Since the lights in his quarters were still not as bright as those in the corridor beyond, Bashir stayed in and worked, accepting visitors when they came. Troi was the most frequent of his guests, though she wasn't exactly a guest. Data stopped by for dinner, and the captain had dropped by once after Sloan's departure. The only time Bashir had left his quarters was for a trip to Sickbay where he was pronounced physically healthy.

It was the second day after Sloan's last visit that he received a message from his parents. His mother had cried, which unnerved Bashir and nearly threw off his balance. His mother was the solid one, the foundation. His father flitted about, but she was steady. And she had cried. It was so hard for them, she had said, to lose him. They were glad, overjoyed, to find that it was all a mistake again. (Starfleet had told them it was a mistake. Bashir rankled at that. A mistake was not intentional. What had been done to him wasn't an accident.) It was harder this time, she admitted, because there had been time to accept his death, as if that could ever be accomplished. Still, she thanked whoever was responsible that they had another chance. With the war, not all families were as fortunate as that.

His father had joked. He always did, it seemed. But Bashir could see that he was near tears as well as he spoke to the machine that would carry his words to his only son. He wanted to know how Starfleet could make such a mistake. And why hadn't Julian written sooner so they would have realized it wasn't true?

He'd have to explain to them how he'd been missing and where he'd been. Bashir had been sitting in front of his console for an hour trying to figure out just how to do that. He'd started and stopped at least a dozen times, deleting what he'd already said. How did one tell one's parents that he wasn't dead anymore? How much was he to tell them? He didn't want to tell them everything. He didn't want to worry them about Section 31. They had enough to worry about.

When Troi came by for their daily visit, he still hadn't gotten past "Hello." He turned off the recording and met her at the couch. She smiled and asked how he was, and he decided he could probably use her help after all. "I'm a bit frustrated," he told her, and her smile widened ever so slightly. "I don't know what to say to my parents."

Her smile was replaced by serious contemplation. "I'd be glad to help you brainstorm," she told him. "But in the end, you'll have to decide for yourself. I take it you don't want to tell them the truth."

"Starfleet didn't tell them the truth," Bashir countered evenly. "They said they made a mistake. That's all."

"Rather an oversimplification," Troi agreed. "But the truth is harder."

Julian stood and paced over to the window. "They worry enough about me with the war on. Especially after my imprisonment and other happenings. They don't know about Section 31. I don't think they need to know. It's too much."

"You could still tell the truth," Troi suggested, not getting up, but turning toward him, "without telling them the whole truth."

"I thought of that," he agreed. "I was missing, presumed dead. They mistakenly identified the body. But they'd ask how I went missing."

She nodded thoughtfully. "Which brings you back around to Section 31." She thought for a moment. "You were under orders, correct? Then you could tell them you were on a mission."

Julian thought about that. It wasn't a lie. He had been on a mission. A couple of different missions depending on one's particular perspective. "And I can't give details about the mission," he added, further developing her idea. "Something went wrong, I got marooned and was lucky to be found at all."

"Something like that," she agreed, smiling again. "I don't think you have to dwell on that. Keep it short and move on to what's important. They're your family."

What is important? he thought to himself. He'd been having trouble finding important things of late. He almost let himself slip down that path of thought. It was a sign that he was growing more comfortable with Troi. She came everyday and was always nice and inviting. He almost wanted to talk to her. But he had decided one thing was important, to him: Deep Space Nine. She was the main thing keeping him from getting there.

A burst of light flashed by the viewport and stung his eyes, causing him to flinch and back away, but the jolt to the ship knocked him off his feet. He looked around and saw that Troi was on the floor, too. She pushed herself up on her knees. Just as another shot hit. Only then did the red alert klaxon begin to blare.

"Where was the klaxon?" he shouted over the next barrage.

"They must have come up too fast," she surmised.

Bashir shook his head. Into the fire, indeed. "They would have been on the sensors."

"Maybe they were hiding in the nebula." She held onto the couch and tried to stand, but the jolts came rapidly. From the flares of light outside, Bashir assumed the shields were still holding, but the ship was being buffeted by the constant contact. Troi kept getting knocked down. "I have to get to the Bridge."

The next hit was not met by the flare of shields, but rammed full-force into the hull, sending vibrations up through the deck. "We've lost some shields," Bashir guessed aloud. He crawled to his console and pulled himself into the seat there. The floor bucked beneath him but he managed to hold on. He called up the computer and began punching in commands.

Troi managed to find her feet for the few seconds it took to move to the console. "What are you looking for?" she asked.

"Shields, damage reports, casualties, life signs," he began, rattling off a list.

"Access requires a level three clearance or higher," the computer droned, a voice of calm amid the chaos of the battle outside.

Bashir slammed his fist on the console. "I used to have a level four," he complained.

Troi was watching the window. "We lost shields on this side," she confirmed. "They've got them back up for now, I think. I saw at least three ships. Jem'Hadar."

"What's your clearance, Counselor?" he asked.

She took the hint, turned back to the console, and entered her clearance code. The reports Bashir had requested began to scroll across the screen. "They're borrowing power from other areas for the shields," he said, sharing with her what he saw.

"Hull breach three decks down." She pointed to another area of data.

"Turbolifts are out," Bashir added. "You'll never make it ten decks through Jefferies tubes."

She nodded. "Looks like we're stuck on this deck." She pulled up the damage reports. "Did you see how many ships there were?"

"More than a dozen," he answered. "Fourteen, I think." While she assessed the damage, he had pulled up some other readings on the bottom half of the screen. His fingers had been flying across the console as he looked at casualty reports, weapons status. But now his fingers froze. He was looking at life signs. "We've been boarded." Jem'Hadar lifesigns.

Troi froze, too, then turned her head to look at him. "Where are they?"

Bashir forced himself to move again, taking over the whole screen with lifesign readings. "Deck 10, Section 16."

"That's pretty close," she said. "We'd better get out of here. There's a weapons locker in the next section."

Bashir jumped out of his seat and raced, as well as he could, across the lurching deck to the replicator. "What are you doing?" Troi yelled at him from where she was still gripping the chair.

"Medkit!" he yelled back. If there were Jem'Hadar on the ship, there would be wounded. And if he and Troi were stuck on this deck, chances were the med crews were unable to get down to it. As were the extra Security forces. He replicated a few essentials, a tricorder, and a bag to throw them in.

"Section 15!" She called. "We got three of their ships, though!"

Bashir grabbed the last roll of bandages from the replicator and stuffed them into the bag. He thought about replicating the low level pain killers Geordie had given him, since he was going to have a headache. His time of slowly acclimating to normal light levels was over. It was going to be bright in the corridor. He let it go though. His quarters were in Section 14. "Let's go," he said, heading toward the door.

Troi was already there, just far enough back to keep the door from opening. She had her hand phaser drawn, and she waited for him to catch up to her. "Ready?"

He checked the tricorder first, scanning beyond the door. Satisfied that no Jem'Hadar or Cardassians were about, he nodded and she stepped forward, opening the door. The light stabbed at him, but it wasn't blinding anymore. He could see her cautiously look one direction and then the other, phaser always pointing the direction she was looking. Counselor and doctor, he mused. We were supposed to be healers. He could hear weapons fire in the distance. Not so distant. She waved for him with her free arm and got bumped into the doorframe for it when another blast hit. He grabbed her arm to help steady her, and, together, they ran out into the corridor.

Kira woke up and acknowledged the transmission. She pressed the controls on her wall, waiting for the Emissary's face to appear. It took only a second. His face was unreadable, but she could see the smoke and damaged consoles behind him. The fact that he was calling at all, though, signaled that the Defiant had survived whatever engagement had come up.

"Major, we'll be returning to the station by tomorrow afternoon. Chief O'Brien will be sending a repair report. We've taken some damage."

Kira nodded. She'd been hoping for more. "It's good to hear from you, sir," she said, seemingly ignoring all the Captain had said. "We couldn't get a message through to you. Did you reach the Enterprise?"

Sisko allowed her a small, fleeting smile. "I saw him. He seemed fine. A bit hollow, but fine."

Kira let out the breath she didn't realize she'd been holding. "Is he with you?"

