothered. "Is Commander Sisko busy?" he asked. "We got cut off a few minutes ago."

"I'll just tell him that you're here," Dax replied, smiling. Her hand reached out toward the console in front of her. "Benjamin, Captain Gerin is here to see you."

Seconds later, Commander Sisko's doors slid open loudly, and he stepped down from his office. "Captain," he said as he held out his hand to the captain. "I'm sorry that we were interrupted."

"We've been having some trouble with our communications systems," Gerin responded, apologizing himself.

"You, too?" Sisko was truly surprised.

"We've had problems with all of our systems. That's what I wanted to talk to you about."

"I see." Sisko turned to Dax. "Lieutenant, will you join us in my office?" He then turned to lead the captain to the commandant's office. Dax followed.

Sisko waited for the doors to close and gestured for Captain Gerin and Dax to sit down. "What kind of problems have you been having?"

"We have a virus. Someone downloaded a virus into our systems last night. We're convinced it was a Bajoran. In cleaning up the virus we triggered this." He held up the tricorder and pressed a button. A recording of a conversation between two officers began to play. There was a lot of background noise which Dax assumed was due to the repair operation.

"Yes, we're going for Klingon on the station. We'll save you a place." The first was a female voice.

The second was male. "Okay, I'll meet y--" He stopped in mid-sentence. Then there were startled voices and grumbling.

The next voice boomed. "Defilers!" It was the familiar voice of all Starfleet computers, but filled with anger. It sounded in stereo from the commline connection. "You shall not defile the Celestial Temple!"

"Shit!" The male voice again. Captain Gerin turned off the recording then.

"That certainly does sound like Bajorans," Sisko said, "and we've had some trouble with some Bajorans lately. Someone has messed with our systems as well, though we've not found evidence of a virus. We did find evidence of vandalism against non-Bajorans."

"And of course," Dax added, "one of your mooring clamps was released last night."

"I know," Gerin replied. "We've found where the virus was introduced. It was in a Jefferies Tube not far from that airlock. And the door's sensors were taken off-line."

"Our systems seem to have been effected randomly," Dax said. "Our security sensors were off-line for a total of thirteen minutes last night."

"Perhaps our vandals orchestrated the malfunctions as a diversion to get aboard your ship and plant the virus," Sisko proffered.

"Why?" Gerin asked. "Don't they realize yet that the Federation is trying to help them?"

"Many of them do," Sisko replied. "But others still have very strong views. We've usually had worse. This time we've only had minor injuries. The fact is, some Bajorans still don't want us or anyone else here."

"What is the 'Celestial Temple'?" Gerin asked. "What is it they don't want us to defile?"

"The Telestial Temple is the Bajoran religious view of the wormhole," Dax responded. "The Bajorans are a very spiritual people. They see the inhabitants of the wormhole as their Prophets. The motive here does sound more religious than territorial, or political."

"They did call the Klingons aliens, and tell them to go home," Sisko half-heartedly argued.

"Yes, but they painted the word 'heretic' several times in the habitat ring, that combined with the recording-- 'defilers'--and the fact that they've not bombed anything or killed anyone, makes me think we're not dealing with the usual 'Bajor for Bajorans'-type of terrorist."

"Then perhaps I should talk with Vedek Bareil," Sisko concluded.

"He might be able to give us information on some radical sects," Dax agreed.

Sisko addressed the captain. "We also know that whoever is doing this is a computer expert. I've got my First Officer and Chief of Operations working with Security to find them. We'll keep you informed."

Julian Bashir sat alone once again. He laid his head on the desk in front of him and tried not to think. He was tired. The whole situation exhausted him. He wanted to sleep, hoping that when he woke up, Grant would be gone, and his life would go back to normal. But Bashir wasn't very good at not thinking, and his thoughts constantly came back to Dr. Grant.

He had few memories of the man before the night his mother died. He'd been too young. He remembered his mother, it's true. His earliest memory was his second birthday. She had made a chocolate cake with two candles that glowed softly in the dimmed light of the room. And she sang "Happy Birthday" with the sweetest voice. The voice of an angel. Of course, he knew that he may have embellished her a little in his memories. He didn't remember the times she'd been mad at him, only the good things. And she was always perfect, everything about her.

