Sisko watched the pad and saw the two forms appear and coalesce there. Kira stood behind Bashir, ready to catch him if he fell. He opened his eyes, just as the transporter effect left him. He didn't fall backward. His knees simply collapsed, and he fell forward. Sisko caught him and eased him down, at the same time pulling him off the pad.

"Get the rest of them, Chief," he called.

Kira untied Bashir's hands and helped Sisko to roll him over. His face was dark, with a pink tint, and he was bruised nearly everywhere. Blood trickled from his lips, and Sisko could hear it in his throat as he gasped for air. Thomas had already called for a medical team. The door opened and they ran in, tricorders in hand.

Bashir was awake, but just barely, and with his right hand now free, he gripped Sisko's sleeve. "It's alright, Julian," Sisko told him, brushing the hair back from his eyes. "You're going to be fine. It's over."

"No," he croaked, staring up into Sisko's eyes. He drew in another pained breath. "It's not."

Kira watched them, shaking with bottled up energy. Behind Bashir, Sisko and the nurses, the away team members were beaming up, two at a time. Thomas directed the first two around the group on the floor and out the door.

"Bridge," Worf answered.

"Set course," Kira told him. "Prepare to leave orbit as soon as our people are on board." Two more materialized and were ushered out of the way.

"What about the changeling?" the Klingon growled. Two more.

"She's dead," Kira told him. "Set course."

"Course set," Dax's voice interrupted. "On your mark, Major." Two more. Four left.

Bashir was still conscious, still clutching Sisko's sleeve. He was in pain, it was obvious, but Sisko kept urging him to breathe. And Bashir kept obeying.

The last four materialized together. Kira waited until they were out the door. "Mark!"

The computer whistled signaling a ship-wide message. Dax's voice sounded over the speakers. "All personnel, prepare for take-off. We're going home."

******

Major Kira forced her eyes open. She promptly shut them again and waited for the wave of nausea to pass. The deck beneath her felt almost fluid to her touch, as if she could reach through it to the next deck below. That, too, would pass, she knew. She just had to wait. She counted to ten and opened her eyes again. This time, the universe behaved. The room began to manifest itself, revealing colors and shapes and blinking lights. She pushed herself up on her arms. The floor was solid and held her.

She saw people, but they weren't moving yet. Like she had been, they were lying flat on the floor away from any obstacles that might have caused injury. They'd all been through this once before. She recognized Thomas by the open door that led to the corridor. She could see legs beyond dressed in high, black boots. O'Brien was beside the control panels. One nurse lay near Kira's feet. He was still holding his tricorder. The other had doubled over near the transporter platform. An open medkit lay beside her. A few of its contents were spilled onto the floor. Bashir's feet were near her head. His right hand had finally released the captain's sleeve. His eyes were closed, his face relaxed. All the others began to stir, but Bashir lay still.

Kira crawled past the barely conscious nurse, but the captain was already sitting up. "Bridge," he growled.

Kira tapped her comm badge and tried to call the bridge.

Sisko shook the nurse at Bashir's feet. She was up in an instant. She touched her hand to her stomach once, but otherwise ignored herself for Bashir's sake. She ran the scanner from her tricorder over him, but Sisko did not need that. He touched two fingers to the side of Bashir's neck. There was no pulse.

He refused to accept that. "Don't do this, Julian," he told the doctor, taking his hand and touching his face. "Breathe."

"Clear," the nurse said, and Sisko backed away. She touched an instrument to Bashir's chest and Bashir convulsed sharply. She checked her tricorder, and Bashir's chest began to move. She nodded, but her eyes didn't lose their concern. "That's not enough."

Sisko turned to Kira. "I can't reach the bridge," she told him.

"Internal comm system's down," O'Brien explained. The captain had not even noticed that he was awake.

"The antidote," the nurse began, speaking quickly. "The antidote is poison, too. If I get it wrong . . . ."

Sisko looked her in the eye. Right now she was the only hope Bashir had. Bashir would die if she gave him the wrong amount. But he would die anyway if she gave him nothing. "Do your best."

"Defiant, this is Starfleet Medical. We read your signal. You are nearing transporter range. Prepare to transport the patient."

O'Brien. He had wrung another miracle from the battered ship. "Two minutes," he warned.