Sisko shook his head. "Not just yet. He needs some time to recover."

"Recover from what?" Kira asked, alarmed.

"I said he was fine," the Captain repeated, more slowly this time. "I promise, Major, to give a full report when I get back."

Kira dropped her eyes and nodded once. "Of course."

The captain's voice softened. "See you in fourteen hours, Nerys."

She looked up and smiled. "Yes, sir."

The transmission ended and Kira laid back down again. She closed her eyes. It was only midnight. She needed the sleep. But it wouldn't come.

The sound of weapons fire decreased as they ran away from the firing. They reached the weapons locker in less than five minutes, but there was only one phaser rifle left. Troi looked at him with uncertainty, trying to decide which way to divide the weapons.

Bashir decided for her. "I'll take the hand phaser," he offered. "I'll need my other hand for the medkit." It wasn't the real reason he had chosen the less powerful weapon. The larger rifle was more powerful, and therefore required less precise aiming. Bashir, with his enhanced hand-eye coordination, could make just as deadly use with the hand phaser by aiming precisely for vulnerable areas, such as the point where the Ketracel White tube entered a Jem'Hadar's neck.

She handed him the smaller phaser and shouldered the larger rifle. As she did so, Bashir noted movement in the cross corridor to the left. A Starfleet Security officer was dragging another officer by the shoulders, leaving a trail of blood behind them. Bashir checked the setting on the phaser and then followed the two officers down the corridor. He had to run to catch up with them, and Troi had to run to keep up with him. The ship lurched again and Bashir hit the bulkhead with his shoulder. "Where are you taking her?" he asked the Security officer.

"We've been putting the wounded in Section 10 when we have the chance," the man answered. He was only an ensign but already he looked like a seasoned veteran. Bashir handed the phaser back to Troi and bent down to get his arms under the woman's knee and shoulder on one side.

The ensign got the idea and moved to lift the woman, a lieutenant commander, on the other side. "She saved my life," he said, nodding down at the woman.

Bashir couldn't see any visible wounds, but he could feel the warm liquid on her back. Judging from the blood on the floor, she'd lost a lot of it. Her face was pale, but her lips still held their color. She might make it to Section 10, and maybe then Bashir could do something for her.

"Are there any medical personnel in Section 10?" Troi asked, trying to keep her footing beside him through another blast. Bashir wondered why she would ask. Not that it wasn't a good question. But did it mean she had doubts about his ability to treat the wounded, especially in a triage situation?

The man shook his head. "No, we're just getting them out of the way of the fighting, at least for now."

The deck obliged them by remaining steady as they rounded the next corner. What Bashir saw next was utter chaos. At least a dozen seriously wounded, open wounds, blood everywhere, a few blue-trimmed officers trying to help them. It was impossible to tell the walking wounded from the uninjured; everyone had at least cuts and bruises. Bashir decided to concentrate on the worst cases, and hope that nobody would collapse on him before he got to the less seriously injured.

Bashir helped the ensign set the lieutenant commander down, but stopped the ensign before he could run off. "Where are they?" he asked.

"Med teams can't get down here," the man answered.

Bashir shook his head, "The Jem'Hadar? Where are they?"

"Just got to Section 14, last I saw. We were holding them there."

"That's only four sections," Bashir told him. "Someone's got to stay here."

The ensign looked at Troi and nodded toward her rifle. "She can stay."

"I plan on it," Troi said.

Bashir didn't have time to argue. "This place isn't defensible. They'll cut the wounded down. We need defenders and help to carry the wounded."

"I have to get back to my post," the ensign argued. "Look, I'll see if we can't send someone back. But if we can't hold them, it's not going to matter much."

Bashir let him go. The lieutenant commander was bleeding to death. "This is a mess," he said under his breath. He took out the tricorder and started to scan the woman. He rolled her over and found the wound without any trouble at all. Another inch and the blast would have cut her spine in half. Bashir threw open his medkit and knew he didn't have enough of anything. He used the tissue regenerator as a quick fix, stanching the flow of blood from the woman's wound. He left her lying on her stomach and moved to assess the other wounded.

Scanning them quickly with his eyes, he counted a dozen patients lying on the deck. At least half of those had open disruptor wounds, all of which were bleeding freely because of the anti-coagulant in Jem'Hadar weapons. One crewman had an open fracture of the femur. Another was missing her arm below the elbow. The other four had second and third degree burns. Two of the burn victims were shivering, but none of the four looked as though they would die immediately.

He looked up at the blue-trims who had stopped to stare at him. "Do any of you have medical training?" he asked. They each shook their heads. Two of them looked spooked. One seemed completely unconcerned with the present situation, but he was a Vulcan. Of course, Bashir could guess they'd all had some basic training, but the situation probably overwhelmed them. They needed a leader, someone to make them focus. "Well, now you're going to get a crash course," he told them.

"You a med-tech?" one of the pale ones, a woman of diminutive stature, asked. She held one hand limp in her lap and looked nauseated.

"Doctor Julian Bashir," he replied, granting her a smile, in the hopes of raising her spirits, "at your service. What's around here?" he asked, gesturing with his head to indicate the corridor. His hands were busy, though they were too late for the lieutenant he was checking. The man was going to die. He had a hole in his side large enough to fit a fist through. The blast that had hit him had shattered his ribs, sending fragments of bone into the heart. It was a wonder the man was still breathing at all. Bashir could tell at a glance there were others with a better chance of surviving and he had limited supplies. I never liked triage, he told himself. Not this part, anyway. The man was unconscious and unlikely to wake up. Bashir did nothing for him and moved on.

"Quarters," the small woman answered, pointing. "Those are mine."

"Aren't you going to help him?" the other human accused, pointing to the man Bashir had left.

"Lieutenant Versalis is beyond help, Ensign," the Vulcan, a lieutenant, answered, allowing Bashir to concentrate on his next assessment.

Broken femur. A good deal of pain, but not life-threatening. He could reduce the fracture with traction within a minute, but there were others in greater need. "I'll be back for you," he told that man, no more than a boy really. Just starting out, he'd bet. The boy nodded back, but didn't dare speak. He was probably trying to be braver than he was, hiding the pain. Bashir moved to the next patient in line.

"Quarters have replicators," he said, getting back to the young woman's answer to his question and ignoring the accusation as something completely counter-productive and impractical at this point. "Has anyone got a PADD?"

The lights in the corridor flickered as the Vulcan held out a PADD, which Troi took and handed to Bashir. "They'll cut power to non-essential systems," she whispered to him.

"Let's get what we can while we can," he whispered back, already punching in a list, trying to brainstorm, in order of importance, the supplies he wanted. "Take her," he added, nodding to the woman as he removed his jacket. "Make a sling for her and have her help you carry the supplies back."

Troi understood. "She needs a distraction." She nodded and used Bashir's jacket for the sling.

The lights flickered again and Bashir hoped they'd at least be able to get the first few things on his list. He turned back to his next patient. A woman. Her arm had been torn off just below the elbow. Someone had managed a tourniquet. She was unconscious, but the bleeding was slowed. He called the Vulcan over and asked him his name.

"Kovek," the lieutenant answered.

"Kovek," Bashir acknowledged, "I need your help," He handed him a dermal regenerator, a hypospray, and a roll of bandages. He quickly instructed him on their use and moved on to the next patient. Kovek nodded and began to work without protest, though also without enthusiasm.

Bashir's next involuntary aide was less than resigned to his new role. Bashir ignored his protests at first and kept telling him what needed to be done. The Vulcan did the arguing, telling the other man that it was illogical to disobey. One doctor was not enough. Carter, the unhappy ensign, was not doing anything else of importance and therefore, if one wanted the wounded to survive--and there was no logical reason to want them to die--one would have to become another set of hands for the doctor. To Carter's credit, he did what he was ordered to do even if he argued the entire time.

Bashir found it easy to ignore Carter's complaints, tuning him out as easily as he'd tuned out the rush of water back in the cave. It was nothing but white noise to him. He went on, treated the burn victims with temporary syntheskin, pain killers, antibiotics, and synergine for the shock. He wished all of his patients could be so easily relieved of their pain and distress.