He'd made a conscious effort to remember his mother. But Grant was a blur to him before the fire. Through the years, he'd lost the old face his father had surely had. His early memories now pushed out the image of a smiling happy father, a deep voice that must have sang with his mother's. He now only retained the wild eyes of the screaming man from the fire. And of course, he'd seen pictures of the now famous scientist, Dr. Alexander Grant.

He must have been kind before, Julian thought, because he remembered having loved him. He remembered the lonely nights in the hospital, asking for his parents, waiting for them to come. The doctors had told him that his mother was dead. But he hadn't believed it yet. He had asked for his father then. His father would tell him the truth. He hadn't yet connected the screaming man and Dr. Grant, his father. That, like the acceptance of and grief over his mother's death, came later with counseling and after years of wondering why his father never came.

He ran his fingers through his short brown hair and wondered why he'd said he would go to dinner. Of course, he'd done it to throw Dax off. He wanted to appear normal, and the normal Dr. Julian Bashir would not turn down a dinner invitation with a famous doctor. And he certainly wouldn't turn down a chance to go with a beautiful Chief Science Officer. But he didn't feel normal today.

He sat up when he heard the swish of the door opening. Jake Sisko stood in the doorway, his long fingers clutching his right elbow. He had a pained and worried look on his face. His clothes and dark skin were dirty. Nog, the young Ferengi boy, stood beside him, fidgeting nervously on one foot and then the other. Before Julian could get halfway to the door, Nog pushed Jake into the room. His eyes watched the corridor as the door hissed shut behind them.

"What happened?" Julian asked, leading them over to the nearest biobed.

"I hurt my elbow," Jake said, hopping up a little so he could sit on the bed.

"Yes," Julian replied, "I can see that." He lifted Jake's elbow slightly and frowned when the boy removed his fingers. His sleeve was badly torn, and there was quite a bit of blood. The bleeding seemed to have been slowed by the boy's grip. "How did you hurt your elbow?" he asked as he cut away the boy's sleeve. Jake's own mouth turned downwards as he watched. He appeared more worried about the sleeve than his arm.

"Can't you just fix it?" Nog asked before Jake had a chance to answer. He was hovering at Bashir's side, peering curiously at Jake's wound.

"I can 'fix' it better," Julian replied in his stern voice, "if I know how it got hurt. Now go stand over there." He pointed to the wall next to the door. "And don't touch anything!" he added.

He turned back to Jake as he opened his tricorder. "Jake?"

"You won't tell my dad, will you?" Bashir looked up. Jake's eyes pleaded with him.

"Jake?" Bashir repeated.

"Don't answer him," Nog said, walking back over to the biobed.

Julian shot his arm out, pointing to the wall. The Ferengi returned to his spot near the door. "Jake?"

"I . . . I fell," Jake stammered.

"And you don't want me to tell your father that you fell?" Julian was gathering a few instruments from the cabinet next to the bed. "Your father must be very strict," he said sarcastically.

"Alright," Jake sighed. He paused as Bashir placed a hypospray to his shoulder. "But please don't tell."

Nog groaned and stomped his feet. "Humon," he murmured contemptuously.

"We were on one of the lower levels," Jake explained slowly, as Bashir began to mend the cut on his elbow. "I tripped on some junk down there and fell down."

"And what were the two of you doing down there?" Commander Sisko's stern voice asked from the doorway. Nog had heard the door open and tried to steal out the door quietly behind the commander. But Sisko caught him by the arm and pulled him back inside the Infirmary.

Jake rolled his eyes and sighed. Dr. Bashir could sense a hint of panic in his manner and a little bit of anger in the look he gave the doctor. "How did you know I was here?" Jake asked his father.

"Doctor Bashir was kind enough to call," Sisko answered.

"But he didn't!" Nog cried, squirming under Sisko's grip.