The nurse checked her hypospray and held it to Bashir's neck. It hissed, but Sisko could see no reaction. "On the pad," she ordered, "carefully." She took Bashir's legs while Sisko and the other nurse lifted his body, supporting his bruised neck and injured arms. They lifted him straight up and slid him onto the transporter platform. But as they set him down again, his breathing stopped.

"Clear for transport," said the calm voice at Starfleet Medical. O'Brien pressed the controls, initiating the transport. Sisko waited for the tingling to start. Instead the console sparked and snapped, pushing O'Brien away. "No!" he yelled, kicking the wall. "Not now!"

"We've lost your signal, Defiant, and are assuming technical malfunction." Starfleet Medical again. "We have your coordinates and will transport the patient from here. Transport in 15 seconds."

While the nurse worked on Bashir, Sisko wondered just how much O'Brien had been able to convey to the dispatcher on the planet without even an audio transmission. "Major," Sisko called, "get to the bridge." The transporter caught him before she could reply.

Despite the urgency in the transporter room, there had been an odd tranquility there, a deceptive peace, a silence overhanging the noise. Starfleet Medical was a bustle, fast and noisy even before Sisko had fully materialized. Reluctantly, Sisko backed away and let the medical personnel surround Bashir's thin, perhaps lifeless form. The doctors shouted orders. The nurse recited Bashir's vitals and most obvious injuries. Other nurses raced about him to obey the doctors.

And in the middle of it all was Bashir, conspicuous in that sea of movement by his immobility. Sisko felt the silence return to him as he stood there watching, and he realized now it had not been on the Defiant. It was in himself, or in Bashir, or maybe passing between the two of them. But was it trust? Or was it surrender?

"Trust," he whispered to Bashir as they lifted him onto an anti-gravity stretcher. "That's an order."

Kira made it to the bridge in time to completely shock the ensign on the viewscreen. He had been negotiating docking procedures with Dax, but he stopped mid-sentence when he saw her. "Are you aware," he asked, "that there is a Nazi on your bridge?"

Dax remained calm. "You know your history."

Dax had taken his statement lightly. But Kira was not as easily given to humor. "I'm not a Nazi," she told him, stripping the latex from her nose. "I'm a Bajoran. Now please finish what you were saying."

The ensign regarded her for a moment longer and then shrugged. "You have the coordinates. Our Chief Engineer has been apprised of your condition. If you'd like, we could tractor you in."

"That will not be necessary." Worf's voice, though quiet, still held force. "The Defiant can make it under her own power."

"Fine." Something drew the ensign's attention away from the viewscreen. When he turned back his eyes conveyed bad news. Kira thought about Bashir and stepped one step closer to the viewscreen. "Starfleet Medical," the ensign said, "has sent us word that your entire crew is under quarantine until everyone can be tested for typhus. Is your medical bay equipped to handle the test?"

"It was," Dax answered. "I'm not sure about now."

"Well, if not, they'll send someone over."

"Did they say anything else?" Kira asked, even though she knew it was likely too soon for any word.

"No, sir," the ensign responded. He still looked at her slightly askance.

Don't worry, she thought to him. This uniform is going to burn soon.

"Ensign," Dax spoke up just before he cut the transmission, "how long have we been gone?"

The ensign checked his readouts. "Our records indicate you passed this way four days ago, sir."

Kira and Dax were among the first to be tested since they'd both been to the planet and were among the senior staff. Sisko was waiting in a small, comfortably furnished room just outside the emergency trauma area. He'd been waiting for nearly an hour already. He was glad for the company when the two women arrived. "I told them about Nohtsu," he told them. "They're ready for her as soon as the tests are done. I trust that nothing went wrong with the stasis chamber?"

Dax shook her head. "It was fine when we were there. I checked it myself."

"Did you call Odo?" He asked. He really had meant to call him himself, to see about the station and to ask about Jake. But he had a feeling that the constable had everything under control. Right now, Bashir needed him more.

"First thing," Dax answered, summarizing her conversation with him. The station was fine. The Rotarron had found and destroyed several ships that were blocking their transmissions. "They found something. Something like a changeling. Odo wasn't quite sure. It died. He thought it was just a diversion. He figured out we had one with us. Jake's fine, too. He said to call when you get a chance."

Kira had taken the time to change back into her regular uniform. Her nose had returned to its normally ridged shape. "Anything?" she asked.

Sisko shook his head. "Not yet. But that could mean good news. If he was dead, they'd have told us already."