"Holding at twenty-six, Captain" Data answered quickly from Ops. "They have broken through to Section 14."

"But they haven't made it off the deck?" Picard asked, hopeful. Well, as hopeful as one could be when the Jem'Hadar had boarded his ship. Deck 10, Sections 16 through 14. The hopeful was for silver linings. Twenty-six was just over half the original boarding party. Deck 10 was only one deck. Sections 16 through 14 meant only three sections. It could be worse. It could be a lot worse.

"No, sir," Data responded, his fingers dancing over his console. He was probably managing six different tasks, Picard mused. Easier for him, he thought. For Picard, the battle raged around his ship and within it, and he didn't have a positronic brain.

"Helm," he ordered, changing his focus as he saw an opportunity appear on the tactical display, "bring us around 34 degrees port. Tactical, lock photon torpedoes on the third ship's starboard nacelle." There was a leak, visible to the sensors. That nacelle was giving that Jem'Hadar ship trouble, and it just might give the Enterprise an edge. That ship, positioned as it was just now, in between two others, might damage the other ships when it blew.

"Aye, sir," Helm and Tactical answered in unison.

The ship turned and the main viewscreen panned over to face the new target.

"Torpedoes armed and locked," Tactical reported.

Riker gave the command. "Fire!"

Three torpedoes streaked out through the space between the ships and slammed into the smaller, bug-like Jem'Hadar vessel. The first hit squarely on target. The second was slightly off, hitting the strut between the vessel's body and the nacelle. The third hit squarely on the underside of the ship as it was tipped upward and to port by the first blast. The three torpedoes together blew the ship apart, sending large pieces of debris spewing out in several directions. The largest piece, nearly the whole forward hull, plowed into the ship on its port side, causing its shields to crackle and fail, while another piece glanced off the shields of the starboard ship.

"Phasers on the fourth vessel," Riker ordered. "Fire!"

"Quantum torpedo on the lead ship," Picard ordered in turn, ignoring the second ship. Two for one was good enough. The lead ship would be expecting him to try and finish off the second ship, the third of the group. Picard hoped to surprise it.

"Coming around," Helm answered.

"Locked," Tactical responded even as the fourth ship was destroyed.

"Fire!"

By the time that Troi and the woman, Saeren, had returned with a couple of armfuls of new supplies, the lights in the corridor had gone out, meaning main power--and with it, the replicators--was gone. There was emergency lighting though. Bashir felt more comfortable with the light level, but he was more worried for his patients than for himself. He could take a headache. By this time, he had assessed and prioritized the twelve original patients, one of whom, Versalis, had died. But even then, there were new arrivals just behind the counselor. Carter had stopped complaining and even Saeren seemed to realize that her distress would have to wait.

One Bolian was brought in with a good section of his skull knocked away. He was still breathing, but that was the only sign of life he gave. Blue blood poured down that side of his face into his open eyes. He didn't move, didn't blink, not even when Bashir flicked the exoscalpel across the back of his hand. He would die, too. There were impaction injuries, internal bleeding, problems that required surgery in most cases. Some might have a chance. If the battle didn't last too long. That was Bashir's task then, to try and help them last it out. He thought he could win with a few of them.

Another hour and fifteen more had arrived; seven more had died. Bashir was himself covered in blood at this point, red, green, blue, and probably a few other shades. He glanced around. Troi was bloody, too, bandaging and helping out with the rifle still slung over one shoulder. Saeren did what she could with one arm. During a lapse in the incoming traffic, Bashir had found the time to reduce the dislocation in her shoulder. She'd passed out, but she was helpful when she woke up again.

Another arrival. She was alone, pulling herself along the floor with her arms. The sounds of gunfire had grown quiet and distant, and Bashir wondered just how far she'd come. She collapsed before Bashir had had a chance to stand. Kovek reached her first, and Bashir helped him carry the woman farther into the corridor. She appeared to be paralyzed from the waist down. They laid her gently on the floor next to the previous patient.

Kovek had the tricorder near him. "Not broken," he said, clipping the sentence short.

He held the screen toward Bashir. But Bashir didn't need to look. He began to pump her chest with his hands. "Heart stopped," he told the Vulcan. That overrode any injury to her spine. No heartbeat, no life. It was that simple. He tried mouth-to-mouth, being so desperately low on supplies. He counted the seconds as he tried CPR. Nothing worked. She was dead. Bashir leaned back on his heels and let his hands fall to his sides. She'd tried so hard just to die at the end.

"I put her with others," Kovek volunteered, and Bashir wondered if he heard him right.

"What?" he asked, rubbing his eyes with the back of his wrists.

"I'll put her with the others," the Vulcan repeated. Bashir nodded and let him go. They'd been removing the dead to one of the quarters nearest to the corridor.

But just as he started to lift her, Kovek let her fall again. He sighed himself and Bashir thought that rather uncharacteristic. "We went to the Academy together," the Vulcan said. His hand shook as he brought it to his face. "All four years." His shoulders heaved and Bashir realized Kovek was crying.

Bashir grabbed a light beacon from the floor, reached up, and pulled Kovek's hand from his face, startling the Vulcan who pulled away in distress. But not before Bashir had gotten a chance to flash the light at him. One eye dilated. The other did not.

"Kovek," Bashir said, trying to keep his voice calm. "Come sit down." Troi had come over beside him, drawn by the rare show of emotion.

"What's wrong withyou?" Kovek asked, slurring his words and drawing the attention of Carter and Saeren and several of the wounded who could take their minds off their own pain.

"Kovek," Bashir tried again. "You're wounded. Let me help you."

"She's wounded!" Kovek replied, nearly shrieking and pointing at his friend on the floor. "Help 'er!"

Bashir shook his head. "I can't help her," he told Kovek. "I can try to help you. Come sit down. Carter will put her with the others." He glanced over his shoulder where Carter was nodding. The man's own eyes showed worry.

"You can't her away!" Kovek cried. He was holding his head now. The right side. The same as the eye that wouldn't react to the light. Bashir had already guessed head injury. Kovek had seemed to be fine. Triage had led Bashir to the more seriously wounded. Or so it seemed. The truth was, he'd missed Kovek.

Bashir wasn't sure if he should blame himself or triage in principle. In the end, he knew he was responsible. He'd taken Kovek as an aide, not as a patient. Kovek himself had not admitted any injury or complained of any pain, but with Vulcan fortitude and a head injury, he couldn't be expected to be so helpful. Bashir was the one who should have known to check, and he berated himself for the lapse.

"What happened to him?" Troi whispered in his ear.

"Head trauma," Bashir whispered back. "There's probably bleeding in his brain." He tried to edge closer to the sobbing Vulcan.

Shocked, Troi turned to look at him. "When did that happen?"

"Quite some time ago from the look of things," Bashir answered. "We need to calm him down."

Moving closer, Bashir tried to touch Kovek's shoulder, but the Vulcan batted away his hand.

"Be careful," Troi whispered, reminding him that Vulcans were much stronger than humans, and an emotional Vulcan could be a dangerous Vulcan.

Bashir knew that though. He knew a lot about Vulcans, and just about every other species in the Federation and quite a few without. He was already going over Vulcan anatomy in his head. But he knew Troi was just showing her concern for his safety and so he didn't reply. He just nodded and tried again.

"Kovek," he called softly, "come lie down." He touched Kovek's shoulder again, but Kovek suddenly jumped to his feet. The sudden movement caused him to lurch to one side, the left side.

Bashir stood, too, but Kovek lurched again, this time, right toward Bashir, arms outstretched and fingers splayed like claws. He grabbed onto Bashir's shoulders before the doctor could react, shoving him into the opposite bulkhead. Bashir's own head rang for a bit, but he shook it off and his eyes began to clear.

Troi had come over to help him, but he pushed her away. Kovek was falling, his eyes rolled up under his eyelids. "Help him," Bashir told her, and she scrambled to reach the Vulcan before he hit the floor.

Troi and Carter helped Kovek to sit, while Saeren gave Bashir her hand to help him off the floor. Bashir touched Carter on the shoulder once he'd pulled back away from Kovek. "Can you take the woman away, please?" he whispered, and Carter just nodded.