"I always inform a parent when his child comes to the Infirmary," Bashir told the boy, smiling slightly. "There," he said to Jake as he set down the dermal regenerator. "Be easy on that arm for a couple of days, and stay out of restricted areas. They're often dangerous; that's why they're restricted."

"But you didn't call!" Nog was still protesting.

"I did," Bashir replied, "just not verbally."

The door swished open again, and Quark walked in, apologizing already for whatever his nephew had done. "That brother of mine," he was saying, "he just doesn't know how to properly raise a child. He's not all that smart, you know. Obviously, the boy takes after his father." He grabbed the boy strongly by his earlobe and began to drag him, squealing, out the door.

"Not yet, Quark," Sisko halted him calmly.

Nog was fuming. "You called him, too?" he asked incredulously, pointing his thumb over his shoulder at the older Ferengi.

"No," Bashir answered calmly, "I called your father." And then he repeated his previous statement. "I inform a parent when his child comes to the Infirmary."

"But I'm not the patient," Nog whined.

The door opened again allowing Odo to enter. The tall Chief of Security appeared slightly amused as he stood in the doorway, blocking any escape Nog might have tried to make. "But I'm sure you're related somehow to the injury," he said.

"And him?" Nog asked the doctor again. "When did you find the time?"

"No," Bashir replied. "I didn't call him."

"I did," Commander Sisko broke in. "Now, tell me what you were doing down on the lower levels."

The whole situation was rather humorous, Julian thought. But he did pity Jake. He seemed to be a good kid altogether, but he was always getting himself into trouble one way or another. Jake had slipped down from the biobed, not saying a word. He stared at the floor, and his shoulders sagged heavily.

"We were just looking," the boy began, not looking up. Nog shot him an angry look, despite the pain from his ear.

"Looking at what?" Sisko asked.

"Looking for what?" Odo cut in, directing his question at Nog. But Nog said nothing; he was trying hard to look defiant.

"Nothing, really." Jake's voice was quiet and small. He was trying not to say too much. His eyes remained glued to the floor.

"Jake?" Sisko asked, his voice a little deeper, and a little more threatening.

Julian turned away. Entertaining as the scene was, it really wasn't his business. Although, he wouldn't have been surprised if Quark had sent Nog down to the lower levels. Those areas were so highly damaged when the Cardassians left the station that they were, as yet, irreparable. However, they did provide spare parts at times, for other broken or damaged items on the more necessary levels of the station. If they weren't strictly restricted, scavengers, like Nog, would have scoured them long ago, finding everything at all that was possibly useful, and selling it to the highest bidder. He supposed that that was exactly what Nog and Jake were doing down there.

Instead of following the saga, Bashir turned to his "paperwork." He let the constable and the commander sort out the situation with the boys and sat down at the computer to record Jake's injury and the treatment received. Behind him the door opened again. Everyone turned to see a very surprised nurse enter the Infirmary. No one said anything by way of explanation, but Odo did step out of the way so she could get past. She immediately went to Dr. Bashir at the computer. The conversation continued behind her.

"What's going on?" she asked in a whisper.

"It's a long story, I gather," he whispered back, as he proceeded with his records. "I'm sure it'll all be sorted out in a few moments."

"Medical emergency on the Promenade!" All conversation stopped. The voice was squeaky, almost a verbal cringe.

Ferengi, Julian recognized. It had to be Rom, Quark's brother and Nog's father. Bashir was already getting his medkit when he answered. "Doctor Bashir here. Where are you, Rom?"

"Quark's. Come quick."

"I'm on my way," Bashir answered. He turned to the nurse. "Keep an eye on things here. The boy's been released."

"Which boy?" she asked, confused. But Julian was already out the door. And Quark was right behind him, with Odo following, too.

The Infirmary was on the Promenade, so getting to the bar took little time. Several onlookers were staring inside from the corridor, their mouths gaped open in curiosity. Security officers were already pushing their way inside. Rom was waiting at the door, cowering as if he had done something wrong. But Rom always cowered that way. He was wringing his hands incessantly and fidgeting from one foot to the other, just as his son had done.