"He's not dead." Sisko spun around to see who had spoken. A tall woman with dark green eyes and a slightly angular face stood in the doorway. She was wearing red surgical scrubs. The head-covering was in her hands, leaving her brown hair to fall on her shoulders. "But he's not in good shape. Hana Oreenová," she said, by way of introduction. "I'm your doctor's doctor. May I sit down?"

"Of course," Dax answered, moving over to give her room. Doctor Oreenová sat down on the edge of the couch just opposite Sisko. "Captain," she began. Then she stopped and took a breath. She was obviously looking for a good way to give bad news. Sisko knew the bad news already. He wished she'd just tell him. "Captain, the worst of his problems—and there are many—is poisoning by hydrogen cyanide gas. Cyanide is an old poison. It's been around for centuries, and unfortunately it's one we haven't been able to counteract any more efficiently than they could four hundred years ago. The antidote is dicobalt edetate. Dicobalt edetate is also poisonous. All cyanide antidotes are. While they are not as toxic when they're counteracting cyanide, they must be used very carefully. Your nurse is to be commended. Even with a healthy adult, it's difficult to determine the proper amount. She did quite well, and her promptness is an important factor in his continued survival."

Sisko nodded. He was grateful for the doctor's frankness. She continued. "On a positive note, we have an advantage over our less technically-advanced ancestors. Cyanide works by internal asphyxiation. It prevents red blood cells from absorbing oxygen. With modern medical technology, we can filter oxygen directly to his body at the cellular level. This won't save him, but it will certainly give him a helping hand. Normally, if a victim lives for four hours, he'll recover. We're helping him to do that. He's got three more to go."

Her hands had been crossed in her lap, but she moved them now, lifting her red surgical cap and revealing a PADD which she handed to Sisko. "He's also got a lot of other problems," she stated, "a few of which are also potentially life-threatening. The bruise on his neck, for instance. It's caused a hematoma. As yet, it's not terminal, but it does warrant constant observation. It could lead to stroke. There is a thankfully very slight perforation of the larynx, and he shows signs of a previous cardiac arrest. Our scans show bruising on the heart. He needs surgery, but his condition is just too delicate at the moment to risk that."

Sisko looked at the PADD. It was a long list of medical terms, followed by a layman's translation. Internal asphyxiation and cyanide poisoning were at the top. Sisko had to page down a few times to get to the bottom. Bruising on the left shin. "And to be frank with you," she continued, looking directly into Sisko's eyes, "as his doctor, I'd like to know how in the hell one thirty-three-year-old man gets a list like that. I know you've been contacted by Starfleet Command and told to keep it quiet. But I do have some idea. I saw the tattoo on his arm. I had an ancestor who had a tattoo very much like that, on the human side, of course. He was a survivor of the Shoah, the Holocaust."

Sisko didn't say anything. He couldn't, not until after he was debriefed. And he refused to be debriefed until after he had concrete word on Bashir's condition. But he met her gaze and did not waver or blink.

"I don't understand how. But I promise you, I will do my best to see that he survives the next three hours." She stood. "The rest is largely up to him."

Sisko and the others stood as well. "Can we see him?" Sisko asked. "Sit with him?"

"The air's a little strange in there, pure oxygen, and it will feel like it's soaking into your skin," she warned. "We're still doing some work with him. But if you're still interested, I'll come get you when he's ready."

Thomas was tired but she just couldn't see going to her temporary quarters to sleep. She stepped outside the airlock and looked down the wide corridor. There was a lot to do at a starbase. She could go to a restaurant or take in one of the cultural entertainments going on. She just didn't feel like any of those. She had thought, perhaps naively, that saving the doctor would ease her guilt. But the memories and thoughts refused to go away just because they had left that century behind.

"Something wrong, Ensign?" a familiar voice asked.

Thomas turned and saw Novak standing in the airlock doorway. "How are you?" He had tested positive for typhus, but luckily, it was an easily treatable disease.

He shrugged. "Never even felt bad to start with. Actually," he admitted, "I did, but I thought it was just the smoke and the place making me sick. How about you?"

"Oh," Thomas said, standing up straighter, "I'm fine. I tested negative."

"I wasn't talking about typhus," he told her. "You know, we may be restricted from talking about our 'trip' with others, but we can talk about it among ourselves. I'll bet we can find his name in the archives."

Thomas met his eyes. She had to look up at him because he was so tall. "Which archives?"

"Not sure," he confessed, with a graceful smile, "but I'll help you find out." He bowed slightly and held out his elbow to her.