"I'll help," Troi offered. She slipped the rifle off her shoulder and handed it to Bashir before she lifted the legs of the dead woman.

Kovek was awake and weeping quietly now. He clutched one hand to Bashir's arm as he knelt beside him. Bashir glanced back to Saeren, and she seemed to know what he wanted. "It's alright," she told him, shaking her head. No one else needed him right then. He would stay with Kovek.

Bashir was glad. He wanted to stay with the Vulcan. He had once told Kira that no one should die alone, and where he could help it, he always wanted to try and be there for a patient that didn't have anyone else. It was never easy, but he felt it to be an important thing, something the living owed to the dying. And he felt particular sympathy, not to mention guilt, for Kovek's plight. In his life, Kovek had mastered control, as all Vulcans are taught. Control was something Bashir had practiced for many years, but even so, it was often a struggle. For Kovek, it was as simple as breathing. Except that now, a head injury had caved in that control. He was laid bare, in all his weakness, to die without ever regaining what was most important to his life.

Kovek spoke to him, telling him about Jenna, the woman, his friend, who had just died. She had struggled with advanced astrophysics. He had struggled with interpersonal relationships. They had helped each other. She was his first non-Vulcan friend. As he talked, more and more of his words turned to mumbles. His hand lost its grip. When Troi touched Bashir's shoulder, Kovek had become completely incoherent.

"They're coming this way," Troi whispered, taking the rifle. She handed him the hand phaser.

Not yet, he wanted to tell her. Kovek wasn't gone yet. But the Jem'Hadar wouldn't care. He nodded and thought of the other wounded. He thought again about what he'd said to the Security officer. The corridor wasn't defensible. There was nothing to take cover behind. They were exposed on either end.

Carter, Saeren, and the patients who were conscious all looked to him to save them. Troi outranked him. She'd even commanded the bridge of the Enterprise, but she, too, waited for him to tell them what to do.

"We'll have move them," he told her, and he hated the idea of what movement might do to some of the wounded. The Jem'Hadar, though, would do worse.

"Where?" She knelt down. "We'd only be boxed in."

"How many weapons have we got?" Bashir noted his hand phaser and her rifle, but no others.

"Carter has a phaser, too," Troi offered.

"And how many Jem'Hadar?" He was already forming an unpleasant plan. He could do it, sublimate whatever negative feelings it provoked. He'd slept with the dead before. Could the others?

"Six, at least."

"Two for each of us." Bashir patted Kovek's arm once and then stood up. "The dead quarters. We can ambush them in there."

Even in the dim light, Bashir could see Troi's face pale. "We're going to play dead."

Bashir nodded. "Among the dead. Shouldn't be too hard. Most of them are unconscious," he waved a hand at the wounded. He looked down at Kovek. "Comatose. We can use the dead to disguise the most visual aspects of their breathing. Cover them. Those that can will have to hold their breaths like the rest of us. There's not that many to go around."

Troi nodded, but her expression showed her shock at his language. He surprised himself really, talking about the dead like so much cordwood. Cordwood? He'd never even seen cordwood, so why had he thought of that word. Auschwitz. The dead stacked like cordwood. He'd heard that before. "Consider it a defense mechanism," he told her. "I once got used to death."

"That might be the most honest thing you've said to me yet," she admitted. "I can feel you here."

Bashir let her comment go, giving it no reply. It would only complicate things and besides, they didn't have the time. "How long?"

"Four minutes maybe," she replied.

"Let's go then. We've got twenty-seven patients to move. Put Saeren with the most mobile: fractured femur, arm, etc. Those who can walk with a little help. We'll have to carry the others."

"They're not going to like this," Troi breathed.

"They don't have to like it," Bashir told her. "They just have to survive it."

Saeren did her job, taking two at a time, one hanging on to her, her hanging on to the other. Carter helped Bashir carry Kovek. Bashir took the Vulcan's shoulders, carefully cradling his head, while Carter lifted at the knees. It wasn't quick progress but it was easier than going it alone. Saeren and Troi worked together. It was five minutes before they were all behind the closed door in the room of the dead.

But it wasn't enough. Troi, being the senior officer, issued the orders, trying to help the patients and staff accept what was about to be done. They blanched.

Bashir stepped up. "I know it sounds callous. I know that doing this feels like walking over your own grave, but the dead are dead. They can't hurt us but they can help us. And, if we don't do this, we'll be dead, too, and then they will have died in vain."

They began to move even as Bashir heard the boots in the corridor outside. Still a few doors down. The others probably didn't hear it. He motioned to Troi and Carter. Carter, like himself, had a hand phaser.

The Third rushed forward into the room. The First had chosen him to lead the boarding party, and he didn't want the First or the Vorta to think him lacking in courage for the Founders. He led his troops. He did not simply order them. He had split the ranks, leaving the Fourth and Fifth behind while he took five others and advanced to the next section.

They had come across a blood-filled corridor and two lone defenders. The Federation soldiers were cut down easily enough, though they did managed to kill Okin'dahi. The Third left him behind without another thought. He had done his duty. He had served the Founders.

The room the Third and the remaining four entered was quiet and dark like the others they had seen. This one had a smell though. The smell of blood and death. Jem'Hadar were bred to be soldiers, to fight in the worst of conditions, so the Third did not need bright light to see that this was the room of the dead. Bodies covered the floor of the main room, strewn over each other with ghastly wounds, some dressed, some not. Some were still armed, having fought and died as Jem'Hadar might have, though without anyone to remove the weapons and continue the fight.

The Third was standing in the door, blocking the entrance. He was about to turn and lead his men forward when he heard a sound. A moan. Someone was alive.

He debated letting it go. A living wounded in this room was no threat to the Dominion. He would die soon enough. And yet, it could have been a trap or someone not so seriously wounded. An officer. A valuable prisoner for the Dominion. Which would the First discipline him for? Better to investigate. He motioned his men inside, taking the point position for himself.

"Check them," he ordered. He kicked one of the bodies with his boot. It did not moan or move. Dead. He kicked the one beneath it. Nothing. Beside that one, with one arm caught beneath the body, but the hand visible still clutching a phaser, was a civilian. The Third hesitated. He was clearly dead. Staring blindly forward, the eyes, still as they were, seemed to bore right through him. Then he heard the shot.

His first instinct was to turn and return fire, but then he felt the pain inside himself. A blade of heat cut through his spine and sent him to his knees. He knew that he was exposing Eni'kalan behind him, but he was helpless. His muscles disobeyed his orders. His hand could not raise his weapon; he could not even lift himself from the floor or activate his communicator. It was only the nearness of Eni'kalan and the others that kept his face from touching the deck. But as they fell around him, he fell. And in less than thirty seconds, he knew it was his men who were dead, and he was aware of the living standing above him even if he couldn't turn his body to look at them.

One of them knelt down, the one with the lifeless eyes. Even now, in his animate face, they did not seem truly alive. Humans. Jem'Hadar lived for the fight. For humans, it was fighting that took the life out of them.

"You're going to die," the man said, and the Third was vaguely surprised to hear no malice in his voice. "There's nothing I can do for you."

"I am already dead," the Third told him, refusing to relinquish his dignity. He was Jem'Hadar. To the last breath. "Victory is life!"

The human's eyebrows raised, his forehead became lined. "I know you believe that." He even sounded sorry. "You shall get neither."

The Third wanted to spit on the human's pity, but the man stood and turned away, taking the Third's disruptor with him.

"We can uncover the wounded," Bashir said, stepping away from the paralyzed Jem'Hadar. He handed the man's weapon to the young man with the broken leg. "A weapon for you, my dear," he said with a smile, offering another disruptor to Saeren as if it were a bouquet of flowers.

"How thoughtful," she chuckled, playing along.

Back to business. "There's no sense moving them again. We might just have to come back. If someone's condition has changed, call out."