"What happened?" Julian asked as he entered the semi-crowded, yet eerily quiet bar. Security officers began taking statements and trying to keep people calm.

Rom's voice was about an octave higher than usual. "He just stabbed him and ran off!" he blurted out in a panic, as he led the doctor to the victim.

The man on the floor was another Ferengi, one of Quark's waiters. But he wasn't exactly stabbed. His throat had been slit from one over-sized ear to the other. He lay still, covered in blood, his eyes fixed in an expression of helplessness and horror. Julian took his tricorder out and passed it over the inert body. It was obvious to him, and to everyone else, that the man was dead, but he had to make it official. He checked the chronometer on the tricorder: 1437. He turned to Odo. "He's dead."

Odo had been standing behind Quark, his eyes moving over the whole bar, scanning every face. Now he pushed past Quark to question Rom and other key witnesses. But it was Quark who drew the doctor's attention.

He was staring, transfixed, at the body on the floor. To the doctor, he had seemed to be not only horrified at the violent death of his employee, but worried as well. But not like Rom, who cringed and fidgeted when worried. Rom was usually too stupid to be guilty of much, so he had little need for the kind of worry that showed in Quark's face. Quark was more clever and hardly ever let his confident air down. But once he was aware of the doctor's eye on him, his visage changed and he turned away.

"What exactly did you see?" Odo was asking Rom, who still quivered nervously beside the body. Odo was calm, as usual, but he seemed energized by the call to duty the murder provided. Julian thought that he and Odo had something in common, though Odo would probably never admit to being in any way like him. But they were both doing what they were supposed to do. Julian felt that he, himself, was meant to be a doctor. It was not a career he chose so much as it was a part of him. Odo was meant to be in Security in just the same way. Justice was a part of Odo as much as medicine was a part of Julian Bashir.

Rom stammered, "He . . .he was complaining about the food. Lek tried to calm him. He offered a free meal in repayment," he said. Then his tone changed briefly as he added, "Though of course only my brother can offer such recompense." And then he went back to the story. "But he wouldn't have it. He went crazy. He grabbed Lek from behind and stabbed him with the knife. It was horrible! Just horrible!"

Odo listened to Rom's much too brief statement and then pressed Rom for more information. "What did he look like?"

"I don't know," Rom answered, looking genuinely perplexed.

"What was he wearing?"

"A hood." Rom seemed more confident then. "Yes, he was wearing a gray hood like those Gidari."

Odo touched the communication badge on his breast. "Odo to Sisko."

"Sisko here."

"There's been a murder."

"I'm on my way."

In moments, Commander Sisko entered the bar and was directed by a Bajoran security officer to where Odo and the doctor were waiting. Major Kira arrived a few moments later.

Sisko looked gravely down at the waiter's body. He nodded, and Bashir lifted the tablecloth that had been thrown over his face. Sisko's jaw tightened visibly, and the doctor replaced the cover. Two med-techs were waiting nearby with an antigravity stretcher. Bashir nodded to them, and they began to remove the body. Few words were said by anyone until the body was loaded up and moving toward the door.

"Cause of death is rather obvious," Sisko said, his voice low. "Do we have the murder weapon?"

"No," Odo answered. "The perpetrator seems to have run off with it."

"Could he have left the station?"

"No." This time it was Kira. "No ships have left since 1200 hours. None are due to depart for four more hours."

"Good," Sisko said. "No one leaves unless we're sure he is not on board. I want a report as soon as you can get one together. Let's see what the postmortem can tell us." The first order was directed to Kira, the second to Odo, and the third to the doctor.

"Dax to Odo."

Odo tapped his comm badge. "Odo here."

"Sanglin Nardek of the Gindarin has just called to report one of his crew missing: a young man named Harglin Nastrof."

"My office at 1600 hours," Sisko concluded. His officers nodded their acknowledgment.

Sisko walked out of the bar. Bashir picked up the medkit from the floor. As he rose again, he turned to Odo. "I'll inform you immediately if I find anything of importance." And then he hurried after his med-techs, secretly hoping that all of this would keep him much too busy to go to dinner with Dax and Dr. Grant.