Thomas smiled, too, and took his arm. "I'd like that." They started down the long corridor. "I hope I told you his name."

******

At first there was only the sound of air rushing in and rushing out . . . and darkness. And then sensation, pressure on his hand. There was pain. Not in the hand, but elsewhere. Too much pain. The air grew quieter as other sounds came muffled to his consciousness.

"Julian," he thought he heard. "Julian, open your eyes." It was a woman's voice, slightly accented and quiet. It was far away.

Nearer to him, other voices became audible. Voices that were not pleasant. Words he couldn't understand. Fear.

The soft voice spoke again, "Julian, open your eyes."

He didn't want to open his eyes. He wanted to go back. Back to where there were no voices, where there was no pain. Back to only the rushing of air in and out. To blackness.

"Julian, please." That voice was closer now. It sounded familiar. Did he know the voice? "Wake up and open your eyes."

Amsha Bashir looked up at the doctor, looking for help in her face.

"Keep trying, Mrs. Bashir," the doctor whispered. "He hears you."

"How can you tell?" Richard Bashir whispered back, touching his wife's shoulder as she held their son's hand.

"His breathing is becoming more erratic, his pulse rate is increasing," she answered, indicating the machines around the biobed. "He's in pain. He's conscious. Semi-conscious, anyway."

Amsha looked again at her son on the bed. His gaunt features had been peaceful before. Too peaceful, she had thought. He had looked like . . . like he was dead and set out for visitation. It had frightened her so much to see him like that. But now Julian's face was lined with pain and—was it memory? As family, Captain Sisko had been allowed to tell them what had happened. Julian's brows were furrowed. The hand she held began to clench hers lightly and then release, almost spasmodically. The doctor nodded again, more forcefully.

"Julian?" Amsha began again. "Julian, can you hear me?"

He knew the voice, but it was growing fainter again, lost in the screams he heard around him. Hundreds of voices, screaming, choking, begging for something. He knew what they wanted. They wanted air. He wanted it, too.

"Julian, please!"

There was something in his hand. Something strong and soft. Something comforting, but it couldn't stop the screams. The thing belonged to the voice. It was the pressure he had felt before.

"Julian, open your eyes."

Maybe if he did as he was told the other voices would stop. Maybe he could see the hand that held his. Maybe that one would save him.

All at once, Julian's eyes opened, and his face took on an expression of sheer terror. The hand she held grasped her own with strength that surprised her. Julian should have been weak. Knowing that his neck was probably still sore, Amsha leaned closer so that she'd be in Julian's line of sight. She touched his face. "Julian, can you hear me?"

Julian continued to stare in horror at the ceiling. He lay strangely still as if frozen to the bed. His face had become ghostly white. But his mouth moved. Amsha didn't hear anything at first, but then she knew he probably couldn't talk. She leaned closer, and Julian's whispers became clear. "Make it stop," he pleaded.

He had wanted to see the voice that spoke to him. The one that was familiar, but when he opened his eyes he saw only the screamers. They clung to him and scratched at the walls, climbing on each other and on him, wailing and gasping for breath.

He wanted it to stop. The blackness was better than this. The blackness was peaceful and quiet. No pain there. But he couldn't close his eyes.

From somewhere far away, drowned by the voices, he could almost hear a name. His own name. He clung to the hand he felt, the one that belonged to the voice. It had to help him. "Make it stop!" he pleaded. He could feel and hear the breath leaving him, but he couldn't hear a voice. The voice that belonged to the hand wouldn't hear him. "Please!" he cried to it, "make them stop!" Still the people shrieked and howled around him, writhing in agony, contorting and convulsing.

Something touched his forehead, something cold and hard, but not heavy. It did not belong to the voice he tried to hear. His eyelids began to close, blocking out the vision of death before him. Their wailing grew fainter, muffled by the sound of air, rushing in and rushing out. Blackness was coming again. He let it come.

Julian's hand slackened in her own as his eyes fluttered closed again, and his breathing became more regular. Very gently, she bent over him, touching her forehead to his fingers. Richard held her shoulders. She was glad they had let him come, but even his leave from prison couldn't keep her tears from coming. Julian was her son. He looked so small and thin to her. His hand was so light.

She was thankful when the doctor had put Julian back to sleep. What had he seen there on the ceiling? She tried to think of the hell he'd been through, but she couldn't even imagine it. She had a few ideas, but she couldn't know for sure, not really.