"Over here, doctor," Carter called. He was standing beside one of the wounded. Number five by Julian's triage count. One of the original twelve, fifth in priority. Bashir rushed over, leaving the others to continue uncovering the wounded. He could see the man was dead, but he used the tricorder anyway. Potassium. "Hyper-calaemia," Bashir sighed, giving the cause of death to no one since no one was listening. The man moved from number five to number ten. Ten among the dead. He might have made it, could have made it, with more supplies, better supplies, an infirmary.

There are twenty-six others who might make it, Bashir's mind argued, forcing him back to his duty. Leave the dead behind. He doesn't need you anymore. "How are the others?" he called out.

"Bejlis is bleeding again," Saeren said. Bejlis was the amputation, conscious now and obviously in pain. Shock was a danger. Bashir sent Saeren in search of outdated supplies. Needles, hooks. The chances of her finding any were small though, given the reliance on computers and modern technology.

There was always a phaser, if he could find no other method to stop her bleeding. He could cauterize the wound, but that could complicate her chances of integrating with an artificial limb. The tourniquet, however, was just as bad and less reliable. So he took out the phaser and apologized to the woman for causing her more pain. She managed a small smile before her face contorted into a grimace as he fired. The bleeding stopped. Bashir squeezed her remaining hand gently and then moved on.

Several of the others had not fared well from the move. Only two had died. Though Bashir had anticipated that some might die, their deaths still hung heavily on his conscience.

Behind him, the Jem'Hadar nagged at him, assaulting the wounded with words now that his body wouldn't work. Bashir was able to tune him out, to relegate the tirade to a small part of his mind where it didn't matter. But Carter, who after his initial reluctance had become a calm force of aid, was less able and snapped.

"Shut up!" He screamed loud enough to startle even the Jem'Hadar into momentarily halting his diatribe. But only momentarily. Carter kicked the Jem'Hadar in the side with every ounce of pent-up frustration he was feeling.

The Jem'Hadar lost his breath then laughed at the young man. Troi grabbed Carter's shoulders and tried to hold him back.

"He can't feel it," Julian told them both, not even looking over his shoulder.

"Then let me kill him," Carter said, attempting to control his voice.

"I'm already dead," the Jem'Hadar jeered at him.

"I can't let you do that," Bashir admonished quietly.

"Why?" Carter protested. "He's the enemy! He's going to die anyway."

"I'm already dead," the Jem'Hadar repeated.

"Because he isn't dead," Bashir responded, ignoring the Jem'Hadar. He finished what he was doing and stood up to face the young man. He understood his fury, even his hate. He sympathized with Carter and wished that the Jem'Hadar had been killed in the ambush. But he hadn't. "He isn't dead, and that makes him my patient."

The fight drained out of Carter. "Even when you can't do anything?"

Bashir laid a hand on the man's shoulder. "Especially when I can't do anything."

"I do not need your pity!" the Jem'Hadar screamed from the floor. "Nor do I need your help!"

"You can gag him though," Bashir finished.

Carter grinned. "Right away, Doctor!"

"Seven, Captain." Data almost sounded happy, Picard thought, though the android usually turned off his emotion chip during battles. It was good news though. The Security forces stranded on Deck 10, beleaguered though they were, were not only holding their own against the Jem'Hadar, but decreasing their numbers. Picard would ask about Enterprise casualties later. He still had a few ships to deal with.

"Try and get some troops down there, Number One," Picard ordered, wiping the sweat out of his left eye. He had that luxury now. The battle wasn't over, but it was ending. The boarding party was contained, and of the fourteen original Jem'Hadar ships, ten had been destroyed, one as it had tried to make a kamikaze run at the Enterprise. A quick shot by Lieutenant Barnaby at Tactical had stopped that in time. That left only four. Four Jem'Hadar ships were still formidable, certainly, but not as deadly as fourteen. The Enterprise was holding her own, dishing out more now than she was taking.

"La Forge to the Bridge. I can give you warp now, Captain," Geordie reported from Engineering.

"Hold off, Geordie," the Captain answered. "We're going to finish what they started."

The deck had stopped bucking. Bashir wasn't sure when it had happened, but he was just now noticing it. If the deck wasn't bucking, then the ship wasn't being hit. The battle appeared to be won. The comm system was still out though. He'd asked Troi to try it. They didn't want the others to hear unless they'd gotten an answer. The deck was still sealed, too. Bashir had taken Carter with him when he went to test it. He found two dead in the corridor when he left the quarters. Three more in the next corridor. One wounded, which they carried back with them. There was nothing left to do but treat the wounded and wait. Wait for help and wait for more to die.

Kovek had already died. Bashir had been there with him, even if Kovek wasn't aware of it at all. He hadn't died alone. So many had. Fourteen, if he counted the three he and Carter had found. At least two more would die if help didn't come within an hour.

Bashir knelt down and tried to concentrate on extending that time limit. He didn't hear Troi come up behind him, though he did see her kneel down beside him. "It's not your fault," she whispered.

"What's not my fault?" Bashir asked, trying to sound as if he really didn't know what she was talking about.

"Kovek," she replied, letting him pretend he didn't know. "We were all fooled."

"I should have checked him," Bashir argued, regretting it as soon as he had said it. He had let her in.

"He gave you no reason to suspect, no reason to check," she held. "I should have felt that he was in pain. But I didn't. He didn't project it."

"He controlled it," Bashir told her. "He trained all his life to control himself."

"Exactly," she said.

"So I should blame him?" Bashir asked with the intent of sarcasm, though without the tone.

"You should blame the Jem'Hadar," she replied, completely serious. "They killed him. You didn't." She stood up and walked away, not giving him a chance to answer. So many things are easier said than done, he thought as he finished up. He brushed his messy hands, only removing the most sticky aspects of the mess, against his pants leg and stood up.

It was then that the door opened behind him. He whirled and found a gray, scaled face staring back at him. A few centimeters below the face was the weapon. Bashir's own hand was wrapped around the hand phaser he didn't even remember reaching for.

It was a standoff. Except that the Jem'Hadar were rarely afraid to die. Besides, there was another one behind that one, his weapon also raised, and Bashir was sure that none of his own companions had had the reflexes necessary to raise a weapon in time.

"You are enemies of the Dominion," the Jem'Hadar spoke, "and you will die."

"Eventually," Bashir answered, matching the Jem'Hadar's icy tone.

"Fourth!" the other exclaimed, nodding toward the floor where their comrades had fallen.

"Move back!" the Fourth demanded.

Bashir shook his head and held his ground. He wasn't afraid to die either. "No."

The Fourth's head cocked to one side and narrowed his eyes. "You will stand aside or you will die."

"No," Bashir repeated, staring right back. "You want past me, you'll have to kill me. And I warn you, I'm genetically enhanced. My reflexes are faster than yours. You so much as twitch and you'll be joining your friends on the floor."

The Fourth froze. "You will not be killed if you stand aside," he tried to reason.

"I'll not be your prisoner again," Bashir reiterated. "And I'll not allow you to harm my patients."

"You cannot succeed," the Fourth argued. "You may be faster than one, but not two."

"Are you sure?" Bashir asked, thumbing his phaser to a higher, wider setting.

The blast came as a surprise and Bashir almost expected to feel the pain burning through himself. But it was the Jem'Hadar who fell. Bashir pulled back his own weapon and stepped over the Fourth's body into the corridor.

"He twitched," a familiar face reported.

"Novak?" Bashir said.

The blond Security officer smiled. "Good to see you again, Doc." Bashir didn't remember him being transferred. Must have been while he was gone. Bashir shook the moment away and found what was important. "We have wounded in here."

Novak nodded, and removed a small black device from his uniform. He held it to his mouth and spoke. "Novak to Bridge," he said. A communicator. A different one, one that could cut through the security seal. "Section 13 is secure. Request medical transport of casualties."

"This is Crusher," came the reply. "How many?"

"Twenty-seven," Bashir stepped in. "They can't all transport. I've got three critical in there."

"Where are you?" Crusher asked. "I'll send a team down. Prepare the others for transport."

Novak handed the communicator to Troi, who had stepped outside as well. "I'll leave the details to you, sir," he said. "We're still reading a few Jem'Hadar on this deck."