Sisko had given up his place beside Bashir's bed reluctantly, though he would not admit that to Julian's parents. They deserved to be there with him. He was their son. To Sisko he was just an officer. No, he was more than that. He was a friend, and he wanted to be with his friend when he woke up. Instead he had been waiting in the little lounge for eleven hours, barely moving between reports from his doctors and watching Bashir's face on the monitor.

There was a hand on his shoulder. Sisko turned his head to see Dax there. She looked up at the monitor with sad eyes. Julian was sleeping peacefully again. The lines were gone from his face. He looked so young then. And yet so much older. "I shouldn't have let him go back, Old Man," Sisko whispered, still watching the screen.

She sat down beside him, but her hand was still there on his shoulder. "You had to, Benjamin," Dax said quietly, squeezing his shoulder just a bit. "He was right. It would have been worse for him if you hadn't. He couldn't have lived that way."

Sisko knew she was right. Bashir had been adamant. He didn't want to cause others to suffer. But it was hard watching Julian suffer instead.

"You should try and get some sleep yourself, Benjamin," Dax suggested. "It's been a very long time since you've slept. Centuries, in fact."

Sisko sighed and shook his head. He couldn't just walk away.

"You're exhausted." Dax took his arm and pulled him up from the chair. "They'll stay with him." She meant his parents. "He's going to be fine, Benjamin."

He couldn't argue anymore. He was too tired. He let her lead him out of the room.

******

He felt again the blackness slipping away, but this time there was no voice and no screaming. It was still quiet. He could hear the air rushing in and rushing out, and he knew it was his own breath. He could feel the pain again and remember why it was there. He heard familiar sounds, clicks and beeps. One, he knew, was his pulse.

He opened his eyes, expecting to see light that would hurt them. But the light was dim and his vision blurred. He turned his head, or at least he tried. The muscles on the right side of his neck protested painfully. But now he could see there was a form beside him, sleeping in a chair. He looked uncomfortable.

Sisko. That was not the voice he had heard. But it was right that he was there. He heard his words again in his head. Don't give up on us yet. He closed his eyes again in shame. He had done just that.

He tried to move his arm, to touch him and see if he was real, but his left arm wouldn't move past the elbow. Sharp pain emanated from his shoulder. He remembered his shoulders hurting, that one being dislocated. He reached then with his right arm, across his chest. That hurt, too, but he had to try. "Captain," he attempted to say, but his voice wouldn't work. His throat hurt when he tried.

"Captain?"

Sisko jerked awake and saw, first, Amsha Bashir's form lying on the next bed over. She had asked him to come while she slept. He was grateful to her for that. He looked up at the doctor who stood just behind him. She was smiling. She tilted her head toward the biobed. Sisko followed her gaze to find Julian Bashir looking back at him, reaching out his hand to him.

"Captain," Bashir said softly, but gravelly. His eyes looked hopeful. "Are you real?"

Sisko forgot his weariness and pulled his chair closer to the biobed. He took Bashir's hand and listened for his whisper. "Yes," he replied happily, "I'm real."

"Good." Bashir's mouth turned up ever so slightly in a smile. "I was . . . ," he took a breath, ". . . worried about you."

Now that didn't make any sense. "Me?" he asked. But when Bashir didn't offer an explanation he didn't push the issue. "Do you know where you are?"

The smile disappeared as Bashir looked around the room as best he could. His mother, now awake, was at his other side, smiling down at him. He smiled back, for just a moment. "A hospital," he answered. "Modern."

Sisko nodded. "Starfleet Medical."

"Why does it still hurt?" Bashir asked, still in a whisper.

Sisko didn't know how to respond. He didn't want to provoke any bad memories. "It was cyanide," he finally said. He was about to explain that the doctors couldn't give him anything for the pain because it might interfere, but Bashir nodded that he understood already. Of course, he does, Sisko admonished himself.

"How long?"

Sisko wasn't quite sure what he was asking but assumed he meant how much time since he'd been gassed. "Twenty-three hours."

Bashir smiled again. "That's more than four."

Sisko grinned, too. "Yes, it is."

The smile disappeared and Sisko saw there was genuine worry in the younger man's eyes. "I'm sorry," he said.

Sisko didn't understand. What had Bashir done to be sorry for? "For what?"