What followed was a whirl of activity, almost chaotic in comparison to the relative quiet of the last hour before the Fourth had come to the door. A medical team, with a cartload of equipment, a doctor, two med-techs, and three nurses, had come just as the transporter began to whisk the patients away. Bashir supplied the doctor with a PADD on which he detailed the conditions of the patients and the treatments he'd given. As the last was transported, and the three critical patients--including the gagged Jem'Hadar--were taken away, Bashir grabbed one of their med-kits and took off in the direction he'd seen Novak going.

Troi ran to catch up with him. "What are you doing?"

"The wounded were brought to us," he answered. "There might be more out there."

She didn't argue or try to stop him, nor did she turn back. In fact, her empathic talent led them to a few of the wounded they found, eight in all. One had died almost as soon as they'd found him, but the other seven survived transport. Bashir counted nineteen dead along their way. They stopped looking when main power was restored and the deck unsealed. Sensors could now sweep the deck and find everyone, dead or alive. Starfleet officers began pouring onto the deck, Security teams and Medical teams and even a few engineers.

Troi sat down right there in the corridor and Bashir joined her, leaning against the wall. "You did well," she said, pulling back her legs as another group ran by.

"You helped," Bashir pointed out, feeling the walls come back up. The doctor in him was done for the moment. The patient was taking over.

"I'm going to allow your transfer," Troi said, not even looking at him. "But it will be conditional."

"What conditions?" He didn't care what conditions so long as he got back to Deep Space Nine.

"You'll see a counselor," she replied. "Regular sessions with Counselor Dax."

Bashir was silent for a moment, trying to deaden all the feelings he'd let go while treating patients. He found the balance easier now than when Sisko had come. A form of weariness, he supposed and hoped it would help him sleep through the night.

"Understandable," he finally said. It was understandable, even though Troi had no idea how awkward that would be. Still, he didn't want to worry about that just now. One step at a time. He was going back to DS Nine. He could worry about the rest once he got there.

"Hmm," Troi muttered. "I was afraid you'd say that." She stood up again and offered a hand to help him up. "I was hoping you'd argue with me."

"Does that mean you're not going to allow my transfer?" Bashir asked calmly, as if he wouldn't care one way or the other. He did care, and he had to fight not to feel it. She was leading him back down the corridor the way they'd come.

"No, I'll approve it." She smiled. "I was just wanting to get through that equilibrium of yours."

"There's no point to getting through it," Bashir held. Now that they weren't looking for any wounded, they made quicker progress. Already, they were nearing the corridor that had served as a makeshift medical station.

"You weren't at equilibrium here," Troi said, lowering her voice. Blood still stained the walls and floors. There were still crew members removing the dead from the quarters where they'd hidden.

"There was more than myself at stake then," he told her, trying to raise his voice above the whisper that wanted to come out.

"So it's you you've given up on," she concluded.

Bashir stopped, surprising her. "No," he replied firmly, meeting her eyes. It was everyone else. Even her. Not that he could tell her that. But there was something to what she'd said. "And yes."

It was the last thing he needed. "Raise shields," Captain Sisko ordered. "Target their shield generators."

The Jem'Hadar ship had come out of nowhere. Or nowhere they could see just yet. It was just at the edge of sensor range when they'd first seen it. But as they drew closer, it had come after them, weapons blazing. Sisko had been hoping for a quick, uneventful ride home. He wanted some time to himself to think things through before Bashir returned to the station. Bashir knew.

No, there was no time for that, not now. The Jem'Hadar ship fired. The Defiant shuddered under the impact, but her shields held. "Fire!" Sisko ordered in return. Three phaser blasts struck the Jem'Hadar ship square on.

"Their shields are weakening," Worf barked from behind and to the right.

"Hit them again," Sisko ordered. "What about ours?"

"Better than theirs," Nog quipped. His words were witty, but his voice was tense. He'd grown a lot during this war.

"I'd like more than a comparison, Ensign," Sisko chided softly.

"Aye, sir," Nog replied. "Holding at eighty percent."

Eighty was good. The Defiant could handle eighty. She had the ablative armor as well, something Jem'Hadar ships lacked. As ample demonstration, the second volley from the Defiant hit the Jem'Hadar's shield generator.

"They're down!" Nog exclaimed.

"Mr. Worf," Sisko said, keeping his voice calm, "will you please destroy that ship?"

"Aye, sir."

But the ship turned tail and the phasers missed.

"Shall I pursue?" Nog asked.

"By all means," Sisko answered. So much for time to himself.

Julian Bashir studied his face in the mirror. It didn't look so different. His beard was gone; his hair was cut. It was a face he recognized, but it didn't seem to belong to him anymore. Likewise, the uniform. It was the same as he'd remembered. The zippered shirt, the gray-shouldered jacket. The gleaming commbadge on his chest. But it didn't feel like his. It felt like a lie.

The door chirped. The captain, he knew. "Come in." He turned his back on the reflection that wasn't really him and wore the uniform that no longer seemed to fit into the living area of his quarters. "Good morning, Captain, Commander." He hadn't counted on Riker being there, too.

Captain Picard smiled at him. Riker did not. "Now you look familiar," Picard said. "It suits you."

The lie? Bashir thought. I suppose it does in a way. "Thank you, sir," he said. "I'm very much looking forward to getting back to work."

"And back to Deep Space Nine," Riker finished for him.

"That goes without saying, sir."

Picard let the smile fall but nodded. "We're working on it," he said, "It's going to be a few days at least before we can get to that sector. Maybe a week."

Bashir looked away from him, trying to contain himself. He'd almost let himself trust Picard, and Troi. Riker was another matter entirely.

"You will get there," Riker assured him, and Bashir mentally kicked himself for being so transparent. "There's a war on. There are priorities."

Bashir sighed and nodded. Riker was right. There was a war on and there were things that outweighed Bashir's one puny life. "Of course, sir."

Picard waited for a moment, probably trying to decipher Bashir's mood. "In the meantime, we'd like to put you to work."

"I'd assumed as much," Bashir told him, "since you gave me a uniform."

"Doctor Crusher will be glad for the extra help," Picard went on. "She did have concerns about you practicing medicine so soon." He was silent a moment more. "She's not concerned anymore. You handled yourself well, Doctor. And I have you to thank for the lives of twenty-four of my crew members."

Bashir's head snapped up to look at him. "There were twenty-seven."

"She didn't tell you?" Picard looked concerned as well.

"I was assured that my patients were being cared for," Bashir told him. "And then I was ordered to bed. What happened?"

"I'm sure Doctor Crusher will give you a full report in Sickbay. Ensign Caleri and Crewman Sekazi did not survive surgery."

Bashir drew in his bottom lip as he tried to contain himself. But it wasn't as easy now. He turned away and balled his hands into fists. He found himself staring out the viewport.

"Counselor Troi told me that you did everything possible for them. Doctor Crusher concurred." Picard kept talking. "It was a valiant effort."

"But it wasn't enough," Bashir argued.

"Doctor," Riker stepped closer. Bashir could see his reflection in the viewport. "I can't believe that these are the first patients you've lost."

Bashir whirled back around. "I'll stop being a doctor when it stops mattering to me."

"I'll wager that that is why you're such a good doctor," Picard said, stepping between them.

Bashir sighed. "And the Jem'Hadar? What about him?"

"He's in the brig under constant guard."

"He's paralyzed."

"Yes, I know," Picard replied. "But he's also the first Jem'Hadar prisoner we've taken. He's very important to us."

"What will they do to him?"

Riker's eyes narrowed. "What does it matter?" Picard gave him a hard look, but the commander didn't back down.

Neither did Bashir. "He was my patient, too."

"He's the enemy."

"I'm fully aware of that," Bashir told him. "I'm the one who shot him."

Picard stepped forward again. "He'll be transferred to Starbase 171 and handed over to Starfleet Security. I don't know what will happen after that."

Riker must have sensed the moment over. "Doctor Crusher has asked that you report for duty at 0900 hours."

Bashir nodded, but it was Picard whom he addressed. "Yes, sir." He watched them leave. Apologies are nothing more than words, he decided. He'd try to avoid Riker when he could.