"I gave up on you." Sisko could see Bashir's eyelids trying to close again. But they didn't and he continued, "In the gas . . . ," he breathed. "I tried to hold my breath . . . but—" He broke off then and looked away to the ceiling. His breath came faster, but in uneven spurts.

"You couldn't hold your breath that long, Julian," Sisko said, trying to console him. "No one could."

Bashir's brown eyes, so tired, turned back to him. "I took . . . a deep breath," he said, "of the gas . . . to die."

Thoughts ran through Sisko's mind of what it must have been like in there and shook his head. No one would blame him for giving up, not in there. "Julian," he began, but he didn't quite know what else to say. "It's alright," was all he could think of. "Don't be sorry."

Bashir was losing the battle with his eyelids. He nodded weakly. "I had a dream," he said, "that Kira was . . . coming to save me." He blinked, trying to stay awake.

"She did," Sisko told him and watched him fall asleep again.

******

Bashir awoke, and this time, there was no light at all and no pain. He could turn his head and even move his shoulder. He lifted his hands. The left was identical to the right, unbroken. He did not even feel hungry. He felt fine. For the first time in weeks he was warm and felt at peace. He was safe.

"Jules!" his mother exclaimed as she entered the room. "You're awake. Your father and I were so worried." She came to his bed and hugged him. Her touch was soft, not painful. She kissed his forehead and pulled back to sit beside his legs at the foot of the bed.

Julian looked around the room, but did not see his father. "Where's Dad?" he asked.

"In prison," his mother answered. She seemed untroubled by that fact.

"They didn't let him out?" Bashir complained. "Even for this?"

"It's really not important, Jules," she told him. "You're well, and we have you back again."

Julian looked at her. It was an odd thing to say, and a strange choice of words. She smiled at him and her smile sent a wave of dread though his body. It was an evil smile. She blinked and when her eyes opened they were black, no iris, no pupil. She laughed. When she spoke, her voice was no longer that of his mother. It was Whaley and it was Heiler at the same time. "And we won't make the same mistakes this time."

She reached her hand toward him, to touch his chest. A small strand of her fluid self, like a short, thick needle, protruded from her opened palm. Bashir was frozen to the bed. He couldn't move or call for help. He couldn't even scream. Her hand touched him, stabbed through his skin.

Julian gasped and his eyes flew open. The room was dark and quiet, but he couldn't turn his head, and his shoulder wouldn't move. He felt soreness and fatigue. And his stomach was empty. A long tube ran from his left arm to a unit on the wall. His mother was beside him, sitting in the chair where he thought he'd seen Sisko. She was sleeping, and he was afraid to wake her. He barely blinked the rest of the night.

******

Kira left the conference room and blew out a breath. She hadn't had to deal with the temporal investigators last time. This time, she had faced a roomful of them. They'd already been through nearly everyone else who had been on the planet. Though she had really spent less time than any of them on the surface, with the exception of Sisko and his short visit, she was the highest ranking officer who'd gone down. So they spent the greatest amount of time grilling her on everything that she had done and seen. Who had she talked to? What did she say? Did she think that she, in any way, changed the timeline?

They hadn't liked her story about the barracks. She hadn't liked it either, but she told them the truth. And the truth was that, while she didn't think her actions altered the timeline, she couldn't be sure. Maybe the block elder was angered by her visit and punished one of the others. Maybe he hadn't the first time around. She didn't know. Still, she wasn't sorry. She would have done the same again if it meant saving Bashir.

Besides, she reminded them, if anyone had changed the timeline it was the changeling herself. She had killed at least one man that probably wasn't meant to die in the original timeline. In her capacity as an SS officer in a concentration camp, she might have killed more. They wouldn't know for sure until Bashir had his debriefing. Kira was looking forward to that even less than she had her own. While she was, admittedly, curious about his seven and a half weeks off the ship, she knew it would be difficult at best for the doctor to recount those weeks to a group of strangers. Bureaucrats, no less.

He was sitting up when she entered his room. He smiled as his mother excused herself. "I don't mean to interrupt," Kira told her. "I can come another time."

"No, no," Amsha said, touching her shoulder, "I need a break."

"She's hungry," Bashir said, "but she doesn't want to admit it in front of me." His voice was soft, but getting stronger. Two days of lying in bed had done a lot for him.

"They still won't let him eat real food," Amsha explained. "I think it must be terrible."

"It might be more terrible," he argued, "if after all those weeks starving, I died because I ate something." He sighed. "But you're right. It is terrible. So eat for both of us, and tell me all about it when you get back."

Kira couldn't help but smile at him. How could he make jokes, after all that? Amsha squeezed her arm and pushed her gently into the room. Kira just watched him for a moment, standing at the foot of his bed. He was still thin, but the tube that led into his arm was feeding him nutrients at a level his body could withstand. He wasn't bruised anymore. They had taken care of that. But he still leaned his head back on pillows, and his left arm was still restrained against the bed. A display over his head monitored his heartbeat.

"Please sit down," he told her finally. "It makes me tired watching you stand."

Kira obeyed, though she really didn't mind standing. She'd just spent six hours with the bureaucrats, sitting when she wanted to get up and, at the very least, pace the room. "How are you, Julian?"

"Better than I look, I hope," he answered. He was still smiling, but he looked sad. "At least two more surgeries." He glanced down at his hand. It was still twisted and ugly, though it had regained more of its natural coloring. "It's knit together already," he explained. "They're going to try something new. Osteogenic replacements. All new bones, patterned after my other hand, so they'll match. Did you kill her?"

The question was so blunt; it took Kira by surprise. "Yes," she answered plainly.

"Are you sure?" he asked, fear growing in his eyes. "I mean, because I keep thinking . . . or—or dreaming that—"

"She's dead, Julian," Kira promised him. She lifted her hand. "Hold out your hand."

She could tell he was afraid, but slowly, his right hand lifted from the bed, palm up. Kira held a small vial and she poured the contents of it into his hand. "That's all that's left of her."

Bashir stared at the gray-black powder in his hand as if he was waiting for it to change and move. His hand shook. She had scooped up a handful of the powder just before she transported. Once the ship was docked, she had dumped it from her pocket into the little vial. Now she helped him dump it back. "It's for you," she said, putting the vial in his hand, "to do with as you please. If you want to destroy it, there's a phaser waiting for you as soon as they let you out of here."

He held the vial up and gazed into it. But she could see that he was seeing more than the powder. He drew in a shaky breath. "I can't tell my mother this," he said, speaking softly, "but sometimes, I don't know what is real. I keep thinking this is the dream, and when I'm awake is when I'm asleep. I'm back there. And she's back there. Or I dream it and I wake up and see her here where you're sitting. And she leaned toward me and—" He couldn't finish. His mouth just wouldn't make the words come out.

"That's not really awake," Kira told him. She took the vial back and placed it on a table, and then she took his hand. "This is real, Julian. It's over. I promise."

He shook his head. "But you can't," he said. "They can be anything, Nerys, anywhere. They can be the wall or the bed. Or you. Or me. You can't promise anything."

Kira didn't know what to say. He was right. It was a terrifying thought. She had been having thoughts like that since Ambassador Krajensky turned out to be a changeling. And then when the Dominion had invaded, she had had nightmares. She still did sometimes. But she could always tell the dreams from something real. For him, the nightmare had been real.

She knew what it was like, to a certain extent. She had fought most of her life to rid her planet of Cardassians. And when it finally happened, and they were gone, that felt more like a dream to her than reality. Life was different, too easy maybe, without the constant threat, the constant fear. Which was more real?

He surprised her again. "I lied, Kira," he said.

She shook her head. She didn't know what he was talking about. Lied about what?

"On the ship," he explained, "when I had to go back. I lied about why."

She still didn't understand. "You mean they wouldn't have killed those other people?"

This time he shook his head. He winced a little when he did. "They would have killed them. I didn't lie about that. But I wasn't so concerned about the timeline as I let on. I don't think I cared about the timeline at all. I was more concerned about Max and Leo and maybe Vláďa, but I hadn't seen him for so long."

Kira thought for a moment before answering. Would she have cared, in his situation, or would the people have meant more to her? She knew they would. She had made a similar decision about Gaia, offering to give her life to protect the lives of the Defiant's descendants. But for Bashir, it had been even more personal. "They were your friends," Kira stated. "They would have killed them first."

"Can you find them for me, Kira," he asked, his eyes filling with urgency. "I need to know."

Bashir was still holding her hand, but he held it tighter now. "I'll try," she promised. "What were their names?"

"Max Zeidl," he told her. She found a PADD and handed it to him. But he didn't write it. "I don't know Leo's last name. I just know that he was Max's brother-in-law, his wife's brother. And I don't know how to spell Zeidl. I haven't got a clue about Vláďa." He laid the PADD down.