Sisko held the PADD. It was a succinct report, thankfully. One thing to like about Worf. His reports were always succinct. The Jem'Hadar ship had run back to its friends when its shields had been knocked out. Suddenly the odds had changed from one on one to three on one. But the Defiant had managed, not only to survive, but to rescue the cargo vessel that was being attacked. The cargo ship was towed back to DS Nine, and there both she and the Defiant were undergoing repairs. And there were three less Jem'Hadar vessels in the war today.

There will be more tomorrow, he reminded himself as he set the PADD down on the coffee table. But at least he wouldn't have to worry about them today. For now, he had other things to think about. Things Bashir had brought to mind again. Things that had grown more ugly by neglect.

He'd thought he could live with his choices when he'd decided to bring the Romulans into the war. He could blame Garak for the bomb and for the murders. All Sisko had done was manufacture evidence. He could justify it that way. Lying wasn't as bad as murder.

But the truth was uglier than that. The truth was something closer to what Bashir had said. He'd compromised himself. He'd sold too much, crossed a line. The gel was the line. Garak may have led him to it, but it was Sisko who stepped across. He went along with the lies and the need for lying but the gel was something he could have, should have said no to.

Then how would you have gotten the rod? he argued. He'd needed a genuine Cardassian data rod to make an accurate forgery.

But the senator knew it was a fake anyway, he argued back. Would it have mattered then if the rod was genuine or not? Garak had planned all along to use a bomb if the forgery hadn't persuaded the senator. A substandard or non-genuine rod would have led to the same result. So the gel was for nought in the end.

And Sisko had not even bothered to find out where it had gone or what it had been used for. Ignorance is bliss. It was easier not knowing, especially after Bashir's warning, which he'd tried not to listen to.

Six million. More than six million. Bashir had known the actual number. Sisko couldn't remember it. Still, six million was more than enough. One could argue that six million was a small population by planetary standards. But six million was not a small number. And it was a number with significant relevance to Bashir.

All the more reason for him to hate me, Sisko thought, putting a hand to his shoulder though it had stopped hurting within an hour of leaving the Enterprise. How could Bashir forgive him for the deaths of six million people? He wouldn't. Though Sisko could argue he was only indirectly responsible, he knew that would still leave him an accomplice, though unknowing, of the genocide.

Genocide. That was not a word he'd ever wanted even indirectly associated with his own name. It was an ugly word. It infected a name with its ugliness. Sisko, murderer of a world. Sisko, through his own negligence, accomplice to the murder of a world. Either way, it was ugly.

"You haven't so much as relaxed since you came home," Kasidy scolded lightly as she sat down beside him. She felt nice, soft and warm. She smiled and wrapped an arm around his stomach.

He kissed her, hoping that he could relax, that he could go back to forgetting the whole thing had ever happened. But as he held her he thought of another man who might have been holding his lover when the end came on that other world. Knowing it would confuse her, but doing it anyway, he got up and walked to the window.

He'd given the Dominion the means to kill that couple and millions of others. They might have done it anyway, maybe some other way, but knowing that didn't wash Sisko clean. He'd given them the means to do it the way they did. And cuddling Kasidy felt wrong because of it. She was clean and beautiful. He wasn't fit to touch her, and he couldn't tell her why.

Troi seemed to be there every time he turned around. "Good morning, Doctor." She smiled as he entered Sickbay.

Bashir nodded to her and then found Crusher. He'd looked her up on the computer to make sure he'd recognize her, but he found he didn't need that. She had a presence to her, an air of command. And she had the pips. Three of them.

"Doctor Bashir," he said, coming to attention, "reporting for duty as requested."

Crusher smiled at him, too, and extended her hand. "Nice to have you. I hope you won't mind not having top billing."

Bashir loosened his shoulders and took the hand that was offered. "In the last six months, barring last night, the only ones I was giving orders to were crayfish." He caught Troi's eye from the corner of his vision. Her smile had gone. She looked slightly worried. "That was a joke, Counselor."

She smiled again and laid a hand on his shoulder as she turned to go. "You should work on your delivery."

Crusher waited until Troi was gone. "You like toying with her, don't you?"

"I used to tease Worf," Julian told her, letting himself relax a bit. His uniform was starting to feel right in this place. "I miss having him around."

"You teased Worf?" she asked, incredulous.

"Chief O'Brien usually helped."

Finally, she laughed. "Daring. You two must be quite a team."

We were, Bashir thought.

Doctor Crusher took him with her on rounds, bringing him up-to-date on all the patients currently in Sickbay. There were a lot of them. Some were his, a few of which smiled or said hello when he came by.

"So you are a real doctor," Crewman Bejlis teased when they came to her.

Julian offered her a bright smile and winked. "Yeah, but don't tell anyone."

"I think your secret's out," she chuckled back. But then she sighed. "I still feel it. I dreamt last night and was surprised this morning to wake up and find it wasn't there."

Julian had been studying her chart from the corner of his eye while he chatted with her, but now he gave her his full attention. He took her one remaining hand in his. "I know it doesn't seem like it now, but you'll be fine. The prosthetic you'll be fitted with will eventually feel as natural to you as the arm you lost."

"But it won't be me." Her hand squeezed his and a tear slid from her eyes.

"No, but it will be yours," Bashir replied, still holding her hand. "It's not the same, but it's not as different as you might think. Try and remember that."

Another tear, though she fought to keep a brave face. "I'll try," she said.

Bashir gave her hand one last squeeze and moved on with Crusher to the next patient.

Crusher paused before the next biobed and lowered her voice to a whisper. "They've been talking about you."

Bashir felt a small wash of pride. He fought it. That was the old Bashir. He got washed away by praise and attention, the opinions of others. Bashir knew now that those things didn't matter. Pride was irrelevant. Damn, he thought, now I sound like the Borg.

Crusher went on when he didn't reply. "You've had quite an impact already in your short stay with us."

"Blessing or curse," Bashir quipped, hoping to brighten the mood again. "I haven't decided yet."

The next week went by quickly enough, for most of the crew anyway. For Bashir, it dragged along. Only his shifts in Sickbay seemed to pass swiftly. All the other hours--and there were so many of them now that he couldn't sleep--stretched on like the void of space separating him from Deep Space Nine. It wasn't that he was tired. Quite the contrary. He had to wear himself out just to sleep a few hours every night. It was boredom and it was not being where he wanted to be. He was with strangers, with the exception of Data, and Data, though a friend, was one he'd only met twice. The Enterprise wasn't the same as Deep Space Nine, and Data wasn't the same as Chief O'Brien.

"Are you having dinner?" Doctor Crusher asked, interrupting him as he was finishing up his daily report.

"Yes," Bashir answered, not seeing any reason to elaborate.

"In your quarters?" she asked again.

"Is there something wrong with my quarters?" he asked in return. He had a feeling she was going to ask him to eat with her, and not in her quarters. He felt uneasy. Working with strangers was one thing. Socializing was different. He was used to the quiet of his quarters.

"No, but you've been hiding in there practically since you arrived."

"My quarters are quiet."

She sat down beside him. "Is DS Nine quiet?"

She touched his hand and he had to resist his initial impulse to pull away. Actually, it felt nice. Maybe he didn't mind. "You're going to have to get used to being around people again."

"I'm around people right now," he countered quietly, reluctantly removing his hand from beneath hers.

"Okay," she said and smiled. "Then consider it an order. You're coming with me. Finish your report, Doctor."

"Aye, sir," he responded, giving in. His arguments had been weak but he didn't want to tell her, or anyone, how he really felt. He didn't want to even feel.

But it was impossible to escape the stares as he rode the turbolifts or walked down the corridors on his way to Sickbay. He knew how rumors worked. Scuttlebutt was a strong thing on a ship like this, especially in war. He was quite a story, he was sure. He was a curiosity, a man rescued from a cave only to be put in the Brig and then released to work in Sickbay. And that was if they hadn't heard of his genetic background. That would probably cause more rumors. As it was, most of the stares seemed out of curiosity, something he could understand. A few, though, looked on him with open disdain. He pretended not to notice, but he noticed. He couldn't tell if Crusher, as they walked to the lounge, noticed or not. He wasn't about to ask.

Apparently, he needn't have worried about the noise level in the lounge. All talking stopped within ten seconds of the door opening as first one head, and then others, turned to see who had entered. Crusher must have noticed, too. She turned her head one way and then the other. As she did, all the heads in the room dropped. Well, not all.

"Doctor Bashir!" He recognized the voice, and, once he saw her, he recognized the rest of her as well. "Dominik told me he'd seen you last week."

"Thomas, or should I say Lieutenant Thomas. It's good to see you."

"You've met?" Crusher asked as the young woman approached.

The young woman smiled. "I used to be stationed on the Defiant," she replied to Crusher. She held up her left hand. "And it's Novak now," she told Bashir.

He saw the ring and gave her one of his best smiles. He even felt it a bit. "Congratulations on both counts then." By now, the room was beginning to fill with noise again, so he had to speak up a bit. "How are you?"

"Well enough with a war on," she answered. "Will you join me for dinner? I'm sitting right over--" She had turned to point to her table but stopped in mid-sentence when her previous dinner companion picked up her plate--still full--and vacated the table.

Bashir stole a glance at Crusher and saw that her face was flushing red. She was either embarrassed or angry, or both at the same time.

Novak turned back around to face him. She kept her eyes low, her head dipped slightly. She was ashamed. "Please excuse her, sir. She doesn't know you."

A glass clinked hard on the bar to Bashir's left. "She doesn't need to know him," someone sputtered. Bashir doubted neither Novak nor Crusher could have heard the man, though the voice was loud enough for his enhanced hearing to pick it up.

"What did you say?" Crusher demanded.

No one turned, but the room became quiet again. "She don't want to know him." The voice was slurred but loud enough this time that any normal human could hear. "We don't keep company with freaks."

Crusher was incensed. Novak was angry, too. "He's no freak," she held.

Bashir just shook his head a little. He was a freak and yelling wasn't going to change anyone's opinion anyway.

"You're drunk," Crusher said, keeping her voice calm despite the redness in her cheeks. "Go to your quarters."

"Why should I leave?" the man at the bar asked, turning now to face them. "He's the one who should leave. We all earned our right to be here." There were murmurs throughout the room, and Bashir wondered if they were agreeing with the man. It was hard to tell.

"And to wear that uniform," someone else added. Well, that was one who agreed.

Crusher must have ignored that second voice. "Because your superior officer gave you an order."

The man was too drunk to worry about protocol. "I suppose he's my superior officer, too." Bashir could see only one pip on the man's collar. "Or maybe he's just superior."

"Go--"

The man wasn't finished. "His parents made sure of that."

Bashir felt more like a spectator than the cause of the spectacle. The man at the bar was inebriated and felt no compunction against interrupting Crusher, a Commander as well as a doctor. And the general populace of the room, encouraged by the drunkard's honesty and hidden by their numbers, allowed a few others to voice their agreement.

But it was Crusher who lost control. Not verbally or physically, but mentally. She argued with the drunkard. "He was a child," she said. "He had no choice."

"He had a choice about lying." That was behind them, a voice that, undoubtedly, would not have spoken if they'd been facing the other direction.

I didn't lie, Bashir thought to himself. I simply didn't volunteer the information. It was nitpicking but it had the slight advantage of being the truth.

"We had to earn our place in Starfleet," the drunkard added.

"He has earned it," Novak threw back.

She was one of the ones who had saved him. In a way, she had saved him more than any of the others. The others had tried but always came up just too late. Novak, or Thomas, as she was back then, had had the answer at just the right moment. She had known what to look for when he was in the gas. Without her, he would certainly have died. He knew that. And she, like the others, knew that. It made her a bit protective. So even now, when it wasn't his life, but perhaps his honor, that was endangered, she was defending him. He wanted to tell her not to bother.

She wasn't the only one, it seemed. "He saved our lives," someone else pointed out. Bashir recognized him, Tamil, the young man with the broken leg. And a few voices were brave enough to agree with that. Bashir wondered where a vote would fall. Hero or horror?

"Did he?" That one stung. Bashir turned to see Carter standing by the door. "It seems to me that quite a few of us died. He didn't save Lieutenant Versalis. He didn't save Kovek." Carter had fought beside him. Carter had tried, with him, to save the others. Carter had also wanted to kill the Jem'Hadar and Bashir had stopped him.

But Novak laughed, which threw everyone off. "You want it both ways!" she exclaimed. "You want to crucify him because you think he might be more than you are. And you vilify him when he shows he's not superhuman. Listen to yourselves!"

No one spoke out after that, though there was a lot of murmuring. Bashir decided he was tired of the spectacle, whether he was the center of it or not. He touched Crusher's elbow. "I think," he whispered, "I will, respectfully, disobey your orders and take my dinner in my quarters."

Crusher didn't look at him; she was too busy seething at the others. "May I meet you there?"

Bashir nodded and offered his hand to Novak. She took it and they took their leave. Several others, including Tamil, left behind him. Either they sympathized or were simply smart enough to leave the room.

Doctor Beverly Crusher remained behind, disgusted and ashamed at what she'd just witnessed--no, participated in. She was an officer, a command officer, and she should not have allowed herself to get pulled into such an argument. But she was ashamed of her crew more than herself. The Enterprise was the flagship of the Federation's Starfleet. Her crew should be the best of what the Federation had to offer. They should exemplify what the Federation stood for. Prejudice wasn't one of the Federation's founding principles. It was something Federation citizens tried to purge themselves of. It was a weakness, a shameful thing. And that was the shame she felt now, even though it was only a handful who'd openly spoken out against Bashir. How many others had simply agreed but chosen to stay silent?

She wished she knew the magic words that could erase all the prejudice and distrust from them but she didn't have time to plan a speech. She had to improvise and hope for the best.

"Everyone up," she ordered, not raising her voice. Only a few rose to their feet. Those that did stood at attention.

Crusher stood ramrod stiff, hands clasped behind her back. "This is not a mob," she said. "This is the Federation Starship Enterprise. A proud ship, with a proud legacy of tolerance and standing up for what is right. You have disgraced her and all that she has fought for. If what I have seen here tonight is what the Federation, what Starfleet, has become, then we have already lost the war."

Enough lecture. No, not enough, but she didn't know what else to say. On to practical matters. She looked around the room and found a PADD on one of the tables. She walked over, picked it up, and saved the information there. Then she cleared the screen and started taking names even as she talked. "Yes, Doctor Julian Bashir was genetically enhanced. But he's also a trained, experienced, and eminently talented doctor. If you begrudge the one, I can't change that, but remember the other. Twenty-four members of this crew are alive today because of him.

"Beyond that, he is a Starfleet Officer, a full lieutenant of five years. And that means he outranks everyone in this room except myself. He may be genetically enhanced and therefore smarter and faster than you, but he still had to earn that. Commander Data is an android, programmed with the whole of human knowledge and you don't consider his rank a gift. You don't treat him with disrespect. I expect the same treatment of Lieutenant Bashir. I can't make you like him but I can make you respect his rank. No more eye rolling, no more whispering and rumors. Respect."

She finished collecting their names, thankful for her good memory and the last month's routine physicals that made most of them even more familiar to her. "And to give you ample time to make that adjustment, you're all taking a second shift today." She felt a twinge of guilt for punishing the ones who had remained silent. But there was no time to take a roll call to see where each one stood. "You can start now," Crusher added, feeling she had to be firm and to counteract the usual, friendly bedside manner they were all used to. "Dismissed."

Dishes clanked, feet shuffled, and the replicators whined, but no one spoke or grumbled. Crusher uploaded her list to the main ship's computer and reaccessed the previous data before handing the PADD to a waiting and nervous ensign. She counted, as a way to keep herself calm and poised. She hadn't gotten to thirty before she was the last person left in the room. The door opened ahead of her, allowing Geordi and two of his engineers inside. They stopped at the door, startled.

"Where is everybody?" he asked, surveying the empty but oddly disarrayed lounge.

"They had to go back to work," she offered without giving him the whole story. Ship's scuttlebutt would probably manage that in the end. She nodded once more and made her way past him to the corridor. Bashir and Novak would be waiting.